“He’s coming,” Campbell said. He stood in the shelter of the barn, dark now, trying not to gag at the stench rising up from the pit.
“And?” the handler asked.
“And what? Fegan’s a dead man. They’ll take care of him as soon as he gets here.”
“Don’t they know what’s happened?”
“The cop in Toner’s car. Yeah, they know.”
The handler was silent for a moment. “But surely that’s changed the plan. If they don’t offer up Fegan to the authorities, the Unionists will hold them responsible for the cop. They’ll have McGinty by the balls. They could bring down Stormont with this.”
“I told McGinty that,” Campbell lied. “He wouldn’t listen.”
“But McGinty’s smarter than that. He never took a stupid breath in his life.”
“They want Fegan dead. That’s all.”
“Christ,” the handler said. Campbell listened to him breathe. “Christ. There’s no way to stop it?”
“None,” Campbell said.
“You’ve got to try. This could set the political process back years. See if you can—”
Campbell saw a shaft of light break on the concrete beyond the barn door. “Got to go,” he said, and hung up.
He heard footsteps, two people, one walking steadily, the other shuffling and faltering. Campbell eased back into the shadows of the barn.
“You should’ve gone when you had the chance,” McGinty said. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d just gone.”
“Let me go back inside,” Marie said. “Please, let me go to Ellen.”
“She’s all right with Eddie. Why didn’t you go? I couldn’t have made it easier for you.”
“Because I didn’t want to go. I shouldn’t have to go. Things are supposed to have changed. Jesus, Paul, it was so long ago.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. It still hurts me to think about it.”
Marie laughed, the sound dry and hateful in the darkness. “Hurts you? Nothing hurts you.”
“You’re wrong. People think I’m a hard man, but I’ve got feelings. Seeing you with Lennon—a cop, for Christ’s sake—what do you think that did to me?”
“I couldn’t live like that any more. Can’t you see that? Pretending to myself you weren’t married. Pretending all that . . . that . . . other stuff didn’t matter. The things you did.”
“I never did anything to—”
“You pulled the strings. Stop passing the blame, Paul.”
McGinty’s voice hardened. “There were people wanted you dead back then.”
“You think I didn’t know that? Have you any idea how scared I was?”
Campbell edged to the barn door until he could just make out their shapes in the poor light from the farmhouse.
“Maybe I should have let them kill you and that cop,” McGinty said.
Campbell flinched as Marie lashed out, and the sound of her palm on McGinty’s cheek reverberated around the yard. He flinched again when McGinty returned the blow, sending her sprawling on the wet concrete. She stared back up at him.
“And what are you doing with Fegan?” McGinty asked.
“Go to hell.”
“Answer me.”
Marie spat at him.
McGinty crouched down. “For Christ’s sake, Marie, he’s insane. He’s sick in the head.”
“Sick? Is he any more sick than you, or that thug O’Kane?” She pointed to the farmhouse.
“Don’t you know what he’s done? He killed a cop in Belfast just a couple of hours ago. He killed Vincie Caffola and Father Coulter.” He rested his hand on her shoulder as she shook her head. “He killed your uncle Michael.”
“No,” she said. “You’re lying. You said the police killed Vincie Caffola. You’re twisting things the way you always do.”
McGinty brushed hair away from her forehead. “It’s the truth, Marie. You can put your act on for everyone else, but I know you. You’re more like your uncle than you let on. You’ve got that same cold streak in you, like stone. And now you’ve latched onto Gerry Fegan. What are you using him for? It’s the same as the cop, isn’t it? Just a way to get back at me.” He sighed. “You always went for the wrong type, didn’t you?”
Her gaze dropped. “Let me go back inside.”
“All right,” McGinty said. He stood upright and helped her to her feet. “Away you go.”
Marie wiped her eyes as she went back to the farmhouse. She was silhouetted in the doorway for just a second. A second was long enough for the light to find Campbell. He ducked his head back inside the barn.
“Davy?” McGinty called. “Davy, is that you?”
Campbell screwed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. He stepped out into the yard. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. McGinty.”
McGinty took a slow step closer. “What are you doing there?”
“It stinks in that house. I was just out getting some air.”
“In the barn?”
“I heard talking. I thought you’d want some privacy.”
A step closer. “What’d you hear?”
“Nothing,” Campbell said. “Just voices. Nothing I could make out.”
Light cut across the yard once more, only to be blocked by the hulking form of Bull O’Kane. He came trudging across the concrete, his heavy feet slapping on the ground.
“Come on back inside now, lads.”
McGinty stood still for a few seconds, then gave a slow nod. “We’re coming. I think you wanted a word with Davy, here, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.” A smile split O’Kane’s ruddy farmer’s face.
Campbell took a sideways step. “What about?”
O’Kane, impossibly quick for his size, had Campbell’s upper arm in his grip before he could move. “Just a word, son.”
McGinty came to his other side. “Just come inside, Davy.”
Campbell made one desperate grab for the gun tucked into the small of his back, but McGinty got his wrist first.
“Don’t, Davy.” McGinty’s voice was as soft and warm as the rain. “You’ll only make it worse.”