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“Alright, Condon, it’s time to go,” Foley said into the bull horn. Maura’s eyes willed Shay to appear but there was no movement on the right hand roof.

“I’ve locked the others in and I’ll be coming out with the kid,” the boy held Sandra in one arm. “Come here to me, Foley, it’s, that sick I am of shoutin’.” Superintendent Foley walked over to the window.

“You see that kit tied to the kid’s back?” Foley nodded. “Inside is a bottle of nitroglycerin, one strange move, I shoot anti the whole lot, you, me, everything will be blown to hell. Understand?” Again Foley nodded. “Now get out there and I warn you not to let anyone move so much as an eyelash if you want anything left of the Clinic.”

There was a rustle of movement behind Maura as the out-patients pushed their way in wheelchairs and on crutches into position by the gates. The blind men brought up the rear.

“Everyone stay where you are,” Superintendent Foley’s voice boomed over the loud hailer, “Condon will come out in a minute and when he does I don’t want anyone to breathe until he is in the car and it has left the area. There is a bomb on the child’s back which he will explode—” His voice stopped as Sandra, leaning on her walking frame inched out on to the tarmac. A small determined figure dressed all in red, her hair bunched into a handle above each ear and fastened with long-eared plastic rabbits, she looked neither to the right nor to the left. Her parents watched from the entrance of the shelter not daring to breathe. Then Arne Condon appeared in the doorway, gun in hand.

Kelly’s wife was by the gate eyes riveted on the roof of the right hand wing! Nothing. No one. Oh God, she said under her breath, where is he? Though Condon moved at a snail’s pace behind the child, every passing moment, found him that much closer to his goal. If she didn’t see Shay soon, it would be too late for the planned diversion to serve its purpose. Everyone was in place awaiting the signal that she couldn’t give until he was in place. A seagull swooped drawing her eyes left — and she saw him — on the roof to her left — his right not hers. She glanced around to see if the slight bulge in the flat line of the roof had been noticed, but all attention clung to the drama being enacted on the tarmac as to a life support unit.

Maura lifted her hand slightly and the two nearest her rolled forward. The others followed close behind, their initial movement through the gate cloaked by the black Mercedes and the surrounding motorcycle escort.

Condon was almost halfway to the car, gun trained on the mount lumped on the child’s back. “Can’t you push that thing faster?” he hissed through his teeth.

“I’m going best I can,” she answered, swiveling to look back at him. As she turned, one of the wheels hit a stone causing the left handle to come adrift. She swung sideways off balance, body stiff in calipers locked at the hip. The frame teetered. Mouths gaped in silent prayer as the child-bomb poised precariously mid-fall. Paralyzed by fear of imminent mortality no one dared offer help.

Then Arne Condon reached down awkwardly to catch the child with his left hand, words jerking, “Not a move — out of — anyone! — I warn you!” Sandra leaned her shoulder against his leg for support until both hands regained their purchase on the walking frame.

“Thanks, Arne,” Sandra said before continuing to push, twist, push, twist across the remaining distance separating her from the car. When certain the child was steady on her feet again, Condon looked up to find the courtyard ringed with spastics on crutches advancing in eccentric cadence. They were intersperced with children propelling themselves in wheelchairs and the three blind men led by dogs.

“Bleedin’ hell! What are you tryin’ to pull, Foley?” Condon shouted. Swinging around, the Superintendent blanched on seeing the small army of disabled toiling across the tarmac just the way Shay Kelly had suggested. A vision of the young Guard drawn and quartered momentarily flickered in his mind.

“Believe me, Condon, I had nothing to do with this. I swear.” Foley spoke softly, hoping to control the situation by being calm in the face of the terrorist’s rising hysteria. “Ignore them. Just keep following the little girl, nobody will try to stop you.”

“Don’t give me that bleedin’ crap. I want them stopped! I’m warnin’ you!” Condon shrieked head turning, trying to face everywhere at once. Suddenly, a shot cracked. Condon jerked sideways, the revolver dropped to the ground. In falling his foot toppled Sandra onto her face crying. Medical aid and an Army bomb disposal unit converged, one bundling Arne onto a stretcher, the other gingerly relieving Sandra of her lethal hump. Then she was in her father’s arms, her mother, laughing and crying, kissing her little hands. Men from the media were everywhere flashing cameras, asking questions, demanding statements.

The hostages filed out of the building to be reunited with their families; in blind Declan Fogerty’s case, a joyous Alsatian named Mannix. An ambulance took Condon, under guard, to hospital. The bomb disposal expert shouted that Sandra had been loaded with nothing more lethal than a cloth wrapped box of water colors. And then the Clinic was almost deserted.

As quickly as forces had gathered when the crisis had developed twenty-two hours before, vehicles and people evaporated until, at last, only a small nucleus of police remained.

After firing the shot that had dropped Arne Condon, Shay Kelly had sprawled full length on the roof limp with relief that his aim had not gone astray, thanking God his shot had not killed. He listened as the area below cleared, dreading the chewing out that would come his way for disobeying orders, wishing nothing had been said to the Superintendent. He knew Maura would be waiting for him with Declan and Mannix in tow but he didn’t feel like moving. The sun came out and was warm on his face. It was as though the whole world rejoiced now the crisis had passed. Soon the 727 would be put to bed and the crew would wander off to wherever crews went when they were off duty and all the money would be put back in the bank.

“Guarda Kelly! Seamus Kelly! Are you up there on that roof?” A voice boomed through a loud hailer. Shay rose and stood silhouetted against the sky, rifle looped in the crook of his arm.

“Yes, Sergeant Clancy,” he answered.

“Get down outa there and get your ass over to the Barracks.” And his Sergeant walked over to the Superintendent’s car where he stood, head near the window, talking to Foley. About me, no doubt, Shay thought, making his way down to the ground. About not following orders, but surely if a man had an idea he should be given a hearing. Foley had heard. Foley had said no. Guards were supposed to obey orders, not think. If, for appearances sake, they got around to giving him a metal for bravery, he knew darned well what would be engraved on the flip side: Seamus Kelly, foot patrolman in the Garda Siochana, Irishtown Barracks; Suspended for thinking in the line of duty.

Three Dead Deadbeats

by Robert Fester and Joe R. Lansdale

Three death claims had been filed against the insurance company. All three listed the same beneficiary. And all three deceased had died in exactly the same way. Was it coincidence — or was it murder?

* * *

I was at my wits’ end. I’d studied the problem for hours, but still no answer. I crumpled my scratch paper and tossed it in the general direction of the waste can.

I touched my intercom button and called into the outer office. “Hey, Debbie, can you come in here? I need some advice.” I turned my attention back to the newspaper.