“I’m not leaving without my mom!”
Fiona could see his eyes filling with tears and she would curse Mike for the rest of her days that he had left and forced her to deal with this situation instead of him.
“John, I’m not saying your mam’s dead and gone…” John jumped to his feet and Fiona grabbed his arm to keep him in the room, “…but wherever she is, I do know she would want you to get on that helicopter. And if she is gone, and please God I hope that’s not true, I know she would want you with your grandparents. You can see that, can’t you?”
John covered his face with his hands. “I can’t leave her,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands and his tears.
“You’re not, darling,” Fiona said as she pulled him into her arms and kissed his bent head. “You’re just going on ahead. It’s what she’d want.”
The co-pilot rapped on the cottage door and stuck his head inside. “Let’s go, John,” he said. “Someday you might be able to come back and visit. But we gotta go now.”
Fiona squeezed him tightly in her arms, then gave him a push toward the pilot. She watched as he walked to the waiting helicopter, its rotors wind-milling the air above him. Gavin ran out and threw an arm around John’s shoulders and she saw their heads close together as they said goodbye.
When the captain opened the helicopter door, John hesitated, turned and looked back at the camp, then climbed onboard.
Fiona watched as the aircraft lifted off and then became smaller and smaller in the sky before it disappeared from view. She walked back to the kitchen table, her eye falling on the letter to Sarah.
The minute John agreed to get on that helicopter, she knew was the minute he had finally faced the fact that his mother was probably dead.
And for that, Fiona wept for him.
31
Angie pulled the blanket over her nakedness. The snores pummeling her from the other side of the bed assured her that Jeff still slept. She watched his unmoving form and a wave of nausea settled in her stomach.
I sure hope it’s because of what I’ve become, she thought. And not another feckin’ baby. She stood up and pulled on her pants and sweatshirt and moved to the window. Jeff had nailed a blanket up to it last night at her insistence.
So fucking chivalrous.
It wasn’t her first time with Jeff, and the way he had hounded her over the last month she always knew in the back of her mind it wouldn’t be the last. But she wasn’t fool enough to think it meant anything.
As if she even wanted it to mean something.
“Oy, Jeff,” she said. “Denny’ll be here soon. Get your arse up.” She turned to the window and peeled a flap back on the blanket. They’d arrived in Ballinagh two days before. It wasn’t much of a town as those things go, Angie thought. Maybe it was before The Crisis. Now it was just a street with abandoned storefronts, several of which she and the rest of Denny’s crew had commandeered for their headquarters.
It had been a hard two days. Denny wasn’t used to waiting. Angie wasn’t crazy about it, herself. But it was still the smartest course of action. Even crazy Denny understood that.
Because the bitch hadn’t come back yet.
“Angie, luv, come back to bed. I want ta show ya something.”
He wasn’t really a bad sort, she thought, glancing at the now moving form in the bed. He didn’t push her. He didn’t take, he asked. He always had her back and he listened to her. Living this kind of life, he was as good an ally as any.
And allies were essential if you were going to survive. Before she could stop herself, Angie caught an image in her mind of her little girl. She was usually so good at stopping the pictures before they fully formed. Little Dana, her dark curls bouncing as she tossed her head. If the child gets a chance to grow up, she’ll be a real little flirt someday.
It was up to Angie to make sure she got that chance.
The sounds of the aircraft in the distance were indecipherable at first. It had been so long since Angie had heard any kind of motor that her brain couldn’t seem to make sense of it. But the louder and more distinct the noise became, the more obvious it was that a helicopter was approaching. She strained to catch a glimpse of it through the window and realized she was hesitant to rush out into the street as she could see some of the other men were doing.
Why is that, Angie? Afraid the world has suddenly righted itself and it’s time for your comeuppance?
She shook the voice out of her head and bolted for the door.
There was a fucking helicopter flying overhead. And one thing she knew, that wasn’t good news for any of them.
* * *
45 Days after the attack.
Six weeks since her world had imploded and left her reeling. Six weeks of rough travel and living in fear and being hunted. Six weeks and now her trial was nearly over. They would arrive back at Donovan’s Lot today.
If Sarah had had it her way, she would have galloped the horse the last three miles. The thought that her journey was finally at and end, and her boy was nearly in her arms, was all that ran through her mind for the last several hours of the ride. Now that she could allow herself to freely think of him, to remember his face, his voice, she also reminded herself that John had had to deal with his father’s death and his mother’s disappearance all by himself.
“Well, we did our best, Sarah,” Mike said. “We’ve none of us let the boy alone for too very long.”
“No, I know, Mike.”
“Especially Fiona, ya ken. She loves the boy as her own. You know that.”
“And he’s been okay? I mean, considering?”
“He’s been sad, Sarah, there’s no denying that, of course. But he’s kept busy and he’s fine. He’s cared for and loved. You’d expect nothing less of us, surely?”
Sarah hugged him tightly from where she sat behind him in the saddle, not caring what he must think of her. Just the thought that she would have her child back in her arms again was all that mattered now. “Can’t we at least trot?”
Mike laughed. “Have you ever put a horse into a trot riding double? It’ll rattle your teeth.”
In the end, Sarah rested her face against his strong, broad back and enjoyed the rocking walking gait of the big bay. The sun broke through the clouds and she closed her eyes to better feel the warmth against her cheeks. Mike had taken his jacket back against the November air, but she was well wrapped in the woolen blankets that they’d bedded down with.
She decided there was plenty of time to tell him about Denny and Angie and what may or may not be coming down on them.
Surely the Lord above would give her a respite, a few moments without having to fight for her life, to just hold and keep her child once more?
“Nearly there, Sarah,” Mike said, his voice warm and close.
“I need down,” she said. “I need to go faster on foot.”
“Your ribs—”
“I don’t care, Mike. I don’t care.” She swung her leg behind the saddle and slid down the length of the horse until her feet hit the ground, jarring her broken ribs in a punch that made her gasp.
“Sarah?”
“I’m fine,” she said, turning in the direction of the camp. It hurt too much at first to jog, but she could still make faster time on foot by cutting through the south end of the perimeter pastures. By the time she reached the camp’s main entrance, she was running and never even felt her ribs.
“John! John!” she called as soon as she entered camp. A few boys about his age were sitting by the center campfire whittling on sticks and they looked up in surprise when she ran up to them. “Have you guys seen John Woodson?” They shook their heads.
Sarah turned toward the main cottage on the perimeter of the center of camp. It hadn’t been ready the last time she saw it, but now smoke came from the chimney. She ran up the steps of the porch and burst through the door without knocking.
“Fiona!”
Fiona turned from the cook stove, a pan of biscuits in her gloved hands, a
nd stared at Sarah as if she’d risen from the dead. “Oh my God, Sarah.”
“Fiona, where is he? I’m back! Oh my God, it’s so good to see you. Put that thing down so I can hug you!”
Fiona thumped the pan down on the table in front of her and a hand flew to her mouth in horror.
Sarah stopped abruptly. Fiona’s expression literally took her breath away. A moment passed between them. Then Sarah spoke warily. “Where is he, Fi? Where’s John?”
“Oh, Sarah, may God forgive me. He’s gone.”
* * *
Later, Mike knew, she’d listen to reason. Later she’d realize all the reasons, all the perfectly logical reasons, and maybe someday she’d even come to believe she’d have done the same.
But not today.
When Mike came riding into camp a few minutes behind Sarah, he was not prepared for the frenzy of destruction and hysteria that greeted him. Sarah was in the middle of the camp, literally attempting to climb into the main cook fire, with Fiona hanging on her like they were of one flesh. Stunned but finally spurred into action when Sarah grabbed the hot tongs and pots over the fire with her bare hands and began flinging them around the camp, he leapt from his horse to tackle her before she hurt herself or anybody else.
What in the name of God could have happened in the five minutes they’d been apart?
He held her on the ground while she struggled and screamed, her hysteria more terrible than what he could imagine any insane asylum could produce.
It had to be about John. That was the only thing that made sense.
Now he heard Fiona crying too, and apologizing like it was her who’d gone berserk and tried to wreck the camp and fling herself into the fire!
“Forgive me, Sarah! I’m so sorry! I would die rather than…oh, please God, strike me dead now. I am so, so sorry! I didn’t know!”
Mike knew that to the day they laid him in his coffin, he would hear Sarah’s heart-wrenching sobs as she called for her boy, gone as surely and completely for her this day as if he’d died in his sleep.
“What the feck happened?” he said to Fiona. “Pull yourself together, Fi, and talk to me!”
“The Yanks came for him,” she said, sobbing into her hands and watching Sarah roll spasmodically in Mike’s grasp. “They came in a military helicopter and said they were here for the Woodsons and they was to take him.”
“When? When did this happen?”
Fiona shook her head as if she wouldn’t answer.
“Today, Da,” Gavin said. He stood on the edge of the cook fire and used a long stick to put some of the embers and stones Sarah kicked away back into place. “Just this morning.”
The wail that came from Sarah then was the sound of a mother’s heart broken, never to be whole again in this life.
Mike held her close as she cried herself to exhaustion. Then he picked her up and carried her into Fiona’s cottage, her weight limp in his arms. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gavin take his horse and head toward the stables. Fiona ran into the cottage and began pulling out first aid ointments and bandages. Behind them, the people in the community who had gathered began to slowly shuffle back to their homes, tents and huts.
Mike set Sarah down on the couch in the living room.
“I can’t bear it,” Sarah said, her voice so small, Mike almost didn’t hear her. He sat next to her and gingerly picked up both her hands. The palms and fingers were bright red and already badly blistered. He had nothing cold to ease the pain.
Fiona knelt in front of Sarah and took her hands from Mike. She covered the palms with a light coating of the greasy unguent and then wrapped both hands in clean bandages.
All the while, Sarah looked straight ahead as if in a trance, as if her anguish had rendered her dead in every way but a functioning body.
Now was not the time for more questions.
Nor for finding fault. Because if it was, then Mike of all people knew that if he’d just told someone where he was going—instead of opting for the pleasure of the big surprise for young John—that the boy would still be here.
* * *
That night, Sarah slept in Fiona’s bed, drugged numbed by grief and a stubborn insistence on her mind’s part not to feel or think.
Weary from his trip and the emotion of their terrible homecoming, Mike walked out onto the porch after Sarah fell sleep. Fiona joined him and handed him a cigarette that she lighted off her own.
“Where’d you get these?”
She stared out onto the peaceful center of camp—the fire banked, the spilled pots back in place over the iron tripods, dinner long since over.
“It’s my fault,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell someone where you were going?”
Mike took a long drag off the cigarette and realized a part of him didn’t expect to ever feel as sad as he had this last month now that Sarah was back. At least, he hadn’t expected to quite so soon.
“I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”
“Well, mission accomplished.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt as bad in me whole life, Fi, as I did today when I saw Sarah….so…so…”
“Unhinged.”
“By God, how do things get so bollocks-up?”
She put a hand on her brother’s arm. “By all of us insisting on going around being human, I suppose,” she said kindly.
* * *
Denny sat opposite Angie, Jeff and Aidan, a chipped and broken kitchen table between them. The place, like nearly every other store in Ballinagh, had been looted and stripped of anything of value. Angie thought the place must have served as the village pub at one point. Because wooden furniture was seen nowadays as an important fuel resource, it was surprising to find the table intact.
They had brought their own food and whisky with them. At one point, Angie looked around the broken interior of the bar and imagined how it must have been before: a warm interior, music playing, probably savory cottage pie sold by the slice. She glanced at the cold cheese sandwich on the table in front of her.
“Why would they do that?” Denny asked, snapping Angie back to the conversation.
“Sounds like the US is still flying and eating hot food and watching TV,” Angie said, shrugging.
“While the rest of us are back in the feckin’ Stone Age,” Aidan said, sourly. “Thanks to them.”
Angie watched Denny’s reaction. Since he had been in prison serving a life sentence when the lights went out—effectively freeing every lowlife and scumbag behind bars—she would be very surprised if he affected to long for the good old days before The Crisis. He merely grunted.
“But why would they take the kid? That’s just crazy.”
Angie felt tired. Thanks to Jeff, she had gotten very little sleep the night before. And she had desperately needed sleep.
“It’s just the Americans raking in their own, gathering everyone together,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“But to send a helicopter for a kid?”
Denny had been irate, to the say the least, when he’d been informed a few hours after the copter sighting that the incident had resulted in the removal of one of the major reasons he was even on this crusade to Ireland.
And Angie knew he was well aware that she was the reason they’d waited. She watched him carefully now. As irrational as he famously was, it was impossible to believe he would forgive her for that.
“So what’s the plan, Angie?” Denny’s words were slightly slurred, alerting her to the fact that he’d already been drinking heavily today. The good news about that, she thought, was that it took the edge off his temper.
The bad news was that he would either be completely useless in another few hours…or completely mental.
“If she doesn’t come back soon, we go ahead and take the camp and just wait for her to stroll in.”
“If we’d done that yesterday, we’d have the kid,” Denny said, narrowing his eyes at her.
Angie looked away from Denny’s glare.
If I deny it, it’ll trigger a rage. If I agree, he’ll just shoot me where I sit.
“Well,” Jeff said, “except that when the US Calvary came flying in with their big-ass helicopter this morning, they’d see what we’d done and strafe us before we could hightail it back into the bushes.”
Denny looked at Jeff as if he’d started speaking Urdu. “Good point,” he said finally. He looked at Angie. “Well done.”
Angie fought the impulse to look at Jeff. She knew he was smirking. He would expect to be rewarded later.
He deserved whatever he had in mind.
“Your girlfriend got any more juicy tidbits, Aidan?” Denny said, turning to the big man to his left. “Anything we can use?”
Aidan pulled himself up into a straighter position in the chair. He’d risen in the ranks and value in Denny’s eyes thanks to the good fortune of meeting a woman in town who was not only agreeable to his lecherous attentions, but who happened to have detailed knowledge about Sarah’s little outlier community.
“She told me we’ll have to block the escape routes that lead to the caves. I got a map she drew for me of where they are.”
“Will we need to use men for that? Because we can’t afford to post sentries.”
“Nah, she says we can pull the trees down around the exits and nobody’ll be able to get through.”
“What kind of trees can be pulled down, you daft eejit?” Jeff said.
“They’re a part of a system of traps that Donovan and his lot put together. Like catapults and such.”
Denny grinned. “So let me get this straight. We’ll be able to block their secret escape routes and destroy their ability to make an offensive strike at the same time?”
Aidan, clearly delighting in the approval of his master, nodded. “Yeah.”
“Excellent.”
“She’s gonna show me the exact locations of the perimeter tree snares. So we can wreck ‘em before time.”
“I have to say, Aidan. You’ve put your dick to good use in this case.” Denny looked around the table, inviting appreciation for his wit. Angie, Jeff and Aidan laughed on cue.
Going Gone, Book 2 of the Irish End Games Page 23
