o()o
Author's Note: I'm glad to hear that everyone is getting their postcards okay, and thanks for all the compliments on my handwriting. :)
Nifty Fact of the Day: Irish children are all taught Gaelic from ages 4 to 18. It's mandatory because, while English is the most predominant language, Gaelic is still the national language of Ireland. Oh the nifty facts I picked up while on vacation!
o(34)o
Murphy awoke with a start, the sudden movement sending a bolt of agony through his chest and back and he sucked in a curse between his teeth, curling around the injured ribs.
In the daybed above him, Connor moaned low in his throat, the sound soft and aggrieved. The hand that was hanging over the mattress twitched as his brother shifted uneasily in his sleep.
Sitting up and pressing a hand against his side, Murphy frowned at his twin. " Conn?"
Receiving another pained moan in reply, he reached out to shake Connor gently. " Conn? Connor?"
Abruptly, Connor's eyes snapped open, wide and blank, still staring at whatever apparition still had him in its nightmarish grip. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles going white, and the diminutive muscle in his jaw worked furiously.
"Connor, listen ta me, listen ta Murphy now. Everything is all right."
Connor heaved out a breath and shuddered, still asleep in spite of his urgings and Murphy could see the gooseflesh that had risen on his brother's arms.
Cupping Connor's cheek, feeling the cold sweat beneath his palm, Murphy tried again, "Connor listen ta me, ye need to wake up," he said, his tone the perfect echo of Connor's own voice on the numerous occasions he had soothed Murphy out of a nightmare. The low, comforting lilt had always worked wonders on the darker MacManus, and now Murphy saw that it worked just as well on the lighter twin.
Blinking several times, Connor focused on him and they stared at each other in silence.
After a single moment and a thousand unspoken questions and answers, Connor sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the gash across his forehead. "Christ," he whispered weakly, leaning into Murphy's touch, "fuck."
Despite the warm night, Murphy could feel the fine tremors running through his twin's body and grappled for a blanket to toss over both their shoulders. "Want ta talk about it?"
Connor shook his head, huddling under the comforter, "I don't even want ta fuckin' think about it."
Murphy nodded his understanding and moved to settle a little more comfortably next to his brother, allowing Connor to slouch against him.
"Murph?"
"Aye?"
In the darkness, Connor's voice was thick and uneasy, "Ye're all right aren't ye?"
Murphy blinked at him, "Of course I am."
"Promise me." He had heard the tone often enough to know that it was supposed to be resolute and authoritative, but in his brother's current state it came out anything but.
'Right, right, fine," he soothed, "I promise."
"Mean it."
"I promise, ye fuckin' eejit, stop lookin' at me like that already. I'm fine." Murphy gave his brother an affectionate nudge, and mussed his already disheveled hair. "Right as the mail, as Doc would say."
Connor snorted. "Fuckin' Doc," he muttered.
Murphy grinned, pleased at the hint of a smile he could hear in his twin's voice, "Fit as a pancake? Alive as all the tea in China? A healthy mind in a gift horse's mouth?"
"All right, all right," Connor's quiet chuckle was a welcome sound, dispersing some of the cloying heaviness left in the aftermath of his nightmare. He gave Murphy a shove, "I get yer fuckin' point already,"
"Although," Murphy said, rubbing the last of the bleariness from his eyes, knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep tonight, "I could use a smoke."
Beside him, Connor gave a halfhearted laugh, his head falling to rest against Murphy's shoulder, "Amen ta that."
o()o
They found Danae curled up in one of her patio chairs, sleeping soundly a long-cold cup of tea abandoned in front of her on the table.
Murphy barely spared her a glance, crossing his arms across his chest before turning to look up at the night sky.
"Pretty rough day for her," Connor murmured, noticing that even in sleep, Danae's expression was still troubled.
"Pretty fuckin' rough day for us all," Murphy snapped back, and then sighed, bowing his head. "Just pass me a fuckin' smoke, will ye?"
Offering his twin the pack, Connor bent down in front of Danae, slipping an arm under her knees.
"Murphy?" She murmured sleepily, brow furrowing, pulling away slightly before curling against him.
"It isn't. T'is just Connor." He bit back a smile, too amused to be injured by her disappointed sigh. "Come on," he said softly.
Murphy turned to frown at him, "What he fuck are ye doing?"
"What the fuck does it look like I'm doin'? I'm takin'her ta bed." Connor said, wincing as he lifted her out of the chair. "Get the door for me."
Opening the glass door with a scowl and a slam, Murphy stepped away from them both as though they were poison, recrossing his arms.
Connor rolled his eyes at his twin, "Don't fuckin' give me that look," he reprimanded, "she can't very well sleep out here in the fuckin' patio chair."
As the door shut behind him, he though he heard his twin mutter something about not seeing why not, and shook his head. When Murphy set his mind toward something, he could be as stubborn as an ox about it.
Carefully making his way through the darkened house, he laid Danae on her bed pulling the covers over her and chuckling as she promptly kicked them off.
"Connor?" she murmured sleepily, drawing her knees up.
"Aye?"
"Are you okay? I mean, I know you're not okay okay, but . . ."
"I'm fine," he interjected softly, hoping that she wouldn't be able to spot the lie in his voice.
With a sigh, Danae curled around a pillow, "Is Murphy okay?"
The memory of his dream surfaced like a corpse out of still water, and for a moment, all Connor could see was pale, cold skin against white satin and dark mahogany. A wave of gooseflesh swept over his arms, making the hairs stand on end, and a shudder crawled up his spine.
" Conn?" Danae's eyes were open now, and she was frowning up at him.
"We're both fine," he said quickly, patting her hand, "don't worry yourself about us."
She offered him a wry smile, eyebrow arching. "Then who would I worry about?"
Connor chuckled and, on impulse, pressed a chaste kiss against Danae's temple. "I don't know. Get some sleep now."
"You too."
"We will, luv."
Outside, he found Murphy leaning over the rotting wood of the patio, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers as he stared into the warm summer night. He didn't turn around as Connor slid the door shut.
"Ye need ta talk ta her," he said, picking up the abandoned pack of smokes and tapping one out for himself. "She's scared, Murph."
Murphy flicked the ash off of what little was left of his cigarette, "I know. I know she's scared," he said, "what I don't know, is what ta do about it." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "She won't even fuckin' look at me."
Sighing softly, letting his head fall back with the first gratifying pull from his smoke, Connor chose his next words carefully.
"Make her see, Murphy. What ye have is too fuckin' important ta take for granted like the two of ye are doin'."
Without warning, the image of clear gray eyes filled his mind, her smile bright and warm, and her smell like summer and jasmine as she stretched up on tip-toe up to kiss him.
The memory was like a brick to the chest, smashing through and leaving a giant hole in its wake. It felt as if he hadn't thought of her in ages and at the same time he hadn't thought of anything else.
"Life's too fragile ta play the games ye are." His tone came out choked and Murphy turned sharply to look at him, brow furrowed in worry. Swiping quickly under his eyes, Connor tried to arrange a smile on his face, but it wavered and fell before it had even formed.
"Fuck," he uttered, blinking hard against the stinging behind his eyes, "fuck, fuck, fuck."
Without a word, Murphy flicked the remains of his cigarette away and came to stand next to him, placing a warm hand on the back of his neck.
o()o
Dolly was a mess.
His suit was rumpled and stained, and even the copious amounts of Brill Cream he was prone to using couldn't tame his hair, odd strands sticking out at ungodly angles.
Standing amidst the slaughter, Smecker removed the headphones from his ears and lifted an eyebrow at the dishevled detective.
"Just crawl out of the clothes hamper, Dolly?" he asked, taking a leisurely sip of his café latte.
Popping a piece of dingy yellow gum out of its packaging and adding it to the wad he was already chewing, Dolly grunted noncommittally and made a vague gesture toward the dead men at his feet.
"To early for this shit," he mumbled, followed by a longing look around the room. "No coffee?"
"Crime never sleeps Detective," Smecker said, smirking, "and apparently it lacks the common courtesy to make coffee too."
The comment earned him a disparaging look as Dolly squatted down to examine the closest corpse. After a quick glance, his eyes flew open, all signs of sleepiness gone and the look he gave Smecker said it all.
The Saints.
Smecker acknowledged Dolly with a judicious nod, "You'll notice that all of these men are members of the Sacerdotes de la Calle. You can tell by the tattoos on their wrists"
No surprise there, the agent thought grimly, the Saints had been after these bastards since last fall, hell, probably before that.
But the next part . . . that was a different story entirely. He chose his words cautiously, knowing that, while the rest of these rednecks wouldn't understand what he was talking about, Dolly most certainly would.
"You'll also notice that most of the men were felled with one shot only. The ballistics report informs me that only one gun was used."
"Just one?" Dolly repeated, frowning, moving from body to body throughout the gore-soaked conference room, "that's not right at all."
The statement was completely accurate in Smecker's opinion, and one gun was the part that made the entire crime scene somehow wrong. He had expected retribution from the Saints, especially if his theory about their connection with Mrs. Kennsett was right, but for there to be only one?
A brief flicker of worry for the brothers' well-being passed through the agent; he'd been working with the MacManuses for a long time and could think of only a handful of things that could ever manage to separate them.
Death was at the top of that list.
"Hey!" Dolly's astonished shout jolted Smecker from his dark thoughts. "Get an ambulance down here, right fuckin' now!"
"What are you goin' on about?" One of the police officers paused in his report taking to shoot Dolly an exasperated glare as he walked over, "Someone spike your coffee or what?"
"Are you fuckin' deaf or somethin'?" Dolly yelled to the officer, giving him a formidable shove, "I said, get a goddamn ambulance, this one's still alive."
"That's impossible," came another beat cop's voice from across the room, the tone just as bored and skeptical as the first one's, "I examined these assholes myself."
"Well you did a piss poor job," Dolly shot back, "Now are you going to call an ambulance, or am I going to ram your radio so far up your ass you'll be getting FM in your fucking fillings?"
All around Smecker there was a blur of activity as every officer on the scene erupted into motion, but all the agent could see was the man that Dolly was squatted next to. He'd seen dozens of pictures since starting the Street Priests' case and a thousand dossier photos flipped through his brain trying match a picture with a name.
Cell phone already in his hand, 911 answering the call faster than any of the officers could get to their radios, Smecker froze as a name and face clicked in his mind.
Eur-friggin-reka.
"Oh shit," he muttered.
"Sir? Please state the nature of your emergency?" The 911 operator's voice was calm and collected. Smecker wished he could be so cool.
"This is FBI Agent Paul Smecker, I need an ambulance at the corner of Eastman and Central for a gunshot wound to the . . ." he paused, stretching to see the body, "to the chest."
Ending the call, ambulance on its way Smecker pushed his way through the sudden throng of beat cops that were crowding around Dolly and the miracle man. Looking down, seeing clearly what he had already known, he could only shake his head.
"Arturo Mendoza. What are the friggin' chances?"
o()o