Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  Still in his nightshirt, he opened the bedroom door just enough to peep out.

  Uncle Mike was dressed, in his shirtsleeves, talking to a black man at the door. Daniel heard Tierney’s name, and cracked the door a bit farther.

  “Yessir, that’s what Mr. Walsh said. That you shouldn’t worry ’bout your boy, that he’ll see to it he gets the best of care. Thing is, he can’t be moved to bring him home just now.”

  Puzzled, Daniel stood listening as Uncle Mike fired off an entire round of sharp questions. The black man just kept repeating himself, saying he “shouldn’t worry,” and was welcome to come and see his son “as soon as he liked.”

  Finally, Daniel moved, entering the kitchen just as Uncle Mike shut the door. “What is it?” he asked, shivering at the cold of the room against his bare legs. “What’s happened to Tierney?”

  Uncle Mike turned around. His face was pale, his dark eyes frightened and confused.

  “He’s been—hurt. Beaten up,” he added in a terrible voice. “He’s at Walsh’s house, on Staten Island.”

  Bewildered, Daniel stared at him. “Beaten up?” he repeated blankly. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  Uncle Mike’s Adam’s apple worked hard, up and down. “I don’t know,” he said, his face grim as he hiked his suspenders over his shoulders. “I don’t know. But I’ll be finding out. Of that you can be sure.”

  7

  In the House of the Enemy

  There is something here I do not get,

  Some menace I do not comprehend.

  VALENTIN IREMONGER

  The Walsh estate on Staten Island was much as Michael would have expected: grand in size and ostentatious in appearance. Sara might have referred to it as vulgar.

  White stone, trimmed with rose-colored shutters, it sprawled beyond a winding gravel driveway, complete with a glass conservatory and a stable. No gardens gentled the grounds. No random shrubbery broke the precise landscape design. The few trees on the property stood thin and new.

  To Michael, the place looked as artificial as he suspected its owner to be. As his gaze took in Walsh’s estate, it occurred to him that one reason he found the man so loathsome was his deceit. Walsh presented the face of a successful businessman, but Michael could see the skull and crossbones lurking in the shadows behind him. Patrick Walsh was a pirate, but a pirate without the courage to raise his own treacherous flag. Instead, he cloaked his true intentions under a banner of respectability.

  Chilled from the ferry ride, Michael accelerated his pace, hurrying up the flagstone walkway. As he approached the ornamental front door, he knew a moment’s surge of dread. Until now, he had thought of little else except the condition in which he might find Tierney. Yet, the question as to how and why his injured son had ended up at Walsh’s estate had been there, cowering in the shadows of his mind like a hidden attacker, waiting only for the chance to strike.

  Michael knew he would eventually have to confront the question, and the answer would more than likely bring him grief. His already fractured relationship with his son could all too easily be further shattered.

  But for now he could not think beyond the massive oak door in front of him. Beyond that door dwelt the man who headed his personal list of corrupt, self-serving vipers—a man targeted by the new subcommission as one of the key crime bosses, albeit the least visible, in the city.

  This was a hard thing, a bitter thing indeed, to learn that a man he so thoroughly detested had given his injured son shelter and succor. He had long held Patrick Walsh as an enemy—an enemy of the law and an enemy of his own people, the Irish. Indeed, his primary reason for agreeing to serve on the subcommission was the opportunity he sensed to bring down Walsh.

  He was resolved to ruin the man. Ruin him and destroy his corrupt, ill-gained empire. But now—now, he would face him in his home, with his own son in Walsh’s bed.

  Michael bit down on his humiliation and squared his shoulders. Drawing in a long breath, he raised his fist and, ignoring the ornate brass knocker, pounded on the door.

  Upstairs in the lavish guest room, Patrick Walsh was in the midst of prompting the barely conscious Tierney Burke one more time. When the maid peeked in to announce the arrival of Captain Burke, he didn’t even turn around, but snapped, “Have him wait. Tell him I’ll be right down.”

  Studying the boy’s battered face, Walsh straightened. “It’s entirely your choice, of course. I have no problem with telling your father the truth, that you were scouting some double-crossing runners on my behalf.”

  The boy’s left eye and cheekbone were bandaged. The other eye glared out at Walsh with a mixture of pain and anger. Moistening his cut, swollen lip, he finally managed to reply. “No. We’ll do it your way,” he rasped.

  “I think that’s best,” Walsh said agreeably.

  He paused. “He won’t expect you to remember details. You were badly beaten and unconscious for several hours, after all.”

  The boy nodded weakly, then turned his face toward the wall.

  Finally satisfied, Walsh said, “I’ll go and get your father. I’m sure he’s anxious to see how you are.”

  It took Michael less than ten minutes to realize that both Tierney and Walsh were lying.

  Walsh did all the talking.

  “The lad was mugged as he returned to the hotel, after making a delivery to Sheff’s Warehouse in the harbor,” he explained. “When he fought back, his assailants beat him up and left him on the docks. Two of my other delivery boys recognized him and, not knowing what else to do, put him on the ferry and brought him here.”

  The man was smooth, clever, and hard to read; but, practiced as his delivery may have been, his story held far too many loose ends and discrepancies. Besides, Michael knew his own son well enough to recognize the boy’s evasive glance for what it was: deceit.

  Walsh seemed intent on lingering in the room, even after he’d supplied a number of details for the second time. Tierney offered nothing at all, but merely lay, dull-eyed and silent, except for an occasional nod.

  Obviously, the boy was too weak to carry on a conversation. Yet, it wasn’t so much his silence that nagged at Michael—it was more the look that passed between his son and Walsh, a look that somehow served to shut Michael out. It was the look of a conspiracy in the making.

  Finally, Walsh left them alone. Ignoring the chair beside the bed, Michael stood, staring down at his son. The boy had to be in great pain. His good-looking face was now a patchwork of bruises and cuts, his mouth gashed and swollen, his left eye bandaged. The knife had sliced dangerously close, but, thank the good Lord, the eye itself had been spared.

  Walsh had spoken at least one truth: It could have been much, much worse.

  “Now perhaps you can understand why I didn’t want you working for a man like Patrick Walsh,” Michael said to his son. “You could have been killed. From the looks of you, you very nearly were!”

  As soon as the words escaped his lips, he regretted them. This was not the time to rail at the boy or make accusations.

  When Tierney’s face darkened with anger, Michael swallowed down his own. “Ah, son, I’m sorry! It’s just that you gave me such a fright, don’t you see? All the way over on the ferry, I worried that I might find you dead once I got here!”

  “I’ll be all right, Da,” the boy muttered. “I just want to go home.”

  Michael studied him. “According to Walsh, the doctor says you can’t be moved for several days yet.”

  Tierney moaned. He tried to shift positions, gasping aloud at the effort.

  Michael bent over him. He hesitated for a moment, then grasped the lad’s hand. “It hurts pretty bad, I expect.”

  For once, Tierney made no attempt to play the big man. Nodding weakly, he clung to Michael’s hand. “Please, Da, can’t you just take me home? I don’t want to stay here!”

  Nor did Michael want him to stay. The idea of being obligated to Patrick Walsh was more than he could stomach.

  “I’ll do what I c
an, son. Perhaps I can manage a word with the doctor,” Michael said, still holding Tierney’s hand in his.

  The boy looked up at him.

  “Is it true, then, what Walsh is saying—about the way it happened?” Michael held his breath as he waited for his son’s reply.

  An expression flickered across Tierney’s face, so fleeting that Michael almost missed it. Was it remorse? He held the boy’s gaze with his own, desperately willing the return of the son who seemed to be slipping away from him more and more all the time.

  Then, just as quickly, the expression disappeared. Tierney tore his eyes from his father’s face, and when he looked back again, the shadowed, haunted, closed look had once more replaced the momentary glimmer of sorrow and repentance.

  “You heard what he said.”

  “Aye, I heard,” said Michael, his voice betraying his bitter disappointment.

  Silence hung between them. Michael wanted to say more, to ask questions, to probe for the truth. But there was no denying the lad’s weakness and the seriousness of his condition. It was not the time. His questions would have to wait.

  “All right, then,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave you to rest for now.”

  When he would have straightened and released Tierney’s hand, the boy held on to him. “You’ll not forget to see the doctor?”

  Michael frowned. “Why are you so determined to go home? Isn’t Walsh treating you well, then?”

  Tierney attempted a shrug, but it seemed more a shudder of pain. “Oh, sure, it’s nothing like that. And Mrs. Walsh couldn’t be nicer. I’m just not comfortable, that’s all. I don’t want people I scarcely know taking care of me.”

  Michael nodded, understanding. “Aye, I’d be the same. I promise you, I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, you get some sleep. I’ll come back soon.” He stopped. “If you want me to, that is.”

  Again something opened in Tierney’s eyes, some faint light of youthful affection that Michael had not seen for a long time. For a moment, he was reminded of the little boy his son had been, once, long ago. An urge to gather the boy into his arms and hold him next to his heart seized Michael, shaking him with a sense of love and loss.

  And then the moment was gone. He had waited too long. “Sure, when you can,” Tierney replied dully, his voice low. “Come back when you’ve time. But I’ll be fine. You needn’t worry.”

  After a moment, the boy seemed to drift off to sleep. Still, Michael delayed leaving. Going to the tall, narrow window across the room, he stared out on the dismal, barren grounds for a long time. Deeply troubled by the undeniable seriousness of Tierney’s injuries, he was even more dismayed by the certainty that his son had lied to him.

  A part of him backed away from knowing why. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted the truth. But another side of him, and this one much stronger, resolved to know what had brought Tierney to such a state—and why he was so determined to keep it secret.

  He stood in silence for another few moments. When he came back to the bed, Tierney was still sleeping.

  Bending over his son, Michael did something he had not done for years. With a light hand, he brushed a shock of hair away from Tierney’s face, then touched his lips ever so gently to the boy’s forehead.

  He could not swallow down the knot in his throat, could not stop the mist that glazed his eyes when he straightened. Looking down on the swollen, cut face of his son, a face taut and anxious even in sleep, Michael almost choked on the memory of a dark-haired little boy—a happy little boy who, a very long time ago, had always fallen asleep with a smile on his face.

  Downstairs in the entryway, Michael was stopped by a short, plump woman with fair hair and a round, pleasant face. Her eyes appeared kind, her smile somewhat timid.

  “Captain Burke? I’m Alice Walsh. I wanted to tell you…how sorry I am about your son. But the doctor is sure he’ll be just fine.”

  Mrs. Walsh was not at all what Michael would have expected. She was anything but the flamboyant, blowzy sort he might have imagined for a rogue like Patrick Walsh. Her looks were plain, her manner unassuming, and her concern for Tierney appeared entirely genuine.

  “Thank you,” Michael said, feeling awkward. “I apologize for the imposition. I plan to see about getting the boy moved just as soon as possible.”

  “Oh—please, no!” she exclaimed, one hand going to her throat. “Why, having Tierney here is no trouble! No trouble at all! We’re just horrified that a thing like this had to happen! He’s such a fine young man. My husband sets great store by him, you know. He feels responsible.”

  Studying her good-natured face, Michael wondered why such a seemingly decent woman would take up with a blackguard like Walsh.

  “Responsible?” he repeated.

  “Why, yes. After all, Tierney was making a delivery for Mr. Walsh when it happened. You mustn’t for a moment think you’re imposing, Captain. We’re only too glad to help.”

  “It’s very kind of you to say so, Mrs. Walsh, and I thank you.”

  After insisting that he wait to see her husband, Alice Walsh swung about, skirts swaying, and hurried off down the hall. Michael watched her go, again musing over the contrast between husband and wife.

  In a moment Patrick Walsh appeared from the library across the hall, carrying what looked to be Tierney’s billfold and keys. “I thought you might want to take these with you, Captain,” he said.

  Michael noted Walsh’s finely manicured, slender hands as he reached for Tierney’s things. “Odd,” he said quietly, thumbing through the money in the billfold, “that the thugs didn’t think to rob him as well.”

  Walsh’s pale, hazel stare never wavered. “Yes, I wondered about that myself. Perhaps they were frightened off before they could finish their mischief.”

  Michael studied the other man, masking his disdain with great effort. Walsh exuded prosperity and soft living. Tall and slim, he was perfectly tailored, clean-shaven, and fastidiously neat. His cravat was expertly folded, his linen snowy white. Although up close, silver could be detected in his sand-colored hair, his overall appearance was youthful and stopped just short of genuine elegance. Michael felt rough, even oafish, in his presence.

  Nothing in the man’s sleek sophistication betrayed a hint of his Irish roots. Just as nothing, Michael thought sourly, gave away the scoundrel’s true character. Unless, of course, one considered his eyes.

  Small and pale, they seemed almost fixed in place, like cold, pale marbles. Neither blinking nor squinting, they were merciless eyes—empty and unfeeling.

  Like the eyes of a snake….

  Without warning, a shudder seized Michael, leaving him chilled. Once more, he confronted that reptilian stare. He felt something—a shot of malice, an arrow of enmity—arc between them.

  Without the slightest shifting of expressions, Walsh said, “You have a fine son, Captain. He’s one of my most dependable boys.”

  Michael acknowledged the man’s words with only a short nod.

  “I know you’re distraught over what’s happened,” Walsh went on, ignoring Michael’s silence. “You can be sure I’ll do all I can to find out who was behind this. Those responsible will pay.”

  The man was a consummate liar. An actor and a fraud.

  A swell of aversion rose up in Michael. He deliberately avoided clenching his fists, for fear he would strike Walsh in his lying face.

  Rigid with anger, he met the other’s impassive gaze. “Aye,” he said tersely, “they will indeed. They will pay.”

  Then he turned away, anxious beyond reason to make his escape from Walsh and his cold, graceless house.

  8

  The Dreams of a Child

  My Life is like a dream,

  I do not know

  How it began, nor yet

  How it will go.

  MONK GIBBON

  Dublin

  Clad in her shift, Finola stood, brushing her hair and smiling to herself. Small One, the black and white cat that had come to her as a stray, sat on the
bed, watching her every move with solemn green eyes.

  Eyes as green as the Seanchai’s…

  Finola’s hand stayed the brush in midair at the thought of the great poet who had become her friend. Her heart skipped in anticipation of the hours ahead. Sandemon would be coming for her soon to take her to Nelson Hall for the evening. Would the Seanchai accompany him today? Of late, he was often in the carriage when it arrived for her, despite the effort required for him to get in and out of the wheelchair.

  It pleased Finola no end that he would trouble himself so in her behalf. But, then, it did seem the man’s kindnesses knew no limit. Always, he went to great effort to prepare a surprise for her visits; sometimes a small but special gift awaited her, occasionally, a significant event—but, always, something meant to delight.

  Once there had been a mime, hired to entertain. Another time, a sisters’ duo who sang most sweetly in different languages! But the most recent surprise had been the best of all. The Seanchai himself had written a poem about the princess Finola, daughter of the mythical King Lir, set it to music—and he sang it for her!

  The memory of his rich, lulling voice, his large hands on the ancient harp, the soft smile in his eyes as he had sung to her made Finola squeeze her eyes shut and hug her arms to herself just to keep the joy from overflowing. He had been kindness itself to her, this big, gruff man with the tender heart. Befriending her over the months since she had first brought Annie Delaney to his door, Morgan Fitzgerald had made her a welcome guest in his grand home. He deferred to her as if she were a noble lady instead of a homeless mute with no memory—and no name.

  Replacing the brush on the vanity, Finola went to don the new blue gown that Lucy had bought for her. Small One mewed, and Finola went to sit beside her on the bed. Immediately, the cat settled herself into Finola’s lap with an expectant rumble of a purr.

  Finola finished buttoning the bodice of her gown, then began to stroke Small One’s velvet fur. Soon her thoughts drifted off to the ways her life had changed since her first meeting with Annie Delaney. She could not have known then that a frightened child’s cry in the street would eventually open to her a new world.