High Stakes

by John McEvoy

  Moments later, inside the large, brightly lit barn, the attendees were assembled in a small staging area and met by two barn tour guides. Wielding a hand-held microphone that sporadically squirted out ear-splitting sounds was a tiny, prominent female member of the vet school faculty, Professor Hilda Janks as her large nameplate declared. She was the picture and sound of enthusiasm. Less so was her tall, thin, male colleague, Assistant Professor Ron Schable, who looked as if he’d rather be palpatating an uncooperative ewe than assisting in this tour project.

  She and Irma made their way down the long corridor of penned animals, not talking as they listened to Dr. Janks’ description of what they were seeing, what was being done to these “carefully and gently tended animals.” How donations to this “valuable exploratory experimental research program” would be “so very, very gratefully accepted.”

  As they headed toward the large animal section of the barn, she abruptly stepped off to the side and bent to re-tie a shoelace. Irma looked back for a few strides, then began talking to the couple in front of her and walking on.

  Down on one knee, she made sure she wasn’t being observed and quickly removed the loaded syringe she had taped to her right calf under her jeans leg. She cupped it in her hand as she stood and moved into place at the end of the long line moving past the animals in their pens and stalls and toward the exit.

  She lagged behind as Dr. Janks opened the exit door and began ushering people out. Waited until the door had closed behind the last of the other attendees.

  She stepped quickly to the web barrier in front of the stall housing the facility’s only thoroughbred, a bright gray gelding. The nameplate on the wall identified him as Silver. Some wag had penciled in the question, “Left here by the Lone Ranger?”

  As Silver lowered his head and flicked his lips open to receive the peppermint candies in her left hand, she made a deft thrust with the syringe into his neck. He spat out the candies. Shuddered. And dropped to the bedded floor of his stall, rolling over onto his right side.

  She reached across the web and dropped the ALWD card on top of Silver’s trembling shoulder. Seconds later, the barn door closed behind her and she joined the group that was now surrounding Dr. Janks in the sunlit courtyard.

  “Thank you all so much for coming,” Dr. Janks said. “If you have any further questions about our program here, feel free to call me or e-mail me. That number and that address are on the brochure you were given.”

  Dr. Janks paused to look at her watch. “So, I’ll say good…” She stopped, mouth open, looking past the group toward the vet school entrance from which young Dr. Schable had just dashed. Not laconic now, his usually pallid face flushed as he ran forward, Schable hollered, “Hilda, we’ve got a horse down inside. Appears to be dead. It’s Silver.”

  The words “dead horse” ignited a loud group response. Dr. Janks sprinted toward the barn door followed by Schable, his white coat beginning to tangle in his knees. He tripped and fell elbows forward at the foot of the steps. The door had already closed behind little Dr. Janks.

  As the news rippled through the group, the babble from these concerned people in the University of Western Iowa vet school courtyard multiplied.

  It was easy for her to detach herself from this scene and walk slowly out of the courtyard into the parking lot to her rented car. She was away in a controlled hurry.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Every so often, Jack Doyle forced himself to ruminate. It was a mental exercise suggested by his philosophy professor during his senior year at the University of Illinois. “Ruminate” was what Jason Marcial advised his students to do at stressful points in their busy lives. Doyle had occasionally followed the good professor’s advice in the ensuing years. This July afternoon proved to be one of those times, and rising through the ruminative muck was a question by no means unfamiliar to Jack, it being, “How the fuck do I get myself into these jackpots?”

  He’d taken an early evening run along the shore of Lake Michigan, striding out in a punishing pace as he reviewed that afternoon’s telephone call from Ireland. “Jack, this is Sheila. Can you talk now?”

  He had just tied the laces on his running shoes and was about to leave his condo when the call came. Its content, not entirely unexpected when he considered its source, took less than ten minutes. Minutes in which he’d agreed to do what Sheila wanted. Went along with her insistence on paying his airfare. Agreed to be there as soon as he could book a flight. That proved to be unnecessary. “I’ve got you on tomorrow’s Aer Lingus late afternoon from O’Hare, Jack. Paid in advance. You can print out your boarding pass. You’ll be landing in Dublin early the next morning. Well, of course, you know that. You’ve done it before. I’ll be there to meet you.” She concluded the conversation with another effusive barrage of gratitude.

  When he hit his turn-around point at Waveland Avenue, Doyle slowed to a jog and stepped off the running path to take a seat on one of the broad slabs of concrete bordering the lake. His breathing returned to normal, he lifted the water bottle from his belt pack and drank deeply.

  “I’m fuckin’ confounded here,” he said aloud, startling a pretty feminine sunbather on a slab a few yards to his right. “Sorry,” he said. “Thinking aloud.”

  She flashed him a look of powerful disdain before lowering her head back onto her bunched-up towel.

  Doyle’s was a conflicted state of mind, a condition he despised. He had listened patiently and sympathetically as Sheila described her increased concern over husband Niall’s safety. “There is, Jack, pardon my expression, some serious shite going on here. I’m going to beg you to do something for us,” she’d emphasized.

  What that “something” involved was Jack’s acceptance of an invitation to a Niall Hanratty-sponsored weekend in beautiful Connemara in the west of Ireland.

  “We have this gathering once each summer,” Sheila said, “inviting Niall’s top employees and their wives. All costs paid. A chance to relax and be rewarded for work well done.”

  Doyle was revving up with a series of questions, but Sheila overrode him.

  “I’m sure you’re thinking, why you? Well, Jack, because I’ve got great hopes that you can spend some time with, and talk to, my bull-headed husband and get a grip on what is going on with him! The three so-called accidents so far. A fourth event that had nothing about accident written on it, being that it was very certain intended murder.”

  “What?”

  Sheila said, “That’s right. Jack, we need you here. We need your help. After your dealings with him in the States, I know he’ll listen to you as to what he should be doing. Of that I am sure. He surely won’t listen to anyone else.”

  Doyle hesitated, then started to explain to Sheila Hanratty that he had “a lot on my plate right now. These horse killings at colleges that I’m working on. I feel very obligated to continue that.” He paused, and listened to her silence. Imagined her thinking that he was treasuring equine lives over that of her treasured husband. Finally, he said, “All right, Sheila. I’ll be coming.”

  “Oh, Jack, you’re a lovely man. Shall I pick you up at the Dublin Airport then?”

  Doyle said, “No thanks, Sheila. I’ll get another ride if I’m lucky. Please just e-mail the directions to the place we’ll be at in Connemara.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Is this the rising star of Irish journalism?” Jack said.

  There was a pause before he heard, “Is this the reigning king of American bullshitters ringing me up now?” They both laughed.

  “Nora Sheehan, it’s pure delight to hear your voice. Yeah, I apologize for not calling you as often as I promised. But, listen, I have a great proposition for you.”

  “God forbid it would involve my walking down the aisle with you, Jack Doyle. Am I right?”

  Doyle laughed. “As usual, you are. Not to worry about that. No, I’m calling to invite you to jo
in me on an upcoming, all-expense-paid getaway to the west of Ireland. Connemara. Have you been there?”

  “Jack, almost everyone over here who is, or was, into horses at some time made a trek to ride the famous Connemara ponies. I did that when I was twelve with my two later-to-become professional jockey siblings. It was fun at the time, but I’m not interested in a repeat. Plus, I’m very busy with my work.”

  Doyle said, “Ah, Nora. This would just be a couple of days at a gathering sponsored by Niall Hanratty. He and his wife Sheila will be there and some of his employees. That’s how he rewards his best workers each year. I’ve been invited along this time. When I was asked if I wanted to bring a companion, I thought long and hard. Sinead O’Connor, I learned, was busy. So, what other name but yours would come bold-faced to my mind?”

  That did bring a laugh. “I’ve never met the famous Mr. Hanratty,” Nora said. “Maybe I can get a feature story or two out of this. Let me check my calendar.” She was back less than a minute later. “Yes, I can do it.”

  “God love you,” Doyle said. “Pack for a couple of days. Could you pick me up at the airport? Dublin, I mean. I’ll e-mail the expected arrival time, probably early Thursday your time. Then we can head for Connemara next day if that works for you. I very much look forward to this.”

  Nora said, “Trained journalist that I am, do you mind me asking what is the actual purpose of your trip? Beside your almost uncontrollable longing to see me, that is?”

  “Details when I see you, my dear. Nora, you’re the best,” he said, drawing another unbelieving laugh from across the Atlantic. “Don’t ever let any spaulding say otherwise.”

  Nora whooshed her breath into the phone. “I can only presume you meant spalpeen, not spaulding. You’ll have to start doing a bit of work on your intercontinental compliments. All right, I’ll pick you up. When you see an attractive female dressed in a black chauffeur’s cap, low cut blouse, short shorts, wearing mesh hose, stiletto heels, and holding a placard that says ‘Welcome Back J. Doyle,’ you’ll find me.”

  ***

  Doyle’s Aer Lingus flight landed a bit early that Thursday morning. Having cleared customs, he heard Nora’s voice. “Jack, over here.”

  “Where’s your sign? Your chauffeur’s outfit?”

  Dressed normally, light beige jacket, white blouse, black skirt, Nora said, “I didn’t choose to inflame the imaginations of you and the other male passengers so early in the day.” They embraced briefly before she said, “Come on. My auto’s this way.”

  They spent a pleasant, restful day at Nora’s rental home in Bray reviewing recent news from their respective shores, that night renewing their enthusiastic lovemaking before what Nora declared was “the midnight curfew. We have to rise early tomorrow, dear Jack. I need to do a bit of shopping before we leave.” She got out of bed, put on a long white tee-shirt, and went into the bathroom. She was asleep when he returned from the kitchen where he’d gone to pour himself a small nightcap of Jameson’s.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  They were on the way out of Bray to Highway M4 shortly after noon on Friday, armed with a large thermos of coffee, pair of plastic cups, and half a loaf of sliced soda bread. Their journey to the western edge of Ireland was estimated by Nora to take “between three and a half, maybe four hours.”

  Nora started out behind her wheel, got them well past Athlone, where Jack took over. The first two hours were marked by long stretches of sunshine flattering the bright, green fields, twice sharply interspersed by quick showers of what Nora said was “lashing rain. It won’t last.” They chatted about Nora’s free-lance reporting work which she said was “beginning to pick up quite a bit. At least the decline of our economy seems to have slowed somewhat, so some opportunities are opening up. I’m having a decent year so far.”

  Doyle asked about Nora’s siblings. Both jockeys were also having “good seasons. Brother Kieran is second in the money-won standings. And Mickey ranks sixth in races won. I try to go racing at least once every couple of weeks to watch them. Mickey and I have dinner twice a week.”

  “Any socialization with ‘Clever Kieran’?”

  “Only a very occasional phone call. He continues to pretty much go his own way. Like always. Listen, Jack, enough about the Sheehans. What’s currently leading your life list?”

  Doyle described his efforts, unsuccessful thus far, to find the “mercy horse killer,” and the recent developing problem involving Ralph Tenuta and “this rich prick Wendell Pilling, who kept pestering people named Burkhardt, clients of Ralph. But I understand that problem’s been solved. Or, so I am reliably told. You ever hear of Pilling?”

  “Are you serious? Anybody involved in the computer world knows about that man.”

  The other side of Galway on R336, heading toward Connemara, Nora warned, “We’re out here in the country now, Jack. Keep in mind there are only two roads in Ireland where sheep have the right of way on the road. We happen to be on one of them.”

  “Sheep in the street, eh? They better hope a New York City cab driver never decides to vacation around here. There’d be mutton chopped onto the pavement.”

  ***

  Nearly four hours after leaving Bray, they arrived late Friday afternoon at Lough Inagh Lodge near the westernmost edge of the island country and overlooking the sprawling lough, or lake. Built in the 1880s as an estate home, it now was a four-star modern “boutique lodge” according to the Internet research Nora had done. Doyle parked around the side of the impressive, two-story structure that sat in isolation with a wonderful view of Ireland’s famous Twelve Bens, a range of small mountains. Doyle opened the car windows and they sat quietly before getting out, breathing in the country air, listening to birdsong emanating from nearby trees. Finally, they got their luggage from the boot and went inside to register.

  During their drive, Nora had informed Jack that the Lodge contained just “twelve rooms. Breakfast and dinner are served. The food is reputed to be excellent. There’s a library and a well-stocked bar.”

  “Music to my ears,” Doyle responded, “especially the latter item.”

  Walking to the inn’s entrance this late afternoon, Nora said, “There is supposed to be excellent fishing in this area. And four golf courses aren’t far away.”

  “There is little attraction in these pastimes for me,” Doyle laughed. He told Nora that all but one of the rooms had been reserved by Hanratty for his contingent of employees and, if they chose, their spouses or mates. “You’ll like Niall and his wife Sheila,” he said. “The only other Shamrock people I know are Barry Hoy and Tony Rourke. Hoy is Niall’s bodyguard and driver. Big, tough-looking guy, used to box, very quiet, but friendly. Rourke is older, quiet little fellow, looks like the accountant he is.”

  Fiona, the friendly clerk at the front desk, signed them in as “guests of Mr. Hanratty.” After handing Jack the room key, Fiona asked if they would like “complimentary tea and homemade scones. Standard practice here and available right now,” she smiled. They declined. When they looked into the nearby library, the Hanrattys rose to greet them. Doyle introduced Nora. Sheila said, “Oh, Nora Sheehan. I’ve read many of your stories. How lovely to meet you. Niall, you know who this is?”

  Hanratty smiled as he reached for Nora’s hand. “Of course I do. The talented writer woman from the family of talented jockeys. My pleasure, Nora.” He turned to Jack. “Why don’t you two get settled in,” Niall said, “then come down and join us for a drink before dinner?”

  ***

  Showered and changed out of their traveling clothes, Nora and Jack were prepared for the first social event of the Hanratty weekend, the cocktail reception. Before leaving their large, attractive bedroom with its commodious bath, large flat-screen television, plus a desk on which Nora could position her laptop, they stood at one of the large windows that looked out toward the lough. Dusk was advancing and swirls of fog encircled th
e tops of the tall pine trees bordering the property. They were silent. Jack reached down and took Nora’s hand. It was a stunning view enhanced by the quiet of the advancing evening. They stood for a minute or two before Jack said, “Well, my dear, time to go. Up and at ’em.”

  ***

  Some of the Shamrock crew at the cocktail reception recognized Nora’s name when she was introduced. “Oh, the writer.”

  “Journalist,” she politely corrected. Two of the couples were spurred on by that admission to corner her. Doyle sidled away and came up next to Niall.

  “Well, you’ve done yourself proud here, my man,” Jack said. Hanratty smiled briefly. “It hope it all goes well, Jack. These good people of mine deserve a great old time even if it’s only for a weekend. And, certainly, my Sheila does.”

  Before Doyle could respond, he and Hanratty turned toward the sound of a loud voice at the doorway to the reception room. “Hello, you Irish,” said an overweight, middle-aged man standing next to a small, embarrassed looking woman of about his age. He looked around as if expecting to be recognized, this florid-faced figure with the booming baritone voice. “Are we Yanks invited in?” Without waiting for an answer, he advanced.

  “Who the hell is that?” Doyle said.

  Hanratty started toward the man, then stopped. “He and his little wife must be the only other guests here. I took eleven of the twelve rooms for our group. Well, I guess I’d better go over and greet what looks to me like an Ugly American. Pardon the expression, Jack.”

  Jack followed Niall, who shook the man’s hand, introduced himself, and didn’t have long to wait for a reply from “Dr. Herbert Whitesell. From Ann Arbor, the great state of Michigan. Ann Arbor, the university town. My practice is there. This is my wife, Alice. We’re first time in Ireland. Strange little country, isn’t it? Not this place, of course,” he added, patting Hanratty’s arm.