When he got to Stirling's he was so tired he didn't have the energy to knock on the door. He sat on the back step for several moments, just to summon the energy, and Stirling's wife Cindy found him there an hour later when she went to let the cat out. She screamed as a mud pie with legs tumbled into her kitchen. Stirling came running, gun out, Morton close behind him.
They dragged him in. He mumbled something they couldn't make out. They heaved him into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes and showered him down, then put him in a bed upstairs. Cindy, composed again, cut the bandage off his hand and looked at the wound. They all did. They shook their heads.
'Fester is the word that comes to mind,' Morton said.
'He needs to go to a hospital,' Cindy said.
'He can't,' Morton said. 'They'll arrest him. Then they'll arrest us.'
'Then we'll call a doctor,' Cindy said. 'He needs medical attention. He's not dying in my bed. We'll have to move house.'
'If we get a doctor,
they'll
see him.' Stirling thumbed at the window. 'They'll guess there's something going on.'
'They already know there's something going on,' Cindy said. 'That's why they're outside.'
They stood looking silently at Corrigan for several moments. He was pale and his breathing was laboured. There was a bubble blowing in and out of his nose.
'Jimmy Hatcher,' Cindy said suddenly.
'Jimmy Hatcher?' said Stirling.
'Who's Jimmy Hatcher?' Morton asked.
The Vietnam vet. He could do something.'
Stirling thought for a moment, then nodded. 'Good thinking, Batman,' he said.
Morton looked confused. 'What on earth could a Vietnam vet do for him?'
Stirling turned and hurried down the stairs. 'Tell him,' he called back.
Cindy smiled patiently. 'Jimmy was trained as a veterinarian by the army. Served in Vietnam, looking after army dogs. He's mostly retired now, but he lives just round the corner. He still does a few days a week. He'll have medicines. Antibiotics.'
Morton shook his head. 'Frank Corrigan isn't a dog.'
'Well,' said Cindy, 'that remains to be seen.'
Stirling gave Jimmy Hatcher a lot of bullshit about under-cover ops and the need for secrecy. Had really to persuade him to clamber over fences and through hedges to get to the house the back way. Jimmy was in his early sixties and wore his long grey hair in a ponytail. He huffed and puffed as they hurried through the downpour. He was a sixty-a-day man. Joints, not cigarettes. He was the original
I-been-smoking-this-stuff-for-thirty-years-and-l'm-still-not-addicted
man. When he saw who it was he said: 'He's wanted for murder, isn't he?'
Stirling nodded. 'But he didn't do it.'
'You sure of that?'
'I'm sure.'
As he started to probe the wound Corrigan winced and began to come round. He blinked at them for a confused minute. Then he shouted 'Lelewala!' and tried to get up.
They pushed him back down. He dozed for another half-hour, then opened his eyes again just as Jimmy Hatcher was finishing up. Jimmy smiled benevolently down at him. There was a joint in his mouth. 'Good news,' he said, 'we can save the arm.'
Corrigan looked about him warily, trying to remember.
Pongo and Lelewala.
His hand was freshly bandaged. He blinked at the spaces where the fingers had been and croaked: 'What about my fingers?'
'You type with two fingers, or all ten?'
'All ten.'
'Remind me not to read any of your novels.'
'I'm not a novelist.'
It's a figure of speech. You play the piano?'
'Some.'
'Let me put it this way. The melodies may be a little lacking.'
'Melodies were never my strong point.'
'Good. Well at least now you have an excuse. What happened to the fingers?'
Corrigan looked regretfully at his bandaged hand. 'One was shot to bits. The other was cut off. How long could it survive without me?'
Jimmy shrugged. 'Depends.'
'On what?'
'On whether it's packed in ice. On whether it's been kept in sterile conditions.'
'What if it's been stuck in an envelope and posted?'
'Then you can wave goodbye to your finger. But relax. It could be worse. I took a bullet out of your arm – remarkably clear of infection. I wish I could say the same for your hand. Like the annual germ convention. I've given you a strong antibiotic that should sort it out. Although, of course, it's not specifically designed for humans.'
He smiled, lifted his medical bag, then turned from the room. Cindy went after him. Corrigan blinked from Stirling to Morton.
'Don't ask,' Stirling said.
Corrigan drifted again. He was on a picnic with Aimie and Nicola. By the edge of the Niagara. Aimie was pointing and then suddenly he was running and there was Lelewala paddling over the edge of the Falls. He yelled at her to go back and she looked up, she wanted to, but it was too late, she was sucked over the edge and Corrigan screamed, and then he woke up and he
was
screaming. He looked desperately about him, drenched in sweat, and his eyes came to a halt on Stirling, standing at the foot of the bed. There was sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains.
'Take it easy,' Stirling said.
Corrigan was breathing hard. He examined the room again. Then his hand. He gingerly felt the space where his fingers had been.
Stirling sat on the edge of the bed. 'How're you doing?' he asked softly.
'OK.' Corrigan ran a finger through his dank hair. 'I know who killed Nicola.'
'I know you do. Gavril Popov.'
'How the fuck do you know that?'
'Hey, I'm a policeman.'
'No,
how do you know it?'
'You've been shouting his name all over the house. But you can fill me in on the details.'
He told him everything he could remember. Stirling nodded sadly throughout. 'A pity,' he said at the end, 'that you didn't have a wire on you. But don't worry. We'll get him. Once we sort the little matter of the convention out.'
Corrigan sighed. 'What about Madeline?' he asked suddenly. 'I left her sitting in the . . .'
'She's in hospital. But don't panic. She got chopped by one of the conventioneers. She's OK. Just in for observation. She's fine.'
'The stupid bitch didn't try to interview one of them, did she?'
'She tried to stop one of them beating someone up.'
'OK. Fair enough. She mentioned something about
The Magnificent Seven.'
'Yeah. We go in tonight.'
'That's complete madness.'
'I know. It was your idea.'
'God. I wish none of this had ever happened. I was quite happy with my wee life. And look at you, looking after a murder suspect. You should just wash your hands of it, Mark, go back to the way you. . .'
'I got a visit from Internal Affairs.'
'Seriously?'
'Seriously. They accused me of accepting a $200,000 bribe.'
'Well, you're standing here, so you must have convinced them otherwise.'
'No, actually, they're locked up in the boot of my car.'
'Very funny. How did you . . . ?'
'I'm not joking, Frank. They
are
in the boot. The car's in the garage. Every six hours Jimmy Morton puts on a balaclava, yanks up the door and throws some sandwiches in, then he bangs it down again.'
'Jesus. What do they say? You must have asked them what's happening?'
'Are you nuts? I'm not talking to those guys. They can put you away for life.'
'Mark, they're in your boot. You're
already
away for life.'
'Well if I'm already away for life, I'm certainly not talking to them; they'll come for me in the afterlife. They don't know anything, Frank, they're only following orders.'
Corrigan shook his head. 'What does Cindy say?'
'I explained it all to her. She thinks we're mad, but she still makes the sandwiches. This would be really funny if it wasn't so fucking serious.'
'I know.'
'Frank, are we wrong about this?'
'No. I don't think so.'
'That's not very reassuring.'
'What else can I say?'
Stirling shrugged. 'Dunbar's guys are watching the house.'
'I know. Do you think he tipped off Internal Affairs?'
'Doesn't matter. I'm still up that particular creek where paddles are in short supply.'
'You and me both, kid. You and me both.'
There was a plan. And it stank. It was madness, and he'd thought of it. If he could walk, there would indeed be seven of them. Seven against one hundred and fifty. Take control of the Old Cripple's mansion while the closing-night party was in full swing. Then wait for the shit to hit the fan. Madeline would broadcast live from the scene, and at the very least it might prevent Dunbar from shooting them.
What had he been thinking of ?
It was a fantasy. A small fighting unit of earnest do-gooders taking on the bad guys. But it was three cops, one of them with a bullet hole in his arm and two fingers missing. It was a retired FBI man battling alcoholism. It was a man who piloted a tourist boat. It was a reporter. And it was a seventy-year-old who could just about spell his own name. It would be the death of them.
It wasn't going to work. It wasn't pessimism. It was reality.
He ached and he was drowsy, but he had to get moving. Stirling had left to go to work, to sweat it out until zero hour. Bill, the other cop in the Magnificent Seven, had picked him up so that he wouldn't have to take the Internal Affairs guys in his boot with him. Morton slipped over the back fence and picked his car up two blocks down and went to check on the layout of the Old Cripple's mansion. Cindy made some sandwiches. She had volunteered to join the Magnificent Seven but had been turned down. The Magnificent Eight didn't sound right, they joked. Corrigan's job was to rest up, then lead them into battle.
Instead he got up. Cindy was vacuuming in the front room. He slipped past into the kitchen, then carefully opened the side door into the garage. He closed the door just as quietly behind him and stood silently in the dark for several moments, listening. It was a double garage and the car sat in the middle. The muffled sound of conversation came from within, but nothing he could make out. He stepped softly up to the vehicle, then suddenly slammed his fists down on the boot. Twin yells came from within.
They recovered quickly.
'Is that you, Stirling? You fucking son of a bitch! When we get outta here we're going to nail your hide to the fucking traffic lights.'
'We're going to fuck you over so badly you'll be fucking fucked over . . . really badly. You fuck.'
'You let us the fuck out of here. You fuck.'
'It's Frank Corrigan.'
They fell silent. Then one of them said: 'Don't kill us.'
'I'm married,' the other said.
'So was I,' said Corrigan.
'Right enough,' said the first. 'We were very sorry to hear about that.'
'We've nothing against you, Frank. Murder isn't our concern. We're only interested in bribery and corruption within the force.'
'That's right, Frank. Nobody paid you $200,000.'
Corrigan drummed his fingers on the boot. 'Yes they did,' he said. 'Bought my house at way over market value, paid it into my wife's account.'
'We didn't hear that.'
'No concern of ours what someone pays for your house.'
'Free country.'
Corrigan slammed the boot again. They both yelped.
'How'd you find out about the money in Stirling's account?'
'We gotta tip,' said one.
'Who from?'
'Can't say.'
'Boys,' Corrigan said, 'it'll take me precisely thirty seconds to hook up a hose to the exhaust and feed it into you. In five minutes you'll be sleepy, in ten minutes you'll be dead.' He slammed the boot again. 'So just answer the fucking question.'
'We don't know! It was just a tip-off!'
'Was it internal or external?'
'I don't know!'
'Internal! I think! I'm not sure!'
'What do youse know about the convention?'
'What convention?'
'What about the Old Cripple?'
'The who?'
'About Dunbar being on the take?'
'Chief of Police Dunbar?'
'Are you serious?'
'No,' Corrigan said, 'I'm only having a fucking laugh.'
He turned away from the car. He pulled open the garage door, only this time not bothering to mask it.
'Where are you going?' a worried, muffled voice called after him.
'To get the hose.'
As he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door Cindy appeared in the doorway. 'I thought I heard . . .' She stopped and looked him up and down. 'What do you think you're doing? And why are you wearing my husband's clothes?'
'I have to go out, Cindy,' Corrigan said. He was wearing a blue tracksuit with a hood. He'd found it in a cupboard. It fitted just right.
'They told you to rest. The doctor . . .'
'The vet . . .'
'The vet told you to rest.'
'He gave me dog medicine. I'm going out to sniff around.'
Cindy smiled. She was a lot younger than Stirling. She was still at college. Stirling arrested her one night for pulling some girl's hair in an argument over a boy, and the boy was forgotten about by the time he dropped her off home with a caution and a date. 'I've made some sandwiches if you want some.'
Corrigan nodded and stepped aside as she walked across to the fridge and pulled out a plate piled high with thick American ham, not like the wafer-thin efforts at home. He picked two up. She switched the kettle on for coffee.
They sat on either side of a pine bench that sat in the corner of the kitchen. There was a bowl of fruit with blackening bananas and bruised grapes sitting in it. 'This would be very nice,' Cindy said, 'if there weren't two men trapped in the boot of my car. I can't even go shopping.'
'I know,' Corrigan said. 'But it'll all be over by tomorrow.'
'I don't want my Mark to die.'
'He won't.'
'He's a wonderful father. He's a wonderful lover.'
'He won't die.'
'I go along with everything he says because I love him. Even making sandwiches for Internal Affairs guys he locks in his car and leaving my children in the house with a murder suspect. No offence. Nickie was a friend.'