'Maybe he's just trying to sound gung ho to impress General Eisenhower's investigator. And maybe the Brennan thing slipped his mind,' Sam said. 'Did you ask Carrick what he was going to do about Brennan?'
'No, I didn't get a chance. He was pretty prickly at first.'
'That's the DI, it is,' said Adrian. 'He's not broad-minded on certain matters touching religion and the Crown. He's a fair man, though, at the end of the day. I doubt a Catholic has ever stepped foot in his home or ever will, but he works the law as fair as can be.'
'How fair is that?' I asked.
'Well, the poor lady is blindfolded and holding those heavy scales. We can't expect miracles from her, can we? You need your drink freshened?'
'Good idea,' I said, and followed Adrian and Sam to a table where bottles were lined up. I knew that I couldn't press Adrian any further.
' Guid forder,' Adrian said, raising his glass. 'That's good luck the way Ulster Scots say it. I think we'll be needin' a wee bit of luck before this is done.'
We clinked glasses and drank, the warmth of the whiskey filling me as I tried to sort out what this new information meant. I was sure Adrian was right about the luck.
'Adrian,' I said. 'Your accent is a bit different from the others. Are you from around here?'
'Not originally. I was brought up by my aunt in Dublin. I think bein' in the minority down there made me a bit more tolerant of the minority up here. Live and let live, I say, and each man to his own church, neighborhood, and pub.'
'Not a bad philosophy. You must have friends on both sides.'
'Aye, and enemies too, even within my own family. There's no easy way these days. Now excuse me while I visit with some of the lads. We don't all get together but for funerals or retirements.'
'He seems like a good guy,' I said to Sam as Adrian left us.
'He is. Treats everyone fair and square. Say, Billy, will you give me a lift back to camp? I drove up with Adrian but it will save him a detour if you're going that way,' Sam said. 'He'll probably want to stay a while too.'
'Sure thing.'
Sam moved to a window that faced the backyard. The living quarters were all at the back of the house, separated from the station house by a long hallway.
'It'll be dark soon,' he said, pulling the curtains to look at the sky. Clouds showed their pink undersides, and the blue sky was starting to turn a deeper, darker shade. I moved to set my unfinished drink down, figuring that if I finished it I'd be in no shape to drive in the dark on the wrong side of the road.
Sharp, loud cracks of rapid-fire gunshots exploded in the air, overriding the sound of shattered windowpanes. Sam clutched a white curtain as he fell. It settled on top of him, soaked in crimson red as it lay across the two holes in his chest. I dove for the floor as more bullets sprayed the house. In the parlor, bottles burst and stuffing from chairs floated in the air.
I crawled to Sam. His eyes were open, but there had been only bad luck for him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had been a BAR, there was no mistaking the sound. And it had been a full twenty-round clip. The first two rounds had hit Sam dead center but the rest were sprayed wildly at the house, a warning to stay put. He was gone; there was nothing to do for him. The only sound registering after the deafening rounds was the tinkling of glass as loose shards fell to the floor. There was one chance, and I took it. I covered my face with one arm and dove through the window, the last bits of glass and wood giving way easily. I hit the soft grass and rolled, pulling my. 45 from its holster and flipping off the safety.
If the shooter was still behind the hedge and reloading, I was dead. A BAR clip can be changed in seconds. But I doubted that he'd hang around a station full of armed constables.
Shouts and cries came from the house, but no gunfire from behind the hedge. I sprinted across the yard and vaulted the gate, crouching as I turned with a view down the back of the shrubbery. A path led along the rear of the houses beside a small stream. Birch trees grew on the opposite bank. I ran to the end of the hedge. Shell casings lay scattered on the ground from where the gunman had fired.
It was slow going. Each backyard had a toolshed or section of fencing that could be a hiding place. I had a clear view of the stream for a good distance. Had he crossed the water into the birch grove? Would he have had enough time? I cursed as I dashed by the next backyard, trusting to speed and surprise.
No, I decided, he wouldn't have, especially not lugging a BAR around. The damn things weighed around twenty pounds loaded. And he couldn't take a chance on being seen. There had to be a getaway car, close enough to reach quickly but far enough away not to be seen from the station. Time to take another chance. Maybe I'd gotten all the guid forder Adrian had offered up.
I jumped a fence into a small garden. It took up most of the rear yard, except for a stone patio that connected to the house. A woman in an apron standing in the kitchen door held her hand to her mouth. Her eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead in shock as I trampled her chrysanthemums. She shook her head, removing her hand to hold it out, cautioning me to stop. I did. Ahead of me, a bed of pansies spread purple and white, perfect except for two footprints crushed into them. She pointed to the side of the house, to my right, then shut the door and disappeared.
If he was planning to ambush me, he'd probably be at the back, waiting to catch me as I came around either side; if a car was there, he might already be in it. Damn. I ran as lightly and quietly as I could along the left side of the house. I peeked around the corner, watching for the steel barrel of a BAR. It wasn't the best weapon for close quarters like this. He'd have to expose himself to fire it at me. I edged along the house, my back to it and my. 45 in my right hand ready to fire.
I heard a car engine turn over. That had to be him. Maybe he'd cut across the neighbor's yard. I moved to the corner of the house and took a stance aiming down the side. Nothing. I ran out into the street in time to see a car pull out from the other side of the road. Parked on the left side, ready for a getaway in the opposite direction from the station. A perfect spot, I had to admit.
As the car pulled out, a truck rumbled down the road toward it. The road was narrow, and the driver of the car had to hit the brakes and wait for the truck to pass by. I sprinted out into the street and made for it, a small gray Austin saloon, the driver up front, one guy in back, probably cradling a BAR. The Austin wasn't that large, and it would be damn hard to maneuver the BAR out of the window.
'Stop!' I yelled, at both the car and the truck. If the truck stopped, the Austin would be hemmed in. But the truck didn't stop. Instead he leaned on his horn and increased speed, probably wondering what the crazy Yank was going on about.
'Halt!' I was close to the Austin now, close enough to take out the driver if I had to. As it continued to pull out of its parking spot, the man in the backseat leaned out, a revolver in his hand. Two shots cracked in the air as his sparse hair flew around his head. I dove flat onto the pavement and squeezed off a single shot, going for a tire. I don't know what I hit, but with houses all around I couldn't take any chances. I watched the Austin disappear, my only reward a glimpse of the shooter's face. A round, balding head, dark brown hair, a sharp chin, and eyes that darted up at the sides, like an imp. I thought I heard him laugh as he fired.
I got up on one knee, winded, as footsteps pounded the pavement and a whirl of dark green surrounded me.
'Did you see him?' Adrian gasped.
'Yes, I got a look at him. Car was an Austin, gray, four-door, license plate began with FZG, but I couldn't get anything else.'
'You're certain it was the fellow who fired at us?' Carrick asked, less out of breath than Adrian.
'One man in the backseat, and he fired at me twice.'
'I heard pistol shots. Was the last one yours?'
'Yes,' I said as I got to my feet and holstered my automatic. 'I went for a tire but I don't think I hit anything.'
