“Doesn’t matter,” Fegan said. He placed the Walther back against the cop’s forehead. “He wants you.”
“Wh . . . what?”
“Look.” Fegan indicated with his eyes. “Out there. He’s watching. They’re all watching.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look.” Fegan pressed the Walther’s muzzle against Anderson’s cheek, turning his head to face out the window. “There he is. He’s been waiting years for this.”
Anderson began to weep. “There’s no one there.”
“It’s time to pay for what you did.”
The cop turned back to Fegan. Tears mixed with sweat on his cheeks. “But
killed him. Not me.”
Fegan blinked. “I just pulled the trigger. He was dead as soon as you fingered him.”
Anderson shook his head. “You’re insane.”
“I know. But I’m getting better all the time.”
Fegan pulled the trigger.
FIVE
41
The smell of blood, sweat and alcohol rose up through the spectators to the top tier. The old man stood taller than anyone else in the barn, and he could see through all the raised fists waving euros and pounds. He always had the best seat in the house. After all, he owned the place.
The crowd’s roar couldn’t drown out the snarling and yelping from below. The dogs circled each other, snapping, growling and lunging. They were evenly matched, both of them with blocky jaws and thick necks. Both good, mature males, scarred and battle-hardened, with heavy balls hanging between their legs, filling them with fight. Choice pit bulls. Good animals. He loved good animals, as did any man worth a shite.
They’d been at it forty minutes now. Their snouts and barrel chests were caked in red, and fresh wounds glistened in the pitiless light. One had lost a piece of its cheek, and the other’s shoulder was torn open, but neither tired of the struggle as their handlers goaded them to attack. Wooden boards lined the pit walls, wild arcs of blood, old and new, slashed across them.
The Brindle and the Red squared off, eyes locked together. The old man felt a surge in his loins, sensing this would be the final spar. The roaring of the crowd faded to a murmur, nearly sixty men waiting for the moment.
They didn’t have to wait long.
Christ, they were fast. They looked stupid, just lumbering hunks of muscle and teeth, but think that and they’d have you. A good pit bull is quick; strong isn’t good enough. They launched at the same instant, thick paws in the air, batting at each other, trying to get the other down. Their haunches bunched as they boxed, teeth snapping. Shouts began to rise from the crowd as the dogs danced and snarled, each trying to gain dominance, to push the other down and finish him. First it seemed the Red was gaining as its teeth pinched the folds at the back of the other’s neck, but the Brindle forced its weight downward, throwing the Red off balance.
Then it was over. The Brindle’s mighty jaws locked on the Red’s neck, and a whimpering shriek echoed up through the old barn. A low, triumphant growl resonated in the Brindle’s chest as it ground the Red’s muzzle into the dirt. The Red’s feet kicked out, but it was at the mercy of the other dog. The Brindle had no notion of mercy, and poured all its strength into its bulbous jaw muscles, breeding and instinct forcing its teeth together.
“All right, enough!” Bull O’Kane stepped downwards from tier to tier of the bleachers, his bulk making the scaffolded benches groan.
The handlers jumped into the pit to separate the dogs. “Release!” the Brindle’s owner shouted. The pit bull was oblivious, blood trickling from between its jaws.
“Release!” He grabbed the dog’s ear and yanked it.
The other dog’s handler tried to pry the victor’s jaws open with the metal rod he used to train his own animal. “For fuck’s sake, he’ll kill him.”
The Brindle shook its head, reinforcing its grip.
“Jesus, get out of the way,” O’Kane said.
He stepped down into the pit and pushed the handlers aside. The Brindle’s scrotum dangled between its hind legs, tender and exposed. O’Kane’s boot connected with a fleshy slap and the dog whimpered, but held on.
“Ignorant fucker,” O’Kane said, wiping spit from his mouth. Once more, he drew his foot back; once more he buried his boot between the Brindle’s legs. It staggered sideways, its hind quarters quivering, but still it kept its monstrous grip.
“This time, ya bastard.” O’Kane was coming seventy, but he was still the Bull. He put all his weight behind his right foot, and now the dog opened its jaws and raised its snout to the corrugated roof. It howled, snarled, and turned to face its tormentor.
O’Kane locked stares with it. “Come on, then.”
It lowered on its haunches, preparing.
O’Kane put his weight on both feet.
The Brindle didn’t hesitate, coming at him with teeth bared, eyes rolling in its head, blood-tainted drool arcing from its black lips.
It didn’t stand a chance.
