So the sheep-killing started not long after Brendan went missing. Cal thinks of that tumbledown cottage again, or a cave in the mountainside. There were wild men out his granddaddy’s way, or at least rumors of them. Cal and his buddies never saw them, but they saw campfire sites and snare wires, coolers hidden in underbrush, animal skins pegged to branches to dry, deep in the woods where no one should have been spending any amount of time. One time Cal’s buddy Billy almost fell into an expertly hidden pit trap. Whoever dug it, probably he started out as a restless teenager prowling the perimeter of his life for an escape route.
“Now,” Mart says, scraping back his chair, “I know what you need, to finish off with.” He bends over with a painful grunt, pokes around in a cupboard and comes up holding a packet of cookies. “There you go,” he says, putting it triumphantly on the table. “Time you found out what all the fuss is about.”
He’s so delighted with his inspiration that it would be unmannerly for Cal to refuse. The cookie tastes exactly like it looks: sugar and foam rubber, in a variety of consistencies. “Well,” Cal says. “We don’t get these back home.”
“Have another one there, go on.”
“I’ll leave ’em to you. Not really my style.”
“You can’t be coming over here insulting the Mikados,” Mart says, miffed. “Every child in Ireland is weaned on these.”
“No disrespect intended,” Cal says, grinning. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”
“D’you know what that is?” Mart demands, struck by a thought. “That’s them American hormones. They’re after wrecking your taste buds. The way, when a woman’s pregnant, she’ll eat fruitcake with sardines. Come back to me in a year and try those again, once we’ve got you recalibrated back to normal, and we’ll see what you think of them then.”
“Will do,” Cal says, still grinning. “Cross my heart.”
“Come here to me, Columbo, while I have you,” Mart says, dipping a cookie into his mug. “Tell me you don’t suspect that little scutter Eugene Moynihan of getting at my sheep.”
“Huh?” Cal says.
Mart throws Cal one bright-eyed glance. “I heard you were having a great aul’ chat with him this morning. Were you interrogating him? I’d say he’d crack in minutes, that fella. One stern look offa you and he’d be bawling for his mammy. Was he?”
“Not that I noticed,” Cal says. “But I didn’t give him anything to bawl about.”
“Eugene didn’t touch my ewe,” Mart says. “Nor did Fergal O’Connor.”
“Never thought they did,” Cal says, truthfully.
“So what were you at with them?”
“All I want,” Cal says, with mounting irritation, “is someone who’ll help me rewire my kitchen so I can put in a washing machine and wash my damn underpants in my own home, instead of hauling them to town every week. Only I keep getting the runaround. One guy says I need this guy, so I go looking and nah, he’s not around, I need this other guy. Track him down and he doesn’t know a cable from his ass, I need this other guy. Track him down”—Mart has started giggling—“and he acts like I asked him to unclog my toilet with his bare hands. I’m trying to give work to local folk here, outa plain good manners, but I’m about ready to give up on that bullshit and hire a professional, just so I have that washer before I get too old to work it.”
Mart is wheezing with laughter. “God almighty,” he says, wiping his eyes, “cool your jets there, buckaroo, or you’ll give yourself a heart attack. I’ll find you someone local who’ll put in a washing machine for you. Get you one at a good price too.”
“Well,” Cal says, settling himself down but still a little bit ruffled. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”
“And sure, how would Eugene Moynihan be any use to you, anyway? He wouldn’t lower himself to get his hands dirty wiring anything,” Mart points out, with vast scorn. “Who was it told you he would?”
“Well,” Cal says, scratching his beard thoughtfully, “I’m not rightly sure. It was some guy in the pub. He pointed me towards a coupla people who might be able to help me out, but I can’t seem to remember his name—I’d had a few beers when I was talking to him, and I gotta admit, I haven’t got everybody straight yet. Old guy, seems like. Short hair. Few inches taller’n you, maybe, but I could have that