First Thrills Page 8

  She stopped at the bathroom then marched into the kitchenette. She’d brought the staples for breakfast, had loaded the small refrigerator. Even without electricity everything was still cold. Her backpack sat on the counter where she’d left it. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and turned to go out onto the porch. That’s when she saw the shadow of a man was standing by the door.

  Maty gasped and dropped the orange juice, glass shattering.

  “You forgot to take your pills last night,” William said, walking into the middle of the room where she could see his face.

  “You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

  “I reminded you.”

  It was like he hadn’t heard her. He looked tired. His clothes were wrinkled and damp. His shoes muddy.

  “How long have you been here? How did you get in?”

  “You drank a whole bottle of wine.” he held up the empty bottle she had left on the porch. “But you forgot to take your pills.”

  “William, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m not really here,” he said this with a grin. “I’m checked in at a conference in Kansas City. I did that yesterday morning. Everyone thinks I’m in my hotel room, behind the do-not-disturb sign, preparing my presentation. My car’s in the hotel’s parking lot. I rented one to come back.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

  “Because I had a feeling you wouldn’t take your fucking pills.”

  “William?”

  “I changed them out, you see. A nice little concoction that wouldn’t go so well with alcohol. Actually it probably wouldn’t go so well with anything, but the alcohol would just be another indication of you going over the edge.”

  He tossed the bottle aside and that’s when Maty noticed he was wearing gloves. And in his other hand he carried a knife, a wide-bladed hunting knife that he held down at his side as if he didn’t even realize he had it there.

  Panic forced Maty to step backward, slowly away from him until the small of her back pressed into the countertop. Trapped. There was nowhere for her to go.

  “I don’t understand,” she found herself saying out loud. It only seemed to make William grin more.

  “Of course you don’t. You’ve been so self-involved in your own stressed-out madness that you haven’t noticed anything or anyone around you. Where’s your pill bottle?”

  “But if you haven’t been happy—.”

  “Where the hell are your pills, Madeline?”

  In two steps he grabbed her by the hair and shoved the knife to her throat. His breath hot in her face, his eyes wide. He smelled of sweat and mud. He looked like a madman.

  “It was you. Last night in the woods,” she whispered and felt the metal press against each word. “Why?”

  This time he laughed.

  “I had to make sure you took them, that it looked like you’d gone over the edge. Everyone was supposed to be gone, but that boy ranger was still here. He saw me.”

  “Oh my God. William. What did you do?”

  “The son-of-a-bitch would have ruined it all. Then after the storm when I came inside and found you still breathing . . .” He dragged out the last word like it disgusted him.

  “You’re the one who took the key from the park office door.”

  “I knew you’d stop at work. It gave me plenty of time to get here.”

  “You called me from here. The train whistle . . .”

  “Make it easier on both of us, Maty. Where are your pills?”

  He yanked her head against the cupboard and she thought she might black out.

  “Okay,” she managed. “Stop, just let me get them.”

  He let go. Shoved her away and backed up.

  Maty rubbed at the back of her head and the tangled knot of hair. She eased herself toward the other end of the counter, hanging on for fear her knees might give out. She kept an eye on William even as she opened the zipper of her backpack and dug her hand inside. He stayed put, waiting, looking tired, impatient. She hardly recognized this man, his hair tousled and face dirty. He wasn’t her husband anymore. No, he was some deranged madman who had killed the park superintendent and was about to kill her.

  When Maty pulled the Colt revolver from her backpack William’s eyes grew wide. Before he could react, before he could move, Maty shot him twice in the chest. The blasts made her jump each time.

  She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. Her hands weren’t even shaking.

  She laid the revolver on the counter. Stepped back, opened the refrigerator and poured herself another glass of orange juice. This time she sat down. She wondered if this was what it felt like for her grandfather when the madness took over.

  She sipped the juice and said to herself, “Now, where to dump the body.”

  *

  ALEX KAVA has built a reputation writing psychological thrillers full of authentic details that blend fact with fiction. In Kava’s words, “If readers can’t tell where the facts left off and the fiction begins, I’ve done my job.” She is the New York Times bestselling author of seven novels featuring Special FBI Agent Maggie O’Dell, as well as two stand-alone thrillers. Before writing novels full- time, Alex Kava spent fifteen years in advertising, marketing, and public relations. She divides her time between Omaha, Nebraska, and Pensacola, Florida.

  DEB CARLIN spent twenty-five years in the hospitality business, ranging from bars and restaurants to hotels, retiring with a stellar fifteen years at Darden Restaurants, where she helped write technical manuals and nonfiction business articles. She is the owner of eWebFocus, where she consults on business strategies for online presences. Her foray with After Dark is her first fiction endeavor, and she has plans to continue.

  KEN BRUEN

  Had.

  Funny how vital that damn word had become in my life.

  Had . . . An Irish mother.

  Had . . . Big plans.

  Had . . . Serious rent due.

  Had . . . To make one major score.

  I’d washed up in Ireland almost a year ago. Let’s just say I had to leave New York in a hurry.

  Ireland seemed to be one of the last places on the planet to still love the good ol’ USA.

  And, they were under the very erroneous impression that we had money.

  Of course, until very recently, they’d had buckets of the green, forgive the pun, themselves. But the recession had killed their Celtic Tiger.

  I’d gone to Galway as it was my mother’s hometown and was amazed to find an almost mini–USA. The teenagers all spoke like escapees from The Hills. Wore Converse, baseball T-shirts, chinos. It was like staggering onto a shoot for The Gap.

  With my accent, winning smile, and risky credit cards, I’d rented an office in Woodquay, close to the very centre of the city. About a mugging away from the main street. I was supposedly a financial consultant but depending on the client, I could consult on any damn thing you needed. I managed to get the word around that I was an ex-military guy, and had a knack for making problems disappear.

  And was not averse to skirting the legal line.

  I was just about holding my head above water, but it was getting fraught.

  So, yeah, I was open to possibilities.

  How I met Sheridan.

  I was having a pint of Guinness in McSwiggan’s and no, I wasn’t hallucinating but right in the centre of the pub is a tree.

  I was wondering which came first when a guy slid onto the stool beside me. I say slid because that’s exactly how he did it. Like a reptile, he just suddenly crept up on me.

  I’ve been around as you’ve gathered and am always aware of exits and who is where, in relation to the danger quota.

  I never saw him coming.

  Should have taken that as an omen right then.

  He said, “You’ll be the Yank I hear about.”

  I turned to look at him. He had the appearance of a greyhound recovering from anorexia and a bad case of the speed jags. About thirty-five, wit
h long graying hair, surprisingly unmarked face, not a line there, but the eyes were old.

  Very.

  He’d seen some bad stuff or caused it. How do I know?

  I see the same look every morning in the mirror.

  He was dressed in faded blue jeans, a T-shirt that proclaimed Joey Ramone will never die and a combat jacket that Jack Reacher would have been proud of. He put out a bony hand, all the veins prominent, and said, “I’m Sheridan, lemme buy you a pint.”

  I took his hand, surprisingly strong for such a wasted appearance, said, “Good to meet you, I’m Morgan.”

  Least that’s what it said on the current credit cards.

  He had, as he put it, a slight problem, a guy he owed money to and the how much would it cost to make the guy go away.

  I laughed, said, “You’re going to pay me to get rid of a guy who you owe money to? One, why would you think I can do it, and two, how will you pay me?”

  He leaned closer, smelled of patchouli, did they still make that old hippy shit? Said, “You’ve got yerself a bit of a rep, Mr Morgan, and how would I pay you, oh, I’d pay you in friendship and trust me, I’m a good friend to have.”

  Maybe it was the early pint, or desperation or just for the hell of it, but I asked, “Who’s the guy?”

  He told me, gave me his name and address and leaned back; asked, “You think you can help me out here, Mr Morgan?”

  I said, “Depends on whether you’re buying me the pint you offered or not.”

  He did.

  As we were leaving, I said, “I’ll be here Friday night; maybe you can buy me another pint.”

  Like I said, I didn’t have a whole lot going on so I checked out the guy who was leaning on Sheridan.

  No biggie but on the Thursday, his car went into the docks and him in it.

  Some skills you never forget.

  Friday night, I was in McSwiggan’s; Sheridan appeared as I ordered a pint and he said to the barman, “On me, Sean.”

  He gave me a huge smile; his right molar was gold and the rest of his teeth looked like they’d been filed down.

  We took our drinks to a corner table and he slapped my shoulder, said, “Sweet fooking job, mate.”

  I spread my hands, said, “Bad brakes, what can I tell you.”

  He threw back his head, laughed out loud, a strange sound, like a rat being strangled, said, “I love it, bad break. You’re priceless.”

  That was the real beginning of our relationship. Notice I don’t say friendship.

  I don’t do friends.

  And I very much doubt that anyone in their right mind would consider Sheridan a friend.

  We did a lot of penny-ante stuff for the next few months, nothing to merit any undue attention but nothing either that was going to bankroll the kind of life I hoped for.

  Which was

  Sea

  Sun

  And knock-you-on-your-ass cash.

  An oddity, and definitely something I should have paid real attention to. I’d pulled off a minor coup involving some credit cards I had to dump within twenty-four hours. With Sheridan’s help, we scooped a neat five thousand dollars. And at the time when the dollar had finally kicked the Euro’s ass.

  See, I do love my country.

  You’re thinking, “Which one?”

  Semper fi and all that good baloney. It pays the cash, it gets my allegiance.

  So, we were having us a celebration; I split it down the middle with him, because I’m a decent guy. We flashed up as Sheridan termed it.

  Bearing in mind that the Irish seven-course meal is a six pack and a potato, we went to Mc Donagh’s, the fish-and-chipper, in Quay Street.

  We sat outside in a rare hour of Galway Sun; Sheridan produced a flask of what he called Uisce Beatha, Holy Water. In other words, Irish Moonshine, Poteen.

  Phew-oh, the stuff kicks like one mean tempered mule.

  Later, we wound up in Feeney’s, one of the last great Irish pubs. Here’s the thing: I’d sometimes wondered if Sheridan had a woman in his life. I didn’t exactly give it a whole lot of thought, but it crossed my mind. As if he was reading my mind he said, “Morgan, what day were you born on?”

  I was about to put it down to late night-drink speak, but I was curious, asked, “That’s a weird question, what day, how the hell would I know what day?”

  He looked sheepish, and when you add that to his rodent appearance, it was some sight, he said, “See, my girl, she has this thing about the nursery rhyme, you know, Monday’s child is fair of face and am . . . . Thursday’s, is, yeah, has far to go, she judges people on what their day of birth is.”

  My Girl!

  I was so taken aback by that it took me a moment to ask, “What are you?”

  No hesitation, “Thursday’s child.”

  We laughed at that and I don’t think either of us really knew why.

  I asked, “Who is the girl, why haven’t I met her?”

  He looked furtive, hiding something but then, his whole life seemed to be about hiding stuff, he said, “She’s shy, I mean, she knows we’re mates and all, but she wants to know your birth day before she’ll meet you.”

  I said, “Next time I talk to Mom, I’ll ask her, ok?”

  As Mom had been in the ground for at least five years, it wasn’t likely to be any time soon.

  Another round of drinks arrived and we moved on to important issues, like sport. Guy stuff, if ever you reach any sort of intimacy, move to sports, move way past that sucker, that intimacy crap.

  I meant to look up the nursery rhyme but, as far as I got, was discovering I was born on a Wednesday.

  Told Sheridan it was that day and he said, “I’ll tell her.”

  He was distracted when I told him, the speed he took turning him this way and that, like a dead rose in a barren field.

  I’d noticed he was becoming increasingly antsy, speed fiends, what can I tell you? But he was building up to something.

  It finally came.

  We were in Garavan’s, on Shop Street; still has all the old stuff you associate with

  Ireland and even . . . whisper it, Irish staff.

  And snugs.

  Little portioned off cubicles where you can talk without interruption.

  Sheridan was on Jameson; I stay away from spirits, too lethal. He was more feverish than usual; asked, “You up for the big one?”

  I feigned ignorance; said, “We’re doing ok.”

  He shook his head, looked at me, which is something he rarely did, his eyes usually focused on my forehead, but this was head on; said, “Morgan, We’re alike, we want some serious money and I know how we can get it.”

  I waited.

  He said, “Kidnapping.”

  Without a beat I said, “Fuck off, that is the dumbest crime on the slate.”

  He was electric, actually vibrating; said, “No, listen, this is perfect, we . . . well me really, snatch a girl, her old man is fooking loaded and you, as the consultant you are and known, as such, you’re the go between; we tell the rich bastard the kidnappers have selected you as the pick up man, you get the cash, we let the girl go and hello, we’re rich.”

  I picked up the remnants of my pint; said, “No. Kidnapping never works. Forget it.”

  He grabbed my arm, said, “Listen, this is the daughter of Jimmy Flaherty; he owns most of Galway; his daughter, Brona, is the light of his life and he has no love of the cops; he’ll pay, thinking he’ll find us later, but we’ll be in the wind and with a Yank as a broker for the deal; he’ll go along, he’s a Bush admirer.”

  I let the Bush bit slide.

  I acted like I was considering it, then said, “No, it’s too . . . out there.”

  He let his head fall, dejection in neon, and said, “I’ve already got her.”

  It’s hard to surprise me. You live purely on your wits and instincts as I’ve always done; you have envisioned most scenarios. This came out of left field.

  I gasped. “You what?”

  He gav
e me a defiant look, then, “I thought you might be reluctant and I already made the call to Flaherty, asked for one million and said I’d only use a neutral intermediary, and suggested that Yank consultant.”

  I was almost lost for words.

  Almost.

  Said, “So I’m already fucked; you’ve grabbed the girl and told her father I’m the messenger.”

  He smiled; said, “Morgan, it’s perfect, you’ll see.”

  I was suddenly tired; asked, “Where’s the girl now?”

  His smile got wider; he said, “I can’t tell you, see, see the beauty of it, you really are the innocent party and . . . here’s the lovely bit, he’ll pay you for your help.”

  Before I could answer this he continued, “You’ll get a call from him asking you to help, to be the bag man.”

  I asked, “What if I tell Mr Flaherty I want no part of this?”

  He gave me that golden tooth smile; said, “Ah Morgan, nobody says no to that man; how he got so rich.”

  I left early, said to Sheridan, “I don’t like this, not one bit.”

  He was still shouting encouragement to me as I left.

  I waited outside, in the doorway of the Chinese café a ways along. Sheridan had never told me where he lived, and I figured it was time to find out.

  It was an hour or so before he emerged and he’d obviously had a few more Jamesons. A slight stagger to his walk and certainly, he wasn’t a hard mark to follow.

  He finally made it to a house by the canal and went in and I waited until he’d turned on the lights.

  And I called it a night.

  Next morning, I was the right side of two decent coffees, the Financial Times thrown carelessly on my desk, my laptop feeding me information on Mr Flaherty when the door is pushed open.

  A heavily built man in a very expensive suit, with hard features and two even heavier men behind him, strode in.

  I didn’t need Google search to tell me who this was.

  He took the chair opposite me, sat down, opened his jacket, and looked round.