Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4), Brian Shea [free reads .txt] 📗

He made a good point. It would be impossible. While in solitary, there was no communication with the outside world. According to the information they had obtained from the prison records, Collins had been in the hole a full day before the first attack.

"Let's look at it from another angle,” Kelly said. “How is it possible McLaughlin hasn’t been exposed? Doesn't make sense. He's running for mayor."

"That's because they're looking at the right person, wrong name. Caleb McLaughlin went by a different name in '97. Back then, his name was Calaeb Mac Lochlainn."

Kelly jotted a note in his pad.

"Need help spelling it, boyo?" Collins taunted.

Kelly didn't answer. He knew he was being baited.

"C-A-L-A-E-B M-A-C L-O-C-H-L-A-I-N-N." Collins made sure to pause between each letter, which only added to Kelly's annoyance.

"McLaughlin was another victim of the English's assault on the Irish language. One of the greatest strategic moves the English did to bend the will of the Irish people was taking away their history by stripping them of their native tongue. Do you know what they did?"

Kelly had a feeling where the story was going. He'd heard his father, his real father, his biological father, tell it.

"They took our language."

"I'm not quite sure I understand," Mills said.

"Let me give you a little history lesson. Since the Norman invasion in the twelfth century, the English subverted Irish culture. It eventually became impossible to find work in Ireland if you spoke Gaelic. There was, of course, resistance, but how long could a parent hold out when trying to feed a family. What parent would raise a child to speak a language destined to force them into a life of abject poverty?"

"None."

"That's right. Parents’ sole purpose is to care for the well-being of their children. They want them to be protected and cared for. And if you, as a parent, knew that your native language would stop your child from being able to get a job, to feed their family, to take care of themselves, what would you do? Would you fight or would you learn a new language?" Collins cleared his throat. "Most bent the knee and gave in. That's why there's only a handful of people left who can still speak Gaelic. When you kill a culture's language, when you take their native tongue, you steal their sense of identity. And that is what the English did bit by bit over the course of hundreds of years. For some of us, the fight will never end."

"Why now? Why twenty years later?" Kelly asked.

He shrugged. The chains clanked. "I don't know. Somebody's tying up loose ends."

"Sounds like after you got pinched, the others turned their back on you and the cause you came here for. Why bother telling us about McLaughlin? Why help us at all?” Kelly set down his pen and looked at the aging inmate.

"Because I'm on that list too."

"Then maybe solitary confinement is the safest place for you right now?"

Collins offered no resistance to Kelly's observation.

"You mentioned six. Who are we missing?"

"Maeve Flynn."

"Any idea where we might find her?"

Collins shrugged. "No idea. Last time I saw her I was a free man. Twenty-three years and not a single visit or letter."

"What about the bomb itself. Did you see anything in those pictures that might steer this bus in the right direction?" Mills opened the file and spread out pictures from the three bombs.

"Looks like the work of a professional. If I didn't know any better, I would've guessed those were my bombs. Then again." He held up his cuffs.

"Any idea why our bomber would leave your mark?" Mills asked.

"Not a clue. If you happen to find him, make sure you ask him for me." He winked.

"Anything else you can think of before we leave?" Kelly closed his notebook and was preparing to stand when Mills pulled out a second folder from her satchel bag.

The accordion-style folder was frayed at the edges. She opened it, pulled out a single picture, and slid it across the metal table to Collins. The image was of a red fist with a black cross in the center. "Ever seen this before?"

"Never seen it in my life. Why do you ask?"

"I ask everyone—everyone like you, that is. Bombmakers are a unique breed. For some, a signature can be like a Tom Brady rookie card: easily recognizable among those in the know."

"I don't know what fantasy world you live in, lady, but I've spent the last twenty-three years in here. The only people I come across are two-time felons. Let me guess. This is the guy who did that to you?"

"Yes."

"He also hurt somebody you care about. I can see it."

"My partner."

"You're tied to him now. You know that, right? When the bomb goes off, anybody it touches is tied to the bomb forever. The maker and the canvas he painted." Collins’s twisted smile returned, this time broader. "I'm sure he'd be very happy to meet you someday."

"I have a canvas of my own I'd like to paint." Mills stood. "You think on it. Something comes up with that, you let me know."

"Good luck in finding your monster."

"I'll continue to look into what we can do about your current living arrangements, but I think it might be safer for the time being if you remain in solitary until we can get a lock on our bomber."

Dunlap opened the door. Another guard was waiting in the hall to escort them out of the building. Kelly was the last to leave the room.

"Tiocfaidh ár lá," Collins said just before Kelly disappeared from view.

Kelly popped his head back in. "What'd you say?"

"Our day will come." Collins’s eyes held disappointment. "Learn your language, boyo. Your Irish blood begs for it. Maybe in learning it, you'll find what you're looking for."

Kelly departed. What he was looking for was a killer. And time was running out.

20

Being inside a hornet's nest after it was kicked was the only comparable reference to describe the frenzy of activity within Boston PD's