system all its own, and loyalty was near the top.
“What about Jimmy’s old crowd, after he straightened out?”
“They tried to come around and entice him back, but he wasn’t having any of it. And you can be sure”—Mrs. Ryan leaned in, tilting her forehead down as if she were about to impart a secret—“that if they darkened my stoop, I had something for them. Mr. Ryan’s old rabbit-hunting shotgun, brought straight from Connemara.”
Abbie let it pass.
“Did they make any threats to Jimmy? Sometimes when you break it off with people like that, they can have trouble accepting it.”
Mrs. Ryan looked down, considering.
“There was one. A character named …”
She searched for the name, her blue eyes scanning the ceiling.
“Walters, or Williams. Yes, that was it, Williams.”
“Was he white or black?”
“Black.”
“Do you remember a first name?”
“It began with a ‘G.’ Gerald? Gerard?”
She looked at the corner of the room and her lips moved.
“No, Gerald.”
“And he threatened Jimmy?”
“It was all so long ago, Abbie.”
Nothing in the County was long ago. When no new blood flowed in, old animosities and feuds simmered for years, decades even.
“I’ll look into it anyway.”
Mrs. Ryan nodded.
Abbie let her eyes drift to the mantel. Mrs. Ryan’s gaze followed.
“There were some pictures of Jimmy there the other day.”
“Oh yes.” Mrs Ryan sprang up, agile despite her age. Abbie followed her to the mantel. There were six photos. The one that Patty Ryan had picked up yesterday hadn’t been returned.
“There was another one here,” Abbie said.
“Really?”
“Jimmy with some friends. I thought it was a good likeness.”
Mrs. Ryan began to look around the room in confusion. She went to the TV but on top there were only pictures of the children. Standing with her hands on her hips, she turned and surveyed the room.
Even she’s not that good an actress
, Abbie thought.
“I’ll have to ask Patty,” the old woman said, two fingers to her lips pensively, the hand shaking slightly.
Abbie touched her on the elbow and Mrs. Ryan turned.
“I think she has enough to deal with,” Abbie said quietly, inclining her head toward the stairs. “If you could just look around quietly, that might be better.”
“Course you’re right,” Mrs. Ryan said, almost in a whisper.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A S SHE DROVE RUTTED SIDE STREETS TO THE G AELIC C LUB , A BBIE ’ S HEAD throbbed. It was like black waves were washing at the base of her skull. Talking about the past always gave her a migraine-strength headache. She rubbed her neck as she navigated down Abbott Road. Then she called Z, still at the office, and told him to run the names Gerard and Gerald Williams.
As the cars wheels hummed on the road, she thought about Mrs. Ryan. How could a mother be so calm after her son’s death? She seemed more upset by the thought of him stealing a bottle of whiskey twenty years before than by the fact that he’d been tied to a chair, tortured, mutilated, and then strangled to death. What did she have inside her to counterbalance that image? A thing that made sense of the death, that transformed it into something … what? Noble? Inevitable?
Her father had liked to talk about his work. Ireland and cops. When she was growing up in the house off Abbott, those were the only two things he’d talk to her about. They’d be sitting at the kitchen table, with her dead stepmother’s yellow tablecloth on it and matching dish towels hung below the sink, and he’d say, “When all’s said and done, a cop’s an intruder. He shines a light on all the things you’re ashamed of in your life, and makes you face who youreally are. God forbid you have to own up to it yourself.” The job had exhausted him. Forty years on the force and all he wanted was someone to come up to him and say, “I killed the bitch because I’m a vindictive asshole—and, by the way, she wasn’t cheating on me, I was
“What about Jimmy’s old crowd, after he straightened out?”
“They tried to come around and entice him back, but he wasn’t having any of it. And you can be sure”—Mrs. Ryan leaned in, tilting her forehead down as if she were about to impart a secret—“that if they darkened my stoop, I had something for them. Mr. Ryan’s old rabbit-hunting shotgun, brought straight from Connemara.”
Abbie let it pass.
“Did they make any threats to Jimmy? Sometimes when you break it off with people like that, they can have trouble accepting it.”
Mrs. Ryan looked down, considering.
“There was one. A character named …”
She searched for the name, her blue eyes scanning the ceiling.
“Walters, or Williams. Yes, that was it, Williams.”
“Was he white or black?”
“Black.”
“Do you remember a first name?”
“It began with a ‘G.’ Gerald? Gerard?”
She looked at the corner of the room and her lips moved.
“No, Gerald.”
“And he threatened Jimmy?”
“It was all so long ago, Abbie.”
Nothing in the County was long ago. When no new blood flowed in, old animosities and feuds simmered for years, decades even.
“I’ll look into it anyway.”
Mrs. Ryan nodded.
Abbie let her eyes drift to the mantel. Mrs. Ryan’s gaze followed.
“There were some pictures of Jimmy there the other day.”
“Oh yes.” Mrs Ryan sprang up, agile despite her age. Abbie followed her to the mantel. There were six photos. The one that Patty Ryan had picked up yesterday hadn’t been returned.
“There was another one here,” Abbie said.
“Really?”
“Jimmy with some friends. I thought it was a good likeness.”
Mrs. Ryan began to look around the room in confusion. She went to the TV but on top there were only pictures of the children. Standing with her hands on her hips, she turned and surveyed the room.
Even she’s not that good an actress
, Abbie thought.
“I’ll have to ask Patty,” the old woman said, two fingers to her lips pensively, the hand shaking slightly.
Abbie touched her on the elbow and Mrs. Ryan turned.
“I think she has enough to deal with,” Abbie said quietly, inclining her head toward the stairs. “If you could just look around quietly, that might be better.”
“Course you’re right,” Mrs. Ryan said, almost in a whisper.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A S SHE DROVE RUTTED SIDE STREETS TO THE G AELIC C LUB , A BBIE ’ S HEAD throbbed. It was like black waves were washing at the base of her skull. Talking about the past always gave her a migraine-strength headache. She rubbed her neck as she navigated down Abbott Road. Then she called Z, still at the office, and told him to run the names Gerard and Gerald Williams.
As the cars wheels hummed on the road, she thought about Mrs. Ryan. How could a mother be so calm after her son’s death? She seemed more upset by the thought of him stealing a bottle of whiskey twenty years before than by the fact that he’d been tied to a chair, tortured, mutilated, and then strangled to death. What did she have inside her to counterbalance that image? A thing that made sense of the death, that transformed it into something … what? Noble? Inevitable?
Her father had liked to talk about his work. Ireland and cops. When she was growing up in the house off Abbott, those were the only two things he’d talk to her about. They’d be sitting at the kitchen table, with her dead stepmother’s yellow tablecloth on it and matching dish towels hung below the sink, and he’d say, “When all’s said and done, a cop’s an intruder. He shines a light on all the things you’re ashamed of in your life, and makes you face who youreally are. God forbid you have to own up to it yourself.” The job had exhausted him. Forty years on the force and all he wanted was someone to come up to him and say, “I killed the bitch because I’m a vindictive asshole—and, by the way, she wasn’t cheating on me, I was
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