“Splendid. Might I inquire further?”
Scott stared at him for a long moment, then,
“I am going to show the world my true worth.”
The warden wavered, wondered if he was missing something, suggested,
“Do tell.”
Scott was tempted but he did need his release, so said,
“Service to the community.”
Ah.
The warden gave him bus fare, an envelope containing enough to maybe pay for a burger, stood, said,
“I wish you the best of luck, young man.”
Scott said,
“Luck has very little to do with it. It’s all about determination.”
Again, the warden wondered if there was a subtext.
Outside Scott breathed the air, said,
“Determined? Oh, yes, to kill as many Guards as counts.”
For two years Scott worked, if such a term can be used, as an escort. A new flourishing biz for the new flourishing older lady.
Or, indeed, gentleman.
Scott had the looks and the careful cultivated air of an abandoned puppy.
His plan was to acquire sufficient funds, a safe base to launch his enterprise, all the while stoking his homicidal obsession.
The business he was engaged in eroded any traces of humanity that might still have lingered. If prison had fueled his rage, the escort trade added utter contempt to the mix.
The most valuable lesson he learned was to charm in full sight.
Scott rewrote the old truism on how to succeed.
Like this:
1..... Steal freely
2..... Kill randomly
3..... Get with a Galway girl
He stared at those lines,
Smiled, said,
“See? Sense of humor.”
Then the brain wave:
A Galway girl.
Wait for it—
“Who is a Guard!”
He had studied all the serial killer books, novels, and decided to leave a cryptic note after each kill, give a touch of mystique, and get the media hot.
Later, he’d abandon the notes he composed in Irish for the simple reason he got bored with it and, more important, he ran out of Irish; his education in his native tongue had been sporadic at best.
4
Aibhealai
Is the Irish word
For an exaggerator.
It’s not much used as Irish people
Never exaggerate.
The shooting of Guard Nora McEntee caused a huge furor.
The city was on high alert, media screaming for the culprit to be apprehended.
He wasn’t.
As the only witness, I was dragged to the station,
Not
... to help with inquiries
But more to be bullied, intimidated, shouted at.
Sheridan, the supposedly supercop, led the interview, demanded,
“Taylor, why are you always on the scene of shootings?”
I went with a vague truth, said,
“I have no idea.”
He leaned right into my face, and I said, very quietly,
“Back the fuck off.”
He was delighted, spun back, shouted to the Guards gathered,
“Hear that? He’s threatening a Guard.”
Owen Daglish, playing good Guard, said,
“Cut him some slack.”
Sheridan fumed, snarled,
“Let’s throw him in a cell, let him stew.”
I said,
“Not a great time to be alienating the public.”
Sheridan asked,
“What does that mean?”
The Garda commissioner was up to her arse in an alleged conspiracy to discredit a whistle-blower; the media were out for more dirt on the inner workings of the top brass.
Wilson, the super, breezed in, ordered,
“Cut him loose.”
She looked at me, said,
“Try not to get in the way of the investigation.”
I gave her my sweetest look, which is a blend of guile and deranged ferocity, said,
“Yes, ma’am.”
The press were outside and Kernan Andrews of the Galway Advertiser shouted,
“In the middle of it again, Jack?”
I said,
“Buy me a pint and get an exclusive.”
Kernan was too clued in for that old play.
I headed up Shop Street, gave a homeless guy a few euros, he asked,
“What will that do?”
“Ease my conscience.”
Outside Garavan’s, a young man, blond hair, dressed in black leather jacket, stared at me. He was not unlike a young David Soul and something in his attitude said he knew that. I asked,
“Help you?”
He gave a radiant smile, asked,
“Do you know the words of ‘Galway Girl’?”
It was late when I got back to my apartment.
Something off.
All the mirrors had been smashed.
One sheet of paper, black with red letters, read
The walls of Jericho
Did
Not
Come
Tumbling down.
I asked aloud what you would.
I asked,
“The fuck is this?”
I went to the cemetery, wrapped in my Garda all-weather coat, bitter, cold, vicious wind at my heels. There were so many graves to visit and I muttered,
“I can’t, I just can’t.”
But I could visit one.
New headstone, a frenzy of soft toys and wilting flowers all around, the toys already soaked and beaten, here lay my daughter, whom I barely had time to know before she was killed. I stood there in wretched silence, unable to form words. I reached into my coat, took out the flask, chugged some Jay.
Didn’t help but, then, nothing did.
I sensed being watched and turned to my right. A priest was standing about three rows from me, raised his hand in greeting, then approached me.
I have a terrible history with priests, full of lies, evasion, and downright betrayal.
He was young, mid-thirties, but his face already had that shocked expression of each day revealing the worst of humanity.
He held out his hand, said,
“I’m Father Paul.”
I let it hang for a moment before I took it, said,
“Jack. Jack Taylor.”
He looked at the grave, asked,
“Would you like me to give a blessing?”
My mood turned nasty, well, nastier. I asked,
“How much will that cost?”
5
Shoot
the
Woman
First.
Jericho revisited her grand plan of chaos:
Recruit two dumb men; fuck ’em over in every sense,
Then kill two women.
She said aloud,
“The twos rule,”
As she fingered the two G’s on a chain around her neck.
Prison for Scott was punctuated by:
Beatings,
Assaults,
Slow gym building,
Until he was celled with a hacker.
They jelled and Scott learned the basics of the hacker’s art.
Freed, as he prepared his Guard blitzkrieg, he had the bright idea of getting a female Guard as a girlfriend. This in mind, he hacked the Garda personnel file.