“I’m coming, Duncan,” Caitlyn called. She patted Moira on the head as she reached her. “Why don’t you stay here, darling? Get yourself some cereal…”
The sunrise had left a damp and heavy morning fog in its wake. Two figures stood in the mist. Duncan MacEnnis was, like all the residents of Rathlin except Moira, a joker. Caitlyn knew his story-everyone on Rathlin knew everyone else’s story. MacEnnis had been a constable with the garda, the police force in Belfast. He’d been called to investigate the report of a man acting strangely in an alley between dreary brownstones. As MacEnnis approached the suspect, who was gibbering madly and pounding at the brick wall of the nearest house as if he could smash his way through it, the man exploded in a gory fountain of flesh and blood. The virus wasn’t carried in the blood and gore that spattered MacEnnis, but it was in the air that night, carried on the breeze moving down the valley of the River Lagan. Nothing had happened then, not until after MacEnnis had cleaned up after his shift and stopped in at Crown Liqour Saloon on Great Victoria Street. There, he’d lifted a glass of stout and watched as his hand melted around the glass, the flesh running like hot wax down his arm, his shoulder, his chest, his face, puddling then hardening again as he screamed in agony and terror, as patrons shouted and scurried away from him…
The Melted Man, with runneled flesh and eyes popping garishly from a hairless, pitted skull.
The man behind MacEnnis was a giant. He stood head and shoulder above the garda, and his face and hands seemed to be carved of gray and shiny stone, all the edges hard and sharp. She knew him-she’d seen his pictures many times in the papers: Brigadier Kenneth Foxworthy; the man they called ‘Captain Flint,’ whose hands were razor-edged knives, whose voice was as soft as his body was hard. An ace, not a joker.
“I see that you know who I am,” the man said, the voice so low a whisper that Caitlyn had to lean forward to hear it at all. “You don’t seem too surprised. Would that mean you know why I’m here?”
Caitlyn glanced at MacEnnis; the skull-face was impressive, teeth gritted behind a lipless mouth, but the constable gave a nearly imperceptible shrug. “I assume you’re going to tell me-” Caitlyn began, when two other people came from behind the cottage: a man with a bulging, domed forehead holding a blue steel revolver as he herded Gary toward the group. A sheen of perspiration covered Gary ’s face and hands.
“He was halfway across the field, Brigadier,” the man called. “Must’ve slid out the back when he heard us coming. A bit of a hard run, the way he’s sweating, but he stopped when I showed him the gun.”
“Excellent work, Radar,” Flint whispered. He turned back to Caitlyn. One eyebrow raised slowly in question; otherwise, the face remained entirely impassive.
“He’s a friend of mine,” she told the stone giant. “He’s been here a few days now. He told me he was going for a walk around the island. I don’t believe we have a law on Rathlin against that.”
MacEnnis was staring at her with his bulging eyes, though he said nothing. Flint merely snorted. “Odd, then, that he doesn’t appear in the ferry’s register or in the Ballycastle visitor’s log. How did he get here? Fly?” He turned to the black man. “That is how you came here, isn’t it, Mr Bushorn?”
Gary shrugged. “You tell me.”
The expression-or rather, the lack of one-on Flint ’s face remained undisturbed. “Where are your friends?”
“They weren’t friends.”
“You expect me to believe that blatant falsehood about being ‘kidnapped’ and forced to fly Senator Hartmann and Ms. Davis here?”
“I expect you’ll believe whatever you want.”
“Tell me where they are.”
“I don’t know. They parachuted out of the plane near Dublin.”
“Then why didn’t you broadcast that immediately and land there or in Belfast?”
“Hartmann had already shot out the radio so I couldn’t call. It was night, I didn’t know the area, and I was flying by sight on a stormy night. I figured by the time I got to Scotland, it would be dawn and I could see better. I didn’t make it.”
“You’ve been here a day and half and have made no attempt to contact the authorities. Hardly a ‘victim’s’ response.”
“I wanted to avoid being your victim, too. Do you blame me?”
Flint seemed to sigh. “Handcuff him and put him in the car,” he said to Radar. “He’s under arrest. There are agents from the States coming over for him.”
“No.” Caitlyn moved toward Gary as Radar pulled the cuffs from a back pocket. “ Duncan, he’s asked to stay here. He’s one of us.”
“Shite.” The curse was audible to everyone, and MacEnnis’s face became even more skull-like with the rictus of a grimace. “Is that true? You’re a joker?” MacEnnis glanced at Gary, who looked first at Caitlyn.
“Yeah,” Gary said finally. “I guess it is. Or maybe a deuce.” He lifted his hand, his eyes tightening in concentration. A moment later, a small blue flame flickered from his fingertip and swept down the entire index finger. Gary grimaced in pain as the flame licked at his flesh. “That’s it. That’s the extent of my great powers. Get a Bic lighter, and you can do the same. Otherwise, I have a body that runs way too hot, and it fucking hurts. I’m good at scorching bedsheets, too.” They could all see the finger’s skin bubbling as the flame guttered out. The dark flesh had gone an ugly white as great blisters rose. Gary cradled the damaged hand to his belly. Perspiration was rolling down the side of his face. “I ain’t no goddamn ace. Right now, asylum sounds good.”
“Got any other skills?”
“I’m a fair mechanic.”
“You’re in luck, then. Things break here, all too often.” With a sigh, MacEnnis turned back to Flint. “Sorry,” he told the Brigadier. “I can’t let you to take this man.”
Flint almost, almost laughed. “I don’t think you understand, Constable,” he husked. “I’m taking him back to Scotland. He aided two extremely dangerous fugitives in escaping from the authorities in New York City, and this is now an international matter. Rathlin is still part of the UK, the last time I checked. He comes with me.”
“Rathlin might be UK, but odd how I don’t see nats here at all. Odd how we get almost no money from Belfast or London. Strange how the only businesses here are those we’ve made ourselves,” MacEnnis answered. He waddled forward until he was standing in front of Flint, his horrible face tipped back to stare up at the man. “This isn’t Northern Ireland, this isn’t the Scotland or Wales or England. ’Tis Rathlin, and you can squawk all you like about the law, but ’tis me that’s the law here, and I’m thinking that I’d rather have me a mechanic on the island than an arrest on my books.”