Free Green Hell by Ken Bruen

killers,
    Priests
    and
    Bankers.
    Trust me, I know when someone is feral.”
    Owen’s eyes got that shadow tint. He wanted another drink, his blood sang for it, he just didn’t want it with me. It’s always a revelation, a short, intense chat can bury a friendship cold. He knew too we’d come to a standoff but tried to wrap, said,
    â€œI know that, Jack, but there’s something else out there now, something new.”
    I shrugged,
    â€œEvil is never new, simply a different shade.”
    He put out his hand, we shook, almost meaning it. I headed back to town, went into a hardware store. Bought a pack of six-inch nails. The guy in the store had remarked,
    â€œSome mild weather, huh?”
    Indeed.
    December 1 and no rain, no real cold weather. We weren’t complaining. He asked,
    â€œYou know Mike Diviny?”
    I didn’t. Said,
    â€œSure.”
    â€œHe caught forty mackerel in the docks this morning.”
    He pronounced them in that distinctive, flat-vowel Galway tone,
    Mac — ker — el.
    One of the reasons I still had a gra for the town. Farther down Shop Street a group of carol singers were seriously massacring “Jingle Bells.” A woman with a collection box shoved it in my face, and not politely. I asked,
    â€œWho are you collecting for?”
    Figuring I’d gladly help the Philippines Typhoon Fund. She said,
    â€œGirls’ basketball team.”
    I had to take a breath, rein in my disbelief, then,
    â€œYou got to be kidding me.”
    She was up for it, challenged,
    â€œAnd what do you suggest they do with their leisure time?”
    â€œWould fishing be out of the question?”
    The Ruger was delivered that evening. I paid over the odds; helps the discretion. I was sitting at the table, cleaning the gun as Jimmy Norman’s show played on Galway Bay FM. A song rooted me to the chair,
    â€œMary”
    by Patty Griffin.
    My memory kicked in, sometimes supplying arcane and, in truth, useless information. She’d been married briefly to Robert Plant. The lyrics of the song touched me in all the broken places. Heaving the gun amid a mess of bullets, I stood, poured a liberal Jay, toasted Patty, said,
    â€œYour voice is the perfect bridge between Emmylou Harris and Nancy Griffiths.”
    I tried to get my head around the notion of Boru being a killer. Wouldn’t fly. I’d spent enough time with the kid to get his measure. Then a thought hit. I grabbed my mobile, got Owen, said,
    â€œI’m sorry to be bothering you so soon.”
    â€œThat’s OK, Jack. I enjoyed the pints, we should do it more often.”
    That hovered for a moment but we knew it was never going to happen. I asked,
    â€œThe murdered girl, you said she was a part-time student?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œLiterature, by any chance?”
    â€œYes. In fact I heard the professor told the investigating officers that Kennedy had been stalking the girl. A college security guard even remembered moving him along.”
    Fuck, this wasn’t good.
    He said,
    â€œLeave it alone, Jack. It’s cut-and-dried.”
    I had one last question,
    â€œWho is in charge of the case?”
    â€œA hotshot named Raylan. A man going places, they say.”
    I didn’t know him, said,
    â€œI don’t know him.”
    â€œYou might know his assistant?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œA certain Sergeant Ridge.”
    Over many turbulent years I have returned to my variety of apartments/flats to find
    Ransacking,
    Burglary,
    Fires,
    but never a . . .
    Goth.
    Sitting on my sofa, apparently at ease, was a young woman in full Goth regalia. The white makeup, black mascara, spiked black hair, and, of course, all-black gear. I said what you’d expect me to say,
    â€œWhat the fuck?”
    She’d helped herself to the Jameson, raised it, said,
    â€œSlainte.”
    Her utter composure suggested she was one cool lady or on heavy medication. I stayed by the door,