by Pat Mullan
They’ll search this room! But they don’t know I’ve got the camera. They don’t know who was with Terry last night. Unless Terry told them! No, Terry would never do that! So I have time. Time to do what?
He didn’t know. He only knew that he’d have to hide the camera somewhere else, somewhere he’d be certain they wouldn’t look. But where? Then it struck him. Hide it right under their noses, in the sacristy beside the chapel. The place where he and all the altar boys got ready to serve mass. The sacristy? Yes! There was a locked cabinet where old cruet sets, extra candle holders, and other paraphernalia were stored. The stuff in it hadn’t been used in months. So it would be unlikely that anyone would look there. He knew where the key was kept. He’d stash the camera way down under all this old junk and he’d hang on to the key himself. That’s it! I’ll hide the camera there now!
6
Miami, Florida, USA.
Ed Burke felt the water massage his chest as he sat deep in the Jacuzzi on his patio. He watched the golfers tee off in the distance and the geckos blowing out their necks as they climbed the mosquito screen, and he felt that all was well in his world. Closing his eyes, he lay back and enjoyed the warm sunshine bathing his face.
Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he heard the inviting tinkle of glasses and opened his eyes to see Maria standing over him holding two glasses.
“It’s happy hour! Thought you’d like a gin and tonic.”
“What service! You’re spoiling me!”
“You’re my hero! Or don’t you remember?”
“Stop it! I don’t feel like a hero. Just a survivor.”
“Ease up! Remember why we’re here.”
Ed was now halfway out of the Jacuzzi. Maria put down the glasses and held his hand as he climbed out. They kissed and then clinked their glasses.
“Ah, this is the life,” said Ed as they stretched out on the lounge chairs.
“Kevin made his flight OK?”
“No problem. 836 wasn’t too busy, LeJeune was practically empty, and I made it into the airport in good time.”
“He’ll miss you.”
“I know. And I’ll miss him. But he’s had a good two weeks here and his mother expects him back on time. Besides, he has to be back in school next week.”
“I know all that. But still …”
“We’ll be back in New York in a month and he can come to the apartment on the weekend.”
“He’s a great kid.”
“He likes you. You know that, don’t you? Listen, I could be dead now and he wouldn’t have me at all.”
He fingered the scar on his chest as he talked. Maria noticed that it seemed involuntary, as though he didn’t realize he was doing it. She thought it better not to mention it because he did it less frequently now. No point in making him feel self-conscious. The past six months had been good. He had healed, gained his strength again. Taking up the karate where he’d left off a few years ago, running every day, made him look in better condition now than before the shooting in Shannon.
One of the golfers clipped a shot and the ball splashed into the small man-made lake that functioned almost like a moat, separating their house from the fairway. They sipped their drinks and enjoyed the vista. Contrary to Maria’s thinking, Ed knew well that he was fingering the surgical scar on his chest. He did do it less frequently and he supposed, as time passed, he’d stop it altogether. The nightmares had ended. He no longer woke up in a sweaty terror in the middle of the night after re-living his near-death experience in Ireland.
“You’ve turned to gold!”
“Isn’t it great? I thought I’d burn to death in this heat. But I’m lucky. I don’t have that fair Irish skin.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be getting any tan in Ireland right now.”
“Oh, I’m not here for the tan!”
“And what else would you be here for? Surely not the alligators. Or the lovely palmetto bugs?”
“You’re so bad …”
She pulled him off the lounger and dragged him onto the beach towels at their feet. Pinning him to the ground, she kissed his nipples and then gently traced his scar with the tip of her tongue. Then she pulled him to his feet and led him through the French windows upstairs to their large king-size bed that sat facing the window, now framed by the bougainvillea that climbed high on the patio and gently entwined itself around.
7
Sweat poured in rivulets down Ed Burke’s chest as he bowed to George Kim, ending his weekly karate session.
“Very good, Ed. Very good.”
“That’s great praise, coming from you, George.”
“Three months, Ed. Only three months and you’re in fighting shape.”
“Komapsumnida, George. Let’s hope I won’t need to do any real fighting.”
George Kim smiled, without comment this time.
Ten minutes later Ed Burke drove west on 41st street till he reached the entrance to the Doral Saturnia spa. It was eleven a.m. He’d pamper himself for an hour before meeting Maria for lunch. He’d been coming here regularly for the past six months, yet every time he came he felt that he’d been magically transported to Italy. Parking effortlessly in front, he had the surreal sense of having arrived at a gracious Etruscan villa.
Not having enough time today for his regular massage, he settled into the outdoor tub and sat under the constant gentle rainfall and let it massage his shoulders. Soon he found himself suspended in that place between sleep and consciousness, that place where reverie and daydreams held sway, that place where unseen wounds found a healing balm.
He drifted back twelve months again to find himself in shock, on the ground, blood seeping through his fingers, Kevin standing somewhere above him, white-faced and crying, sirens loud in the distance, the sound of running feet, the pain, the wheezing and coughing, , the blackness, the dying of the light …and then complete oblivion…
…to remember waking up again and slowly realizing that he was in a hospital bed hooked up to many machines. He drifted off again and the next time he woke to find a doctor and two nurses standing by his bedside. The doctor was examining him, checking his vital signs, smiling at him, reassuring him…
…and somewhere he lost time, his memory failed him, and the next clear memory he had was one of the nurse bolstering him up in bed as he sipped his first food…and Kevin sitting at his bedside, smiles fighting through the tears …
…and later, much later that he learned that the bullet had torn his lung and that the air had flowed down his windpipe, out through the torn lung, and into his chest. His lung had collapsed, his heart couldn’t pump enough blood, and the oxygen had stopped flowing to his body. Blood had seeped into the pericardial sac and had commenced to squeeze his heart. Only the fast action of a paramedic saved his life. The medic had inserted a big needle between his ribs, near the breastbone, and aspirated the blood…
The gentle rainfall invaded his mind and brought him back from the traumatic memory. He grasped the sides of the tub to ground himself in the present. In the beginning these memories had lasted much longer and had left him drained. But they happened infrequently now. Time heals everything, he thought, as he climbed out of the tub and headed for the changing room.
As he climbed behind the wheel of his car, he looked at his watch: 11.45 am. Lunch with Maria at Bennigans at 12 noon. No problem. He exited onto 41st street and headed east, past the Doral Country Club and Cisco’s, the place they’d visit on occasion for their Tex/Mex fix. He knew he was almost there when he passed Miami International Airport on his right.
Right on time, Maria waited inside the door as he entered Bennigans. Early enough to beat the regular lunch-time crowd, they ordered their usual: spinach salad with hot bacon, mustard and honey dressing.
Maria seemed tense and Ed asked, “Is there something wrong?”
She reached across and took Ed’s hand between hers, which only confirmed that something was wrong, “Some bad news from Galway. Your cousin Emmet called. His so
n, Terry, is dead.”
“Oh my God! What happened?”
“An accident at his school. Fell out of one of those round towers.”
“Jesus! I’ve got to go. I should be at the funeral.”
“Emmet said they weren’t going to bother you.”
“Bother me! What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, you know. You were almost killed and they’re worried about you.”
“Damn it, Emmet’s called me from time to time. He knows I’m OK. Didn’t you tell him I’m in great shape again?”
“Yes, I did. But I’m not sure he believed me.”
“I should be there.”
“Well, they want you now. They don’t think it was an accident.”
“What do you mean? What did Emmet say exactly?”
“He said they don’t think that Terry fell out of that tower. They think that somebody killed him. But they can’t prove it. And they believe that you could get to the bottom of it.”
“I’m not exactly welcome in some places in Ireland these days. Doesn’t he know that?”
“I think you should call him as soon as we get home. And I think you should go. I got the call from him about eleven, that’s five in the morning in Ireland. I think they’ve been up half the night. They can’t sleep. “
Ed pushed his half-eaten spinach salad away and stood up, “You’re right. I have to go back. Book us flights to New York. We’ll stop at the apartment and fly out to Shannon tomorrow.”
“No, Ed. I’ve thought about this. You don’t need me there now. I’d only be in the way. Until you find out what’s going on. I’ll stay in New York for a while. I can take Kevin out bowling, movies, whatever. He and I got along well.”
“Yeah, again you’re right. You’re always right! But I’ll miss you.”
Maria broke the sombre atmosphere with one of her deep throaty laughs, “It’ll do you good! Get you to appreciate me more!”
Ed took a mock swing at her chin with his right and then held her close before they turned to leave.
8
Monsignor Thomas Fallon, President Emeritus of St. Curnan’s, still retained an office and a position as faculty advisor at the school. Now seventy-three, his power and influence remained undiminished. A lesser man would have been moved to one of the Church’s retirement homes to spend the rest of his days in anonymity. But not Monsignor Fallon, who was politically connected all the way to the College of Cardinals in Rome. Plump and effete in manner, he sat in utter disbelief as Father Roland Cormack finished talking.
“Roland, this is a disaster!”
“I know! I wish I could turn the clock back forty-eight hours.”
“They’ll say that you killed this boy!”
“But I didn’t. He fell. It was an accident.”
“Listen to yourself. If it’s discovered that you followed this boy up into that tower and caused his death, they’ll charge you. Murder or manslaughter, what’s the difference? It’ll be a show trial. They’re out to get us now. Here, in the US, everywhere! This is a disaster!”
“No, no! There’s nothing to suggest I was there when the boy fell. Only Father Nugent knows. And he won’t say anything.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He’s a wimp! You know him. He wouldn’t say ‘boo to a fly’.”
“And why was he out there with you if he’s such a wimp?”
“He knew about the photos. He thought he could talk to Terry. Get the phone from him. He liked the boy and he wanted to protect him.”
“Father Nugent knows too much, that’s what I think. And I think he’s a risk.”
“No, our big risk is that phone. The photos. We don’t know what Terry Joyce did with it, or who he might have given it to.”
“It’s your big risk, not our big risk. Find that phone. Search everywhere. Find the boy who was with him last night.”
“And if I don’t find the phone?”
“Well, then you’d better hope it’s lost, buried somewhere forever!”
After Father Cormack had left, Monsignor Fallon sat for a long time in contemplation. Then he picked up the phone and called Rome.
A few days later, Father Roland Cormack departed Dublin Airport on Alitalia Flight AZ 3581 at 2:15 pm. With a stopover in Paris, he arrived at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in Rome at 9 pm, fifteen minutes late. Craving privacy, he avoided the express train and took one of the white cabs instead. Cardinal Volpe was expecting him at the Vatican.
9
Shannon Airport, 7:30 am
Emmet Joyce waited in the arrivals area. The video screen stated that the Aer Lingus flight from New York had landed at 7:15 am, ten minutes early.
People began to emerge in one and twos, then in small clusters. Then Ed appeared, dragging a small suitcase.
Emmet waved and Ed moved towards him, looking healthy and tanned from the Florida sun. He dropped the case, put his arms around Emmet and told him how sorry he was. Emmet’s eyes, red and dark-rimmed, watered as he said thanks. They didn’t speak again until Ed was sitting in Emmet’s car and they were about to exit the parking lot.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” said Emmet.
“You know I’d come right away.”
“Ah, sure we’re in shock. We don’t know what to do.”
“Tell me what happened. Take it from the beginning. As much as you know.”
Emmet drove out of Shannon and took the exit to Ennis and Galway. On the way he brought Ed up to date on everything, .
“Terry died falling from that old tower. Accidental death, they claim.”
“But you don’t think it was an accident.”
“It was no accident! What was Terry doing out at midnight on a stormy night like that? He didn’t even like going out in the sun in the middle of the day, much less in a storm at midnight. And he didn’t like heights. He suffered from acrophobia. He’d never have climbed up into that old tower. Never! Unless he was scared enough that he had no choice.”
“What’s the Gardai doing about it?”
“They’re interviewing people. And you know where that’ll get them. Nowhere! Especially with the priests. They only talk to God, not to us lesser mortals!”
“But what else can they do?”
“I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t know. That’s why we need you. If anybody can find out what happened, you can.”
“You have too much faith in me.”
They’d entered Ennis and they sat quietly for the fifteen minutes it took to negotiate the long sprawling streets of the town.
Finally, back on the main road with the speedometer nudging seventy, Emmet said, “Claire will be happy you’re here.”
“How is she taking this?”
“Badly! Almost lost her mind. The doctor gave her something. But you know Claire. She’s stronger than me. My eyes are red from crying, hers just swim in sadness.”
The tears were running freely down Emmet’s cheeks and he blurted out. “I’m sorry!”
“Jesus Christ! Sorry for what? For feeling the pain?”
“You’re staying with us. You know that, don’t you?”
“I never really thought about it.”
“Claire wouldn’t have it otherwise.”
They didn’t say much for the rest of the trip to Galway. Emmet called Claire on his mobile when they reached the outskirts of the city and she was waiting at the door when they arrived. Holding Ed in the longest and tightest hug, he could feel her body shudder against him. Too sad to speak, she finally released him and took him upstairs and showed him his room.
As he came back downstairs, Ed could smell an Irish cooked breakfast, the bacon, the sausages, the mushrooms, all blending into the same appetizing aroma of his childhood. Claire seemed to have bounced back. Her face belied that but her voice carried her usual banter.
“I’m sure they didn’t give you this on the plane. Sure they give you nothing these days.”
“Oh, this is too much Claire. You sh
ouldn’t have.”
“Ed Burke, are you telling me that you’re going to pass up my special breakfast?”
“Oh, no, no, no! I love it!”
“And coffee for you, now that you’re an American.”
“Sure tea’s fine too. I’m not in the States now. I’d never drink tea over there. They don’t know how to make it.”
For the next hour they tried to put the tragedy out of their minds. Ed relished Claire’s Irish breakfast. He told them all about his last few months in Florida, about his road back to health, about his son Kevin, and about Maria Lane.
“You must bring Maria to see us.”
“Oh, I will. She’s staying at my apartment in New York for a while. Until I get a sense of things here. Kevin likes her. She’ll be able to take him to the movies and stuff.”
The Joyces’ home looked out over Galway Bay and, at noon, the sun’s rays sparkled on the water, as though conspiring to lift their sorrow until darker clouds appeared. But they knew they were only postponing the inevitable. Without preamble, Claire said, “I think somebody killed Terry.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Ed.
“So many reasons. We’ve talked about them all before. He would never have climbed up into that tower unless he was afraid.”
“But there’s no evidence to prove that it wasn’t an accident. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s because they left no evidence. They think they’ve gotten away with it.”
“By ‘they’, do you mean the priests?”
“God forgive me, I do.”
