If she ate, her stomach would tangle into knots. “I’ll have some tea, if it’s already made.”
“Aye, ‘tis.” Desmond pointed to the big teapot on the table. “Come pour yerself some, Deirdre.”
The rich brew eased a small fraction of her anxiety. Sitting with Quinn and his uncle, she could almost believe it would be a normal day until she glanced at Quinn’s face. His features could have been carved from granite, and Desmond wore a similar expression. Too often, she forgot the mellowed old man had been a freedom fighter and an IRA soldier in his youth. She sometimes failed to remember the patriotic songs from Ireland carried a deeper meaning for Desmond Sullivan. She, like Quinn and her late father, sang them. Desmond had lived them and according to Quinn, he’d taken out one of the men who had threatened her three years ago. Good, she thought, we’ll likely need his help today.
“So,” she said as she sipped the full-bodied, rich tea. “What’s the plan?”
Quinn snorted. “Love, there isn’t one. For now, we’ll do what we do each day, prepare to open the pub at eleven like always. Des will be cooking in the kitchen and I’ll get the bar stocked.”
“Okay, I’ll help Des, then.”
“No, acushla, not today,” Quinn said. He rested his left hand on her thigh beneath the table and she enjoyed the solid warmth of it. “Ye’re the target so I want ye in back, out of sight. They could come through the kitchen or in here either one, easily enough. I thought ye could pass the time in me office or in the back dining room.”
“Doing what? I’ll be climbing the walls.”
“Ye could read or play with yer laptop,” Quinn suggested.
“She might pray,” Desmond added. Quinn shot his uncle a dark look and the old man shrugged. “It wouldn’t go amiss, lad, to have a few prayers sent heavenward.”
A heavy ball formed in her throat and blocked it. She swallowed hard around it, scared. If Desmond, who went to Mass on Easter and Christmas only, thought prayer was in order, things were serious indeed. “I could,” she said. “I think I’ll go fetch my rosary. The beads will help me focus.”
Desmond dug into his pocket and pulled out a string of beads. “Use mine, mo mhuirnín,” he told her. “They’re made from marble quarried in the Connemara Mountains at home. I’ve had them since I was confirmed, long years ago.”
“Thank you.” The oval stones were heavy in her hand as she clutched them.
Deirdre settled into the booth in the rear dining room. No way could she concentrate to read, and she lacked interest to surf the ‘net or play games so she recited the familiar prayers. The smooth marble between her fingers kept her on task, and she’d recited it three times, fumbling a little over the daily mysteries when she heard the unmistakeable sound of shattering glass. Quinn shouted and she crawled from the seat to stand up, beads still tight between her fingers.
“Go to the bog,” he shouted as he ran past on his way to the kitchen. “Lock the door and stay there until I come for ye. They’re here.”
Her brain tried to make her legs work, but nothing happened. Swearing in both Irish and English, Quinn grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the bathroom. He deposited her at the door and she ducked inside. A terrific crash echoed from the front and the rough noise of several men’s voices over the din. Deirdre closed the lid, sat on the commode, and tried to think. Locked into the small windowless room, she would be an easy target if they found her. Maybe they won’t realize I’m here.
“Come on, the bitch has to be back here somewhere,” one of the men shouted. “Let’s find her and finish it.”
She whipped her gaze around the bathroom, searching for any place to hide, but no place existed. Deirdre had been trapped and she could do nothing but wait. She fingered the beads, but her mind refused to summon up the prayers. A moan threatened to work up from her belly, so she bit her finger to keep still. Moments later, someone pounded on the door and a whimper escaped.
“I found her! She’s in here.”
Two sets of fists hammered at the thin wood and someone kicked it with force. The frame began to separate from the wooden veneer and Deirdre shrieked. In seconds, the two men she spied through the broken bits would reach her and she would die.
With a roar worthy of an ancient Celtic warrior, Quinn arrived. Through the splintered panels, Deirdre watched as he heaved one of the men away from it with a mighty toss. The man’s pistol went off in the fray as he flew arse over teakettle into a table. When he did, the second man turned to Quinn and pointed his gun in his face. Deirdre screamed. “Quinn, look out!”
He ducked in time to miss the bullet. It smacked into the wall and buried deep into the paneling. The hitman swore and turned toward Deirdre again, but Quinn came from behind. He grasped the man’s wrist and twisted it until it broke. She heard the distinct snap, followed by the man’s howl of pain. The other managed to stand, but he’d lost his gun. He lunged at Quinn and punched him hard in the gut. Quinn doubled over and Deidre tried to make her way through the broken bits of door to reach him but stumbled.
Another pair of armed men burst into the room, pistols extended. Quinn tripped the first and relieved him of his firearm, but the other approached Deirdre. “It’s time to die, bitch eyes,” he said with a growl and then laughed. His evil cackle chilled her more than anything and in his face, she read his intent.
Quinn lunged forward, but the first two men grabbed him. They hit him with swift, sure punches aimed to do optimal damage, impacting his face, his abdomen, and his groin. He fought back, delivering whirlwind kicks, his hands pummeling his attackers with desperate bravery. As the man, the same who had delivered his threat three years earlier outside the courthouse and winked at her, raised his gun, the third delivered a savage kick to Quinn’s head. He groaned and then went still, face down on the floor.
Deirdre didn’t breathe. Her heart banged against her ribs as an incredible pain rocked her soul. Heedless of the danger, she pushed forward and managed to exit through the broken boards. Before she could reach Quinn, the hit man stepped forward and pressed the mouth of the pistol against her forehead. “I can kill you quick,” he said. “One shot and you’re history, but I think I’ll take my time and go slow. I’d like to taste your pussy first, then rape you and watch you suffer. Looks like your lover’s dead or dying, so there’s no one left to defend you. I plan to enjoy this very much.”
Without thinking, she spit in his face and dropped to her knees. She would crawl to Quinn if she could. “Quinn,” she cried, her voice low but urgent. “Quinn!”
Her attacker laughed again. “He can’t hear you or help you, you stupid cunt.”
Reality hit with the force of a tornado as he cocked the hammer on the .357 Ruger pistol. His finger touched the trigger and when he pulled back, she would die.
Oh god, Quinn, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you again and this time I can’t come back. I don’t want you hurt or dead but you’re one, maybe both. I love you, I love you, I love you…
She expected the words to be her final thought and closed her eyes, waiting for the shot which would end it all.
Chapter Fifteen
With death imminent, Deirdre struggled to remember the words to the Act of Contrition. If she had to die, without a priest or prayers or someone to hold her hand, at least she could pray, but when she moved her lips, nothing emerged. A faint, anguished moan came from Quinn, and she opened her eyes to see if he’d roused. He remained down but the fingers on one hand moved as if he reached out, maybe to her.
“Christ, he’s not dead,” the man standing in the doorway said. “These Irish mother fuckers are tough.”
“Shoot the bastard,” the one with his gun aimed at Deirdre said. “Let her watch him die and then I’ll take her out. It’s over.”
Sorrow consumed her with blackness. It can’t end like this. It can’t.
“Not quite,” Desmond Sullivan said from the doorway. He placed the edge of his pistol against the closest criminal’s head. “Thin
gs just bloody changed, ye feckin’ lot of idiots. Drop yer weapon, laddie, or I’ll shoot this one.”
“Fuck!”
“You don’t want to shoot me, old man. You don’t know who the fuck I am.”
Des laughed. “Oh, aye, but I do. Yer old granddad’s the leader of this outfit, is he not? Ye’re young Johnny or should I say Gianni. Ye think ye’re someone to reckon with, but I’ve killed more men than ye, and I’ll have no remorse at all if I kill ye here and now. And the rest of ye can answer to yer boss when I do and explain to him why ye couldn’t drop yer bloody guns.”
The gun aimed at Deirdre dropped to the floor as the gunman lifted his hands high. The others followed his lead, but Desmond kept his aimed. “Now one of ye gobshites, call Big Johnny and tell him I want to talk to him. I’ve no doubt ye’ve a cell phone stashed away.”
“He won’t talk to you,” one of the men said with a snarl.
“Aye?” Des said. “Then young Johnny here dies and ye can tell him so.”
Once the man prepared to shoot her became unarmed, Deirdre crawled across the floor to Quinn. His stillness worried her and he hadn’t made another sound. When she tried to turn him over, Des spoke. “Ye’d best not move him, dearie. He’s badly hurt, I’ve no doubt. Call 911, would ye, love, and I’ll escort these gentleman to the kitchen for now. Tell them, when they come, we had a break-in, but that the robbers fled. I’ll deal with this and come find ye.”
She used the phone in the bar, then returned to Quinn’s side. Desmond had disappeared in her brief absence, taking the men with him. Deirdre knelt beside Quinn and groped for his wrist. When she managed to locate his pulse, it seemed faint to her. Hurry, she prayed, hurry. Within minutes, the thin, high wail of the ambulance approached the pub.
After that, everything happened fast. The EMTs lifted Quinn onto a gurney and loaded him into the ambulance. Deirdre begged to ride up front and they allowed it. At Truman Medical Center, she waited in the same area she had before but alone. Before leaving the pub, she’d managed to grab her purse and cell phone, but she didn’t dare call Desmond. Whatever he might be doing, she had to give him space to do it.
She curled into the uncomfortable chair and waited. After more than an hour, a doctor with weary eyes emerged and approached her. “Are you with Quinn Sullivan?”
Unable to find her voice, she nodded.
“Are you family?”
If she said no, he wouldn’t tell her anything, so she lied. “I’m his wife. How is he?”
“He suffered serious injuries and he’s in surgery now. Afterward, he’ll be in the critical care unit for a day or two.”
Visions of Quinn surrounded by scrub-wearing surgeons and nurses, under the knife, filled her brain and turned her stomach queasy. “What kind of surgery?”
“He suffered a ruptured spleen, but we’re optimistic it can be repaired. There was a lot of internal bleeding from that. He also suffered numerous bruises and contusions, two broken ribs, and a concussion. The preliminary CAT scans don’t show any major brain damage, but he needs to be under close observation until we can be certain. He’s got two black eyes, and he’ll be in a great deal of pain. That’s one of the reasons why we’ll sedate him after surgery. Sedation will provide his body more of an opportunity to heal, and it will keep him from becoming agitated.”
Her befuddled brain tried to take it all in but it proved difficult. Deirdre made an effort to note each thing the doctor said and to remember. “How long will he be in surgery?”
“Less than a hour if they can stitch the damage,” the doctor said. “Then he’ll spend some time in post-op, then on to the unit. You can go upstairs to the CCU waiting room, and someone will contact you when he arrives.”
Two things mattered. “Is he going to be all right? Will I be able to see him then?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” the doctor said, blunt and honest. “He should be fine in a few weeks, though. And yes, you’ll be able to visit him in CCU, within their schedules and as permitted by the nursing staff.”
“Thank you,” she said. Deirdre rose and stumbled to the nearest restroom. She latched the door on the farthest stall and heedless of any lurking germs, sat down on the seat and cried. Until she saw Quinn and could touch him, she wouldn’t accept all of it, but the emotional release cleared her head a little. She navigated her way to the waiting room after a couple of wrong turns and sat, waiting.
Almost two hours passed and her tension increased with each sweep of the minute hand around the face of the large clock on the wall. Every horror story she had ever heard about patients dying during a surgical procedure haunted her and she worried. Fifteen minutes later, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket and she bit down a scream. Then she took the call from Desmond.
“How’s the lad?” he asked without preamble.
“He’s in surgery,” Deirdre replied, unable to keep a sob back. “Then he’ll be in CCU.”
“But he’s alive?”
“Yes.”
Desmond heaved a sigh. “Thanks be to god, then. Ye can worry about Quinn if ye like, but ye’ve naught else to fret over.”
She didn’t understand. “What?”
“It’s over, Deirdre. No one will be coming after ye or any of us again.”
Her thick brain couldn’t compute. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s over. I’ll tell ye the details when I come. Now, where are ye so I can find ye?”
When Desmond arrived, Deirdre ran to him, and he hugged her tight. “Have ye heard anything new?”
“No, and I’m worried. It’s been a long time, Des.”
“Ah, well, then he’s gettin’ the care he needs and once he wakes, he’ll be relieved to know ye’re safe, now and forever.”
If so, she might pass out with relief. “What happened?”
“Ye were there,” he said. “Ye know most of it.”
“But after?”
“I had young Johnny in me sights,” Des said. “That much I knew from the research ye did for me, aye?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“When I talked to Big Johnny, I suggested he come down to the pub so we could have a wee chat and he did. He had little choice if he wanted to see his grandson alive again.”
“Jesus, Des! He could have killed you.”
The old man shrugged. “Or not. ‘Tis a game I’ve played before and it worked. We had a talk, he and I, and agreed it ended there. I let his grandson go free with a promise never to lay a finger upon him again and in return, he called off any notion of killing ye.”
His calm manner impressed Deirdre. “Will he honor it?”
“Aye, he will or face the consequences. I’ve no doubt he will, though, for when it comes to such matters, men like him have their own sort of honor. Ye’ve nothing to fear now from them, love.”
A nurse arrived. “Quinn Sullivan?” she said. “Is someone here with Quinn Sullivan?”
Deirdre came to her feet, Des beside her. “We are.”
“He’s settled into our CCU if you’d like to come with me.”
Deirdre’s experience with hospital visits had been limited to new mothers, a few routine stays with her grandfather, and a co-worker recovering from an appendectomy. She had never set foot inside a critical care unit and when she saw Quinn, her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes overflowed with tears.
His prone body lay beneath a single cotton sheet. His hands were restrained at the wrists and a tube protruded from his mouth. A nasal canula delivered oxygen and judging by the monitor display to the side of his bed, he must be wired into the grid. Deirdre glanced at the monitor as different colors marked his respiration, temperature, heart rate, and pulse. His eyes above the canula and tube were swollen almost shut and bruised black, a sharp contrast to his pale face. She approached the bed and touched his hand. “Why is he tied down?”
The nurse snorted. “He came around enough to be combative, tried to get out of bed and kept calling someone’s name.”
&n
bsp; “Was it ‘Deirdre’?” Des asked.
“Yes, it was.”
“That’s me,” Deirdre said. “Is he sedated?”
“Yes, he is,” the nurse said. “It was doctor’s orders even before he got feisty. It’s to help him heal.”
“I understand that. I need to stay with him.”
“I’d suggest you go home for about twelve hours,” the nurse said. “He’s not going to wake up or be much fun. I doubt he’ll even know you’re here.”
Deirdre slid her hand into his beneath the wrist restraints. “He’ll know.”
She leaned over him and with extreme care, she kissed his cheek. “Quinn, sweetheart, I’m here. You were so brave.”
Des inched closer and grinned. “By God, he hears ye, Deirdre.”
The nurse, who remained, wore a skeptical face. “I doubt it,” she said, but Desmond interrupted her.
“Look at the bloody monitors!”
The colored lines representing heart rate and pulse shot upward from a steady level to peak. “Quinn,” Deirdre said. “I’m okay and it’s over, thanks to Uncle Des. I love you. You’ll be fine, I promise.”
His fingers twitched, slight and fleeting, against her hand as if he tried to grasp it. She tightened her grip. “Rest, Quinn, please. You were hurt very badly, but I’ll stay with you. When you do wake, I’ll be here.”
A hint of color lessened his extreme pallor and watching his face, Deirdre swore he made a tiny nod. “Look at him,” Des said, a smile lessening his solemn expression. “Aye, he can hear ye well enough.”
Deirdre glanced at the nurse. “I’m staying,” she said.
“All right. But you mustn’t agitate him in any way, and there will be times we ask you to step out. Shift changes, any examination or treatment, bathing him, and such are all off limits.”
“Sure, I understand.”
One chair rested beneath the window and after a moment, Deirdre untangled her hand from Quinn’s to sit. Desmond took up her previous position and although he didn’t touch his nephew, he gazed at him. “He’ll do,” he said after several minutes. “He’s a Sullivan and we’re tough. He’ll come out of this and be well.”
Quinn's Deirdre Page 14
