In hindsight, he might well have addressed himself in his drunken insults to the house. Paddy contemplated leaving Edinburgh, the house, his wife — only until Cassie was discharged. A great yolk of guilt and doom bore down on Paddy every time he was in his house now. It was as if the building itself had it in for the Smiths since the break-in. When he opened the freezer to claim the tub of ice cream, he remembered the well-hidden object in the box of fish fingers on the second shelf, cradled in over frozen containers of leftovers.
For a long moment he stared at the innocent-looking box, feeling a childish hate for the thing inside. In his inebriation he considered all the times he could have walked away from being involved. Like cotton wool in his skull, his weightless mind floated aimlessly, finding no solace and even less of a solution. For the first time in recollection, Paddy had no answers. Being the inexhaustible source of advice and clarity for Sam Cleave all these years now profited him nothing. For himself there was no answer to the hellish doldrums he was in and he could not find his way to even the slightest resolution for his problems.
With sweaty fingers Paddy pulled out the box to see the item of his emotional privation once again and perhaps to force his brain into an epiphany. The silver flask exhibited signs of corrosion at the edge of the cap, something that was cause for alarm even to people who knew nothing about chemistry. Whatever was inside could not be contained for much longer, he knew, and he urgently had to decide what to do with it.
Immediately Paddy realized that the container was gradually inflating, expanding sideways by almost twice its size. A bolt of panic coursed through his body at the latest condition of the dangerous artifact, and Paddy almost sobered up from the prospect of a cryogenic explosion he conjured up in his imagination like something from a science fiction movie. Who could he trust with the gadget? Sam was not home and the babysitter he got for his cat had no idea where he was, except that he would be back in the next week.
The bottom line, Paddy reckoned, was that he had to rid himself of it once and for all.
Chapter 24
As Paddy held the device in the protective nest of two crumpled dishcloths over his palms, his thoughts sank deeper into contemplation of the state his marriage was in, what the outcome would be. It terrified him and he had no bourbon left to be his safety net, but he had to deal with the situation. He wondered where Sam and Nina were, if Purdue had the means to destroy whatever was in the flask, or if he would rather use it for his own gain. Paddy did not know Purdue well, in fact. They were mere acquaintances, but Paddy knew Purdue primarily from the billionaire’s celebrity status, the newscasts when he discovered something or invented something, or the coverage he received as benefactor of university grants or from sponsoring scientific endeavors in Scotland’s academic community.
If anyone had the means to rid Paddy of the wretched flask and its contents, it was Purdue. It had been almost a week since Special Agent Patrick Smith was embroiled in the life-and-death confrontation with an unknown assassin on the private jet Purdue had chartered for them, but declined the opportunity to use it to return to Edinburgh with Smith. That in itself would be cause for suspicion, had Purdue acted defensively when Paddy suggested taking the object Nina had retrieved from the dig site. But the man had absolutely no interest in the discovery Dr. Gould had made, which assured Paddy that Purdue had nothing to do with the psychotic bitch on the plane.
Somewhere in the house a door creaked. Paddy perked up to listen, his sobriety returning for the vigilance he needed to employ. The doors in his house were heavy, held at the bottom by the thick carpets of the rooms. There was no way a door could move without being pushed with a considerable measure of force. Even on stormy days the gusts that imposed through the open windows could not manage to impel the doors to movement.
Paddy put the flask back in the box and replaced it in the freezer. Swiftly he stole along the corridor toward his office and from the hidden compartment in his wall he obtained his personal firearm.
Why is it that the night is calm and quiet when one needs to do noisy things? he pondered as his hand tightened around the upper part of the barrel of his Makarov. It was virtually impossible to pull it back and cock it without being heard. For once he would have appreciated the thunder and rainstorms usually ravaging Edinburgh. Again something stirred in the hallway, reminiscent of a scuffling behind a curtain or perhaps the rustle of a jacket. Paddy loaded his gun, quietly navigating the dark to where he heard the strange sound.
Whoever was in his house stalked to where the movie Paddy had been watching was still looping on the screen. As he peeked around the doorway, hands grasping the butt of his Makarov so tightly that his arms quivered, Paddy could see a black shadow figure slip from the kitchen to the couch where Paddy had been lying before. As soon as he could see the silhouette enter the TV room, Paddy briskly snuck down to the sunken lounge and circled the partitions of the arches that separated the lounge from the TV room.
The intruder was clumsy, he noticed, not watching before he turned, neglecting to check behind doors and so on. Paddy was relieved that the shadow figure would be easy to throw off, considering his clumsiness and Paddy’s knowledge of the dark house. Reaching the small nook between the lounge and the kitchen, Paddy tripped the electricity off to avoid the burglar from flipping a switch and detecting his distance.
Without warning the TV died, and the screen blackened. The intruder froze and surveyed the sudden power cut by fumbling with the switches of the television, but there was no response from the appliances. Paddy stood waiting for the figure to pass him where he was tightly tucked in the niche where the circuit board was. He was so alert that he almost lamented the loss of his mind-numbing inebriation that was so unceremoniously taken from him. On the other hand, finally Patrick Smith, self-assumed bad husband and drunk, would be able to trap and arrest the bastard who had turned the loving Cassandra into a bipolar victim.
Paddy heard the footsteps approach. It was a sound he was used to — a rush he knew well. Still, the impending confrontation with any unknown assailant never waned in its fear factor and Paddy hoped that he would make it through the next few minutes without getting killed at least. As the figure passed him, Paddy lashed out, striking the intruder against the temple. His target fell instantly, immobilized by the powerful blow he had suffered.
“Broke into the wrong house, fucker!” he screamed, lodging a few hard kicks into the body of the burglar. Every grunt of agony spurred Paddy on to land another and another like the long-gone days in schoolyard brawls and pubs on Saturdays. But as he aimed another kick the figure rolled over onto his back. All Paddy saw was a blinding flash of white light splashing out of the intruder’s barrel. Twice the suppressed shots struck the agent, the third missed when he dove out of the way, landing next to the shooter.
Paddy’s Makarov clipped him in the throat, even though he tried to hit the skull. His hands could simply not take aim from the shock of the bullet wounds and the rapid gushing of his wounds. Unfortunately, the alcohol only promoted the speed of his hemorrhage. He had to do something quickly or he would die. Paddy rolled over on his stomach and crawled for the kitchen, leaving the limp body of the attacker in his wake. There would be enough time for the agent to determine his identity when death was removed from the equation. When he reached the kitchen, Paddy bit his lip, trying to reach his landline on the wall, as his cell phone was at least three rooms away. One of the bullets had penetrated his thigh and the other his side. Under his pants he could feel the hot liquid running out of his body and wetting the fabric. With the time he had left it was imperative that Paddy made it to the phone. Laboriously he forced himself up on one leg and grabbed at the yellow phone on the wall.