The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (14 page)

“As reported earlier, Hayward, along with Bill and Brenda Delgadillo, helped found Lenin’s Legion more than forty years ago. The Delgadillos and their nephew, Hugo, were found shot and burned to death in their Chicago home a few weeks ago. According to unnamed law enforcement sources, these incidents are beginning to look as if they were planned and not merely coincidental.”

Gus, the stevedore, looked over at Finnegan and yelled, “Hey, Paddy, my man, don’t forget to leave the bar to me when you make out your will. I’m gettin’ too old to be workin’ the docks and need a new gig.”

“Yeah, and yous better make it out soon from da looks a tings,” came another voice, followed by the laughter of a dozen drunks.

“Eat shit, you assholes. Do you ignorant fucks really think this is funny? There’s a pattern here. You heard
the man. So far there’re four dead people and I knew three of ’em,” Pat said. His patrons soon lost interest and went back to their drinking.

It was no secret that Finnegan was a former domestic terrorist and those who hung out at his seedy little bar looked upon him as a celebrity of sorts. Plastered on the walls of his run-down gin mill were photos of their favorite barkeep in the company of the Delgadillos, Hayward, and other well-known anarchists and Marxist rabble-rousers of the sixties and seventies.

The largest of the articles adorning the walls was a full front-page headline captioning a picture of Finnegan being hauled away in handcuffs by police. It was taken after he broke a cop’s neck at the culmination of a weeklong rampage and riot in Chicago in which Lenin’s Legion broke windows, burned several cars to the ground, blew up a gas station, and committed assaults on hundreds of citizens.

During that memorable street war, scores of cops were injured. They returned the favor by bringing havoc upon the rioters, who they finally managed to run out of town. Several hundred rioters were arrested and then made into temporary martyrs by a press all too willing to side with them against the police and the city fathers. Many of the court trials that followed ended in acquittals or reversals on appeal. Pat Finnegan was one of those acquitted.

He’d been arrested for sneaking up on a policeman from behind and smashing a garbage can over his head. The cop went down and, as he lay unconscious with his head hanging over the curb of the sidewalk, he was kicked with so much force that his spinal cord was
severed, turning him into a quadriplegic. The event was caught on camera but the bystander who took the picture was knocked to the ground and beaten up. When he came to, his camera was lying in pieces next to him with the film missing. Subpoenaed to testify against Finnegan, the frightened man claimed to have lied and denied having ever taken a picture of the incident, which assured Finnegan a not-guilty verdict.

Pat Finnegan never showed remorse for destroying the cop’s life. In fact, he liked passing himself off as a tough guy when he reminisced about the Chicago riot. It didn’t seem to matter to him or any of the morons who looked up to him that he’d taken the policeman out from behind and then finished him off while he lay helpless on the ground. No, to his drunken patrons and loudmouthed followers—whose shallow lives dictated that they latch on to someone with a name, even a tarnished name—it didn’t matter.

“Hey, Pat, how’s ’bout another beer before you get moidered,” slurred a laughing patron.

The question angered Finnegan, who came around the bar, yanked the guy off his stool, and escorted him to the door. “Get the hell out of here, Tony. And don’t come back until you sober up,” he said to the man, who walked away flipping him off and making obscene movements with his crotch.

Pat Finnegan went back into the bar and tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that was starting to consume him. Would he be next?

R
yan spent a day driving around the Arches National Park, a wondrous and vast expanse of desert that derived its name from the shapes of the golden formations that graced it. He wished he could have stayed a little longer, but there were only a few more weeks remaining in which to accomplish what he’d set out to do on his conveniently timed convalescent leave. He’d have to postpone the luxury of lingering in places such as this until after he’d retired and was satisfied that all scores were settled. Then he’d have time to see every one of these United States. He hoped he’d have Carol with him when the time came.

Driving northeast, Ryan pondered the fact that as a Special Forces operator, he’d been in more foreign countries than states of the union. Aside from tours at Fort Lewis, Washington, and Fort Carson, Colorado, most of his duty in CONUS had been at Forts Bragg, Benning, and Campbell.

Not long after leaving the Arches, Ryan found himself driving east on Interstate 70. Before he knew it, he was in Colorado tooling along at a high rate of speed on a highway cut between the craggy rocks and mountains of yet another scenic state. He wondered why anyone felt it necessary to go abroad on vacation when there was so much to see and enjoy here in America.

As he drove along, Ryan began to think about how he would deal with his next target, the cop-maiming scumbucket Pat Finnegan. “Should I shoot him? No, that would be too easy and unimaginative.” He’d shot Hugo Delgadillo before turning his aunt and uncle into screaming human torches.

Bombing was also a no-go. He’d used up all his explosive material on Gilbert Hayward and there would be nowhere to acquire more on the way to New York—not that he had any intention of employing that option again anyway. Finnegan lived in a populated area and bombing would endanger innocents, something Ryan had no intention of doing. Collateral damage could not be justified in this type of operation.

Ryan preferred to vary his modi operandi when stalking and taking out different vermin. There was no use helping the authorities by encouraging them to focus on the theory already taking shape that the killings were connected. Besides, it was much more exhilarating to innovate and come up with new ways to terrorize and torture those so deserving of such treatment.

Pat Finnegan had to be dealt with in a personal and hands-on way. His crime called for more punishment than Ryan had dealt out to Hugo and Gilbert. The question was, did he merit more or less pain than Bill and Brenda Delgadillo? Ryan would have to decide that before arriving in New York City. The only thing he could be certain of was that Finnegan’s suffering would last longer than Hayward’s. Who knows? Maybe he’d arrange for it to last for the rest of his life. He’d just have to wait and see how he felt when the time came.

Ryan was jolted from his thoughts by the red lights of a silver Colorado State Highway Patrol vehicle coming up fast on his tail. His heart jumped into his throat as a hot flash ripped across him. He was instantly drenched in sweat.

“Oh, Christ, no. This can’t be. They can’t be on to me,” he thought as he began pulling off the highway.

As the patrolman approached his car, he wondered just what the hell had happened to bring it all down to this. Where had he screwed up? Goddamn it, he’d been so fucking careful and now some Smokey was going to screw it up.

“Afternoon, sir,” greeted the patrolman.

“Did I do something wrong, officer?” Ryan asked, trying to look calm.

“Well, yeah, I guess that would be putting it mildly. I clocked you going ninety-five,” replied the patrolman. He had his hand on the butt of his gun and was scanning the interior of the car as he spoke.

Another patrol car arrived on the scene and a second trooper got out of that vehicle and approached the rear passenger side of Ryan’s car. “This is it,” thought Ryan, “I’m cooked.”

“May I see your driver’s license and registration please?” asked the patrolman. “Oh, and I’ll need to see a copy of your proof of insurance as well.”

Ryan reached over and opened the glove box. Thank Christ, his .41 magnum was too big for it and was stashed under the seat. If this was indeed only a traffic stop, things could certainly turn to shit if the cop were to see a loaded gun.

Ryan handed his papers to the cop, making sure to include his army ID. He knew that cops sometimes go easy on military people. The trooper asked him to step out of the car and accompany him to the rear, where he left Ryan with the other officer.

Bluffing an outward calmness, Ryan made small talk with the backup officer while the one who had made the stop went to his vehicle. Ryan figured he was running a check and who knows what else. Was he confirming some type of description on an all-points provided by some unknown witness who had seen him around Gilbert Hayward’s property?

After what seemed like an eternity, the trooper got out of the car and approached. “Well, you don’t have any outstanding warrants and you’re not wanted for murder.” He laughed as he gave Ryan back his papers.

Ryan chuckled and said, “Well that’s good to hear.” Then he thought to himself, “If you only knew, officer. If you only knew.”

The officer went on, “I’m letting you off with a warning on this one. On the house, so to speak. You being in the military and all, I just can’t find it in me to put any extra burden on you. You’re out there risking your ass in faraway places to protect mine.”

After a few more minutes and a brief discussion about the fact that the trooper was a former Marine, he shook hands with the two officers and promised to stay within the speed limit. “Thank Christ,” he thought. “There are still some old-school coppers around who don’t have a problem giving someone a break.”

He took several deep breaths and waited a few minutes before starting his engine and moving on. He stayed within the speed limit for the rest of his trip through Colorado and into Kansas. He didn’t need any more heart-stopping interruptions by the police and hoped to be in New York in three or four days.

S
iobhán Finnegan was at her wits’ end. Her husband, Pat, was in a horrible frame of mind and was making life miserable for her.

“What the hell’s gotten into you the past few days, Patrick? You can’t just mope around here and snap at me for no reason and then go about your business without an explanation. It’s not fair.”

“Everything’s fine,” Finnegan answered, but his wife wasn’t buying it.

“No, everything’s not fine. Something’s bugging you and I want to know what it is,” Siobhán shot back.

“Dammit, woman, get off my back and let me be. It’s nothing, I tell you. Just let it go. I’ll straighten things out. Just quit nagging me, will ya?”

“Nagging? You bark at me and walk around here looking like a German general who just stepped in a pile of shit and I’m supposed to just go about my business with a smile on my face? No, I don’t think so. What’re you worried about? Are you hiding something from me? Hey, maybe you’ve got yourself a little something on the side. Is that it, you son of a bitch? Do you have a girlfriend?”

Siobhán was warming up now, and if she really got going, it would get ugly. She could be an abrasive hag and more than a few nasty arguments had gotten physical in the Finnegan home lately.

“Yeah, bitch, I have a girlfriend. In fact, I have twenty girlfriends. I’ve got a fuckin’ harem. You happy now? You wanna come and meet them? Well, do you, you miserable little wench?”

“You bastard!” Siobhán screamed as she took the skillet from the stove and threw it across the kitchen at Finnegan, barely missing him. “You want your dinner? There it is,” she yelled, pointing to the two pork chops on the floor.

Patrick Finnegan had had enough. He jumped up from the table and charged across the kitchen at his wife. Grabbing her and throwing her to the floor, he straddled her back as he shoved her face into one of the pork chops. “No, I don’t want my dinner. I’ve lost my appetite, but please don’t let me deprive you of yours. Eat, you fucking bitch. Eat like the dog you are,” he yelled as he rubbed his wife’s face into the meat before finally coming to his senses and letting her up.

Cursing and in tears, Siobhán stormed out of the kitchen and retreated to the bedroom, locking herself in.

Finnegan’s anger subsided almost as quickly as it had surfaced. Remorse set in, as it always did after these ugly episodes. He went to the bedroom and knocked on the door. “I’m sorry, baby. Please… Let me come in. I didn’t mean to say the things I did. Are you okay? Please, honey, let me in. I’m sorry. Let me in. I’ll tell you what’s bothering me. Just let me in. I love you.”

“Go away and leave me alone,” whimpered Siobhán.

Finnegan retreated to the living room, where he poured himself a drink and sat, dejected and depressed, wondering how two people who were supposedly in love could be so abusive to one another. What the hell was happening to them?

Siobhán finally emerged from the bedroom. She’d cleaned herself up and was now calm as she sat down on the couch across from her husband.

“We can’t go on like this, Patrick. We can’t keep destroying each other with abuse. It used to be just hurtful words but now it’s getting physical. What’s going to happen to us? Are we going to wind up killing each other? It’s gotta stop,” Siobhán said, almost pleading. There was no longer any anger in her voice, just sadness. ‘You’ve got to tell me what’s going on inside your head. I can’t take it any more.”

“You’re right, baby. I guess I should tell you. I didn’t want you to worry so I was trying to keep it to myself, but look where that got us. Nothing I share with you could be any worse than what just happened.” Finnegan got up and crossed the room. Sitting next to his wife, he
put his arm around her and said, “I’m sorry, honey. I’m really sorry.”

“So am I,” replied Siobhán.

She listened as he began, “Do you remember a while back when I mentioned that a couple of my friends from the old days were murdered in Chicago?”

Siobhán nodded and replied, ‘Yes. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Yeah, it’s bothering me. I can’t get it out of my mind and I can’t concentrate on anything else. It’s keeping me awake at night. I can’t even forget about it when I’m down at the bar,” he replied.

“I can understand you being upset about the murder of some old friends, but you’re taking it way beyond what someone who is grieving would do. Your whole personality has changed. Are you sure there isn’t more to it than what you…”