Page 156 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Something like that.”

“That’s good police work. I should have figured you’d do something like that... Well, now that that route’s blown, we’ll have to figure something else out.”

“Yes.”

“So what happened this morning? You doubled back when you got over the bridge?” I asked.

“Yeah. This is exactly what I figured you do. Either yesterday or today. You’re very predictable.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Don’t be depressed. These are very deep waters for the likes of you.”

“The likes of me?”

“A cop, even a maverick cop like yourself. This is way above your pay grade.”

“So let me ask you something, Mr. Wilson, if that is indeed your name, what gives you the right to go around killing Irishmen and women?” I asked.

“What gives me the right? That’s your question?”

“Yeah.”

“You followed me. You know where I work. You know who I work for.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. What gives you the right?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, taking the cigarette out of my mouth and stubbing it on the floor. He shoved the barrel of the MP5 into my cheek.

I desperately fingered the secret pocket of my leather jacket, but I couldn’t pull back the Velcro patch covering the lock pick or the razor blade.

I had prepared for exactly this situation, but I hadn’t bloody practiced it.

Shite.

Oh, Duffy, what kind of eejit are you? Remember the seven “P’s”: proper preparation and planning prevents piss-poor performance. I gave it another go and another, but try as I might, it didn’t bloody work. I couldn’t get the Velcro off and I couldn’t get the lock pick out, which meant there was no play and he was going to be able to shoot me like a slab of meat. Bloody deserved it too. This was what came of sticking your nose in. Few, very few, coppers had the persistence or the money or the stupidity to follow a lead like this all the way to America. For what? Truth? What was that thing that Dr. Creery told us fromParadise Lost? “Truth never comes into the world but like a bastard, to the ignominy of him that brought its birth.” Ha! Yeah, that was it. Fancy me remembering that from thirty years ago. The most boring class in the school. Me sitting there next to the great Cormac McCann, who went on to becometheIRA master bomber, me getting picked on for talking, and Cormac getting told to explain what our conversation was about, and him standing up and off the cuff talking about stressed and unstressed verse and the advantages of the Senecan and Ciceronian styles. The look on Dr. Creery’s face—priceless.

I smiled.

Wilson took a step away from me and lowered the MP5. He had me completely in his power, and he knew it. “What are you thinking about now, Duffy?” he asked triumphantly.

“Milton.”

“Milton who?”

“John Milton.”

“Where does he fit into all of this?”

“He doesn’t. He’s a dead poet.”

“I know that,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. English major.”

“Which college?”