The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Quite clearly, no child was born to Margaret and Jim Wyeth in 1967.

  That brought Bragdon to inquire about the parents. James Kent Wyeth was as much of a blueblood as one person could be. Tracing his lineage through generations of Boston Brahmins uncovered no surprises. Margaret Wyeth was another matter.

  Margaret Wyeth received her U.S. citizenship upon her marriage. Once that was established, it took no time to determine that she was Margaret Heinchon, sister to Daniel and Patrick Heinchon—lauded martyrs and talismans of Northern Ireland’s troubles—and the infamous Bridget Heinchon Harvey.

  Deep in thought, Bragdon picked and fiddled with an ingrown hair on the side of his neck.

  SAINT PETER’S CATHEDRAL

  FOR ANYONE LUCKY enough to find a seat in the cathedral, the view of the occasion’s pomp and circumstance promised to be staggering. Such masses were rare, and the faithful believed that special blessings bestowed upon those who attended. The parishioners packed themselves into the back of the nave and down the aisles, trying not to stand behind a column, hat, or broad shoulder.

  Overflow pushed the crowd into the side chapels, settling at least to hear the service through the speakers wedged up against the ceiling. Mothers smoothed their hair and dresses with white-gloved hands. Children fussed in uncomfortable finery. Men sat ramrod straight in freshly starched shirts, desperate not to make a move that could bring the wrath of God or wife to bear because such simultaneous dunning would go beyond sober tolerance. All ages crammed together to witness the end of the era of Father Storm’s ministry and to cater to rumors that the dashing Bishop Hughes was ascending to Archbishop and would soon be leaving for Rome, making his visits less frequent.

  The approach of the start of mass was signaled by the procession of the choir dressed for the occasion in red robes with gold liturgical collars. Members carried leather folders of the day’s music selection—rousing hymns for soaring voices and powerful music. The organ announced the chords—its centuries-old, hand-forged pipes produced a depth of sound that men claimed vibrated their very souls. Once settled, high soprano voices began to sing ancient Christian hymns. Notes intertwined to form a chorus of alleluia harmonies, perfectly chosen to reverberate and echo against the masonry walls.

  The day’s Caeremoniale Episcoporum would include nine acolytes, traditionally considered guards of the bishop but evolved to be recognition of status for recently ordained clergy and no longer required to carry the heavy mace once used for defense. In a break with tradition, Bishop Hughes requested Father Storm be the tenth, a position of unusual honor. All the men wore a white dalmatic, a long richly embroidered tunic. A matching band of embroidery graced the opening of the wing-like sleeves. In another nod to Father Storm, the chasuble worn by the bishop and the priest were of equal embellishment. Gold and silver threads created a tapestry of faith. The maniple the bishop wore was a gift from the retiring priest for his ordination and was the only item of clothing he wore that was less ornate than Father Storm’s. Two acolytes stepped up, placed the tall pointed mitre on top of Bishop Hughes head, and handed him the gold, crooked crosier. Once fully attired, they bowed their heads in silent prayer and waited for the time to begin the service.

  The deep traditions of the Catholic faith evidenced even in the tiniest details. The order of their march down the main aisle was predetermined centuries before. The organ and choir began to sing the processional hymn of “Holy! Holy! Holy!” The congregation stood as altar servers entered first, followed by four acolytes. Father Storm shuffled his way in, barely daring to look to either side. Bishop Hughes was next, and a collective sough of awe rippled through the congregation.

  The remaining five acolytes followed, heads bowed over clasped hands, the need to look over their shoulders erased with time. The last of the altar servers entered, studiously looking only at the feet of the person in front of them, terrified of any misstep. They barely flinched as another ripple could be heard when the congregation saw the braided red ponytails of a set of O’Leary twins bobbing down the aisle. There were more O’Leary’s around, and those who became bored with the ceremonies would surely begin to scan the congregation for them.

  The members of the processional assumed their positions in the chancel, Bishop Hughes and Father Storm standing at the center, directly in front of the altar. Working in teams of two, the acolytes took the mitre and crosier, backing up several steps before they pivoted and exited, careful not to turn their backs on those of higher status. The bishop received a thurible, contents smoldering and smoking, and he began the ritualistic cleansing of the altar, smoke rising to the heavens as the visual representation of the prayers of the parishioners.

  Jessica sat in the sixth row in a borrowed dress and hat. She had walked down the center aisle, found a single vacant seat, genuflected with a quick sign of the cross—all actions were familiar to her from years of Sundays. She had done the familiar motions in strange churches and recalled how the ceremony and traditions of the church brought her comfort as she struggled to meld into a new identity. The church had been a constant touchstone, a baseline of familiarity even as her life spun wildly out of control. But today she looked at the scene through the warped glass of a funhouse mirror.

  A filament of memory emerged of Margaret and Bridget saying the first time you attended mass in any church, the Lord would grant three wishes if sincerely prayed for. She remembered sitting in the church in Perc, Kentucky, with Father Steeves at the altar, praying so hard her eyes watered. The wishes never varied. She wanted to live her life as Jessica Wyeth, openly and without fear.

  All of the blessings, prayers, and readings took on a different meaning. Instead of a two dimensional figure of a man in priest’s clothes intoning the mass, the man in resplendent robes was her father. She feared somehow telegraphing the connection and exposing her secret and scarcely breathed as the thought crystallized in her mind. She sat as close to the altar as she dared, yet far enough away that whatever invisible tractor-beam of blood would not engage and pull them together before they were both good and ready.

  She freely explored the unspoken ties of kinship from her anonymous distance. His hands smoothed the altar’s cloth in a manner that was not rote, but intended and determined. He bent to kiss an open bible in a way that was genuine and not rehearsed even though done hundreds of times over his life. He opened his arms and looked up at a point near the arched apse—or somewhere just beyond it—and praised the Lord God Jesus Christ. At times, his eyes closed in deep concentration, but when they were open, Jessica could see an expression that she could only describe as pure love. He was truly a man of faith and was as much a part of the mass today as it was of him.

  Seeing his total absorption in his world and in the world of Christ, the first shadows of doubt crept in. She had wanted to meet him and ask him questions about her mother, to see his face and hear his voice as he described the vibrant and living woman Jessica had only glimpsed at through the journals. She hoped a living and breathing memory would reanimate her mother in a way she yearned for.

  Tiny holes in the fabric of her conviction opened. She could not compare her faith with his. Where Bridget’s silence was a powerful example of will, his was a silence that came from confidence and inner strength. Where Bridget had moved with self-conscious effort, the bishop moved with ease and grace. Jessica recognized the essence of her core. The insatiable drive that had delivered her to the cathedral on this day faltered.

  If what Tim said was true, that the bishop had found and followed her throughout her life, then he had chosen not to meet her, preferring distance to relationship. She naïvely assumed she could waltz up to him, announce his paternity, and expect to be welcomed. With a hidden and sidelong glance, she looked into the faces of the congregation. Their expressions were those of trust and comfort found in the words of the man they revered.

  Her need for answers paled when measured against them. Waving the flag of her parentage was pointless. Rupturing their fai
th by thrusting her truth on them was a selfish act she simply could not do. She had the power inside of her to keep her truth to herself. In that moment, a realization dawned that she could stay hidden from a solitary strength and not in fear. Forever eliminated from her was the assumption that she was born to Jim and Margaret Wyeth. The foundation of her existence as Bridget’s and Kavan’s daughter firmed. Living the life she was born into laid out before her in a way she had never seen.

  She could move forward.

  The mass was unlike any she had ever been to before. The event drew more participants than the typical solitary priest and altar servers. For every action the bishop performed, a small ballet of activity accompanied it. An acolyte was always in front of or beside him, presenting a book, adjusting a vestment, or standing in symbolic guard. The organ played, and the choir sang at moments to encourage prayer and reflection. The incense helped ascend the prayers, blue smoke curled upward.

  She was beginning to feel the familiar lull of tradition and ceremony when a movement took her attention. The mass had progressed up to the Liturgy of the Eucharist, and Bishop Hughes spread the linen corporal over the altar in preparation for communion. Aoife, being a familiar member of the church and known to be a close friend of Father Storm’s, had been asked to help present the gifts of bread and wine used as the Eucharist. Joined by another parishioner, she walked up to the altar and genuflected, presenting the gifts with a slight curtsey and bow of her head, a departure from the bristled warrior of only hours before.

  Aoife looked at Jessica and reflexively gave the habitual half-smile of greeting and recognition. As quickly as the expression manifested, she flinched it away, squinting her eyes shut as if she could erase her action.

  The action was simple and innocent. On its own merits, the glancing smile was barely noteworthy. But the flicker of recognition was not an action that happened inside a vacuum. In the way of either fate or coincidence, it was enough to draw attention to the young and attractive woman in the sixth row.

  Unlike others who tried in vain to find a seat with an unobstructed view, Michael had positioned himself behind a pillar, giving himself a clear view of the corners of the cathedral and its balcony. By moving his body slightly left or right, he could see the entire chancel if he needed to, but his attention was elsewhere. He had walked the entire outside perimeter of the cathedral and then inside, including searching in and behind the confessionals. He was jostled and elbowed by those fighting to keep their view and was grateful their focus was not on him.

  Finding nothing and no one of interest did not settle him. Instead, his heart thrummed a steady beat and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in a feeling made familiar through his academy training. If all of the pieces and people were in place, then he had no doubt something was going to happen. Today. Within any moment.

  He inhaled and felt the holster tighten. The gun gave him little comfort.

  The public held no interest to him. Michael was interested in only three people today. Jessica and Kavan Hughes were two. The other he had never seen or even heard described, but he knew he would recognize without hesitation. Something about the energy that coursed through the body of a man in the moments before he took a life marked the unmistakable sign of a predator. Michael searched the sea of faces around him.

  The rays of late morning light filtered in through the top windows, its shafts colored by the hues of the stained glass and made visible by the smoke of the incense. The effect was beautiful, but Michael did not allow himself the luxury of appreciating it. He kept his eyes moving, clearing his head of anything except what mattered. Any shift in attention or unexpected swell through the congregation sent another shot of adrenaline through his system. When Bishop Hughes and Father Storm moved around the altar, he watched them as he would watch prey. Every motion gauged and measured for exposure and weakness. Every angle of attack assessed.

  Within this veil of hypervigilance, Michael saw the thin red line of light, its presence betrayed by the rising wisps of incense. The glowing beam appeared for less than a second before it disappeared. Neither flashing nor bright enough to gain attention on its own, he knew immediately what it was.

  The razor-width thread of light from a high-powered rifle equipped with a laser scope was unmistakable. The fact that the light was red and steady and not green or pulsating meant his adversary was highly skilled, well equipped, and calm. A pulsating light is easier to pick up during the chaotic moments of a battle, aiding in accurate aim, but was as easily seen by the mark as the marksman. A green light is more visible to an untrained human eye, exposing its lethal intent as a warning. The steady pin of red was the light of an assassin, and one he knew well. The laser was a top-of-the-line product offered by 2100, Ltd.

  He raised his eyes immediately to find the source, which he determined had come from a higher angle. Possible locations sifted through his mind. An outside angle from an abutting building was not possible. Inside, the only area he could eliminate was the main floor of the nave.

  His position behind the pillar blocked his view, and he began to move to a better location. The jammed cathedral made speed impossible. He paused only long enough for two people to bring something up to the altar. A portly man and a woman walked up the center aisle. The man was unremarkable, but the woman grabbed his attention in a way he couldn’t articulate, and he studied her for clues. As she turned to return to her seat, an expression flickered over her face. She flinched and looked away as if suddenly exposed in a sin. Michael looked at the backs of the heads of the people in the front rows. No one stood out, except for a tall, athletic woman wearing a hat, her blonde hair tucked away in a neat bun.

  Jessica.

  Even if his eyes did not recognize her, his whole being did. The gravitational pull increased its force as profound relief that she was there, alive, and unharmed, fed it. No disguise would ever keep her from him again. He quickly reassessed the facts. She was a discrete distance from the chancel meaning she had not yet approached the bishop. No doubt she was figuring out exactly how to make her next move. She seemed to be alone and unwatched, although the woman who recognized her was a mystery. Another flash grabbed his attention.

  The serpentine wisps of blue incense accentuated by the light pouring through colored glass served to camouflage the laser from the congregation, but Michael saw enough to track its origin to the organ gallery. The laser tracked the bishop’s movements as he bent to prepare the offering and lifted his arms in salutation to the Lord. An acolyte stepped forward and stopped the beam from making a clean line to the bishop’s heart, unwittingly serving his purpose as a human shield. The light flicked on the stooped figure of Father Storm, tracing a circle around his heart, then blinked off again.

  Missed opportunities raised questions, and Michael knew the assassin was waiting for some signal that would determine when to shoot or to aim at another target. His answer came when the light blinked on and settled on the back of Jessica’s head. She could not have felt the light, but he watched as she put her hand behind her neck and shrugged her shoulders with a shiver. This time the tiny dot of light stayed steady, no doubt waiting to confirm that the mark was indeed on the head of his prey.

  Communion began and the music grew louder no longer at risk of drowning out a sermon. Starting at the outside front aisles, the deacons stood at the end of the rows and worked their way through the cathedral. The front and center pews would be the last served. The aisles filled with communicants effectively locking in anyone who remained sitting.

  Acolytes fanned out along the chancel’s perimeter, serving the Eucharist in an efficient assembly line. Bishop Hughes gave Father Storm the position of honor in the center of the chancel as he stood slightly to his right, placing him even closer to Jessica and within the same line of fire. Michael watched the slow progression and used the movements to hide his own.

  If Michael called out in warning, the assassin would calmly squeeze the trigger as all hell broke loose in the
nave below. Then he would slip out in the pandemonium that was sure to follow. Michael would do everything possible not to let that happen. He walked into the back of the cathedral and up the stairs. The organist was too deeply engaged in the intricacies of a German hymn to notice a shadow cross her keyboard as Michael made his way to the pipe chamber. He waited until a brief crescendo in the music hid his movement before he slipped through the narrow door. It closed behind him, and the music continued. His head was inches away from the huge pipes.

  The blast of sound that threatened to rupture his eardrums caught him off guard. The cramped area contained every vibration, a contrivance in design meant to deepen and enrich the tones of the organ. The highest scales rang through the top of his brain, making his scalp shimmer. The deep notes penetrated inside his chest, altering the beat of his heart. He had never experienced anything like it before, and wondered if it would affect his ability to think and react. The disadvantage could be turned into an advantage. His target would not be able to hear his approach.

  With the Glock in one hand and the other salvaging an eardrum, he methodically assessed the interior in a way any good assassin would. The Glock would be used only if stealth failed him. The suffocating grip recently practiced would be much more efficient this time. He could feel the subtle shift of energy inside of him as the minutes of a life counted down.

  The music was some of the most beautiful that Kavan had ever heard. Voices soared and intertwined. The organ complimented each note and harmony with an array of melody meant to trigger the souls of man. Kavan stood in deep prayer as Father Storm performed the rites for Holy Communion, the older priest’s movements slowed by age and emotion. This would be his last service in his beloved cathedral and Kavan wanted him to experience every moment of it to the fullest.