“My, you’ve been busy. Any news on that crazy ass cult of Callahan’s?” Bishop asked.
“We don’t know if he’s directly involved, we only suspect he is. And we don’t know if he’s a leader or a follower,” Sullivan said taking a sip of the fresh pint that had been placed in front of him.
“Look, we’ve been chasing after Cahal for years. Never had a bloody thing on him. He’s been a crafty bastard, and now for him to get mixed up in this shite. What’s the name of the organization?” Bishop asked.
“It’s called Tuatha De’ Danann, that’s proper Gaelic for People of the Goddess. The man at the head of it is called Dagda or the Master. You’re right to call it shite. There’s about three to four hundred of them in all of Ireland and you can be sure they’re up to no good,” Sullivan said.
“I’ve only heard some ugly rumors. Some people got involved on the fringe of the thing, went to a few meetings and said they’re scared to go back.”
“Why? What scared them?”
“Some guy in a golden mask was asking them to renounce their free will,” Sullivan said.
“That’s scary. Sounds like some of my marriages,” Bishop said, draining the last of his pint. He pushed it forward to order another.
“That aside, it seems a bit off in these times. Don’t you think?” Sullivan asked.
“There’s not much we can charge them with. If they’re just being all crazy like and running around like daft idjits, that’s their business. As long as they’re not doing harm to anyone…”
“Yes, but if Cahal Callahan is involved, they must be up to something.”
Bishop nodded as his fresh pint appeared. “Aye, you’ve got a point. What do we do, watch the streets?”
“I’d watch the morgue,” Sullivan said as he took hold of his new pint. “Cheers, here’s to the business of murder and mayhem as we know it in Ireland.”
The Master looked out over the long table. Twenty men and women were seated in front of him dressed in brown robes with hoods. They cast their eyes downwards at the flickering light before them and listened as their master spoke.
“I have heard good news that the only link to our great order has been cut. No one will know our origin, our nature. Our secret is safe. Now, I want all of you to go out and do the duties you have been given. Do you hear me?”
“We hear you, master,” they replied in unison.
“What is my true name?”
“You are Dagda, you are the master.”
“And who are you?”
“We are Tuatha De’ Danann. We are the people of the goddess. We are the ancient ones. Our ancestors’ blood flows through us.”
“Excellent. Now go,” Dagda commanded.
They rose as one, walking out of the room. They stripped off their robes to reveal their street clothes. Each of them had a Celtic Cross tattooed on their necks and wore an amulet of fine gold.
A young ginger-haired man threw off his robes, readjusted a Smith and Wesson gun in his belt, and looked around with a smile.” Right then, let’s go out and cause some right shite.”
30
Bernadette arrived at the hospital at 8 a.m.; the hallways were bustling with the large food trolleys. Plastic trays with the plastic wrapped food offerings and cups covered in paper were being delivered to individual rooms.
She walked into Chris’ room just as a bowl of tepid oatmeal with skim milk and juice was placed in front of him.
He looked up at her in anguish.
“Are you still in pain?” she asked.
“I am at the sight of this food. How soon can I get out of here?”
“I saw Dr. Patel down the hall. He said tomorrow, if you’re good.”
“I’ll be a freaking angel if that gets me away from this food. Who eats this crap?”
Bernadette came to his tray, uncovered the oatmeal, sprinkled some brown sugar on it and mixed in some milk. She took the spoon off the tray and shoveled a big spoon full into his mouth.
“There you go. Now chew, big guy. I’ll come by later and see if I can break you out of here. Now, eat your healthy breakfast. I’m going to check on Harvey and see if I can find out the status of Father Dominic.”
“Sounds like you’ve become Florence Nightingale on your rounds,” Chris said.
“Just doing my rounds and extending my mercy like the Saint Bernadette I’m named after,” she said walking out of the room.
Two floors up was Father Dominic. They’d put him in a private room. Bernadette had asked for a further ban on his true status. Something just didn’t feel right about letting the world know he was alive when so many wanted to kill him.
A guard was posted on his room. She showed her badge and was let into the room. Father Joe was sitting beside Father Dominic, who was sleeping.
“How is he?” Bernadette asked.
“He is heavily sedated and sleeping a lot. The bullet only grazed him, again. There was some bleeding and mild brain trauma, but he’ll be okay. I feel the saints are with him and have blessed him to fulfill his mission,” Father Joe said.
“And what exactly is his mission?”
“Ah… I mean his sacred mission on earth. The same one we all have,” Father Joe said. He took his glasses off and finding a spot on a lens, he began to clean furiously.
Bernadette regarded Father Joe for the first time. He was hunched over; he took great pains to hide his height. His hands were large, his knuckles callused, as if they’d been used in physical activity. Those kinds of calluses could easily come from Karate training. Students who pounded on a Makiwara Board would have calluses like that.
Bernadette still had one at home. It was designed to toughen the elbows, feet, knuckles or any area of the body you used to strike with in Karate. It was covered in a heavy duck canvas fabric, but if you hit it regularly, it would harden your skin.
“What form of martial arts do you practice?” Bernadette asked.
“Martial arts? I don’t understand what you mean,” Father Joe said. His eyes darted from Bernadette to the floor back to an unseen object of interest behind her.
Bernadette took one of Father Joe’s hands and looked at the calluses on his knuckles. “You get these from what? Crawling on your knuckles to prostrate before the altar every morning? And remember, it is a sin in the Catholic Church to lie.”
Father Joe stood upright; he looked different. “You’re so correct. In the words of St. Augustine, a lie consists in speaking a falsehood with intention of deceiving.”
“Who were you intending to deceive?” Bernadette asked.
“I was asked by the church to look after Father Dominic and Father Frederick. It looks like I failed miserably with the latter. I did not know the killers were hiding in the seminary. Had I known…”
“—You would have taken them out. What’s your training background?”
Father Joe stood erect and saluted. “U.S. Marines, Special Forces.”
“You’re an American?”
“Dual citizenship. I was born in Canada with an American father. We moved back to Duncan, Oklahoma where my dad worked for an oil service company. I got the military bug and joined the US Marine Corp.”
“And, then you just got the urge and joined the Monk Corps?”
Father Joe smiled. “Yeah, maybe it was atonement for all the people I sent to their heavenly rest in my first career. But I felt there was more to life than marching in line and releasing a pile of hurt onto some foreign country that my government found was out of favor. No judgments on that, however…”
“Of course,” Bernadette said with a smile. “But it seems the Church has found a way to use your previous talents.”
“When the Church found out about my previous career, they asked me if I would join the Guardians.”
“And they are?”
“We are an organization in the Church to protect those who might be attacked by outside forces, in this case the killers that were after the Father’s Dominic and Frederick.”
“Yes and no. I knew they were compiling a list of names of people who’d been involved in a secret society in Ireland. They came from what we think is an offshoot of Tara in County Meath, the seat of the ancient high king of Ireland. There was a man named William McGrath that believed the ancient high kings were descendants of Israel.”
“Interesting stretch on history,” Bernadette said.
“It got worse. Someone came along with a lot of cash and started to investigate all the DNA of the Irish and decided they were somehow gifted and ancient. They were the people of the goddess, and they have a divine god named Dagda,” Father Joe said.
“Okay, getting weird. But then I’ve seen some Netflix documentaries that are stranger sounding. So, how did our Fathers Dominic and Frederick figure in this?”
“They were both in the IRA way back at the beginning. They were in some of the early battalions and met all the founders. We think they met McGrath and know the identity of the new head of the society.”
“And that someone, the new head, wants them killed?”
Father Joe nodded; he walked over to Father Joe, looked at him and adjusted his covers.
“You want to tell me what happened the first night that Father Dominic was attacked?” Bernadette asked.
“Did you read the report?”
“Yes, but I want to hear what really happened. You obviously didn’t mention yourself being able to fend off the attackers.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Father Dominic is still alive. If the killer were in the chapel alone with him, Father Dominic would be dead. What happened?”
Father Joe looked up at Bernadette and held her gaze. “I was following Father Dominic that night like always. I’d taken a seat in the back pew and watched as he made his way to the altar. I heard a gun being chambered. All I could see was a hand sticking out from behind a door. I grabbed a hymn book and threw it. It hit the assassin’s hand, made the shot miss.”
“Did you see the attacker?”
“No, I ran for the door, but someone slammed it shut and had thrown a long brass candle in the handle. I ran around to another door. By the time I got there he was being driven away in a car.”
“Did you get a plate number?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did you see anyone else around? Like maybe Cahal?”
“No, but I think he may have been somewhere near the back door as well. There was another set of footprints leading from the chapel. He might have been a lookout for the shooter. I think when I chased after the shooter, Cahal got separated from them, saw the car take off, and had to make a run for it.”
“That explains a lot. Why didn’t you give that statement to us? We could have taken Cahal into custody and charged him as an accessory,” Bernadette said.
“You’d only have circumstantial evidence. We needed to find not just the shooters but who sent them. We’ve been searching for them back in Ireland, but so far nothing.”
Bernadette stood beside Father Dominic. “So, all of this is from what’s inside this poor old man’s memory. Did you find any copies of what he wrote?”
“Sure, he left it on the seminary computer in a file that is kept encrypted in the wonderful Cloud. No one can get to it without the password.”
“Did Frederick have the password?”
“I don’t think so. The assassins probably gave him the drug to dig it out of him. If they’d gotten it, they would have destroyed the file on the computer. It’s still there.”
“What’s the file called?”
“Redemption song.”
“Isn’t that a song by…?”
“Bob Marley and The Wailers,” Father Joe replied. “I think I got seriously stoned to that before I joined the Marines.”
“And there’s no way you can get that file open?”
“No, I was actually in the library trying to hack the code the night the killers attacked Father Fredericks. I should have been more vigilant. But I thought I had it. The file has a failsafe on it, too many attempts at the password and it will self-destruct.”
Bernadette stood back looking at Father Joe. “How do you intend to keep Father Dominic safe until he recovers and gives you the password?”
“We’re hoping you’ll keep him dead, at least for a time until he recovers and can give me the access to the files.”
“That could be a tall order,” Bernadette said, looking down at Father Dominic. He looked so peaceful lying there. The oxygen mask was giving off a faint mist around him and the heart rate monitor was producing a gentle beeping sound.
“Any days you can give us will be of great help. I’ve tried to reach out to my fellow Guardians for extra help, but they are pretty maxed out. They told me to do what I can.”
Bernadette put her hand on Father Joe’s arm. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll speak to my chief of detectives.”
“Can you not tell him about my organization?” Father Joe asked. “The fewer people that know the better.”
“Sure, I love keeping secrets,” Bernadette said with the arch of her brow.
“Thanks,” Father Joe said.
Bernadette walked out of the room and headed back down to Chris’ room. She’d need to talk to Durham, have a conference with the head of the hospital, and somehow convince everyone that they needed to keep someone dead. Not the kind of conversations you have every day.
She went to Harvey’s room but could hardly get in. His room was mobbed with elderly ladies who had brought him baskets of muffins and jars of preserves. They chattered endlessly as they fussed over him.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I have to interview Mr. Mawer as a matter of police business,” Bernadette said.
They looked up at her with scowls, and then softened, most of them knew Bernadette as Harvey’s neighbor. They lined up to give him kisses on his cheek then marshalled themselves out the door.
“Thank goodness you arrived, Bernadette,” Harvey said. “I don’t think I could take another minute of that gang of ladies.”
“I thought you loved female attention.”
“Absolutely, but not in a group like that. I’m also worried that some of them might compare the stories I’ve told them. It could take me months to repair the damage,” Harvey said with a wink.
“Oh, Harvey, you are a force to be reckoned with,” Bernadette said, resting her hand on his shoulder as she sat in a chair beside him. “But you’re doing okay now?”
“I’m doing fine. That darn drug is about out of my system. How is my boy Sprocket doing?”
“He’s fine. I brought him home last night. He’ll be happy to see you when you get out of here, which I’m sure is soon,” Bernadette said.
“Great. And how about that guy…I think his name was Jacob Burk… something or the other?”
“You mean Jacob Burkov, the blog reporter? What about him?” Bernadette asked. The new information made her rocket out of the chair.
“Well, he was there. He knocked on the door as Cahal was making tea. He wanted to interview Cahal and he let him into the house. I was against it, mind you. But Cahal was all willing to be interviewed. He said he had nothing to hide.”
“Did he leave?”
“Not that I know of. I remember feeling all groggy like and that Jacob guy was in the chair across from me. I saw him pass out just before I did.”
“Harvey, I got to go. Cahal must have taken his car and him hostage. That’s how he got to the airport so fast,” Bernadette said. She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll check in on you later.”
Bernadette left the room while dialing her phone. “Evans, you still got the plate number of the red Honda that Jacob Burkov was driving?”
“Yeah, why? Is he being a nuisance again? You want to pick him up?”
“No, Harvey Mawer just ID’d him as a victim of the drugging at my place by Cahal. He must have taken his car and him.”
>
“I’ll contact the rental agency. They have GPS locaters on their vehicles. I’ll tell them to do a locater on it. You think Burkov is still alive?”
“No idea. It’s been almost forty-eight hours. We’ll put out a BOLO once we have the vehicles plates and hopefully the rental company can track the car.”
31
Cahal Callahan was traveling as fast as he could. He’d arrived in Amsterdam at eight in the morning. His passport claimed he was a Canadian named Charles Manly, as good a white Anglo-Protestant name that he could dream up. He was an information technology consultant, as vague as you can get for these times. His hair was now a dark brown, his eye color changed with contacts and he wore a hat everywhere he went. He ensured he walked looking down to avoid cameras.
From Amsterdam, he took the Euro Rail to Paris. He booked himself a first-class seat on British Rail to London through the Chunnel. Customs in Paris du Nord train station had given his Canadian passport only a glance. He dined on small sandwiches and a glass of sauvignon blanc as the train entered the tunnel and did its fast descent under the English Channel and shot out the other side in twenty-two minutes. He timed the journey on his watch and smiled.
He was home free. He got to London, checked into a hotel that was walking distance from where the train arrived at St. Pancras Station. The St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel had one deluxe room left in the Barlow wing. At only $322 USD a night, he thought it was a bargain.
The next morning, he was up early. He took the train from London to Holyhead, a mere three hours and forty minutes with time for a quick pint in the Irish Ferry Terminal, and he boarded the ferry and sailed the Irish Sea. The air was crisp, the sea spray cool, but he couldn’t be happier. He could see the shoreline and then Dublin come in sight after a sailing just over three hours.
He congratulated himself on his journey. He’d evaded the airport customs checks that were more thorough, he’d slipped through all of their nets and now, he’d get off this ferry and take a short ride into Dublin town. He could taste his first Guinness. He knew the exact pub and the best barman to pour it for him.
Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5) Page 16