‘So what we have here, Daniel, is a little electronic insurance policy. Judge friend of mine gave it to me in payment for my opinion on a statutory case he was. . eh. . involved in. Homeland are already using them and there’s a strong lobby to snap them on US parolees too, given the percentage of repeat offenders.’
‘Yeah? Spare me the lecture, Faber,’ I said, playing it cool.
‘Okay. Let me give you the specs. It’s tamper-proof, naturally; there’s a sensor on there that monitors pulse and blood pressure; it’s got GPS that feeds into my laptop, so we know exactly what building you’re in at any time. You nip into the john for a quick dump, and the bracelet picks up the splash. But here’s the bit I really love. I can remotely inflict electromuscular disruption if you ain’t doing what you’re supposed to be doing where you’re supposed to be doing it. Or to give you the doorman version: I can zap enough voltage up your ass to make you shit your pants. This thing makes the Taser shock seem like a tickle with a feather.’
And then Faber gave me a little taste, just to show me he wasn’t kidding. Felt like he popped my brain into a blender; by the time it was over, I was giving serious consideration to the aforementioned pants-shitting.
So now I am Faber’s boy. He’s got the key to my heart rate. I spend a minute trying to think of some way to screw with him, but it’s a foolproof system, and so I settle down in my seat at the back of the New York bus and try to grab a little sleep. Maybe a low heart rate will fool Faber into thinking I’m dead.
I cross my ankles over the canvas bag at my feet. At least Faber’s plan involved me catching a bus, so I got to collect my weapons and drop off my cash after I had picked it up from the cruiser.
It takes most of the day to get out to Farmington from New York. First a train to New Haven from Manhattan, then a transit bus. It might speed things up a bit if the driver didn’t stop at every corner in Long Island on the way. Seems like everyone knows his name except me. I don’t know why I’m fuming; it’s not like I’m in any great hurry to get where I’m going. Plus the rocking motion should help me to digest the sack of Taco Bell I bought at Grand Central. I wolfed it down a little quick, my first proper meal in over twenty-four hours. When you’re having a crappy week, nothing comforts like Taco Bell.
I have to admit, standing there under Grand Central’s famous vaulted ceiling, I did think about nipping to the rest room, sticking my foot down a toilet and putting a few rounds into the bracelet.
How tough can this thing be? Ghost Zeb reasoned, eager to have me back on his own case.
While I was mulling this over, Faber gave me an almost psychic call on Macey Barrett’s cell, which I told him was my phone.
‘So here’s the thing, Dan,’ he said, and I could almost hear the air part as he jabbed a finger at his mouthpiece. ‘Sometimes distance makes people brave. They start thinking like it’s traditional warfare and they can run away. Before you give in to that impulse, I got some information a chivalrous guy like yourself should have.’
Chivalrous? Does everyone know my weak spot?
‘Yeah? What’s that, counsellor?’
‘Your lady friend. The cop on the trolley. If I don’t hear from you by nightfall, she goes in the freezer. We just wheel her right in there. And once in, she’s not coming out. I had a plate bolted over the safety latch. After that, I set my dogs on you. You shot the cops and my bodyguards shot you. Simple.’
Looks like chivalry might soon be dead along with Detective Deacon. The bodies just keep stacking up like sandbags.
I spend a futile moment wishing that things were normal again. If this were a normal week, I would be meeting Zeb for karaoke later. The little mensch loves the karaoke bar. Barry Manilow is his speciality, if you can believe that.
Oh Mandy, you came and I came, you were fakin’.
I think he might have screwed up the words a little.
Karaoke, says Ghost Zeb into his sleeve, the way he does when he’s in one of his moods. Not likely since you abandoned the search for me to save Princess Supercop. I’m as good as dead.
Don’t be like that. I haven’t abandoned you, but I’m on the clock with Deacon. They’re going to ice her, man.
That makes two of us, says Ghost Zeb. Why don’t you do something about my problem, since you’re just sitting there? Have you even thought of a plan yet?
I roll my eyes, which must look strange to the old lady in the seat opposite giving me the glare treatment.
I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.
Not so preoccupied that your brain doesn’t have a few spare cells to conjure me up.
Okay, okay. I have been thinking about this, as you perfectly well know. Let me make a call.
Make your call, Judas.
Hey, Judas wasn’t Irish.
Just make the call.
One call then I’m back on Deacon.
It takes me a minute to remember Corporal Tommy Fletcher’s number. I punch it in carefully, big fingers little buttons.
From what I hear, Irish Mike Madden has family in Ireland. Maybe Tommy can do a little recon, get us some leverage.
It’s a start, I suppose, says Zeb, unwilling to give up his sulk. But don’t think you’re off the hook. If you don’t find the real me, I’m gonna move into your temporal lobe permanently.
Great. Another ultimatum, just what I need.
Tommy answers when I’m on the point of hanging up.
‘What the fuck?’ he says instead of plain old hello, which is a pretty standard opener for Corporal Fletcher as far as I remember.
‘Is that any way to talk to your sergeant?’ I ask, half smiling in spite of the whirlwind of crap spinning around me.
‘I’m not in the army no more,’ grumbles Tommy. ‘Especially not at four in the bloody morning. I got a headache and it’s nearly bedtime.’ Tommy draws a sharp breath as he realises who he’s talking to. ‘Daniel? Dan fucking McEvoy? Is that the big jackeen himself?’
‘That’s Sergeant McEvoy to you, Fletcher.’
‘Danny, brother. Are you in country? We gotta party. We gotta go crazy, man. You ever see a one-legged man dance? So, where are you, Sarge?’
‘I’m overseas, Corporal.’
‘Still knocking heads?’
‘A few. That’s why I’m calling.’
‘Something I can help you with?’
Tommy always caught on fast. ‘I have a little recon mission for you, if you’re up to it.’
There is an uncomfortable silence, then Tommy mumbles, ‘Thing is, Dan, I don’t really do that kind of thing any more. I got kids. .’
Now I feel bad. ‘Forget I mentioned it, Tommy. I didn’t realise. .’
Tommy cackles. ‘Just screwing with you, Sarge. Course I’m up for it. No killing gypsies, though. I had a curse put on me.’
‘No gypsicide, honest. I just need you to trace the roots of a certain family tree.’
‘What?’
‘Find a few people. But be careful, they have dangerous relatives.’
Tommy is unimpressed. ‘Shit, my brother has a dangerous relative. Who do you need me to find?’
I give Tommy the details and he promises to get back to me asa-f-p.
I never wanted a phone before, but I’m starting to realise how convenient they are.
Irish Mike is paying for the call too, chuckles Zeb, coming out of his funk. Nice touch.
I must have chuckled too, because now the old lady opposite is showing me her can of Mace.