Free Cross by Ken Bruen

New Era but we . . . fuck it, we bonded. I began to love the kid. He was annoying as hell, but would suddenly do something that tore at my heart, like buy me a very expensive leather jacket. I was wearing it when he was shot, his blood all over the front. I
burned it.
    We'd had one memorable day when we went to a hurling match, bought the team's scarf, shouted like banshees, had a huge
slap-up meal after and near hugged at the end of a perfect day.
    I was something then that I, oh, so rarely have ever been – I was happy.
    But mo croi briste . . . me heart is broken.
    Let me put it this way: those whom the Irish gods would destroy, first they give a shard of joy to. Least it's how they fuck with me and often.
    A few people had asked then if he was my son. I was delighted and was beginning to see him as such. A chance of family, the dream I'd never even allowed me own self to entertain.
    When the sniper shot those holes in him, the shots burned a wound in my soul that would never close.
    I'd been round and round with speculation as to who had done the shooting. The stalker I'd dealt with for Ridge had a solid alibi; Cathy Bellingham, wife of my best friend Jeff, sure had cause – I'd been responsible for the death of her three-year-old daughter – but she'd disappeared and I was in no hurry to find her.
The third possibility was Kate Clare, sister of Michael who might have beheaded a Father Joyce and whom I'd pursued to the gates of hell. Among the more awful aspects of this was that I actually liked Michael Clare, and, Christ,
as a victim of clerical molestation he'd already suffered the torment of the damned before he killed himself. Kate, it transpired, had flown off to the Far East and her whereabouts were currently unknown.
    Truth is, I didn't care who had done the shooting. All I wanted was for Cody to be returned to me and then I'd deal with the shooter, whoever the fuck it was. And deal biblically.
    I got to the hospital, my heart in me mouth, went up to the ward and met a nurse. She knew me from my daily visits, even used my first name.
    She went, 'Oh Jack, I'm so sorry.'
    Dizziness hit me, but before I could even catch my breath, a couple approached and the nurse said, 'It's Cody's parents.'
    They had the look. That horrendous expression of sheer disbelief.
    The man, in his late sixties, wearing a good suit, his face a mask of rage, snarled, 'You're Taylor?'
    I nodded, still reeling from the implication of the nurse's opening line.
    He spat in my face.
    'You got our son killed, you bastard.'
    His wife pulled him away and as she
dragged him down the corridor, he shouted, 'I
hope you burn in hell.'
    There was literally a beat of silence – one of those moments of pure quiet when a terrible curse has been laid on a human being. All present froze in a tableau of pure shock.
    My legs began to tremble. I don't mean a slight shake, I mean the full-on tremor that signals a major collapse.
    The next hour or so is hazy. I think I asked if I
might see Cody, but I'm not sure. For some bizarre reason, I found myself in the café
downstairs, a cup of coffee before me and devastation all around me.
    'Are you all right?'
    I looked up to see a woman in her late forties, with a good solid face, long dark hair, huge eyes and – odd how the mind can work on some level – a slight accent. English was not her first tongue.
    I almost accused, 'You're not Irish?'
    She gave a small smile. 'You need someone Irish?'
    What the fuck was this?
    I said, 'I don't need anyone.'
    For a moment, it seemed like she might touch my hand and that would have been a
huge mistake. Instead, she said, 'You are in pain. Did you lose someone?'
    My oldest ally, rage, was waiting to strike. I
let the dog loose and snapped, 'Who the fuck are you? Leave me alone.'
    She stood up, said, 'My name is Gina. I
sense you are a good man and I can help you,'
and pushed a business card towards me.
    I said, 'Sense this – I want you to fuck off.'
    She did.
    I