Evil for Evil by James R. Benn Read Free Book Online Page A

softly. “If you find yourself in Clough, at the head of the bay, stop in the Lug o’ the Tub Pub. Most nights you’ll find old Grady there.”
    I started to climb onto the dock. “Lieutenant Boyle?” The question came from a GI as he offered me a hand.
    “That’s me,” I said. I took his hand and hoisted myself up. The old man was busy tying up his lines and paid me no mind.
    The GI was an MP sergeant dressed in a wool overcoat with a white helmet, white leggings, and a white web belt, all bright and gleaming. It wasn’t hard to figure out why GIs called MPs snowdrops.
    “Sergeant Patterson, sir. I’m here to take you to the Newcastle area.”
    “OK, Sergeant,” I said as we walked off the narrow dock to his jeep. “After I present myself at division HQ, I’ll need to find your quartermaster.”
    “I’m not supposed to take you to headquarters, Lieutenant. The provost marshal himself gave me orders to bring you to him.” He took my pack and threw it in the back of the jeep. I pulled my light jacket tight as I climbed in. The canvas cover didn’t do much to keep out the chill, which seemed to match my greeting.
    “And where is he?”
    “Near Newcastle. We’re set up in an old factory building. Gives us space for prisoners.”
    “This provost marshal, is he your CO?”
    “No, that’s Lieutenant Burnham, he’s the CO of the MP Platoon, 5th Division. Captain Heck is the provost marshal in charge of all military police in Ireland.”
    “Northern Ireland,” I said.
    “Huh?”
    “Patterson, are you Irish?”
    “I’m American, Lieutenant. I don’t bother much with all that old country stuff.”
    “OK, but just remember this is Northern Ireland, which belongs to Great Britain. The Republic of Ireland is a free country.”
    “England’s a free country too, ain’t it, Lieutenant? Ain’t that what we’re fighting for?”
    “Forget it. Tell me why Captain Heck wants to see me. And what the heck kind of name is that anyway?” I had to laugh at my own joke. Patterson didn’t.
    “Look, sir, Captain Heck don’t like jokes. About anything. And about his name even less.”
    “What’s his first name?”
    “Hiram. Hiram Heck.” He couldn’t keep a straight face. “Beats the heck outta me why he wants to see you.” He laughed at his joke, and I was polite enough to join in.
    “I can see why he doesn’t like to be kidded about his name. Do you know why I’m here, Sergeant?”
    “To get your ass chewed out by Captain Heck, Lieutenant. Other than that, no one told me anything.”
    We drove along a coast road with a beach to our left. A stiff breeze came off it and Patterson pulled on a pair of woolen gloves. I stuck my hands in my armpits and tried not to shiver. Ahead of us mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks hidden by mist and fog. Tucked beneath them, along the curving shore, was a town. The larger buildings featured black slate roofs and orange brickwork, while the smaller homes and shops were painted pastel shades of blue, green, and yellow. Sheep grazed on the fields to our right, each holding enclosed by a gray stone wall. The sea and the land were beautiful, blues and greens as vibrant as the cold sunlight could make them. But it was the mountains that held my eyes. These, I knew from the map of Ireland I’d had pinned to my bedroom wall growing up, were the Mountains of Mourne, the place from which, according to the legends, Saint Patrick had banished snakes from Ireland.
    Patterson pulled a hard right and the peaceful scenery gave way to rows of tightly packed houses, some rundown shops, and a junkyard. A few hundred yards beyond them, he turned onto a side road and parked the jeep in front of a cinderblock building with a corrugated tin roof and loading dock off to the side. It looked like the kind of place in which a Boston mobster could take his time fitting a pair of cement overshoes onto an unlucky guest.
    “Here we are, Lieutenant. Let’s not keep Holy Heck