by Pat Mullan
“One of those boys was Terry Joyce, Ed’s cousin. And Ed wants justice, that’s all.”
“No, that’s not all. This thing has gotten out of hand and I called to warn you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know I move in the same social circles as O’Hara. And apparently he hasn’t been that discreet lately. I think he’s drinking more than he should. And last night he was so tipsy at the club that he confided in a friend of mine, a person that he misguidedly thinks holds the same right-wing religious views as himself. Well, he was crying into his drink about the scandals and about how these latest events at St. Curnan’s threatened to undermine the church. And that the two greatest dangers were this murdering priest on the loose. And this bastard Edmund Burke. His exact words. And he intended to get both of them!”
“That’s crazy!”
“No, when somebody like him gets pissed, it’s usually the truth that comes out. That’s why I called to warn you.”
“But Ed won’t quit. You know him. He’s up in Derry tonight. There’s been another killing.”
“Who was it this time?”
“That priest, the paedophile, the one who was kicked out of California a few months ago. What was his name? Smith, that’s it, Father Aloysius Smith.”
“Yeah, I remember the name. But he disappeared off the news as fast as he appeared.”
“Exactly what Archbishop McCready wanted. They hid him away in some old remote cottage up in Donegal. Ed found out where he was and went up there to see him. But when he got there, the cottage had been burned and Father Smith was dead. Murdered. Hanging like a roasted animal, Ed’s words, over the fireplace.”
She could hear Tom Flanagan swear at the other end of the phone and then say, “Is this the same killer? Who killed that monsignor over in Cong?”
“Ed doesn’t know. But he’d bet it was him.”
“The ‘murdering priest’ that O’Hara intends to get!”
“The Avenger. Father Bernard Flaherty.”
“Well, they don’t ever want him to be caught or come to trial. This is someone that they want to disappear permanently. Clean. No long trial. No front page display of the church’s dirty laundry.”
“You mean they’ll kill him!”
“Yes. And they’ll take Ed out for good measure. Two birds with one stone. If they can get away with it.”
“But this is the Church, Tom. They don’t go around murdering people!”
“Oh, no! Tell that to the thousands they killed during the crusades. And the people they murdered during the Spanish inquisition. Tell me that that wasn’t murder.”
Maria had no answer.
“You get to Ed right away. Tell him what I told you. Tell him I want to see him when he gets back from Derry.”
As soon as Tom Flanagan was off the phone, Maria called DaVinci’s in Derry but Ed didn’t answer. She tried his mobile phone but the call was diverted to his answering service but she did not leave any message. She knew he was probably in the pub anaesthetizing himself. She really couldn’t blame him and headed for the cognac herself.
52
Ed was standing on Derry’s walls, overlooking the Guildhall, when his phone rang.
“I called you again last night but you had turned off your mobile?”
“Oh God, Maria, I’m sorry! It was a helluva day and I didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially Tom Buckley. I called him after I found the body and he asked me to stay there. But I refused.”
“Don’t you need to give them a statement?”
“Yes. But I’ll stop with the gardai in Letterkenny today and give them one. To keep the record straight. Anyway, you’ve got me now.”
“Well, I think it’s important. Tom Flanagan called, a couple of minutes after you called me last night. He thinks you’re in danger.”
“Tom! You know I should have called him when we came back. Still owe him a lot from last year. If he hadn’t airlifted me to the hospital from Omey Island, I might not be around today.”
“Well, you know that Tom isn’t spooked very easily. Someone overheard O’Hara when he had too much to drink. In the club. Threatening to get Father Flaherty. And mouthing off that you were a troublemaker too. He’s a dangerous man. What did you do to set him off?”
“I didn’t tell you. I went to see him about the attempt on Father Nugent.”
“You didn’t accuse him of that, did you?”
“Well, not at first. But it sorta got out of hand.”
“So you did accuse him?”
“Yes, damnit!”
“That wasn’t very bright! He and his ‘friends’ tried to kill you a year ago. I know what they’re capable of. Where are you now?”
“I’m standing on Derry’s walls. Overlooking the Guildhall.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! After last night I needed to clear my head before I drove back. Besides, this wall stands as a symbol of the great struggle between Catholics and Protestants on this island. Between the Catholic supporters of James and the Protestant supporters of William of Orange. Fighting over an English crown on Irish soil. Kinda perverse, don’t you think?”
“You don’t have to give me a history lesson. I know all about the Siege of Derry.”
“But it’s so peaceful up here. I suppose the Good Friday agreement actually worked. I would never have believed it.”
“OK, that’s great. But what point are you making?”
“A very simple one. Ever since Patrick landed on these shores, our destiny’s been driven by Christianity of one form or another. We blamed the English for subjugating us. Well, the English are long gone from most of this island but the people are still dominated by these churches.”
“You’re stating the obvious, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But maybe it has to be stated. Every day. Over and over. You know that what’s happening is more about power and control than it is about paedophilia. They’ve already paid out over $2 Billion dollars in damages to victims in the US alone and they’ve started to lose the faithful there. That’s a huge crack in this wall I’m standing on.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that they will fight to protect themselves here in Ireland. They’ll cover-up, hide priests, transfer them out of the country, start propaganda, try and destroy the integrity and credibility of anyone who opposes them.”
“And you’re saying they’ll resort to violence.”
“If necessary. Yes, I’m saying that. This mad priest, Flaherty, is a huge danger to them. They don’t want him to be caught. He’s smart and they don’t want him to sell his story to the papers. They’re deadly afraid of that.”
“And you think they’ll try to kill him?”
“I do.”
“And they’ll kill you too if you get in their way. You know that, don’t you? Oh, why don’t you walk away from all of this. You can’t bring your cousin’s boy back. And you can’t defeat these people.”
“Listen. I’ve been thinking. This whole business is not fair to you. And we need to get away for a while. There’s one last thing I need to do before I can say that I tried to get justice for young Terry. I need to speak to Father Roland Cormack in Rome. But I thought that would give us an opportunity to spend a weekend in one of the most wonderful places I know.”
“Where?” In that one word Ed could feel the anticipation in Maria’s voice.
“The Villa D’Este. On Lake Como. I’ve made reservations for next weekend. Google it. You’ll see what I mean.”
When Ed left the walls and walked back down the Strand Road to DaVinci’s he could still hear the throaty laughter that Maria made when she was happy.
53
Sam McDevitt walked around his office alternately rubbing his chin and scratching hios unruly white hair. Sean Coyne sat waiting. He’d finished outlining his proposal for the series of articles suggested by Ed Burke.
McDevitt stopped and r
eturned to his high-backed comfortable chair behind his big oak desk. Fishing a large pencil out of the ceramic container on his desk, he proceeded to tap, tap, tap the end of it on the desk-top.
Finally, having considered Sean’s proposal, he said, “I am not a crusader. I do not want to start a crusade against the Church. If such a series were not seen as valid investigative journalism, it could be depicted as a propaganda onslaught against the Church. And, despite today’s secular Ireland, the people would not stand for a wiitch-hunt, perceived or otherwise, against the Church. And they’d boycott this paper. We’d be bankrupt in no time. Do you understand my concerns?”
“Yes, I understand. But I’d never write something like that. And you’d never publish it.”
“It’s perception, perception!”
“I still say that I can write a story that will have the presses at this paper working over-time to meet the demand. Don’t you like that?”
McDevitt smiled. The fire has returned to Sean Coyne’s belly, he thought. Good, that’s where I want him!
“Where is Burke now?”
“He’s on his way to Rome.”
“But there’s no guarantee that he can persuade this Father Cormack to come back here and talk to you?”
“He thinks he stands a good chance. He thinks he can convince Father Cormack that his life is in danger. He also thinks that he can make him feel guilty over the death of young Terry Joyce. Make him feel responsible for all these killings.”
“That’s a tall order!”
“I know. But this is Ed Burke we’re talking about.”
“And you’re a believer!”
“Yes, I am. If anybody can pull this off, Ed Burke can.”
“OK. Let’s say you’re right. What about this mad priest who’s running around killing people? Doesn’t Father Cormack run a big risk coming back here. Isn’t he a target of this madman?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, isn’t he safer staying in Rome?”
“Probably.”
“So how can Burke overcome that. Surely Father Roland is not a fool.”
“The gardai are looking for this crazy priest. It’s their top priority. He can’t evade them much longer.”
“That’s wishful thinking! He’s gotten away so far. He may be crazy but he’s crazy like a fox.”
“But we can’t let him take control. Stop us from acting. If we do, he wins, we lose. Look, Father Cormack’s not stupid. He’ll know the risk involved. And, if Ed Burke can succeed in making him feel responsible for all of this, then he’ll talk. And I’ll have a story to write. Maybe the best story in years! Do you want to pass that up?”
“No! You outline this proposal to me. In writing. By the weekend so that I can take it home and think about it. OK.”
“I’ll have it on you desk in twenty-four hours.”
“And tell me Burke succeeds in getting this Father Cormack to tell his story to you. Tell me the minute that happens!”
The meeting was over. McDevitt never ended a meeting. He returned to whatever he was working on before the meeting started. Everyone experienced with his style knew when to get up and leave. Sean Coyne did that, with a smile on his face. He knew that he’d hooked McDevitt.
54
Ed Burke pushed open the wooden shutters on his bedroom window at the Villa D'Este and looked out at the placid blue water of Lake Como. He had slept like a baby. It was ten a.m. and people were already lounging around the pool. It whetted his appetite for an early morning swim. He looked back at Maria, out like a light on the bed. The duvet had slipped off her, and she was lying face-down with her body pressed into the mattress. Totally relaxed, like a puppy. They had slept in the nude, like they always did in the warmth of Miami. He walked over to the bed and gently pulled the duvet up around her. But her legs twitched, she shifted on her side, opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Oops! I didn’t mean to wake you. Thought I’d go for a dip in the pool.”
“Later. Then I’ll go with you.”
She tossed the duvet from the bed, sat up and pulled him towards her.
An hour later they sat poolside watching the haze lift from Lake Como. The waiter arrived with two large glasses of fresh orange juice, coffee, and croissants.
“This is the life,” said Ed as he raised his orange glass and clinked Maria’s.
“We could have this in Miami now,” chided Maria.
“We promised that we’d leave all that behind while we’re here this weekend.”
“I know. I love you so much I want this to go on forever. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Look at me,” said Ed as he put down his glass and took her face in his hands, “I am not going anywhere. You’re going to have to put up with me when I’m a doddering old fool!”
Maria started laughing, a happy and relaxed sound . For now he had taken her mind away from Ireland, from the abuse, from the killings, from her fears. He knew that that would be short-lived. He did not know what awaited him in Rome on Monday.
On Monday the yellow taxi took them from the airport to The Atlante Garden hotel right in the heart of Rome. A good four star hotel, Maria had chosen it for its Jacuzzi bath tubs and because it was only two blocks from the Vatican where Ed had arranged to meet Father Roland Cormack that same day.
It hadn’t been difficult to reach Father Roland by phone from the Villa D’Este. Ed had anticipated that it would take a lot of persuasion on his part to get Father Roland to meet him. But he was surprised when Father Roland agreed to meet him right away.
Maria said she’d get acquainted with ancient Rome in his absence. She’d never been to Rome and now, in her mind, the images of toga clad senators in the Roman Forum competed with more modern images of Gucci and Versace. And, of course, the hotel brochure informed her that the main shopping area lay nearby. That’s dangerous, she thought, given her love of Italian designed shoes and bags.
An hour later Ed set out to walk to St. Peter’s Square and the Vatican. He had instructions on where to go when he got there. The dome of St. Peter’s stood majestically in the sky, reminding him of the supreme authority of the church.
Even though he had never met Father Roland Cormack, he recognized him immediately. Not from the photographs he had which showed a handsome fair-haired, blue-eyed young man who would look at home in Esquire Magazine or in one of the Hollywood fan sites. No, he recognized him by the body language, the language of the aristocracy, the language of superiority: shoulders squared, eyes looking directly ahead, feet planted confidently. He had shed his clerical garb and wore an open necked white shirt, black trousers and black shoes. Not exactly the street attire one would expect from a man of God. But, of course, Ed had to keep reminding himself that firstly, he was looking at a Cormack and, only secondly, a man of God.
“Ah, Mr. Burke.” He acknowledged Ed’s approach and walked towards him. As he got closer, Ed could see that he was not quite as tall as his own six foot one. Probably around five ten and a half. Strange that my mind should be focusing on such triviality, he thought, maybe it’s because I feel I’m entering unknown territory here.
“Father Cormack, I suppose we can go somewhere where we won’t be disturbed.”
“Yes, it’s best that we meet somewhere away from the Vatican.”
At that moment Father Roland gestured with his hand and a taxi that had been parked nearby started its engine and pulled up beside them. The driver got out and held the door open. They both climbed in. As the taxi drove off, Father Roland confirmed their destination to the driver.
They sat sipping cappuccinos in a little quiet café, in a little quiet street, far removed from the eyes of those who frequented the Vatican. Father Cormack was speaking.
“I had to leave Ireland. I had no choice. Monsignor Fallon arranged it. They were afraid of another scandal.”
“So you were all protecting the Church. Another cover-up, Father. But you weren’t another priest, were you? No, you’re a Cormack!�
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“We can’t choose the family we’re born into, Mr. Burke.”
“I don’t give a damn what family you were born into! I’m here because you killed my cousin’s boy. You killed Terry Joyce! And I want you to face justice for that.”
“Believe me, I’d give anything to rewind the clock and undo Terry’s death. It was an accident. A terrible accident! You know the gardai have investigated it and have reached the same conclusion.”
“You’re the only person who says it was an accident. The gardai have no evidence to prove otherwise. That’s all. Even Father Michael Nugent who was with you that night blames you for Terry’s death. You chased him up into that old round tower on a terrible night when it was lashing rain and the wind was howling. Young Terry was terrified. But all you wanted was his phone. His god-damned phone! He died over a god-damned phone. It might have been an accident that he fell off that old tower but I blame you. It’s as much your fault as it would be if you’d pushed him off yourself. Can’t you see that?”
“I have never forgiven myself for Terry’s death. I know you think I ran away. But I didn’t. It was decided for me. But I’m not going to run away any more. I’m going back.”
Ed had not expected this. On reflection, he didn’t know what he had expected to accomplish with this meeting. He only knew that he’d never reach any kind of closure himself over Terry’s death unless he met Father Roland Cormack face-to-face and looked him in the eye.
So he repeated what he thought he’d heard Father Cormack say, “You’re going back? To Ireland?”
“Yes, I blame myself not just for Terry’s death but for all the killings since then. If it hadn’t been for my actions, Monsignor Fallon and President McCafferty would still be alive. And Father Flaherty would still only be a very eccentric maths teacher at St. Curnan’s.”
