Fegan sighed and closed his eyes. “I have to,” he whispered.
He crawled along the Clio’s flank, from the rear to the front, keeping his head low as he approached its nose. He edged around the front, still hidden from the doorway. Looking up, he realised he would be visible from the upper floor on that side of the house. He watched the damp-stained net curtains for any sign of movement.
Just a few more inches and the doorway would come into view. If Malloy still had the door only slightly open, Fegan would be obscured by the wood. He crept forward until he could see its flaking green paint. Malloy’s pistol appeared and a bullet struck the Clio’s rear quarter.
, Fegan thought.
He came up over the Clio’s hood, steadying his arms on it, and put four shots through the wooden door. He listened, keeping the revolver’s smoking muzzle trained on the doorway.
After a second or two he heard a weak cry and the sound of a body sliding down a damp wall and hitting the floor.
Fegan cursed, bitter anger at the waste rising in him.
He moved back behind the shelter of the car and edged his way round to the driver’s door. He hadn’t locked it. It creaked open and shattered glass spilled out. Fegan lay flat across the driver’s seat, dropped the revolver into the footwell, and reached down under the passenger seat. His eyes stayed on the house, at least what he could see of it through the cracked window. He found the plastic bag with its cold, hard contents, and pulled the tape away. It tore and he felt nine-millimeter rounds spill through his fingers onto the floor. There was a heavy clunk as the weapons fell away.
Somewhere beneath the frantic barking and scratching of the dogs, Fegan caught the hint of voices from inside the house. He studied the windows as he drew his Walther from under the seat, followed by Campbell’s Glock. A net curtain in a window above the doorway swayed, disturbed by some passing shape. He threw himself backwards, a gun in each hand, just as a hole was blown through the car’s roof and a bullet gouged the upholstery where his head had been.
The dogs’ whining and howling rose to a new pitch and blood thundered in his ears. But through that clamor came a sharper, more frightening sound. A high, terrified crying.
“Ellen,” he said.
“Stay away, Fegan!”
McGinty’s voice, shrill and jagged.
“Stay away or I’ll kill them!”
Fegan clung to the side of the car, listening to the girl’s cries. His heart threw itself against the walls of his chest; his stomach sank low inside him.
“Ellen.”
56
Fegan looked to the followers standing over him, watching. The woman held her baby in one arm and raised the other towards the house. Her eyes told him, ordered him, to do it. Run, they said.
Run, now.
“Christ.”
He tucked Campbell’s Glock into his waistband and scrambled along the side of the car towards its front. The stable doors rattled in their frames as the dogs flailed against them. He gave the upper windows one more glance before hurling himself at the house. A shot rang out and something tugged at his left shoulder.
Fegan hit the door hard and stumbled over Malloy’s outstretched legs. He slammed against the far wall, dislodging loose tiles where the grout had rotted away. They shattered on the floor and he saw red spots appear among the fragments. His left arm felt heavy, like a stone had been tied to his wrist. He craned his neck round to see his shoulder. Nothing, just a nick.
He looked back at Malloy’s prone form. The stocky man’s chest rose and fell in a skewed rhythm. His glassy eyes stared at something far away. The followers entered and lingered over him, tilting their heads as they studied him.
Quick footsteps moved across the ceiling above.
“Gerry?” McGinty, his voice muffled by the wood and plaster between them. “Gerry, don’t come up here, I’m warning you. Don’t. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . you know I’ll do it.”
Ellen, crying.
The woman stood beside Fegan, pointing to the doorway to the next room. The room where he’d last seen Marie and Ellen. The butcher joined her.
“All right,” Fegan said.
He headed for the door, the Walther leading the way. The old tattered couch still sat against the wall, sodden with damp and blood. Weak fingers of early light clawed through the grimy window. Fegan could see trees beyond what had once been a garden but was now lost under years of neglect.
What was that?
He stopped and listened. Hard, fast breathing. The sound of panic. It came from beyond the far door. The same door Marie and Ellen had come through not so long ago. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour?
The woman and the butcher took their places by Fegan’s side. They cocked their heads, listening. The baby was quite still in its mother’s arms.
She turned to Fegan and smiled. She reached up and brushed his cheek. She nodded.
