by Pat Mullan
Then he called Chief Inspector Flood.
“You lost him!”
“We’re searching the house again but he seems to have gotten away. I don’t know what to say. We played this one right by the book. If he got past us, then it must have been within the last half-hour. Can you send out an alert to all the gardai in the Dublin area, with his picture. Of course, he could look like anyone, the way he changes back and forth from civvies to clerical garb.”
“Goddamn it, Tom! We’re going to look like fucking idiots!” This was one of those rare times when Tom Buckley heard his chief’s language hit the gutter. It would get worse. He knew it. So he listened, painfully, to the stream of invectives that poured down the phone line. Until, the Chief, spluttering, ran out of steam, saying, “You think he’s got away, don’t you?”
“Sorry, Chief, yes I do. Flaherty is very resourceful. And determined. And we have no idea where he might go. And he might have other friends like McDaid who admire what he’s doing.”
They tore McDaid’s house apart and found nothing. Father Flaherty had escaped. Buckley and his team withdrew and took McDaid with them. They’d question him at length but Tom didn’t believe he’d be able to tell them anything.
59
Ed Burke and Maria Lane were halfway out the door to dinner when Ed’s mobile phone rang. Ed answered, “Burke.”
“Tom Buckey. I’ve got bad news. He got away.”
“Flaherty?”
“We had him surrounded and he still slipped the noose. Sure hasn’t helped my career.”
“Where did he go?”
“Hah! That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question! He disappeared into the city. We’ve alerted every garda on duty but there hasn’t been one sighting. Well, a couple of false ones but that’s to be expected. We haven’t a clue where he’s gone.”
“He’s not finished.”
“With his killing, you mean?”
“That’s what drives him now. I think he didn’t try for Father Cormack in Rome because he had a more important target in the cardinal. But he’s back here now and he might try for him.”
“You don’t really know, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I could make a long list of the people in this country whom the Avenger would add to his punishment list.”
“But who do you think might be at the top of such a list?”
“I’d put Father Roland Cormack there. And our new Cardinal McCready too. And then there’re the names that have hit the headlines here in all those scandals, from Ferns to Belfast.”
“If you throw them in, you’ll have a huge list.”
“And don’t you think that Father Flaherty believes that all of them deserve the Lord’s vengeance?”
“So you think he’s going to keep on killing?”
“I do. Until somebody stops him.”
“Well, we failed today.”
“You may not be the only people out to get him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those in power in the church must be terrified of this man?”
“Afraid for their lives. Of course.”
“No, no. Afraid for their Church. Afraid to lose its influence, its power. In a strange way, this is all about power over others. I’ve been thinking about this whole mess ever since I got the call in Florida about Terry’s death. This is not about his death. He was a victim alright. But he was a victim of the system.”
“And what does this all mean for Flaherty? You’re losing me.”
“Look, the last thing those in power in the church want is for you to catch him. Because you’ll put him on trial for months. And he’ll defend himself. In order to do that, his legal team would call anyone that matters to the stand, even Cardinal McCready. And O’Hara!”
“George O’Hara!”
“Damn right! He’s the public face of the Archdiocese. He does the political dirty work on their behalf. And you know only too well that he and his buddies have done worse than that. You haven’t been able to mount a case against him.”
“So you think they want Flaherty dead?”
“Absolutely! They want these killings to stop. They’re keeping this whole business on the front page. But they don’t want him caught and put on trial. They’ve got ways. They probably have a contract out on him now. And on anyone who gets in their way.”
“That means you.”
“No, they don’t want me this time. I know O’Hara hates my guts and wouldn’t shed a tear if I got hit by a truck. But they’re not wasting their time on me.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
“I’m never too sure. Once I start operating on assumptions, I’m going to fail. I know that.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I need to see Father Cormack. Two reasons. He needs to be warned that he may be on Flaherty’s list. And I need to set him up with Sean Coyne. He’s made me a promise that he’ll go public with his story. That could be the best thing to come out of this mess.”
“OK. But keep in touch with me. I’ll make sure that Father Cormack gets special protection immediately. I’ll get gardai out to Castle Cormack.”
“Good. Be aware, though. Lord Desmond won’t like it.”
60
Father Roland Cormack paced, restlessly, around his room at Castle Cormack. His Uncle Desmond had greeted him profusely when he came back from Rome. They mourned the loss of Monsignor Fallon and his uncle unleashed his rage over the killings, blaming the Minister of Justice, the gardai, the Taoiseach, the Cardinal, and every person in authority in the State for the failure to capture Father Bernard Flaherty. But his uncle had not confronted him about the allegations over the death of young Terry Joyce. It wasn’t part of the Cormack culture, certainly not the Cormack male culture, to speak openly about things that ran counter to their way of life. He knew that his uncle wanted to talk about it but probably found it too painful so he was probably waiting for the right time. Father Roland had thought long and hard about the future since Rome. And since his encounter with Ed Burke.
His pacing brought him to the window again. He stopped and looked out over the sweeping front lawn, the flowerbeds, the plants, the statuary, the six-foot high walls that bordered the lough, the shimmering water, the islands dotted here and there in the distance, and a lone boat with two men fishing in the mid-distance. A grandeur of landscape that might only be captured by a great artist. People with their ubiquitous digital cameras will always be disappointed with the result. For a moment these thoughts crossed his mind and lifted him away from the trauma that had enveloped him. But only for a moment ...
He realized that the ringing sound that had seemed so far away was coming from his own body: his mobile phone. A necessity that he hated.
“Father Roland,” he answered.
“Roland, come down to the drawing room immediately. News from Rome,” said Lord Desmond and hung up.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Father Roland bounded into the drawing room to see his uncle standing before the TV screen. A little hard of hearing, he’d turned the sound up high. He could see that it was a special bulletin from CNN News…
Cardinal Volpe had been expected at the Vatican and when he didn’t appear, someone went to his apartment to see if he was OK --- and that’s when the gruesome discovery was made …
Father Roland stood in shock as Cardinal Volpe’s brutal murder dominated the news. A priest, an Irish priest, a Father Carmody, was the last person to see him. Apparently this Father Carmody had disappeared and there seemed to be no record of anyone called Father Carmody. So they were assuming it to be an alias and they were speculating that this missing priest and the one who had disrupted the Cardinal McCready celebration at the Irish College were one and the same.
Lord Desmond turned down the volume and turning to Father Roland, said, “It’s Flaherty, isn’t it?”
Father Roland was choking on his own tears as he said, “Oh dear God, it must be.”
“And Card
inal Volpe was your friend, a man with great influence. Why would he kill him? Why?”
“I don’t know,” he lied.
Lord Desmond straightened his back, tightened his jaw, and said, “Roland, you’re not telling the truth. All these events are connected. From the boy they accuse you of killing to the murder of Cardinal Volpe. They’re all connected. Do you think I’m a fool? I’ve avoided mentioning all this unpleasantness before. Out of a misguided hope that it would all go away. That they’d find this murderer and put an end to it. But now I know. It’s not going away, is it? It’s never going away, is it?”
Father Roland couldn’t speak. He was still in tears over the loss of Cardinal Volpe. His world, his vocation, his future, his ambition, the great hope of the Cormacks that one day there would be a Cormack Pope, all crumbling around him now. He wiped his eyes and ran from the room.
Back in his own room, he had gained some composure. He called Ed Burke’s number but there was no answer. So he left a message and asked Ed to return his call.
Then he packed an overnight bag and picked up the keys to the car his uncle had loaned him during his stay.
His phone rang as he was about to leave. It was Ed Burke returning his call. Ed asked him if he’d heard the news about Cardinal Volpe.
“That’s why I called you. I can’t believe it!”
“Listen to me, Father Flaherty is here. He took a flight back.”
“I don’t understand. If you knew that, why didn’t you have the Italian police, Interpol, somebody pick him up?”
“Because we wanted to arrest him and put on trial here. We want to hear his story. You know we want your story. But we want his as well. Without hearing what he has to say, the people of this country will not understand. They have a right to know. A right to know everything. No more secrets. No more hiding behind the confessional. Do you understand what I’m saying Father Roland. I’m angry now. All of this must be dragged out of the closet. Out into the light of day where we can all look at it. And only then can we make our judgements.”
“So, have the gardai arrested him?”
“Unfortunately, he got away. We knew where he’d been staying in Dublin. And that’s exactly where he went when he came back. But the gardai screwed up.”
“And what if you don’t catch him?”
“Then he’ll claim his next victim. And it might be you!”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Don’t give me that! You’re like the rest of us. Or maybe being a Cormack deludes you into thinking that you can rise above it all.”
“I’ll forgive you for that. Because you really don’t believe that. You’re angry. There’s no point in taking it out on me.”
“Listen to me, Father Roland, I believe that little Terry Joyce would still be alive if it weren’t for you. And this whole murderous chain of events might never have been triggered. So I shouldn’t care if you become the next victim!”
“But I feel responsible. You know that.”
“And that’s why you’re more important alive than dead. You’re going to tell your story to Sean Coyne. Set the record straight. If you do that, you’ll make amends for Terry’s death.”
“But, if you don’t catch Father Bernard, I must do something about it.”
“What can you do? Do you think you can stop him?”
“He might listen to me. I was the only one who connected with him at St. Curnan’s.”
“Listen, Father, I think you’re kidding yourself. If we fail to get him I want you where we can protect you. I’ve arranged to have the gardai assign a unit to you. They’ll be there within the hour.”
“Sorry. I won’t be here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see Sister Brigid. Father Bernard’s sister. I’ve discovered that she’s at Dunfergal Abbey. Maybe she can help.”
Father Roland ended the conversation abruptly. Ed Burke thought that Father Roland was wasting his time chasing after Father Bernard’s sister. According to Tom Buckley, Father Bernard had kept up no communication with his sister at all. It’s as though he was an only child. Nevertheless, Ed knew that one should never assume anything.
So he called Tom Buckley and asked him to re-assign protection to Father Roland while he was at Dunfergal Abbey. Then he packed an overnight bag, drove his car to the nearest petrol station, filled her up and headed west.
61
Father Bernard Flaherty got lucky. He’d been thumbing a ride for about half an hour with no success and a light drizzle had started. He took shelter in a doorway and watched the traffic as it approached. He knew he didn’t stand a chance with the Mercedes and BMW drivers. He’d already tried. So he waited and watched. He saw a battered looking dark blue van in the distance, and, as it neared he could read the license plate and saw that it was a 1993. Fifteen years old and a Mayo registration. Exactly where he wanted to go. So he stood out and thumbed for a lift. The van passed and then braked and pulled into the side of the street. He ran up and the driver rolled down the window.
“Lousy evenin’, where ye goin’,” the driver asked in a strong west of Ireland brogue.
“Mayo, Dunfergal actually.”
“Man, ye jest got lucky. Goin’ all the way to Dunfergal meself. Hop in. Ye can keep me company.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
“Hurt yer arm?”
“Ach, didn’t watch where I was going and took a bad tumble.”
“Maybe ye need a doctor?”
“No, it’s only bruised.”
“Ye’re not a Mayo man, are ye?” the driver probed as he merged into the traffic.
“No, I’m not. How can you tell?”
“Ah, Jaysus, ye’re right ye know. Ye can’t tell anymore. Sure there’s more Poles and Nigerians in Dunfergal than locals.”
“It’s the same everywhere.”
“On holiday, are ye?” the driver persisted. He was a rough and ready type who looked to be a jack of all trades. Late thirties, early forties, unshaven, dirty tousled fair hair, crooked teeth that had never seen an orthodontist, and a beer belly pushing over his belt.
“That’s right. Want to walk around Mayo for about ten days. No car, no bike. I only want to walk about the place.”
“As the Germans say. ‘ye want to see the nature’.
Father Flaherty forced himself to laugh at that, then he said he was tired and he’d like to try and take a nap. The driver, who hadn’t even introduced himself, reached behind him and handed over a big rough dirty blanket. Father Flaherty rolled it up and bolstered his bad arm. Then he closed his eyes and tried to block out the pain, a technique he’d practised over the years.
62
Father Bernard Flaherty reached Dunfergal about four hours later. He snoozed, or at least kept his eyes closed most of the way. He didn’t want a continued stream of small talk with the driver. And he wanted to avoid the man’s nosy nature. As soon as they reached Dunfergal, he stirred himself, picked up his back pack, thanked the man for helping him, and got out at the square in the middle of town. He adjusted the sling on his arm and clenched his teeth. He’d become accustomed to the pain.
Kehoe’s Bar and Restaurant commanded the corner and he decided to stop and have some food. At the bar, he settled for fish and chips and a coke. When it arrived he popped three more paracetamol into his mouth, knowing that it wouldn’t kill the pain but would take the edge off it. The bar was empty, except for a couple of tourists and a local sitting alone in the corner, sipping his pint of Guinness. The place wouldn’t fill up until about ten at night, when the music started. He chatted with the bartender and found out that a bus that passed Dunfergal Abbey would leave within the hour. So he hurried his meal and left.
The bus left on time and reached Dunfergal Abbey about twenty minutes later. He sat up front near the driver to make it easy to get off. The bus pulled in to the main gate, let him off, and then immediately continued its route.
Sister Brigid knew that it was a bit
late to be on her way to the little cemetary. Dusk had already set in and the light was dying. But it promised to be a fine evening with a full moon and a star-studded sky. She never tired of looking at the heavens on nights like these. Since the terrible news about Father Bernard she now came here to pray once, sometimes twice, a day. It was the only place where she felt that she could talk directly to the Lord. She blessed herself, held her head in her hands, then looked up and started to pray.
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil …
Dear Jesus, please deliver Father Bernard from evil, please free him from the hands of the devil…dear Jesus, please save his soul, please hear my prayers, I beg of you…I never ask You for anything but now I am asking, begging You to save Father Bernard…they say he thinks he is Your avenging spirit, that he believes he’s doing Your work…but he is not well, please make him see that what he’s doing is not Your work, please help him, dear God.
She thought she heard something behind her so she stopped and looked around but saw nothing. Convinced that her imagination had filled her with sounds and echoes, she rested her head on her clasped hands and focused her mind on her conversation with God. Until she heard the voice.
“Sister Brigid.” Her name, uttered in a gravelly voice, a voice that seemed familiar, startled her. She stood up, now a little scared, looked back and saw no-one.
“Who’s there?” she pleaded.
A deep spluttering cough drew her eyes firmly to to her left. Deep in shadows, she saw a figure emerge into the dim light and move closer. She stood, transfixed. The figure moved out into the light and she could see a tall man with his arm in a sling. He lifted his left hand and removed the cloth cap from his head, letting the light shine fully on his face. She gasped in shock, her hands flew to her mouth and she dropped to her knees on the ground. Silently, she thanked Jesus for hearing her prayers.
