Read Online The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty - Free Book Online
Authors: Adrian McKinty
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Hard-Boiled, Massachusetts, Great Britain, Terrorism, Intelligence service, Undercover operations, Prevention, Witnesses, Protection, Terrorism - Prevention, Witnesses - Protection, Irish Republican Army, Intelligence service - Great Britain
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up?"
"No."
"This is a Red Sox town," she said.
"So?"
"You don’t know about the Red Sox and the curse of the Bambino?"
"No."
"Well, anyway, it’s a long story,
No, No, Nanette
and all that, suffice to say, we
don’t talk about Babe Ruth. We don’t, in Massachusetts, talk about any Yankees players. It’s a
rule."
"Sorry, I don’t know much about baseball, nothing actually. We don’t play it in Ireland. I’ve
only heard of Babe Ruth, oh, and Joe DiMaggio of course, because of Simon and Garfunkel, and
yeah, Lou Gehrig because of the disease. Oh aye, and Yogi Berra, you know because of the
cartoon."
"What did I tell you about Yankees players?" Kit snapped, her face turning bright red. She was
working herself up into a little bit of a state. More of a state than immediately after a man had
tried to bloody kill her da. Odd but a good thing perhaps—you keep your calm for the dangerous
things, you lose your cool over the trivial.
"They were all Yankees? Jesus. Sorry. Who are the famous Red Sox?" I asked.
"I don’t walk to talk about it now," Kit said, still a little ticked off. Petulant and
furious, she looked even more fetching.
"I was just asking," I said.
"Obviously you’re, like, totally ignorant about the whole business," she said.
"I just said I was," I protested.
"And you fucking are."
"But that’s what I said."
"And you were right."
She turned away from me, so that I couldn’t see that she was laughing. I wanted to pull the
car over, grab her, and kiss her.
It was completely the wrong thing to do, but also…
"Why are you slowing down? The bus station is still a couple of miles, come on," Kit said.
True enough, we were getting close to civilization. A big town. The trees giving way to
houses. Old wooden homes, some with signs saying that they dated back to the 1630s. Traffic
started to increase and I could definitely smell the sea. We stopped at a red light. A sign to
the right pointed to Rolfe’s Lane, Plum Island, and Plum Island Airfield.
"This is where you’d turn to take me home but Daddy really wouldn’t approve of me bringing you
to the house, he just wouldn’t. Sorry," Kit said.
"It’s ok," I said. "So what do I do?"
"Go straight through town and then turn right at the bus station. There’s a big parking lot,
we can dump the car, you can get a bus back to Boston, I’ll phone Sonia."
"Who’s Sonia?" I asked.
"My dad’s new wife. I guess my stepmom now. My mom died two years ago. Well, not my real mom,
my real mom is out there somewhere, it’s complicated."
"Is she a wicked stepmom?"
"No, she’s nice. She doesn’t like Jackie very much, though."
"Jackie—the boyfriend, right?"
"Yeah."
"I like Sonia, sounds like she has good horse sense. I want to meet her."
"No way, Dad wouldn’t like it."
We drove along High Street. Enormous mansions to the left and right built during Newburyport’s
boom times in the nineteenth century on profits from the whaling and the China trade.
We turned into the parking lot at the bus station, got out of the car. I started walking
away.
"You really are naive, aren’t you?" she said, took off her jacket, and wiped down the steering
wheel, the gear stick, the dash.
"Can’t leave prints," she said.
I nodded, slapped my forehead.
We walked to the bus station.
A lovely night. Warm and the heavens packed with constellations and a waxing moon. We walked
in silence across the parking lot and she led me into the station entrance. Not much of a bus
station, more of a halt, a desk, a guy, a phone, a Coke machine, half a dozen chairs. She phoned
Sonia while I asked the man at the desk about the next bus to Boston.
"Ten minutes, Boston and Logan," he said, though it was more like
tea meen, bosson,
logue
.
We went outside. Moths bewitched by the big arc lights over the car park, crashing into them
and falling stunned to the ground.
"Let’s get away from here," I said and led her away from
"No."
"This is a Red Sox town," she said.
"So?"
"You don’t know about the Red Sox and the curse of the Bambino?"
"No."
"Well, anyway, it’s a long story,
No, No, Nanette
and all that, suffice to say, we
don’t talk about Babe Ruth. We don’t, in Massachusetts, talk about any Yankees players. It’s a
rule."
"Sorry, I don’t know much about baseball, nothing actually. We don’t play it in Ireland. I’ve
only heard of Babe Ruth, oh, and Joe DiMaggio of course, because of Simon and Garfunkel, and
yeah, Lou Gehrig because of the disease. Oh aye, and Yogi Berra, you know because of the
cartoon."
"What did I tell you about Yankees players?" Kit snapped, her face turning bright red. She was
working herself up into a little bit of a state. More of a state than immediately after a man had
tried to bloody kill her da. Odd but a good thing perhaps—you keep your calm for the dangerous
things, you lose your cool over the trivial.
"They were all Yankees? Jesus. Sorry. Who are the famous Red Sox?" I asked.
"I don’t walk to talk about it now," Kit said, still a little ticked off. Petulant and
furious, she looked even more fetching.
"I was just asking," I said.
"Obviously you’re, like, totally ignorant about the whole business," she said.
"I just said I was," I protested.
"And you fucking are."
"But that’s what I said."
"And you were right."
She turned away from me, so that I couldn’t see that she was laughing. I wanted to pull the
car over, grab her, and kiss her.
It was completely the wrong thing to do, but also…
"Why are you slowing down? The bus station is still a couple of miles, come on," Kit said.
True enough, we were getting close to civilization. A big town. The trees giving way to
houses. Old wooden homes, some with signs saying that they dated back to the 1630s. Traffic
started to increase and I could definitely smell the sea. We stopped at a red light. A sign to
the right pointed to Rolfe’s Lane, Plum Island, and Plum Island Airfield.
"This is where you’d turn to take me home but Daddy really wouldn’t approve of me bringing you
to the house, he just wouldn’t. Sorry," Kit said.
"It’s ok," I said. "So what do I do?"
"Go straight through town and then turn right at the bus station. There’s a big parking lot,
we can dump the car, you can get a bus back to Boston, I’ll phone Sonia."
"Who’s Sonia?" I asked.
"My dad’s new wife. I guess my stepmom now. My mom died two years ago. Well, not my real mom,
my real mom is out there somewhere, it’s complicated."
"Is she a wicked stepmom?"
"No, she’s nice. She doesn’t like Jackie very much, though."
"Jackie—the boyfriend, right?"
"Yeah."
"I like Sonia, sounds like she has good horse sense. I want to meet her."
"No way, Dad wouldn’t like it."
We drove along High Street. Enormous mansions to the left and right built during Newburyport’s
boom times in the nineteenth century on profits from the whaling and the China trade.
We turned into the parking lot at the bus station, got out of the car. I started walking
away.
"You really are naive, aren’t you?" she said, took off her jacket, and wiped down the steering
wheel, the gear stick, the dash.
"Can’t leave prints," she said.
I nodded, slapped my forehead.
We walked to the bus station.
A lovely night. Warm and the heavens packed with constellations and a waxing moon. We walked
in silence across the parking lot and she led me into the station entrance. Not much of a bus
station, more of a halt, a desk, a guy, a phone, a Coke machine, half a dozen chairs. She phoned
Sonia while I asked the man at the desk about the next bus to Boston.
"Ten minutes, Boston and Logan," he said, though it was more like
tea meen, bosson,
logue
.
We went outside. Moths bewitched by the big arc lights over the car park, crashing into them
and falling stunned to the ground.
"Let’s get away from here," I said and led her away from
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