After reaching the West, Choe kept a pretty low profile. He rode out World War 2 in Canada, occasionally offering the Allied governments expert advice on the magical capabilities of Japan and other Pacific States.
He dropped off the grid for a few decades after the war and showed up again in Australia in the 1960s, looking as young as he ever did. That’s when he went public and told the world about his breakthrough. It took some convincing, but it was hard to argue with results. He had the physique of a twenty-two year-old and the passport of a pensioner.
His intention was to sell the secret to his eternal youth to interested parties, so they could replicate the spell for themselves, but he vastly underestimated the interest of the parties in question. In the two years after his announcement, he survived four kidnapping attempts and three attempted assassinations; the third one only due to his prodigious healing abilities.
It got so bad, he had to go back into hiding. Fifteen years later he emerged again, this time in South Korea. When the first kidnapping squad arrived to nab him, they found a squad of heavily-armed ROK soldiers waiting for them. He never said what he had done to garner such fervent government protection, but when he held his ill-fated conference six years later, there were three ministers and their sons in attendance.
Sam drove while I tried to wrap my head around Feeny’s financial records. He had kept six bank accounts, apparently, and shuttled money into and out of them on a daily basis. The mystery account that sent payments to both him and Quinn was nothing in comparison.
“How did you catch him?” Sam asked.
“Hm?” I said, as I followed a money trail from one account into an online exchange of some kind.
“Feeny,” she said. “How’d you get him?”
“Oh, nothing complicated or clever,” I said. “Some scrote owed money to a county councillor they couldn’t pay back. Poker debts, I think. They’d have taken things into their own hands, but the councillor was a practitioner and had wards around his house. Feeny’s a spellcaster himself and specialised in those kinds of hits. The scrote hired Feeny to kill the guy.”
“That’s why?” she said, taking her eyes off the road. “I remember that killing. The papers said it was drug-related. The councillor was about to propose new Garda measures or something.”
“That’s the story we put out, yeah. Feeny was careful - very careful. We had no idea who’d done the hit, but the little shitebag who’d hired him was boasting to anyone who’d listen. I got him to give up Feeny, with a little persuasion.”
Sam took her hands off the wheel briefly to make one of those ‘punching’ motions followed by one of those ‘questioning’ ones.
“What?” I said, “No, no. I only ever hit the ones who hit me first. I just told him that if he didn’t give up the killer, I’d release him after putting out the word that he did.”
“Oh,” she said, laughing. “That’s much more ethical.”
“It worked. We raided Feeny’s house and caught him napping, literally.”
“Was that your first big collar as lead investigator?”
“Ha, I was still Containment’s Second at that point. I only got promoted to Investigator after that, once we went through Feeny’s history and realised how long he’d been operating. He’d killed about two dozen people since the eighties.”
“Jesus,” said Sam. “You think he killed Quinn?”
“Now I’m looking at all these mysterious payments he received, it’s seeming like a distinct possibility.”
“So somebody pays Quinn hundreds of thousands of pounds then pays Feeny to kill her? Smacks of blackmail.”
“Possibly. But the different payment methods make me wonder. Why pay her twice with cash then once via electronic transfer, then go back to cash? And why is the first payment only a hundred and sixty?”
“Oh, that one’s easy,” said Sam. “Quinn gets paid two hundred grand, but it’s her first major windfall. She heads off to Switzerland to stick most of it in a Swiss bank, but keeps some on hand for emergencies and expenses. Further payments, she deposits into the bank wholesale. Pretty common pattern.”
“Makes sense,” I said, as my phone beeped. I unlocked my phone and read the SMS. “It’s Lieutenant Kinneson. We’re cleared for a visit, and Feeny’s going to be made ready to meet us.”
“We keep all magical prisoners in Portlaoise?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Twenty years ago we opened the Midlands prison, right next to Portlaoise. Between Portlaoise and Midlands is Twomey House. It’s kind of hidden in plain site. If you’re in Midlands, it looks like part of Portlaoise and if you’re in Portlaoise, it looks like part of Midlands. The army guards Portlaoise, and their coverage has been extended to Twomey too. We closed Spike Island about the same time and moved the supernatural prisoners to Twomey. There’s not a lot of long-term inmates, but the ones who need the extra security really need it.”
“Is Feeny dangerous?”
“In his current location? No. There’s wards in place to make sure he can’t cast. Under them, he’s just a regular sixty-year-old multiple murderer.”
“I’m learning so damn much this weekend,” Sam said as she changed lanes without indicating.
We arrived to Portlaoise in the early afternoon, and entered Twomey House via the Portlaoise gate. We showed ID and were issued into a short corridor that was a weird hodge-podge of architectural styles, with 19th Century walls of the original Gaol on one side and the Celtic Tiger construction on the other. Kinneson waited at the end of the hallway, standing to attention like he was waiting inspection on the parade ground. He somehow managed to straighten further as we reached him. He didn’t salute, but it was a close thing.
“IDs,” he said, despite having met me several times before and having texted this morning. His small glasses would be able to see through my glamour, too. They were expensive, but standard issue to any of the soldiers stationed at the penal facility.
I presented mine as Sam handed hers over. “Samantha Barrett, I’m with the Criminal Assets Bureau. Just here to observe.”
He peered closely at the IDs before returning them and opening the door to his left. “You’re the only visitors today, so you’ll have the visiting room to yourselves,” he said, then added, “But we’ll be stationed outside if you need assistance.”
The visiting room was large, but with a low ceiling that only added to the oppressive atmosphere created by the lack of windows and dull grey paint on the brick walls. The light was provided by fluorescent tubes shielded by thick perspex covers that were designed to protect the fragile glass tubes in the event of a riot or disturbance, but the covers were coated with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs and they only served to make the room darker and less hospitable.
There were six large tables in the room, designed like circular picnic tables. They were each anchored solidly in the concrete and surrounded by a ring of eight metal stools that sprouted like mushrooms from the floor and that were far too short for someone of my height to sit on comfortably. The only object in the room that could be thrown was a small waste-bin sitting in the corner of the room next to the door to the prisoners’ area.
I did my best to get comfortable on a stool, while Sam did a slow circuit of the room and examined the walls.
“Are these the runes?” she asked, tapping a symbol carved into one of the bricks of the wall.
“Yeup,” I said.
She peered at the brick next to it before running her fingers over the paint. “Is it carved into every brick in the room?”
“And most of the ones in the prison. Most spells here will just fizzle out.”
“Which explains why I can see your actual face, for a change.”
I hadn’t noticed that my glamour had stopped working the moment I had stepped into the room. I removed it and tucked it away in a pocket as she walked over and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the Hollywood pretty-boy facade, I like seeing this side of you,” she said. “You’re like my own personal Roman statue.”
“They made those out of marble,” I said. “I’m shale.”
She ran her finger over my neck and along my jawline. “Either way, your sculptor knew-”
I never found out what my sculptor knew or didn’t know, because the door opened at that moment and Feeny was ushered inside by a guard.
Sam took a hasty step back and moved to a table adjacent to the one I was sitting at. She seated herself on the table and lifted her feet onto a stool. It was excellent positioning: Whichever seat Feeny took at the table now, he’d have to turn to face one of us or put his back to the door.
To his credit, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even glance in Sam’s direction. He looked at me with a smile, then took the seat directly opposite me. “Constable Grey,” he said. “It’s been a while. You still running errands for the Old Man?”
“I’m still with the OSI, yeah,” I said. “We’re actually here today on business related to the department. Something you can hopefully shed some light on.”
“Oh, I’m always keen to help the authorities. Who’s that?” He jerked a thumb in Sam’s direction.
“Barrett,” I said. “She’s with the Criminal Assets Bureau. She’s been helping us unravel some financial irregularities.”
“Oh, is that what she was doing when I walked in?” he asked with a grin.
I made a move to stand before Sam said, “No need to be jealous. We’ll let you get back to your own boyfriend as soon as you answer our questions.”
Feeny grinned again and looked her way for the first time. “Touché. Well, ask me your questions, Bridgekeeper. I am not afraid.”
If that was a reference to trolls of some kind, I didn’t get it, but I pressed on. “Until 1993, our Department Wizard was Catherine Quinn. Did you ever meet her?”
“I did,” said Feeny. “A few times. We moved in similar circles. I think she was a couple of years ahead of me at Trinity. She had a talent for shaping things, if I remember.”
“That she did,” I said. “She was killed in the summer of 1993. Shot dead in her garden with an iron bullet.”
“Well, I remember her death, but I don’t think I ever heard the details of it before now. Tragic stuff, altogether.”
“Hey, you killed a lot of people!” I said. “Did you ever use an iron bullet?”
“Not that you lot could ever prove.”
“Were you in Ireland in the summer of 1993?”
“I’ve never left Ireland.”
I did a double-take. “Really?”
“I went to Newry once, for Christmas shopping, when I was a teenager. Weirdest thing. My magic stopped working the second I stepped over the border.”
“I’ve never heard of that happening,” I said in surprise.
“Neither has anyone else I’ve ever talked to. I came back that evening, but it was days before I could cast spells again. I decided not to tempt fate.”
“Magic is just its own damn master,” I said.
“You’re telling me,” he said. “I heard of a practitioner from Bermuda, I think. Or the Bahamas? Trinidad? One of them, anyway. She could only cast spells when she was wet. Ask her to light a candle when she was just standing there, and she’d not be able to. But if she took a shower or waded out into the surf or went swimming, she’d go toe-to-toe with Merlin himself.”
“But back to Quinn,” I said. “We’ve traced a large amount of money that was sent to her before she died. The same person who was sending her payments also sent one to you. She was killed about a week later.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and thought for a few minutes. “That sounds about right,” he said.
“Oh, so you do know about it?” I asked.
“Of course I fucking do. You knew that before you came here.”
“So what’s this all about?”
“I believe it’s called ‘negotiating’,” he said with that grin.
“Oh fuck off,” I said, standing up. “You’re here for life, and then more life. You’re not getting time off for good behaviour, and your first parole hearing is scheduled for the twelfth of never, in the afternoon. When the time comes to take you out of your box, it’ll be in a smaller box.”
He raised his hands in one of those I know, I know motions. “I get that, and I’m not asking for release. But there are things I could have that make my time in here more palatable…”
I sat again. “So, perks? Radio in your cell? More yard time?”
He scoffed. “Have you seen the yard here? It’s twelve foot wide and forty foot long. We walk lengths. When you want to see the sun in winter, you have to squish yourself into the corner and bounce up and down. It’s got iron wires overhead and every paving stone has one of those damn runes carved into it. And I already have a radio in my cell.”
“Really?”
“I’m a model prisoner, Officer Grey,” he said. “Go, ask the guards. I’ve got access to every standard perk afforded to an inmate.
I harrumphed. “So what sort of non-standard perks are you looking for?”
“Just one,” he said, and took a deep breath. “I want to be able to cast spells again.”
I stood again and laughed as I stepped back from the table. “Are you mad? Like, literally? Is this part of some new criminal-insanity appeal?” I laughed again, then turned to Sam. “‘I just want a knife,’ says Hannibal Lecter.”
“I don’t mean all the time!” Feeny said. “Just one day a month, say. Or even just once. Take me out of here for a few hours, and let me cast somewhere safe. In a field somewhere. Harmless spells. And it can be supervised.”
“Not a chance. Ask for something else.”
“You wouldn’t understand this, but once you’ve shaped the living flows of magic… there is nothing else. Nothing that compares, anyway. Do you cast?” He directed that last question towards Sam.
“I don’t,” she said. But there was something in her answer that made me do another double-take; a tone I wasn’t expecting to hear.
“The bones of this place are carved with runes that sap my spirit. There’s a few of your kind in here and they step over them like they’re not even there. But every one of them is like a red-hot poker to me. For us born spellcasters, it’s like cutting off our oxygen. Like telling Pavarotti he can’t sing, or Mozart he can’t compose.”
“Like telling Pav-? You’re taking the piss now. I’ve met talented spellcasters. I’ve worked with a few of them. You were never a Mozart.”
“But I-,” he said.
“Pick. Something. Else.” I said.
Feeny stood and said, “Then ask. Someone. Else.” He turned and stepped towards the door.
“You’re really a model prisoner?” Sam asked.
Feeny stopped but did not turn back. “Yeah,” he said. “Ask the governor.”
“You keep your cell clean and respect the guards? You always present for roll call and put your food tray back on the stack?”
He glared back at her over his shoulder. I could see him biting his tongue in fury.
“Because that’s all very commendable,” she said. “But there’s more things you’d need to do, to be considered a model prisoner.”
“Such as?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Oh, say, helping law enforcement with their enquiries,” she said.
The penny in my head dropped. “Oh, that’s a big one,” I said. “You definitely wouldn’t want to be seen hampering an ongoing investigation. You could lose your yard time.”
“And your radio,” said Sam.
“For sure,” I said. “Though you’d probably want to shed some personal belongings if he’s moving to a smaller cell.”
Feeny returned and put his hands palms-down on the table. He leaned into me and said, “You’re not going to do all that, just because I won’t talk about a thirty-year-old murder.”
“She was one of us,” I said. “Don’t try and guess what we will and won’t do to find the person who killed her. Though, I think that was you. I think someone paid you to put a bullet through her, and I’m fairly certain I even know why. But you’re already locked up until the heat death of the universe, so we’re not going to lay more charges on you. It’s just not worth the time spent on the paperwork. All I want is the name of the person who paid you to pull the trigger.”
“And if word gets out in here that I snitched?” he asked.
“It won’t,” I said. “Unless you tell someone. But, even then, it would be nothing compared to what happens if word gets out among the guards and soldiers that you refused to snitch on the murder of a cop.”
Feeny sat again, crestfallen. “Fine,” he said. “But I want your promise that I won’t have my perks taken away, even if you can’t find him. I remember you. You keep your word.”
“I promise,” I said, though I cursed myself internally for it. “Did you kill Catherine Quinn and who paid you to do so?”
“I shot her, yeah. I got paid, probably somewhere about twenty or thirty grand, for it. That was my price at the time. The person who paid me was named Graham James.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Now who the fuck is Graham James?
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