Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
When Cal lets Rip out again at dawn, Mart is in his yard tinkering with something, his blue beanie a bright spot against the gray day. He raises a hand to Cal, but doesn’t come over. The night brought him nothing either.
Cal is having concerns about women. When Rachel needed help, she turned to women: Sheila, Lena.
She might have turned to others, and told them more.
Ardnakelty tends to segregate its socializing along gender lines; Cal is on terms of amicable small talk with most of the women, but no closer than that to any of them, with the exceptions of Noreen and sort of Sheila Reddy.
When it comes to Rachel’s friends, he doesn’t even know who they are; he hasn’t differentiated the small flock of leggy, fast-talking girls who zip back and forth between Ardnakelty and courses or jobs in Athlone, Galway, Limerick.
He can’t picture one of them turning up on his doorstep, or on Mart’s, with something she’s been afraid to share. His plan made no provision for them.
Angela Maguire is probably their best hope.
Angela and Senan, together since schooldays, are known as a solid couple who stand united on anything important; Angela is on good terms with most people, and has the wry, generous common sense required to put up with Senan for thirty-some years. A woman might go to her.
Or a woman might go to Lena, if she had knowledge that Lena was being dragged into this unfairly. Cal has no idea what Lena would do with that. He’s had her in his arms hundreds of times, but now he’s not sure he ever touched her. He calls Rip back in and heads for bed.
Clodagh Moynihan comes through for him late that morning. Cal has caught a few hours of actual sleep, and is trying to wake himself up with too much coffee, when his phone beeps. It’s Trey.
Eugene gone out their back gate turned left onto lane past nance maguires. Could go straight towards kilhone road or turn off to river
Another beep: Wearing poncy black coat. Cant follow him not enough cover
On my way, Cal texts back. Good work both of you. Go to school.
He throws on his jacket without waiting for the beep of the eyeroll emoji. “Come on,” he says to Rip, who’s already bounding for the door.
There are guys who would be haunting the riverbank, but Eugene isn’t one of them. Eugene is irritated by things that have the audacity to upset him; he won’t seek them out. Cal heads for the Kilhone road, driving too fast.
The back lane Trey is talking about is a long one, twisting between fields, and not much used except by the odd farmer moving stock or equipment.
Eugene is looking for privacy, which is nice, because Cal is too.
He leaves the Pajero on the shoulder at the entrance to the lane and starts walking towards Tommy’s, with Rip happily investigating the hedgerows and marking his presence.
The day is cold; branches drip leftover rain, and beneath them hoofprints have sunk deep into the waterlogged ground.
Cal is listening for the crunch of footsteps, so he hears Eugene coming a bend away. He calls Rip to heel with a finger-snap. Then he moves to the bend, very quietly. He waits in the shelter of the hedge for the crunching to come close before he steps out, face-to-face with Eugene.
Eugene stops dead, and Cal sees the flash of fear. The kid looks like shit. He’s managing to keep his sharp shave in place, and he’s probably not drunk right now, but his eyes, red and saggy, say he had a few last night. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping much.
“Morning,” Cal says.
“What do you want?” Eugene demands. He’s going for his usual arrogant tone, but he glances around too fast. There’s no one in sight. The hedges, still unclipped on this half-forgotten lane, are tall on both sides, ragged limbs reaching out over the road.
Cal says, “I’ve got something I need you to hear.”
“Not interested,” Eugene says. He wheels around and heads for home at a smart pace.
Cal stays right by his side, in step. “That’s fine,” he says. “I don’t need you to be interested. All I need you to do is listen.”
Eugene speeds up, but Cal has five or six inches on him and keeps the pace without effort.
Rip, understanding that this has stopped being an ordinary walk, sticks close at heel and puts on his attack-dog hunch, ready to eat Eugene for lunch if Cal gives the word.
“Do I have to call the Guards?” Eugene snaps.
“Son,” Cal says, “we can do this the stupid way if you want. I can tackle your ass and hold you down while I tell you what I’ve got to say; I got nothing to lose.
Or you can quit scurrying down this road like a scared bunny rabbit, stand still like a grown-up, and listen, and we can both go home with our clothes clean. ”
That pricks Eugene’s pride. He stops and whips around to face Cal, taking a step back so he won’t have to look up too obviously, just like Daddy does. “All right. Get it over with. You’ve got five minutes.”
Cal isn’t aiming to antagonize Eugene more than necessary, which probably rules out giving the little shit a good spanking. “Sit,” he tells Rip, who sits promptly and dedicates himself to staring Eugene into submission. To Eugene he says: “You remember that talk we had, back at Rachel’s funeral?”
Eugene shrugs. “Not really. You weren’t exactly top of my priority list.”
“Well, you were high up on mine, son,” Cal says. “I remember every word.”
“Good for you. So?”
“So,” Cal says, “for instance, I remember you telling me that the night Rachel died, you were home with your parents all evening, till you got the call that she was missing.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Eugene snaps. “I’m not going back over that night.”
“Just bear with me a minute, son,” Cal says. He’s staying good and leisurely; Eugene doesn’t get to set the pace here. “That’s what you told me. Right?”
“Are you interrogating me?”
“Just getting things straight,” Cal says mildly. “You got some problem with that question?”
Eugene takes a breath through his nose, keeping his patience. “No, I don’t have a problem. Yes, that’s what I said. Yes, that’s where I was. OK?”
“That’s where you were,” Cal says. “That’s not where your daddy was.”
He catches the quick spark of wariness, but Eugene fields that one easily. He raises his eyes to heaven. “Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t even try that. We were home.”
“Eugene,” Cal says. “I’ve got four witnesses that saw your daddy out and about that night.”
“Witnesses?” Eugene asks, eyebrows up, doing Cal’s accent badly. “Um, this isn’t court? You’re not a cop here?”
“People,” Cal amends, agreeably. “You’ll have to excuse my language; old habits die hard. Four people saw your daddy that night. A little before nine-thirty. That ring any bells?”
Eugene snorts. “Yeah, of course they did. Look: some people around here have some weird obsession with my father, in case you haven’t noticed.
He’s successful, they can’t handle that, they decide he needs putting back in his place or something—I don’t know what’s going on there, I’m not a psychologist, and I don’t care.
You’re new around here, you don’t get it, but you should know better than to fall for that shit.
You could probably find four witnesses who’d claim they saw him shoot JFK. ”
“Nope,” Cal says. “These aren’t people who’ve got anything against your daddy. They don’t give a rat’s ass about him one way or the other.”
“Right. Who are we talking about, exactly?”
“Come on, son,” Cal says, amused. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, if they exist, I guarantee you they have an opinion about us. Everyone around here does. That’s not arrogance, it’s just a fact.”
“Not these people,” Cal says. “Their only opinion is, they saw him. And if the Guards do end up getting involved in this situation, one way or another, it’s gonna look pretty strange.
Not that your daddy was out and about, but that he made such a big deal about keeping it under wraps.
Why would you lie your ass off about it, if he’s got nothing to hide? ”
Eugene sighs noisily, up at the sky, and re-evaluates.
“No one’s keeping anything under wraps,” he says.
“Jesus. Not everyone lives at your level of drama. My father has no problem telling the Guards anything they want to know, but he doesn’t have any duty to give a bunch of bored housewives something to gossip about. Is that OK with you?”
“Meaning he went out that night,” Cal says. “You know where he was headed?”
Eugene gives him a cold stare. “Is that your business?”
“You’re misunderstanding me, son,” Cal says. “I’m not asking you to tell me where he went. I’m asking whether you know.”
“Why would I? Even if he went out, we’re all adults; we don’t keep tabs on each other.”
Eugene isn’t as bright as he thinks, but he’s no dummy; he’s leaving the slate blank for Tommy to fill in whatever story he picks.
“Lemme guess,” Cal says. “He said he was just going out for a walk. Or maybe he’d dropped something earlier on, his glove or his keys or whatnot, and he wanted to go find it before it got rained on.
Something that nobody would be able to contradict, if any questions got asked down the line. Am I close?”
“Like I said. He doesn’t need an excuse note.”
Cal says, “You want to know where he went?”
Eugene whips out the cold stare again. “Not particularly.”
“Just before nine-thirty that night,” Cal says, “your daddy was heading down Casey’s boreen towards the old bridge.”
He’s watching very carefully to see whether this is news to Eugene. It is. Just for a second, Eugene freezes straight through, wide-eyed with shock, like a little kid who got slapped right across the face.