by Jan Burke
I watched as Ian stumbled his way toward his brother and uncle. With his assistance, Mitch was freed from his trap. “Eric, go shut that damned alarm off. Bring the car in here,” Mitch said. “We need the headlights.”
Ian handed the keys over to him. Eric moved with surprising speed back to the Jeep, eventually coming close enough to turn the alarm off with the key-chain remote. He paused, in the quiet that followed, and seemed to look back toward the oleander. I hunkered down, hoping I wasn’t more visible to him than I thought I was.
I heard Ian say, “Maybe I should call the helicopter.”
“Yes, yes… that’s even better,” Mitch said. “The chopper will see them. We’ll leave from here.”
When Eric pulled the car in, he said, “I think there’s someone hiding in those bushes, by the back fence.”
Hell.
“You and Ian, search along that back fence,” Mitch ordered. “You hear me, Ian?”
“Who’s going to watch the gate?” Ian protested.
“I’ll watch the gate. Leave the Jeep lights on.”
“I need my gun,” Eric said. “Give it back.”
“I’m not going to sit here crippled and unarmed, you dunce! They don’t have guns. Take a stick.”
“Give me the flashlight, at least.”
Mitch conceded that this would aid in the search and handed it to him. “Now hurry! By now the bastard’s over the fence and halfway to Hong Kong.”
“He’s going to Hong Kong?” Eric asked, distracted.
“Damn you, Eric, get over to that fence!”
From the moment I had heard Eric mention the oleander, I began easing out from my hiding place. One flashlight, I told myself. The car was providing light in one line of sight, but Mitch wouldn’t be able to maneuver that source of light. That was to my advantage. Staying as low as I could, I hurried out of the oleander and toward a nearby tomb.
Ian moved down the outside of the cemetery; Eric used the flashlight and a large stick to poke and prod at the bushes. I could stay hidden from them where I was, but not from Mitch, who was focused on shouting instructions to them, but at any moment might start to look around him. It was only a matter of time before he saw the silver of the duct tape reflected on my wrists in the moonlight.
The one place none of them seemed to be watching was the cemetery’s front gates. I started to make my way toward them, thinking that if I didn’t find a way through the entrance before the helicopter arrived, at least I might be able to hide under the equipment.
If the helicopter was going to carry all of the Yeagers and a crew for a distance that would allow them to escape law enforcement, it would probably be a big one. Landing it in other parts of the city might have attracted too much attention. But here? As Mitch Yeager had noted, no one in here was going to complain.
I wondered if the helicopter might be too big to land in the cemetery. No, I decided — I could see an area of more modern graves that was flat and open. That area was not near the front gates, though.
Mitch Yeager sat between me and the area I wanted to reach. I’d have to pass fairly close to him if I wanted to reach the gate. If the helicopter arrived before I made it, well — I decided I’d run back and kill him, if I had to do it by pushing him into the grave again, jumping in after him, and head-butting him to death.
I was really hoping against having to try that.
I crept along until I drew just about even with him, only a few yards away, but obscured from his view by tombstones and equipment, and watched him sit in the moonlight. His attention was fully absorbed by the hunt in the oleander. The expression on his face was smug.
Rage rose within me. The arrogant asshole was confident that once again he’d escape justice. He had every reason to believe that, of course. Maureen O’Connor and her family, the Ducanes, Rose Hannon, Baby Max, Corrigan, even his own adopted son — what price had he ever paid for the pain and death he had caused? None. He had become wealthy and more respectable. Why should he fear capture?
For a moment, the idea of killing him by any means I could didn’t seem so bad.
I had taken one creeping step toward him when there was sudden shouting and wrestling in the bushes.
“Don’t shoot him!” Mitch shouted.
I saw Ethan being dragged from the bushes as he and Eric fought. Eric used his size and weight to tackle Ethan to the ground. He raised the flashlight, ready to strike him, when Mitch’s shout stopped him mid-swing.
“No! Bring him to me!”
68
“I SAID, BRING HIM TO ME, YOU MORONS!”
Eric stood slowly. In the past twenty minutes or so, we had probably given him the biggest workout he’d had in twenty years. As Ian hauled Ethan up between them, Eric shined his flashlight beam over the ground. “There!” he shouted. “What the fuck is that?”
He picked up an object that I couldn’t make out from where I stood.
They brought Ethan to the edge of the grave where Mitch sat.
Eric tossed something shiny down before Mitch.
“A tape recorder?” Mitch said, outraged. “Eric, get rid of it.”
Eric stomped on it with a heavy booted heel, then picked it up and made as if to hurl it away.
“No,” Mitch said. “In the grave.”
I heard it hit with a splash.
“You don’t have shit, do you?” Mitch said.
Ethan, still out of breath from his struggle with Eric, smiled. “Risk it, if you think I don’t.”
Mitch stared at him, rubbing his ankle. “I might.”
He turned to Ian. “Shoot him in the kneecap.”
One flashlight, I told myself, and shouted, from behind a tombstone, “Bad bet, Yeager.”
“Irene!” Ethan shouted. “No!”
“Get her! Get that bitch! No, Ian, give me your gun first.”
As usual, his troops needed direction, and while he shouted orders, I ran like hell, ducking and dodging behind marble monuments and concrete vaults, and then in and around the equipment.
Eric had that one flashlight, which might be why he caught up with me first, but he was tired from his previous battles, and I was able to land a hard kick on his knee before he had a good grip on me. He let loose and gave a howl of pain as he stumbled to the ground. Before he could get up again, I was set upon by Ian, who handed me a little payback before hauling me to my feet and over to Mitch. Eric slowly limped after us.
Ian left me next to Ethan. Mitch Yeager looked between us. “You know, until just now, I thought the love story was just one more lie.” Ethan put an arm around my shoulders. He was shaking. Or I was.
“Separate them. Stand her up by the grave,” Mitch commanded, indicating the one I had pushed him into earlier.
When they had done so, Mitch said, “Thanks to you, I have had a trying evening, Ms. Kelly.” He paused, then smiled. “Do you hear that sound?”
It was faint, but distinct. A helicopter.
“I’m going to leave, and take the smart boy with me, because something tells me his sense of self-preservation is stronger than yours. He has guts, but he’s not so caught up in sacrifice as you are, is he? His generation is ultimately more pragmatic. They don’t see the sense in struggling. If there is an easy way, they take it.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said.
“Oh no. I’ll offer him an easy way out of this mess you’ve obviously lured him into, and he’ll take it.” He paused again, listening to the helicopter coming closer. “I wonder if you have the locket at all?”
“Your gamble,” I said.
“Your loss,” he said. “Shoot her.”
I saw what Ethan was going to do just a moment before he moved.
“No!” I shouted, but he stepped in front of me.
I waited for the sound of gunfire. Instead, I heard, “Which one of us do you want to do it?”
The helicopter was roaring closer now. In the distance, I thought I heard sirens.
Too late. Too late.
I bent slightly to the side to hook my ankle around Ethan’s, to try to move him out of harm’s way, but like the sirens, I was too late. Mitch fired.
I felt the jolt of Ethan’s reaction as he was hit. He pitched backward, and I was helpless to stop my own backward fall into the grave as his weight came against me.
I landed hard, splashing foul water everywhere. Ethan landed on top of me. The double impact knocked the wind out of me. For a moment, I could not breathe or seem to catch my breath.
Beneath my back, I felt ooze. My hands, still painfully trapped behind me, and something hard — the tape recorder? — digging into my back.
Ethan’s blood, wet and warm, began to soak from his back onto my chest. Mitch Yeager looked down on us and raised his pistol again.
I heard someone shout in panic, “Uncle Mitch!”
A sudden great noise and light filled the grave from overhead. A wind that stirred dirt and water into a spray that forced me to close my eyes.
There was noise, and more noise, a clamor that only increased and made no sense from my world of the grave.
Ethan was dying.
I didn’t even care that Mitch was escaping.
I don’t know how long it was, exactly, before I realized that Mitch’s helicopter was shouting orders at the Yeagers. And claiming to be the police.
69
ETHAN HAD ALREADY BEEN AIRLIFTED TO ST. ANNE’S, THE TRAUMA CENTER nearest the cemetery, by the time my hands were cut free of duct tape and I had been helped up onto the grass. I had been taken to St. Anne’s, too, but mostly just to get cleaned up a bit and loaded up with antibiotics. Something about soaking cuts and scrapes in bacteria-filled water that smelled of decomposition tended to alarm medical people. I had my face stitched from the encounter with the bit of angel wing. I was bruised.
That was nothing. The real ache wasn’t physical.
Frank’s presence eased some of that. He hadn’t let me out of his sight from the moment I had been hauled up out of the grave. Since I reeked of blood and dead bodies at that point, that was brave of him. Lydia had brought a change of clothes for me and I had showered, but I could swear I still smelled the cemetery. I tried not to take that as an omen.
The police had questions. They had to wait a little while to get answers. I saw Zeke Brennan for the second time in twenty-four hours, but this time, he was working for Ethan and me. Zeke didn’t prevent me from being fully cooperative. My patience nearly did — I couldn’t concentrate well, given my anxiety over Ethan. As a favor to Frank, one of the officers who had accompanied us to the hospital continually checked on Ethan’s progress and let us know when there was any news. There wasn’t much other than, “Still in surgery.”
Mitch and his nephews had been taken to Las Piernas General. I suppose someone was afraid that the entire staff of the Express, which seemed to be at St. Anne’s, might attack them if they were brought to the same facility.
Frank told me that Max Ducane was waiting to see me, to verify for himself that I was all right. He told me that Max had called him earlier that evening — officially yesterday evening, now — to tell him that the people who had been tailing Eric and Ian for him had lost them. “I was already worried about you, and had just tried your cell phone. Max said the Yeagers had parked on Maple, gone into a building, and never come back to their car. After a while, they realized the Yeagers had ditched them by walking through an alley to Chestnut or Polson.”
When he heard that they were near where I was, Frank had found Ethan’s address in the phone book and called to ask for a unit to go by the apartment. They found the door unlatched and my purse still in the living room. “So we had the Jeep’s LoJack traced, and brought out the cavalry.”
“Thank you isn’t enough, but — thank you.”
“As long as you’re okay, and Ethan’s okay, we’re good.”
Frank had warned me that the waiting room was crowded. I keep forgetting that he has a master’s degree in understatement.
I halted in the hospital hallway. Frank stopped beside me. “Too much for you right now?” he asked.
“No, I won’t be able to sleep if we go home. But it bothers me a little, because—”
“Because you can’t help but wonder if they’re here out of guilt. Who cares? They’re here. They could be feeling just as guilty in comfort at home.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Max spotted me. He was with Helen and my aunt Mary. I caught a glimpse of Barbara and Kenny just before the newspaper staff noticed my presence. There was a near riot while I was surrounded by them. I was alive, I could talk. They asked if I was all right. They winced at the sight of the bandages and bruises. They asked if I knew anything about Ethan’s condition.
But then the crowd moved a little, and my sister was saying that there was someone here who was anxious to see me, and on a night I had lain in a grave, I suddenly saw a ghost.
O’Connor. O’Connor was here. I must have called his name aloud.
When he turned toward me and smiled, I felt faint. Frank put an arm around me, and whether anyone else was aware of it or not, that was all that kept me on my feet.
The ghost spoke. “Yes, I’m O’Connor — and you must be Irene,” he said, in O’Connor’s voice, but sweetened with a gorgeous Irish accent. “Conn was forever talking of you to me. I’m his brother Dermot.”
He extended a hand. I took it in mine and promptly burst into tears.
“There now,” he said, “it’s all right. It’s all right now.” Somehow we were maneuvered to some chairs, and I managed to regain some semblance of composure.
“It’s the devil’s own day you’ve had, isn’t it?”he said. “But I’m told you and this fellow they’re operating on have caught the one who murdered poor Maureen, all those years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Well done, child. Well done. That would please Conn so, and please him more to know you had done it. And if you need a good cry, you go right ahead and cry.”
We talked for a time, and I said, “You’re here for the DNA tests?”
“Yes, but I’m thinkin’ it will be a waste of good money by Kenny, here.”
“Oh.” I felt let down. Poor Kenny…
“He’s the image of my mother’s eldest brother, you see.”
“What?”
“Me and Conn, we had the look of the O’Connors. Kenny here favors the O’Haras, my mother’s family.” He paused and said, “I’m still glad I came, for many reasons. It’s good to know your family and friends, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell me all about your life, since I haven’t had a report in years now. Frank, don’t be jealous, but Conn always thought she’d end up with a policeman from Bakersfield.”
We explained that Conn was right. We made Dermot promise he’d come to dinner soon, so we could tell him the whole tale.
John Walters interrupted with an announcement that Ethan’s blood type was type O, and he invited anyone else who was type O to join him in donating blood. “Or any other type,” he said. “Because what Ethan can’t use, someone else will.”
“Has anyone contacted his family?” I asked.
“He doesn’t seem to have any,” John said. “His father died while he was in college, and his mother died years ago. No siblings.”
Max and Helen had stood up together when he made the first part of this announcement. When they saw that quite a few others were already on their way, they stayed back long enough to talk to me for a few minutes. “I’m so glad you’re all right,” Max said, “and that the Yeagers are finally being made to pay for some of their sins. Maybe we’ll finally find out what happened to the baby.”
I looked at Helen and said, “I think I know.”
She met my gaze. “Do you?”
“Yes. But perhaps you’d like to be somewhere more private?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “I think I’ve been private long enough, don�
�t you? But for Max’s sake, let’s ask the nurse if there is somewhere we can talk.”
We were ushered into a small conference room.
“Max,” I said, “you’re the real Max Ducane.”
“I don’t know what the two of you were talking about just now, or what this is all about, but it’s okay, I’m really okay now knowing I’m not Max. DNA doesn’t lie.”
“No, it doesn’t. Which is why, if Helen’s blood were tested, you’d know you were sitting next to your maternal grandmother.”
“What?”
“Do you tell this, or do I?” I asked Helen.
“Allow me to at least technically keep my word to Lillian,” she said.
I nodded and went on. “Sometime around 1936, a rather adventurous young woman who had a job at a newspaper fell in love with Handsome Jack Corrigan. He settled down later, but at the time, she knew that it was hopeless to expect him to make much of a husband. He was probably seeing Lillian Vanderveer when the newspaperwoman learned she was pregnant with his child.”
“The newspaperwoman was not virtuous, I’m afraid,” Helen said.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s likely she would have given herself to anyone else. But at that time, in her situation, unmarried and pregnant, her alternatives weren’t many. She loved her career, in a way that perhaps only someone else who has ink in her veins can understand, but this pregnancy would mean she would lose her job. Abortion would have been an illegal and dangerous back-alley matter, and she was a Catholic girl as well.”
“Again, not a very good one.”
“She wanted the child to live, but what choices did she have? If she gave birth out of wedlock, she and the child would be subject to constant ridicule. There was no chance on earth that her conservative employer would allow her to continue to work for the newspaper. If she tried to support the child through any of the other few jobs that were available to women, she would be consigning both of them to a life of poverty.”
“She was willing to do that for herself, but it was such a hard thing to choose for the child.”
