The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Dan exchanged a look with Patrick and nodded. “The loyalists formed the Ulster Volunteer Force as a counterforce to our Irish Republican Army. They’ve got more than a lick and a prayer of support from the RUC. Paddy and I, we’ve been watching them get arms and training and know their routines. We only need the word to take them on.”

  The room fell silent. Each man and woman traced the paths that brought them to this moment around the table. Each mulled roads not taken and decisions not made. None found a path that led them any differently. Bridget cursed under her breath. She gave her brothers a long embrace, then kissed each on the backs of their necks as their ma had done when she thought they were sleeping. She wondered if Ma’s eyes had welled up with tears. Both brothers smiled at the gesture, a code of their common bond. The three siblings huddled together, soaking in the presence of the others, fearful this would be their last gathering, a fe sense telling them they would never again share their craic.

  Knowing this moment was long in coming did not make the final partings any easier. Gus embraced Dan and Patrick as the brothers secured his promise to watch over Bridget. Kavan clasped the brothers’ hands in his and bowed his head as he gave his blessing. Eyes glittered with ambition, the brothers murmured, “Thank you, Sagart,” and they were out the door. Each person knew the less knowledge they had about the mission of the other, the safer they all would be—and that any further direct communication would be lethal. Silence would speak their love and protection.

  Gus stood up and walked slowly around the room. Bridget watched him carefully knowing his movement was as much to cover his emotion as to ensure no one eavesdropped on their conversation. When he found his voice he said, “Once they start that campaign, they cannot stop. They’ll need resources.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Kavan replied, showing uncharacteristic impatience. “Bridget and I are already working together on raising money.”

  Gus did not see the color rise in Bridget’s cheeks. “And?” he managed to ask.

  “And we need your continued help in getting shipments to and from the States. Your connections with transporting horses have been invaluable. We need to increase the frequency.”

  Bridget stepped forward. “No. Gus is already at the point where his activities may be spotted. Increasing shipments is too risky. Find another way.”

  “I have,” Gus said, “but I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  Bridget’s stomach knotted, knowing without being told. “Gus, you promised,” she whispered.

  “Please hear me out. Margaret came to me with the idea of hiding money and weapons in the animals’ gear crates. Horses get shipped back and forth regularly for events. Her plan would use equipment already slated for transportation to avoid suspicions. Brilliant.”

  “And Jim?”

  “Jim doesn’t know. It will be simple enough to keep him free from details.”

  Kavan and Gus looked down simultaneously, giving away their partnership. Kavan spoke up. “The church’s darker connections have ways of smuggling people and goods across borders and oceans. It’s very secure and we can move enough goods to sustain our men.”

  Bridget pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin in resolve. “We need more than sustenance. We need to thrive. No more dialog. No more talk.”

  Kavan used his hands to wrap Bridget’s around a glass of Scotch. They stayed like that as he said, “There is always time for talk. There is always hope. Sometimes our voices need help to be heard.”

  Gus’ eyes narrowed slightly, wondering if this was only the beginning of their troubles.

  RAPHOE, IRELAND

  JESSICA WAS FINALLY getting the hang of shifting the BMW through its gears without racing the engine or chugging it at lower speeds. As long as she concentrated, driving on the other side of the road was not difficult. She was happy that at least the accelerator and brake were where they should be. The weight of the car, balanced by its powerful engine, felt lighter and tighter to the touch than she expected. She never appreciated what a fuss people made over their performance cars, but driving the coupe along Raphoe’s roads was eye opening. She felt a bit conspicuous in the shiny black car, passing the usual array of lorries, dingy Skoda Octavia hatchbacks and dented Ford Escorts. Being wrapped in the car’s leather seats helped her forget the disparity. Once the car approached the open road, she found herself relaxing and enjoying the drive even more. Almost.

  Lingering in the background was the pesky reality that at any moment Michael might be on her tail, demanding that she return to the cottage before she got herself into more trouble. As usual, she woke before he did and counted on him assuming that she was riding a horse, not driving his car. With her passport in her back pocket, she needed one, maybe two hours at most and planned to be back before Michael noticed she was gone—or at least before he mobilized a posse. Michael’s opinion of her destination would be negative at best. He had secluded her away from prying eyes, but his efforts were opaque and maddening. The people he had placed closest to her were making her nervous. Crossing the border presented a unique set of problems but she wasn’t a celebrity or a fugitive. She liked the thought of being a tourist.

  The border drew her there, pulling her by some invisible cord. Strabane was close enough for a quick trip to narrow her search. She couldn’t pass up a chance to have some of Bridget’s papers translated, knowing they would direct her future efforts. Thereafter she could take Michael up on his offer to complete the research in County Antrim, but with the caveat that she’d do the research personally. She appreciated his help—loved him for it, really—but was eager to get back to doing things herself. A change of scenery and a plan that showed Michael she wouldn’t tolerate being a kept woman would do them both good.

  The fast-flowing River Foyle marked the northwest border between Ireland and Northern Ireland. Concrete banks that funneled the water into a narrow channel further enhanced its velocity. The Foyle had earned a local reputation as being the place for suicides. Several bridges spanning the river offered various heights and access points and, once in, the swirling currents would suck the hapless under in a writhing and determined undertow.

  Swollen and water-rotted bodies would bob up in Londonderry or make their way to Lough Foyle before finally being dumped as unclaimed cargo into the Atlantic Ocean. Strabane had also earned a reputation of late as being the most murderous city in Northern Ireland, supplementing the River Foyle’s duties. Strangulations and gunshots would help the unfortunate meet their demise, and a few of the decomposing sots would rise again with wrists and ankles still bound.

  She had very few roads or routes to choose from, so she decided to approach the River Foyle on R264 and then near Lifford, follow the N14 along the river, using the Lifford Bridge to cross into Northern Ireland. Being unfamiliar with the signage, Jessica pulled over twice to review her map. She swore under her breath when the car bucked as she clutched and shifted gears, clumsy and unpracticed in the ways of precision automobiles. The bucolic country roads gave way to broad concrete swaths lined with what looked like streetlights, but closer inspection revealed more apparatus than simply lights atop the poles. The British world-class surveillance measures, and she assumed the additional equipment was used for border security.

  The closer she got, the more she sensed subtle shifts of development but not from peaty countryside to gleaming city as she would have expected. Tract houses formed endless squalid lines. Squat cinderblock squares of empty commercial buildings sat on weedy street corners. The development was like rotted teeth—yellow with decay and eaten away by poverty. Her disorientation increased. Cars zipped by her. The directions on the map didn’t jibe with what she was seeing.

  The road followed the river south for a short distance before it crossed the bridge. Jessica took in the view as much as she dared. She wished for a wider shoulder next to her travel lane because she was closer to the embankment than she felt comfortable. Checking frequently, her mirrors
showed a line of traffic snaking behind her. She waived them on and proceeded slowly, loathe to add angry drivers to her experience for the day. Tractors and Jeeps she could manage. High-powered German cars were a mystery. Overconfident, she attempted to change gears by depressing the brake instead of the clutch, pitching herself forward with a squeal from the tires. Horns blared as she brought the car back up to speed, cursing herself for not being more adept.

  The car gave a sudden buck, pushing her head back into the headrest. Her eyes darted down to the dashboard, looking at the dizzying array of dials and gauges. No warning lights flashed as the car gave another buck and swerved to the narrow left shoulder. Her driver’s side view mirror showed nothing, but when she looked in her rearview mirror her stomach dropped. She could not see road or headlights or safety. She could only see the grill of a very large truck.

  Her head snapped back again, this time with greater force as the car was rammed forward. Her instincts to get away were to steer right, where the shoulder of the road should have been. Instead, she pulled out into oncoming traffic.

  She was vaguely aware of the how fast the river approached her as the car spun and rolled down the embankment.

  “Jessica? Jessica!” Michael’s voice sounded far away. “Are you all right?” He guided her to look at him with a hand cupped under her chin.

  Michael’s face was a mask of anger. She nodded weakly. “Y-yeah. Fine.” Her head throbbed. She was huddled on the side of the hill and had no clear idea how long she had been there and only vaguely aware of the people and lights around her.

  “The EMTs want to get you checked out at the hospital.”

  She pulled her head free from his hand. “No,” she said. “Please, I’m okay. Just bring me back.” Her face was abraded and swollen where the airbags exploded into it, but she felt lucky. The only thing she was sure of was that an engineered mix of seatbelts, airbags, and crumple zones saved her.

  Time was disjointed. Michael spoke briefly with the police and ambulance crew. She wasn’t sure what he told them, but they clearly didn’t win the argument. He helped her to her feet, steadied her, and walked her up the embankment to Tim’s truck. She was vaguely aware as he retrieved her papers from his car and threw them inside.

  “I... I’m sorry about your car.” She rubbed her temples with her fingertips to ease the pain.

  “What happened?” His kept his eyes on the road. He was no longer mad, but a sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “I wanted to go over to Strabane to get papers translated and to see if their public archives had more information. My mother felt Strabane and Derry were important, and I wanted to see why. It... it happened so quickly. The car was too much to handle and I lost control.”

  “I want the real version, not what you told the authorities.” She watched as the muscles in his jawed pumped. He was struggling to project calm.

  She should have known better than to assume he would believe her first answer. It would be fruitless to try to dodge him. “Someone wanted the car off the road. It was rammed.”

  “You were targeted?” His knuckles went white as they gripped the steering wheel.

  She had a headache, and her thoughts jumbled. “That’s just it. I’m not sure. The way the car was hit, it wouldn’t have made a difference who was behind the wheel. Even with an expert driver, the car still would have landed down the embankment.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything to the police about being rammed?”

  “They were quick to dismiss me as the stupid tourist who doesn’t know how to drive in Ireland. Besides, I was rattled and not thinking straight. Maybe I should have said something,” she said testily, “but that car sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s impossible to see through the tinted windows so you can’t tell who’s in it. You’d be the first person assumed to be driving it.”

  He inhaled as he started to say something then stopped and held his breath. “No” was the only word that came out on a long exhale.

  They were silent the rest of the drive and barely spoke at the cottage. Each time she began to speak, he would bring his finger to her lips. They would talk later. The oasis he offered was tempting, even if it was a shimmering mirage. She wanted—no needed—so much more from him.

  In bed, the closeness of his body, his warmth, his gentle touch eased her. She brought her face close to his chest, letting his scent fill her. With his hands and mouth, he questioned how much she wanted him, how much she would let him in. With her body she answered, not thinking. Just being. Just for one night. She let them be as she yearned for them to be. United. Whole. Once ignited, she devoured him, pulling to herself every illusion he happily gave her. Together, as one, with nothing unshared between them.

  Her body ached when she woke, and she instinctively reached for the warmth of him but found only cold sheets. He was no doubt off to learn whether the BMW was salvageable. She tried going back to sleep, hopeful for his return, but only tossed and turned, badgered by questions. Admitting defeat, she threw back the covers and stood up, slightly wobbling as she took first steps.

  Michael’s note on the kitchen table admonished her to stay put, which was the last thing she wanted, but she was in no position to differ. She knew nothing about Mr. Harvey, and her search for details on Bridget’s life only showed gaps in what she knew about Gus.

  She paced in circles, taking an inventory of her aches. Popping a couple of ibuprofens after surveying her scratches in the mirror, she admitted she needed answers to many things. If she couldn’t leave the cottage, then at least she could review some of the notes she had made of Bridget’s writings. Not seeing them on the table gave her a moment of panic until her still rattled brain remembered they were still in Tim’s truck.

  Jessica looked down into the ring and saw Tim lunging Planxty on a long line, the horse trotting in large circles. Two other horses stood tethered close-by, waiting for their turn at the morning’s exercise. She assessed Tim’s manner and skills, watching him for longer than she would have admitted. His ease with the animals was admirable, a natural horseman. The horses had made substantial progress, and Tim’s disciplined help was a huge contribution, even if he was a jerk. He was a stickler for routine, arriving and leaving at the same time each day, working the horses on exactly the same schedule, lunging each for thirty minutes. She gave a quick glance at her watch and walked briskly to his truck.

  The notes were not on the center console as she thought. Admittedly, she wasn’t thinking clearly. She struggled to recall if she or Michael had placed them somewhere. Sliding her hands along the sun visor, under the seat, and into the glove box, she silently cursed herself for her absent mindedness. Nothing remained unsearched as she became increasingly agitated. She wanted those papers and she wanted answers. Now.

  Her head throbbed so much her vision blurred, but she forced herself to search the seats again. The white edge of her notes was barely visible. They must have slipped into the crevasse on the bumpy ride back. She ran her hand between the cushions to free them and recoiled with a hot searing pain. Blood dripped from a clean slice along her fingertips. She looked down to see the sharp point and honed edge of a blade lodged between the seat and backrest. Rolling her hand into her shirttail, she reached with her left hand and inched the blade free.

  The knife was ten inches long. Its fine blade was more than half its length and etched with an intricate interlocking Celtic design. The blade ended at a quillion, separating the blade from the hilt. A deep relief of a cross and interlocking circles decorated the grip.

  Cold panic filled her as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, threatening to go black completely. Her fingers bled, but the red-hot pain hit her in the side. This wasn’t happening, she thought. The searing pain in her ribs couldn’t possibly be real. Repressed memories crashed through, disorienting her with their vivid images. For a few harrowing minutes, Jessica was not secured in a safe house in Ireland. She was dying on a frozen mountain in Kentucky with a madman intent on filleting
her with a knife. A knife incredibly like Tim’s.

  Hands shaking, she fished out the notes and hastily wiped the blade clean before shoving it back into its hiding place. Using her elbow, she did her best to rub away any droplets of blood, focusing on her task and not the rising panic within her. The questions, who was Tim and how dangerous was he, alternately burned and scraped, hollowing her. Without answers, the cycle threatened to continue until nothing remained of her but a tempered, hard shell.

  She closed the door to the truck, hurried to the cottage unseen, and threw her back against the door until the latches clicked. Her knees buckled. Then her body sank to the ground and shook with soundless sobs as she held her hand to her chest like an injured bird.

  Michael would be back soon. She had to pull herself together. Running her hand under the ice cold water from the faucet didn’t lessen the throbbing. Examining the cut, only her thumb and index finger were unscathed. The slice was not deep enough to need stitches. The bleeding eventually stopped, but the stains down the front of her shirt and jeans made the injury look far worse than it was. Her head throbbed in time with her fingers, beating out the seconds passing without answers.

  She grabbed a drinking glass and dropped it. The wood floor served more as a buffer than she expected, and the glass merely bounced and rolled under the counter. Grabbing it, she pulled her hand up over her head and threw it onto the ground. It rewarded her by splintering into several large shards. She felt marginally safer with an excuse in place, but the panic only served to crystallize what had been creeping up on her for several days.

  The safe house, the bodyguards, the secrecy were sold to her as necessary evils to maintain her privacy. The dagger, the engravings, the tattoo, and its owner were reminders of the darker side of the Charity.

  She needed to get the hell out of Raphoe. She assessed her options and didn’t like any of them.

  Michael’s hair was disheveled and his collar was askew on a misbuttoned shirt as he walked through the door.