The Searcher, стр. 52

“Kid,” he says. “You don’t have to bring me stuff.”

Trey ignores this. “Fergal and Eugene,” he says. “What’d they say?”

“Were you following me?” Cal demands.

“Nah.”

“Then how’d you know I already talked to them?”

“Heard Eugene’s mam saying to Noreen, when I was getting the messages.”

“Jesus,” Cal says, heading for the fridge to put the sausages away. “A guy can’t pick his nose around here without the whole townland telling him to wash his hands.” He wonders how much longer he can keep this thing under wraps, and what the townland will think when it comes out. He finds that he has no idea, either of the answer or even of what factors might influence it. “What’d Eugene’s mama say?”

Trey follows him. “Just that you were asking for someone to do wiring. Face on her like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. What’d they say?”

“How come? She doesn’t like the look of me?”

“ ’Cause Eugene’s too good for that. And ’cause you thought he’d need the bitta extra cash.”

“Well, I’m just a big dumb stranger that doesn’t know his way around,” Cal says. “What’d Noreen say to that?”

“Said there’s no harm in honest work, and a job would do Eugene good. She doesn’t like Mrs. Moynihan. What’d they say?”

The kid is standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, feet planted apart, blocking Cal’s way. Cal can feel him practically vibrating with tension.

“They haven’t heard from your brother since he went, neither one of them. They both think he’s alive, though.” Cal doesn’t miss the slackening of relief in Trey’s spine. Regardless of how sure the kid claims to be about Brendan’s state of mind, he came in here scared that Brendan’s buddies knew different. “And I’ve gotta tell you, kid, they don’t think anyone took him. They think he went of his own accord.”

“They coulda been lying.”

“I was a cop for twenty-five years. I’ve been lied to by the best in the business. You think a big goof like Fergal O’Connor can bullshit me?”

Trey acknowledges that. “Fergal’s thick, but. Just ’cause he thinks something, that doesn’t mean he’s right.”

“I wouldn’t pick him to build me a rocket ship, but he knows your brother. If he thinks Brendan went off . . .”

Trey says, looking Cal straight in the eyes, “Do you think he’s alive?”

Cal knows better than to leave even the smallest pause there. Luckily he also knows what to say, having said it a few hundred times over the years. “I don’t think anything, kid,” he says. “Right now I’m just collecting information. I’ll do my thinking later on, once I’ve got a lot more of that. All I can tell you is, I don’t have one single piece of information that points to him being dead.” All of which is true, and Sheila Reddy’s face as she looked up at the mountains isn’t information. The words still leave a bad taste in Cal’s mouth. It comes to him, more powerfully than ever, that he has got himself into territory he doesn’t understand.

Trey holds that straight stare for another moment, checking for cracks; then he nods, accepting that, and lets his breath out. He heads over to the desk and starts poking at it, seeing what’s left to do.

Cal leans back against the kitchen counter and watches him. “What kinda drugs do you get round here?” he asks.

Trey flashes him a fast, unexpected grin, over his shoulder. “You looking?”

“Funny guy,” Cal says. “I’ll pass, thanks. But say I was. What’s on offer?”

“Lotta hash, lotta benzos,” Trey says promptly. “E, off and on, like. Special K. Coke, sometimes. Acid, sometimes. Shrooms.”

“Huh,” Cal says. He wasn’t expecting a full menu, although maybe he should have been. Lord knows back home the smallest towns, where the kids had nothing else to keep them occupied, were the ones where you could get your hands on any drug you’d heard of and a few you hadn’t. “Crack?”

“Nah. Not that I ever heard.”

“Meth?”

“Not a lot. Few times I heard someone had some.”

“Heroin?”

“Nah. Anyone who gets on that, they leave. Go to Galway, or Athlone. Round here, you wouldn’t know what’d be around when. Junkies haveta know they can get it anytime.”

“The dealers around here,” Cal says. “You know where they get their stuff? Is there some local guy in charge of distribution?”

“Nah. Buncha lads bring it down from Dublin.”

“Did Brendan know these guys? The ones from Dublin?”

“Bren isn’t a dealer,” Trey says, instantly and hard.

“I never said he was,” Cal says. “But you think bad people took him. I need to know what kind of bad people he could’ve run into around here.”

Trey examines the desk, running a fingernail along cracks. “Them Dublin fellas are bad news, all right,” he says in the end. “You’d hear them, sometimes: they come down in them big Hummers, race them across the fields at night, when there’s a moon. Or in the daytime, even. They know the Guards won’t come in time to catch ’em.”

“I’ve heard ’em,” Cal says. He’s thinking about that huddle of guys in the back of the pub, every now and then, guys too young and dressed wrong for Seán Óg’s and eyefucking him for just a second too long.

“Kilt a coupla sheep that way, one time. And they bet up a fella from up near Boyle because he didn’t pay them. Bet him up bad, like. He lost an eye.”

“I know the kind,” Cal says. “They start out dangerous, and they get a whole lot worse if someone pisses them off.”

Trey looks up at that. “Bren couldn’t have pissed them off. He doesn’t even know them.”

“You sure about that, kid? Certain sure?”

“They wouldn’t sell direct to the likes of him, that only does the odd bit here and there. Bren just bought from the local lads, when he wanted something. He wouldn’t be around them fellas.”

Cal asks, “Then who took him? These are the only bad guys anyone’s mentioned around here. You tell me, kid: if not them, then who?”

“They could’ve got it