The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  “No. I’ll take care of that.”

  Jean-Paul cleared his throat behind a closed fist and gave a crisp nod. He placed a set of papers on the table, signature lines marked with color-coded tabs. In an unhurried motion, with a slight bit of ceremony, he produced a gold fountain pen and handed it to Michael, using his fingertips to lightly grip each end of the pen.

  As Michael quickly scanned and signed the papers, Jean-Paul looked out at the jet with “MMC” on the tail, taxiing to the jetway.

  “I always thought your father was very clever to have the two sides of his business reference one another without being commingled or entangled in any way. Using numerals for his other holding companies was a clear demarcation of the subsidiaries. Your initials are the same as your father’s. If I’m not being too bold to ask, will you continue to do the same?”

  Michael took an extra moment to review the papers emblazoned with the “2100” letterhead. He finished signing all the papers, clicked the top of the Mont Blanc back on, and waited until Jean-Paul nodded in satisfaction that the transfer was complete and sealed before he answered.

  “If my father was not already dead, I would kill him for what he has done.”

  NORTHERN IRELAND

  TIM FINALLY LEFT Jessica alone, taking great care to padlock the door behind him. He had spent hours on the floor, arms slung around the necks of his dogs, just staring at her. She finally told him she needed to sleep and wanted him to leave. As soon as her body was able to obey her commands without hesitation, she ran her hand over every square inch of the trailer. No ceiling tile was unexamined. No window was untested. The desk was empty of anything remotely useful and only held an odd assortment of paperclips and pens, which she shoved into her pocket.

  The kitchen yielded nothing more than plastic bottles of water and food in cellophane packages. No utensils of any sort were in any of the drawers or cabinets. The tiny bathroom didn’t even have a shower rod she could wiggle out of place. Placing herself in time or geography was impossible. No natural light found its way through the maze of walls and stockpiled goods. The only sounds were deep vibrations of heavy eighteen-wheelers that periodically rattled the windows.

  Other sounds were more high-pitched, oddly familiar, but not identifiable. She had no idea how long she was unconscious or how far she had traveled in the back of the rig. She had a faint memory of traffic on a highway but wasn’t sure if that was part of her semi-conscious memory or if a busy road was close by. She was a prisoner and acutely aware that even if she did escape, she had no clue where to go after that.

  High-pitched jingles of the dogs’ collars announced Tim’s return. The sounds of keys and the sharp pull of the padlock followed. The dogs rushed in ahead of him. They sniffed all along the floor and through the pile of blankets before they came to rest at his feet, sitting with such readiness that their butts almost hovered midair. Tim didn’t have to lean forward to reach their heads as he gave them a pat. He wore the simple clothes he always did. Jeans, a cotton shirt, simple belt. His hair was uncombed. He was present with his body but completely absent with his mind.

  If he was following a rehearsed plan, she grappled with how to disrupt him. His communication with the dogs was unparalleled. She felt the hours of observation yesterday were an extension of his ability to understand the language of animals and his inability to understand the complexity of people. What had Michael said about him? He was gullible and trusting until he was slighted. He had an unpredictable quality that was unnerving.

  He may have been unpredictable, but he was also new at holding people captive. She noticed he did not lock the door after he entered and hung the opened padlock on the door latch. She leaned against the desk, angling her body closer to the door. One of the dogs whined for attention, and the sound roused him to the present.

  “You’re good with animals, Tim. Look at how they relate to you.”

  He scratched each under their chins. “They’re good pups. They’re good pups, they are. Wolfhounds don’t have a mean bone in their bodies. They do what’s asked of them for a biscuit and a rub, nothing more. You can’t get better than that. No sir, not at all.”

  “Horses, too.”

  Tim’s eyes flickered up to her face and quickly away when he saw she was looking at him. “Good. Not great. They respond to you, though. I show them who’s boss. They don’t like that.”

  “Why am I here, Tim? What’s going on?”

  He was calm today. His feet were planted and hands steady. “You’re here for me. Because I want you here.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Michael’s going to be worried sick about me. You need to take me back to your friend.”

  His upper body stiffened and threatened to begin its rocking. “Michael doesn’t care.”

  She backed off, sensing that mentioning Michael threatened to shut down this conversation and agitate him. “Well, I do care. I don’t like it here, and I want to go home.”

  “What’s home for you?”

  The question took her by surprise. She hadn’t a clue how to answer him and was surprised how that truth stung. She could only manage a weak, “Not here.”

  “It is, you know. It’s here. The child of Gean Cánach cannot live anywhere else.”

  Jessica tried to make sense of what he said. Had she spoken to him about this? She tried to dodge. “I don’t know anyone with that name.”

  “Liar!” He shouted the word with such force that she took a step backward. “Cuireadh fucked Do mháthair ag spiorad” ‘Your mother was fucked by a spirit.’

  “What are you saying?”

  Tim shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I read your mother’s papers. She was seduced by Gean Cánach.”

  “You had no right to even go anywhere near my things, and you had no right to read her papers.” She wanted to keep calm, to get him talking, and catch him off guard, but the cold fury of being spied upon eclipsed everything.

  “No, no, no right. You have no right.” He put his arms on the windowsill in a conscious effort not to rock. He concentrated on his words. “You have no right not to know who your parents are. He knows. He didn’t tell you.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course Michael knows. My mother was Bridget Heinchon. My father was Gus Adams.”

  “No. No! Not Michael! You’re protecting him. Why do you want to protect him, he’s done nothing for you. He’s followed you around, crept around you, spied on you, and still you protect him.”

  “Tim?” Jessica watched his increasing agitation with fear. Was he making sense? She hoped a softer tone would calm him. “Michael has helped me find information on my mother. He’s not lying to me. He’s told me hard truths about her life. She was sent to prison as bait and I... I was born there.” The conversation she overheard between Michael and Murray echoed in her ears, and she wanted to cry out and scream in denial but couldn’t find her voice.

  “Your father was not Gus Adams.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Tim.”

  “I do. I do. I read them. I read your mother’s journals. I saw what she said. You couldn’t read her words. You didn’t understand what Gach mo ghrá go deo means.”

  “It means she loved someone and someone loved her.”

  “And you don’t know that your mother was the most hated person in Britain. They hated her because she was like me. And like you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Thoughts spun around her head and her heart beat somewhere near her ears. Tim was insane. It was impossible for him to know what he was saying. “You’re crazy if you believe she was hated. My mother lived a simple life. She helped her friends and others and taught a few how to read. I’ve done nothing...” Her eyes grew hot with tears. Blinking them back, she continued, “I’ve done nothing but want to learn about her. Her journals say nothing like that.” The ground beneath her feet shivered as if threatening to quake open.

  The dogs stood up, looking at Tim, wanting a part of the excitement. H
e commanded them to lie down in the corner with a wave of his open hand pushed downward. They curled up in a corner, well away from his frantic pacing.

  “There’s more than what was in the journals. Your mother was Mrs. Harvey. Your uncles were Daniel and Patrick Heinchon. She was the leader of the civil rights movement and her brothers were loved for their courage. You have to know this. It’s wrong you don’t know this.”

  Tim paced over to her, standing too close in his disjointed manner he had. She could feel how hot his body had become with agitation. A slight sheen of sweat covered his neck and the upper part of his chest. One rivulet rolled down his smooth skin. She tried to focus on anything but what he was saying. The bone of emotion stuck in her throat, making her voice nothing more than a croak. “My mother was Bridget Heinchon. My father was Gus Adams. Please don’t do this to me.”

  “Nan said. Nan said.”

  “What about Nan?” She spat the words, not intending them as a question but a mark of dismissal.

  “Nan said if I told you the truth then you would like me.” His eyes had a way of sweeping over her body, no longer as if assessing livestock but keenly aware of her.

  There it was again. That shift in the air that says a corner was about to be turned. She angled her body closer to the door, fearing the turn was inevitable, bringing into focus where the door was, where the dogs were. “Nan doesn’t care about me, Tim. I’m a job to her. She wants you to do something to me that will hurt me.”

  “She said I should tell you about your mother and father. She figured it out, you know. I helped her by translating the journals. We figured out who your father is. She said if I told you then you would let me hold you the way Michael does.” He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, pinning her arms at her side.

  “Stop it, Tim. Nan wants to make a fool of you, and she wants to hurt me. Please don’t do this.” She craned her neck to the side, avoiding his face, not wanting to see the expression in his eyes. “My father is dead. I watched him die.”

  He pushed his head down, his mouth searching for hers. His hands gripped her butt, smashing his hips into hers. She tried to push against him, but couldn’t wriggle enough room. Her fingertips barely brushed the top of the desk, feeling, hoping to find anything she could use. His arms locked hers at her side while he pulled her closer, making it clear he was stronger. Making it clear this was going to go his way, not hers. Showing her his need. He lifted her up so her breasts were within reach of his mouth. She could feel his stubble scratch against her neck and chest.

  “Tim. STOP IT! NO!” Jessica could not keep the beseeching tone out of her voice.

  Suddenly, the dogs jumped into the fray, tails wagging, tongues out. Up on their hind legs they were taller than Tim and able to lap and lick at his face. To them Tim’s attack was great fun, and they wanted to get in the middle of them. He let her go, and she dropped to the floor, gasping and shaking at what almost was and most certainly would be if she didn’t get out of there.

  He commanded the dogs to sit and looked back at her as if nothing had happened. He didn’t do any of the pleading and crying that he had done at the truck that day. He had rehearsed this, but her begging was part of the scene in his head. Somehow, he had run through this event in his head again and again until he wouldn’t crumble. He hadn’t figured on the dogs. He looked at them and gave them an idle pat on their heads.

  “I have to tell you first. Then you’ll have me.”

  She knew the next time Tim came at her, he would not let the dogs stop him. Her breath came in shaky gasps. “S-so, what does Nan want me to know?”

  “Nan figured out who your father is when you got that box. She read the lot when you were riding. She had me read the Irish parts.”

  “Murray would have told me.”

  “Nan gave me the papers she couldn’t read. She gave me the hidden ones she found that had our language in them. She told me to hold on to them. She said we had a secret and that we had to be smart in how we used it. She said I should use it to get you to like me.”

  Jessica thought about the books she had stashed in the crawlspace before she had a chance to thoroughly understand what was in them. She never would have known if papers or a whole book had gone missing. “Those were my private papers, Tim. Nan was wrong to encourage you to read them. If there is a secret, then it’s my secret to hold. Not yours.”

  “Murray suspected the truth. He was waiting to find proof before he said anything.”

  “Did you kill Murray, Tim?”

  Tim looked away, puzzled by the question. “I hit him. I found him in the kitchen. He didn’t want me to touch the journals. He didn’t want me in the house. But he knew that Gus held the secret, too.”

  Her heart froze. She wanted the truth.

  Why was fate so intent on playing another twisted game with her life? The earth threatened to swallow her whole, and she wanted to kick open the fault line and sink through until the heat and pressure of the earth finally erased her. What was the point of resisting? The tenets of her life would inevitably fall despite her efforts to keep them standing. A mere trip of her feet would send them all cascading in their pre-ordained directions. Mustering another fight against fate required strength she feared she did not have.

  When the walls of her soul weakened to the point of collapse, a cool breeze floated through the closed windows. The dogs stopped their panting, ears snapped forward and heads cocked. Tim stopped his rocking and looked at them and back to Jessica. She didn’t have time to process what was going on, only that something was different. She became detached, thoughts floating somewhere above her body, angles of the room skewed and out of true. She gripped the top of the desk, buttressing herself against the coming shockwave.

  She heard herself ask in a small voice, “It could only be Gus, right?”

  He did not answer, but stared at her, mouth open, for too long. His eyes followed a path around her as if they were following her shadow, connected to her but not. Then he shook his head quickly, made the sign of the cross, and blinked his eyes. The dogs settled back down.

  “No. Not Gus. His name is Kavan Hughes.”

  “Kavan Hughes?” She repeated the name, racking her brain for where she had heard it before. If she had ever read it in Bridget’s journals, she would have remembered it. Then she recalled the conversation she overheard between Murray and Michael and the promise Michael made her make. “The Bishop?” Her muscles went lax with disbelief. She balanced herself against the desk.

  Tim nodded, excited to be telling Jessica her secret. “Yes. Yes. Yes. After the box came. Nan doesn’t like not knowing what goes on in her house.” This time his rocking had more of a boy’s excitement rather than agitation.

  She thought of her birth certificate, with the frayed bottom edge, that listed Gus’ and not Margaret’s name as ‘Next of Kin.’ “There’s no proof,” she said.

  Tim was almost gleeful. “The journals said so. Nan had me translate.”

  Jessica bristled. “The journals said no such thing. Even if it was true, my mother would never commit that truth to writing.”

  “Nan is very clever. She’s very smart. Bridget and Gus and Kavan had secrets, but Nan guessed that the Bishop must have figured out where you were through the churches you attended so the box knew how to find you. No matter where you lived, you went to church. The parishioners would talk about you. So, Nan tricked Father Archdall into telling her about who asked of you. What was the harm to inquire about a new face?”

  Could what Tim said possibly be true? She thought of St. Paul’s in Hamilton, the beautiful stucco chapel at Saddle String and Father Steeves in Kentucky. Whether they were priests or reverends didn’t matter. They were part of a brotherhood and were more than happy to keep one of their own informed. Did they truly have eyes out for her all of this time? And what was the peculiar way Father Archdall spoke to her? This wasn’t a network created solely for her. Countless others must use this underground message train. How per
fect could it be?

  “If it’s true, then he wanted to know where I was to protect me.”

  “No. No. No. He wanted to see if you were a problem, that’s what Nan said. Nan said the Bishop wanted to know if you were close enough to harm him by telling anyone he had a child. So we’re the ones who have to protect him. That’s what Paddy wants. Paddy says you never should’ve been born, so we should take care of that mistake. But he missed, so Nan said that was because you were supposed to be mine. So now you know.”

  She heard nothing after ‘never should’ve been born.’ An image of a woman accused of being a witch and condemned to death by slowly being crushed by rocks came to her. Each word he spoke was another rock, crushing the breath from her lungs and giving her heart no room to beat. Its pulse was already constricted, encased in scar tissue stiffened from wounds of rejection, disrespect, and deceit. Tim’s rant was too much for her to take in. And worse, Tim was waiting for her response, waiting for her to react. This was his act of claiming her, the moment rehearsed again and again until every action was perfect.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The incessant rocking stopped. His eyes unfocused showing that his mental gears were spinning, but not engaging. He had not planned on this. She kept one hand on the top of the desk and used the other to crack open the long, narrow drawer.

  She pressed. “Bridget never would have written that. Think about her journals. She never named anyone, even her brothers. Gean Cánach could have been anyone, but it was Gus. Gus’ real name is Gilchrist. GC. Nan lied to Paddy so he would kill me. Nan lied to you to manipulate you, and now you’re lying to me.”

  Tim remained frozen. One dog raised its head, ears back and gave a whimper as the sea change of Tim’s temperament registered.

  She felt for anything and grabbed the only things she could find—a pen and some paper clips—and gripped them tightly, slowly inching her body closer to the door.

  “Nan laughed at you the same way Michael’s brother did. Liam would lie just to watch you fight his battles. Nan doesn’t like me. She’s using you to hurt me.”