CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sarah stood in the barn brushing Dan. The physical exertion helped the roiling anxiety in her stomach. He was so big she had to stretch to brush his back and when she’d finished her shoulders were aching. The disappointment of having to push her expedition back was intense. The rain had started right after breakfast and turned to a downpour of snow soon after. As Dierde said, as bitterly disappointed as she was, there was no sense going and ending up frozen and lost herself.
No one was more disappointed than John and while he fought to understand the decision, Sarah needed to escape the unhappy house. Two people they loved were somewhere out in that swirling maelstrom of white and cold, two people who needed their help and who would have to wait a little longer. No one needed to say out loud that the longer wait could be the death of both.
Sarah cleaned Dan’s feet and ran her hands down all four of his legs. He nickered and turned to look at her. She put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his mane, just like she used to do when she was a horse-crazy teenager with a problem that only her pony could understand.
Could he really still be alive? Was David out there somewhere trying to get back to them? The agony of not knowing coiled in her stomach like a black knot. Like Seamus, was this how it would end for him? A brilliant academic back home, loved by his students, admired, respected. Was this really how it was to end for him? Riding off into the Irish countryside never to be seen again? Sarah laced her fingers in Dan’s mane and held him tightly. The big horse shifted his weight but otherwise stood quietly for her. Over his shoulder through the plastic of the barn window, she watched the snow fall. God help me, she thought. Will I not even be able to go tomorrow?
The sounds came to David as if they were part of the feverish dream he was having. At first, he couldn’t be sure what was real. But as the voices got louder, he found himself being jolted awake. His bedroom was dim—it was dark outside—but his view of the front of the house was unobstructed by the open curtains Betta had pulled back earlier. The loud and terrible voices came from the front of the house. He could hear men with rumbling deep and, it seemed, mocking voices. Underneath it all, he made out the terror in Betta’s high falsetto voice. She was pleading, it seemed to David. He had heard that begging shrill voice even in his nightmares. Out the window, he saw a crowd of people and horses in the front yard. They were trampling Betta’s garden. Some were fighting. He could not make out what they were saying. He heard three gunshots, one right after another. Betta’s horrible wailing scream grew higher and higher.
David struggled to sit up and pulled uselessly against his restraints. His legs were covered in bedsores that wept onto the dirty linens when he moved. His left arm lay impotently against this chest, duct-taped around his upper body. He pulled against the chain that was attached to the boat anchor until he was sitting up. He saw one of the men drag poor Betta down the porch front stairs, then slit her throat and toss her body onto the dahlias in the front flowerbeds. David jerked up and rasped out the single word “No!” It felt like barely more than a whisper, but the killer, wiping his blade on his shirt, turned and looked directly at David through the open window.
Dierdre had made dinner. Sarah couldn’t remember being more moved by such a simple act. To have any responsibility at all taken from her shoulders was an incredible gift. John was very quiet this evening. He sat between his two dogs, absentmindedly petting them both at the same time. He watched the flames in the fireplace.
“Sure, don’t worry about him, Sarah,” Dierdre said, putting plates down on the table. “The smart ones need time to think it all through. Seamus was the same way and I’ll bet your David is, too.”
Sarah thought about it. It’s true. David did reflect more than she did. Sometimes when she thought he was in a mood, he was just lining things up in his head.
“It’s just that he’s so young to have so much bad stuff to think about,” she said as she watched John.
“Well, there’s little you can be doing about that,” Dierdre said bluntly. “Life is what it is. You’ll not be changing it just because you don’t want it troubling him.”
Sarah looked at her and nearly laughed. “It’s weird, Dierdre,” she said. “Back home, that’s exactly what I attempted to do. All the time. And most of the time? I felt like I did change it.”
Dierdre shook her head but she smiled. “That would be because you’re American, and all,” she said. “Now, no offense, but the rest of us don’t have the luxury for such nonsense.”
“Or the arrogance?”
“Some things are best left unsaid. Come, laddie. It’s dinner now.” Dierdre winked at Sarah.
John came to the table and sat down.
“Did you wash you hands?” Sarah said.
He nodded.
“Isn’t it great, having Dierdre here? Look, we’re having chicken again. Our lives have improved already.”
John looked up at her from his hands. An indicting look, Sarah thought.
“Look, sweetie, I have no control over the weather.”
“I know.”
Dierdre came back to the table and spooned up a chicken casserole concoction onto three plates.
“And we’ll not want to be losing your mum out there in all this, would we?”
“I saw the wisdom in you not going, Mom,” he muttered.
Sarah and Dierdre exchanged a look.
“Look, I’m not patronizing you, sweetie,” Sarah said, putting her hand on his cheek. “I know you’re not blaming me for the weather. And I’m disappointed, too.”
He looked up at her and his eyes filled with tears. “It’s just, I keep seeing Dad in trouble and I can’t help but think every minute counts. That’s all.”
“I know. Me, too.”
Dierdre came back to the table and sat down.
“We’ll be saying grace now,” she said taking each of their hands. “And with thanking the good Lord for this meal—which so many in Ireland do not have tonight—and we’ll also be asking Him to keep our David safe and well until he can return to us.”
John looked at her and nodded. “Amen,” he said. “Thanks.”
The gypsy strode into the bedroom and threw back the door where it crashed into the wall with a bang. David felt like he was an actor in a grainy movie. An actor with no lines and no future.
“Cor! Smells like something died in here.” The big gypsy stood at the end of the bed eying David. He was joined by two other men.
“Jesus, Davey. She’s got him chained to a boat anchor. Blimey. And us with no workin’ cellphone cameras. God, but it stinks in here.”
David watched the three men observe him and felt, strangely, no fear. In fact, he was surprised to note that he felt nearly joyful. The realization had just come to him that one way or the other, these men would be the method of his release from his hell.
One way or the other.
“Who is he?”
“Oy! Can you speak? He’s daft as a loon. Look at his eyes. Should we tell Finn?”
The gypsy, Davey, wrinkled his nose at the smell and turned on his heel to exit the room.
“Don’t bother him with this shite,” he said. “See if there’s anything worth taking in here. Then kill ‘im.”
Free Falling, Book 1 of the Irish End Games Page 17