Shadow of Death

by William Kienzle

  Koesler was jolted. He recalled from his childhood, members of his mother’s family, the Irish side of his ancestry, making the same sound. He hadn’t heard it from the time the last of the elderly Boyle clan had passed away until now.

  “The hedge schools they have in this play,” Ahem went on, “used to be the only way the Irish traditions and language could be passed on. Not to mention havin’ to hold the Holy Mass with the English in hot pursuit, and havin’ to hide the holy priest of God from them too. Both priests and schoolmasters were banned and hunted with bloodhounds . . . the English paid a bounty of five pounds for the head of a wolf ... or the head of a priest. Not meanin’ any irreverence, Father, but that’s the way it was.”

  “It’s a wonder any of you Irish survived,” Koznicki observed, empathetic from the awareness of centuries of persecution of his own Catholic ancestors in Poland.

  “That is so,” said Ahem, “we’re only a tiny island, but look, we’ve populated half the United States.”

  Koesler and Koznicki laughed.

  “Well, that may be a slight exaggeration,” Ahern admitted, “but only slight.”

  The marquee lights flashed on and off several times.

  “I think that’s management’s way of telling us it’s time for Act Two,” said Koesler.

  At that instant, several things happened almost simultaneously. Someone jogged Ahern’s elbow, causing him to spill some orange juice in Koesler’s direction. Koesler, in turn, in an attempt to avoid the juice, jumped back, bumping forcibly into someone behind him.

  “Excu—” Koesler was almost deafened by a loud roar immediately behind him. Instinctively, he threw his arm up protectively, and turned. As he did, he saw Koznicki slump to the pavement.

  Koesler was so stunned, as were the other bystanders, that no one got a good look at the gunman, who immediately on firing had turned and run swiftly into the night.

  Koesler, whose spirits had been buoyed by the news of Toussaint’s improvement, now felt drained. He did not know who had fired the shot or why. All he knew was that his dear friend, Inspector Koznicki, was lying on the sidewalk, very, very still.

  Koesler dropped to his knees beside his friend. He hesitated to touch the Inspector before medical help arrived. Whispering, Koesler gave conditional absolution—conditioned by whether there were any sins to be forgiven; by whether, indeed, there was still life.

  Then Koesler noticed, on the sidewalk, at the very spot where the assailant had stood, the imprint of a black hand.

  4.

  It was not a small room, as hospital rooms go, but it was crowded. Besides the large patient in the bed, the room held a nurse, a doctor, a police officer, and a priest.

  “You’re a lucky man, Inspector,” said the doctor, “a very lucky man.”

  “And there,” said Inspector Koznicki, indicating Father Koesler, “is my lucky charm.”

  Koesler came near to blushing. “I think you’re mistaken Inspector; your lucky charm is a self-effacing Irishman named Daren Ahern. If he hadn’t spilled a cup of orange juice in my direction, I would never have jumped backward into the gunman and diverted his shot.”

  “Wherever the bit of luck came from,” said the doctor, “you are the beneficiary, Inspector. There’s no doubt about that at all. The gun was fired at point-blank range. It could easily have killed you on the spot if it had hit you in a vital area. And we must assume whoever fired that shot knew what he was aiming at.

  “As it is, the bullet is lying up against your spine in the lumbar region. And there it just might remain for good.”

  “You’re not going to remove it then?” asked Garda Superintendent Thomas J. O’Reardon, who was head of the Republic’s Murder Squad.

  “’fraid I can’t answer that one just yet, Superintendent. It’s in a surgically hazardous area. We’ve just got to watch it for the next little while. But if the Inspector here experiences no symptoms such as numbness or excessive pain, and if there’s no infection or bleeding, we may just leave bad enough alone.”

  “That would suit me fine,” said the Inspector, who was in no hurry for an operation. “There are many, indeed, who, from a war, an assault, or an accident, are walking around healthy with lead still in them.”

  The doctor sucked in his breath sharply.

  There it is again, thought Koesler, that same sound. It must be endemic to the Irish.

  “That’s God’s truth. Inspector,” the doctor said. “There’s many a patient walks out of this hospital carrying inside him the same bullet he came in with. And most of them, over the years, are none the worse for it. We’ll just be keeping compression dressings on the wound, like the one the nurse is putting on just now, and pumping antibiotics into you, against any kind of infection. And now, if the nurse is done . . .”

  “Yes, that I am, doctor.”

  “. . . then we’ll just be leaving these good men alone to carry on their business.”

  The doctor and nurse exited the room.

  “I’ve set up two Gardai outside your door, Inspector,” said Superintendent O’Reardon, “there’ll be twenty-four-hour security on this room.”

  “I thank you,” said Koznicki.

  “Two Gardai!” Koesler marveled.

  “Yes, indeed. Father,” said O’Reardon. “Someone out there wants the Inspector here dead and we very much intend that they shall not succeed. We generally have fewer than fifty murders per annum here. And we very much object to the killing of a fellow officer.”

  “It is just as in the case of Cardinal Boyle and the Reverend Toussaint, Father,” said Koznicki. “Someone wants them dead, but they are still alive, so we must protect them, just as the Irish police will protect me while we try to apprehend those involved in this whole plot.”

  “But why shoot you?” Koesler asked.

  “If we were back in Detroit, Father,” Koznicki replied, “I am sure I could find many criminals with whom I have dealt who could find reasons for bearing a grudge against me. But,” he exchanged glances with O’Reardon, “I fear I was asleep at the switch here. It seems quite clear that those who wish to get at Cardinal Boyle have now retrenched and are determined to eliminate any and all obstacles. That would explain why they attempted to kill the Reverend Toussaint as well as why they attempted to kill me.

  “The Reverend foiled their attempt on the life of the Cardinal once, as have I. With the two of us out of the way, I assume they feel they will have easier access to the Cardinal. But they have failed to take into account the Gardai of Ireland.”

  “Indeed!” said O’Reardon. “We plan to be more than ready for them. We have both the Crime Task Force and the Security Task Force with His Eminence now as he tours the country. And even Sir Robert Peel himself would be amazed at the number of Gardai we’ll have in St. Patrick’s Cathedral Saturday evening.

  “But now, Inspector,” O’Reardon turned toward the patient, “you shouldn’t be blaming yourself so much for being caught off guard last night. We had as much information about these crimes as you. We should have anticipated this. And on top of it all, we’re the very ones whose job it is to protect our good visitors as well as our citizens. We should have had some plainclothes with you. But you can bet your bottom dollar that we’ll be taking better care of you from now on.”

  “All is well that ends well.” Koznicki smiled wanly. “And let us hope this will end well.”

  “We’ll not only hope, we’ll pray,” Koesler affirmed.

  “I’ll be leaving you two now,” said O’Reardon, retrieving his hat. “I’ll just give you my card.”

  The card carried his name, rank, and the address: Garda Siochana, Phoenix Park, Dublin 8, and the phone: 771156.

  “And let me just scribble on here my home phone number.” He laid the card on the bedside stand. “Please, Inspector, feel free to ring me up anytime, should you have any need or wish to communicate with me.”

  With that and parting handshakes for Koznicki and Koesler, O’Reardon left the room.
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  “Are you comfortable, Inspector?” Koesler seated himself in the room’s single chair. “I mean, you don’t appear to be in pain.”

  “How does the expression go: But for the honor of it, I would just as soon be in Philadelphia. This is the first time I have been shot, and it is damned uncomfortable, not to mention painful. But,” Koznicki shrugged, “there is nothing for it. In my profession, one learns to live with the knowledge that you can be hurt or even killed. It is a dangerous and violent world, as I have said . . . and the police officer lives at the very focal point of this violence.”

  “Why do I feel so guilty?” Koesler looked up with a half grin, half grimace. “It’s as if somehow I were responsible. If I hadn’t invited you and gotten tickets to the theater, you wouldn’t have been there and, perhaps, wouldn’t have been shot.”

  Koznicki started to chuckle, then stopped, wincing. “Oh! Now I know what people mean when they say it only hurts when they laugh.

  “But please, Father, do not think those thoughts. Whoever did this to me would have done it whether I had gone to the theater or not. He probably had been keeping me under surveillance ever since we arrived in Ireland, waiting for his opportunity. And when he saw us purchasing tickets, his plan took shape.

  “But the same thing would have happened had I gone to a pub or a restaurant or even merely for a walk. Actually, despite what the Superintendent said, I was the one who was negligent. I should have perceived that with the Reverend Toussaint out of the way I was the one remaining obstacle who had a track record of thwarting their plans. I should have been more vigilant.

  “As for your feeling guilty—not a moment of it! No, on the contrary, Father, being with you in those circumstances was undoubtedly what saved my life. If you hadn’t jarred the gunman’s arm, he would have accomplished what he set out to do, and you would now be busy arranging to ship my body back to Detroit for burial.” Koznicki shuddered as he verbalized, for the first time in his life, a scenario that might follow his death.

  “But,” he said more brightly, “now for your tour, Father. Where are you going and when do you begin?”

  “Oh, I’m canceling that. I’m going to stay here and keep you company.”

  “Nonsense! There is nothing you can do for me here. I will be well taken care of by the medical staff and I have every confidence in the Gardai. Besides, short of killing me, the Rastafarians have accomplished their immediate purpose: to prevent me from attending Saturday’s service at St. Patrick’s. So, perhaps they will not bother with me again.

  “You see, there is a difference between my situation and that of the Reverend Toussaint. They not only determined to kill him; obviously, they wished to inflict agony on him as well. There was none of that in their plans for me. They meant to dispatch me quickly with a single fatal bullet. And the Reverend remains in peril since, if he recovers sufficiently, he may be able to identify one or more of his assailants. Not only did I not see my attacker, none of the eyewitnesses was able to give a description of him. So, I should be safe for now.

  “But yes, Father, there is one thing you can do for me before you go off on your tour. I have already spoken to Wanda by phone. But if you would just call and reassure her that I am all right. I told her I was, but,” he smiled, “she may believe it better coming from you.”

  Koesler smiled back. “Of course. I’ll be glad to call Wanda and tell her that you are doing very well in an Irish hospital surrounded by Sisters of Mercy who are tending to all your needs and fulfilling your every whim. And then I’ll just start on my tour.”

  “Good. And when you return from the hinterlands, you can tell me all about the bogs.”

  “You really think I should go?”

  “Absolutely. No question about it.”

  Koesler brightened. “Well, if you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I guess I will—though I do wish you were coming.”

  “Well, as I’ve said, you can tell me stories. When do you leave?”

  Koesler glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going soon. I’ll drive into Boyle this afternoon and look around for my roots, as it were, and then drive on to Gurteen. It’s just a few miles beyond. Then I’ll stay there one or two nights. Tomorrow, I’d like to just do a little sightseeing. Maybe drive down through Connaught to the Burren.”

  “That sounds like a most relaxing trip. And you still intend to stay at that pub in Gurteen?” The Inspector was smiling.

  Koesler nodded.

  “A priest in a pub!” He wouldn’t laugh outright; he didn’t want to hurt himself again. “That should shake the faith of the Irish.”

  “Perhaps. But my friend in Detroit insisted. On the one hand, I wouldn’t want to offend him by not accepting his hospitality. And, on the other, it will be very convenient.

  “Here . . . ” Koesler searched his pockets until he found a small box of matches, “there’s a picture of the pub on this matchbox.”

  Koznicki examined the box. The picture showed a large, two-story brick and wood building with the words, “Teach Murray” across its front.

  “‘Teach Murray’? What in the world does that mean?”

  “The very question I asked Chris Murray back in Detroit. It’s Irish and it’s pronounced ‘Chalk Murray.’ Chris explained ‘Teach’ as the equivalent of ‘Chez’ in French. I guess the closest we can come to it in English is ‘Murray’s Place.’ Doesn’t it look interesting?”

  “Yes. So you will be staying there . . . oh, yes,” he smiled again, “by all means do tell me all about it when you come back.

  “But for now,” his face took on a serious aspect, “will you give me your blessing, Father, please.”

  Koesler traced the sign of the cross over Koznicki. “May the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit descend upon you and remain with you. Amen.”

  The two shook hands and Koesler left the hospital.

  As he walked toward his rented car, a bright yellow late-model Ford Escort, he thought he heard someone call his name. Turning, he saw a well-dressed black man walking rapidly toward him. A gold watch chain was stretched across the vest of his gray, pin-striped suit. His hair was closely cropped. Koesler took him to be a professional man.

  “It is Father Koesler, is it not?”

  “Yes. And you are . . .?”

  “My name does not matter. I am a friend of Ramon Toussaint.”

  Even if he had not said this, Koesler would have guessed there might be some connection. The man spoke with the Haitian accent that characterized Ramon’s speech.

  “He sent a message,” the man said, without further preamble, “asking us to look into a matter. We know of his condition. We know also of his friendship with you. Since we cannot give the information to him, we give it to you: The Rastafarians are not in Ireland so they will make no attempt here on the life of Cardinal Boyle.”

  He turned and walked quickly away.

  “Wait!” Koesler called. “Who are you? How do I know—” He stopped, sensing it would be futile to try to catch up with the man or to expect any further discourse from him.

  The priest stood motionless for some time, pondering the stranger’s message.

  5.

  Talk about serpentine! Father Koesler thought as he left Dublin and drove toward Boyle; the roads of Ireland seemed to weave in and out and up and down more than any other place he could recall. In addition, it had been many years since he had driven a stick-shift automobile. Also, the gearshift was to the left of the steering wheel instead of to the right.

  And, to cap the climax, he had to remember to drive on the left side of the road. It seemed that no sooner did he allow himself the luxury of thinking things over than his car would begin to slow down going up a hill and he would be forced to shift down into third. He wondered how long it would be before he would become accustomed to this car and the driving procedures of this country. Ah, there seemed to be a fairly long stretch of unswerving, flat
road coming up. He leaned back in the bucket seat and aimed the car down the straight and narrow.

  What a strange message! And delivered by a stranger! After he had recovered from his surprise, he had returned to Koznicki’s room and related his strange meeting to the Inspector.

  Koznicki’s initial reaction had been to doubt the authenticity of the message. They had no idea of the identity of the messenger nor any way of verifying the message. Just as easily as being true, it might as well have been a ploy to lull them into lowering their guard. After all, somebody had shot Koznicki.

  Still, Koesler leaned toward belief. He was not a particularly intuitive person, but he had a strong feeling the message had been genuine.

  He also had been perturbed since leaving the outskirts of Dublin by a strange but definite feeling that he was being followed. As often as he was able, what with all the uncommon distractions of driving this strange car in this foreign land, he glanced into the rearview mirror. But he saw nothing that he could in any way describe as unusual or untoward. Finally, he dismissed the possibility of being followed, and ascribed the sensation to tension or stress.

  He returned to his consideration of the stranger and his message. If it was the truth—and Koesler strongly believed it was—the Detroit contingent could relax . . .at least during their Ireland stay.

  Which was precisely what he intended to do. He deserved three days of rest and relaxation, he assured himself; he had paid his dues.

  And, regardless of whether the message had been calculated to put them off their guard, he was positive the Irish police would be out in full complement and with intense vigilance at the single public ceremony on Cardinal Boyle’s schedule. Sufficient unto that day was the possible evil thereof. Now, for some relaxation.

  He had no sooner determined to relax when he spied coming toward him, over the crest of a hill not less than fifty yards ahead, a compact car about the same size as his Escort, but a foreign model. The oncoming vehicle was traveling at high speed on a collision course with Koesler’s car.

  The adrenalin began pumping. Did the Irish enjoy playing chicken? What should he do? Pull off the road to the left into a bog? Pull over to the right and chance a collision with some other driver who might come over the hill in the correct lane?