Aoife closed the space between them and slapped Jessica’s cheek with an open palm. The threat had changed. Her eyes darkened with desperation. “Don’t toy with me.”
Jessica had no time to manipulate or craft a response. Just giving voice to the possibility was overwhelming. “I’m n-not.” Her cheek burned.
“Bishop Hughes is a good man. I won’t let you go about spreadin’ filth about him.”
“I... I swear to you, that’s not what I’m here for.”
Aoife took a few steps back. “I’m askin’ you again, and I want a truthful answer. Why are you here?”
It was all too confusing. Too complicated. In a child’s wish, she thought she could stop the inevitable or the past simply by willing them to be different. She hesitated, knowing she was out of options. “Because I’m afraid. Because I don’t know what the truth is. But, maybe it has something to do with what he was looking for. Aoife, where is it?”
“I’m not sayin’.”
“Please, Aoife. It’s important. The bishop wants it. If this thing has nothing to do with me, then put it back or hide it somewhere else or give it back to that older priest or the bishop. I don’t care. But, but please just—” Her tumble of words stopped as she stifled a sob. “Help me. I need to know.”
Aoife started to say something, then stopped. Conflict stitched her brows. “You said there are others who think this? Who?”
How much could or should she say? Jessica pulled open her shirt. The fading bruise and the crisscross of red scars were distinct against her white skin. Her voice and hands shook. “They’ve tried to kill me before. I’m not the threat they think I am. I need to learn the truth to figure out how I can be safe.”
“Jay-sus,” she uttered, barely a breath. She cleared her throat. “I asked you, who?”
Jessica wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I’m not... I don’t...,” she stumbled over the words, afraid of their truth. “The Charity.”
Aoife reached down and slowly brought the dagger out of its sheath. She pointed the tip at Jessica’s throat. “What makes you so sure?”
“They had tattoos. Here.” She described them and pointed to her forearm.
Aoife made a choice. “Let’s go.” She motioned Jessica forward with a flick of the knife.
The modern hallways changed to cramped passageways as they wove their way down through the building. Aoife brought them through a barely visible door and down a darkened stairwell. Jessica steadied herself with a hand gripped to an iron railing and brushed cobwebs from her face as she felt her way along. They entered a room, not much more than a forgotten storage closet. Cardboard boxes, slightly pink in color, were marked with scrawled, handwritten labels. Hymnals, catechisms, and decorations from past pageants filled them. A broken chair leaned against a tall lamp. Folding tables gathered dust in a corner. Aoife pushed aside a stack of boxes, revealing a darkened passage. She motioned for Jessica to stay put and disappeared inside.
Few would bother to enter this room and even fewer would look behind the assortment of items lining the walls. The opening was irregular and looked as if someone forgot to place the last few stones in the wall. Jessica ran her hand along and felt its irregular surface made by hammers and chisels centuries before. A cascade of crystallized lime mixed with sandy and crumbled grit fell. She could hear Aoife’s movements and knew she was not far away. A pool of light formed and seemed to hover above where the floor should have been.
For a brief moment, Jessica thought she saw the face of a young woman rush toward her, smiling to reveal a broken tooth. The image faded before it truly registered, leaving her unsure that she saw anything at all. Startled, she turned to leave when she saw something vaguely familiar. At first she thought the scratchings were graffiti. Among several indecipherable symbols was one she recognized; a circle inside the open-ended square topped by a cross. The door, the room—all of it had a familiarity that she couldn’t quite place. She rubbed her upper arms to ward away a sudden chill.
Aoife emerged, wiping cobwebs from her face and clothes. In her hand was a dark box. Jessica examined it, running her palm over the intricate designs made of inlaid woods. As it warmed to her touch, a faint scent of roses grew, slightly powdery, triggering a memory of her childhood home and of Bridget. Her mother’s presence was strong and real. She grounded herself by tracing her finger over the lock and hinges. “It’s been opened.”
Aoife rounded her eyes. “Has it now?” She leaned over, looked at the nick in the brass surrounding the keyhole, and shrugged.
Jessica continued to examine the box. “It wouldn’t take much. There are only two tumblers inside the lock. It’s pretty crude.” She patted down her pockets, looking for anything to use as a pick and was frustrated at not finding anything.
Aoife put her hand over hers. “What’s your mother’s name?”
The question came out of the blue. Jessica shuddered.
“Bridget Heinchon. Some people may have known her as Bridget Harvey.”
For a brief moment, Aoife stiffened as if hit, and a puff of air escaped her chest. Gripped with conflict, she looked long and hard into Jessica’s eyes and winced, pained by something unknowable. She reached into her pocket to produce a thick copper wire, the kind used for electrical work. With a few quick prods, the lid opened. After hesitating slightly, she sat down on the far side of the room.
Jessica positioned herself under a light and began to sift through its contents. A slight smell of vinegar mingled with the scent of dust and roses. Photographs, curled and yellowed with age, and items once treasured, were joined by letters and different papers. The photographs were of her mother in the full bloom of youth taken at the cottages in Aghalee and along the shores of Lough Neagh. Nestled within them she found another picture of Gus, Bridget, and Kavan together. Bridget was wearing the same straw hat, tilted at a jaunty angle that shaded her eyes, but didn’t hide her smile. The photo was not a duplicate, snapped moments after the similar picture Jessica had of them. In this one, Gus looked at Kavan with a guarded expression. The expression on Kavan’s face as he looked at Bridget was one of pure love.
She picked up a stack of letters tied with a string, Bridget’s handwriting easily recognizable with its perfectly formed letters and slight flourish at the end of each word. Her name carefully scripted over a Belfast return address. A silken pouch, barely more than three inches square, contained a remnant of a document rolled and secured with a ribbon. As she unfurled the scroll, a wrap of cool air embraced her, caressing across her neck, over her shoulder, and along her cheek.
Unscrolled, the paper was eight inches wide and roughly three inches high. Three sides of the paper had a sharp, defined edge, but the top edge had frayed, as if hastily torn or cut. Printed on it were lines of a formal form. The words were simple and would have no meaning to anyone, but obviously held a place of honor in the box owner’s heart. Over the typeset word, “Father,” was the neatly printed name, “Kavan Hughes.” The simple words hovered over the lines, drifting upward as each letter progressed, as if hastily typed on an old typewriter.
Jessica drew in a shaky breath as she rolled up the paper, secured it with the ribbon, and replaced it in the pouch. When reunited with her birth certificate, the paper would fit perfectly along the frayed bottom edge, lines and typed words the final puzzle piece. She looked over at Aoife and started to talk, but her words choked into silence by a sudden release of emotion. Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks.
Aoife sat in silence and waited until Jessica pulled herself together. They looked at each other in mute agreement, circumstance dictating mistrust and fear, intuition guiding them to somewhere else.
“It’s true then. You’re the bishop’s daughter.”
Jessica simply nodded. “I have to speak to him and warn him that people have uncovered our connection.” A trembling hand wiped her cheeks dry, and she closed the box.
“Think about what you just said. Father Storm gave this to me for
a reason. He kept it away from the bishop on purpose.”
“What did he say when he gave it to you?”
“He was spoutin’ something crazy. I’m not even sure he was in his right mind. But one thing is certain, there are a great many people who rely upon Bishop Hughes. If something were to happen to him, I’m afraid of what that would mean to the community.” Aoife cringed.
“Are you sure Father Storm wanted to keep the box away from the bishop? Maybe Father Storm knew with all of the people milling about that the box was safer away from the public spaces—just as you did. Maybe Bishop Hughes wasn’t who he was keeping the box from.”
Aoife narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Maybe Father Storm was trying to protect him. Maybe he figured out that someone might try to use this information against the Bishop to discredit or blackmail him.” Her voice grew urgent. “It’s possible.”
“But why not give the damned thing to the Bishop directly? Why hide it here at all?”
“Consider his situation. The bishop’s schedule is public, every action known. If someone wanted to search his flat, they would have more than enough opportunity. Hiding it here was smart, but with Father Storm leaving, the hiding place would not be as secure. He gave it to you because he trusted you.”
Aoife thought for a moment and nodded her head. “Fair enough. But what about you? What are you going to do with this information?”
It was a question Jessica had been dreading. Every aspect of her life she thought she knew was pulled away from her like the child’s game of pick-up-sticks. One by one, the sticks of her identity vanished, leaving an ever more precarious pile. She was too afraid to examine the fragile heap.
“I don’t know. Everything changed a few months ago when I found out that the people who raised me weren’t my parents.”
“Do you know who your mother was?”
“I just told you,” she said, hiding her irritation. “Bridget Heinchon.”
Aoife’s expression softened. “I’m not askin’ you what her name was. I’m askin’ if you knew who she was.”
Her lower lip started to tremble and she steadied it with a firm bite. She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and braced herself to say the words she dreaded. “No. I don’t. She pretended to be my aunt for ten years, living alone with me. She knew she was dying, but never told me the truth. There were many opportunities to talk to me, and she didn’t.”
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.” Aoife made the sign of the cross and put her head down in silent pause. All traces of animosity vanished as she gently took the box out of Jessica’s hands. In the few minutes it took to return the box to its hiding place, Jessica sat in silent contemplation, realizing the questions that had alternately burned and hollowed her were about to be replaced with answers. She did not know if she was strong enough to hold them all.
The women returned to their shared room, emotionally spent from revelations and questions to come. Habit and duty made them cautious—systematically securing and locking doors, deliberately soundless in their retreat. The nave settled into timeless silence.
From the back corner came the tiniest groan of a metal hinge. The disturbance marked only by a sudden sputtering of candles. A shadow thickened into the shape of a man. He was tall, slender, and moved with feline efficiency. A hoodie covered his head and he carried something under it, hugging it closely to his chest. He walked along the aisle closest to the wall, stopping at points to look upward at the balcony, then turning toward the altar. He was almost directly under the overhang of the gallery when he slipped off his hood to get a better look at what interested him. His red hair pulled back in a stringy ponytail.
Paddy walked freely onto the chancel and to the altar, his motions surprisingly quiet. He stood in front of the altar, then behind it—all the while looking up at the organ gallery and the balcony, turning his head one way and then the other. The service was to be a Pontifical Mass and Bishop Kavan Hughes would celebrate from the Bishop’s Chair, the symbolic center of the Down and Connor diocese.
He walked a slow circle around the chancel, then sat in the imposing chair made of black wood, hands holding onto its two arms in a position meant to look regal, his attention sharply focused at a point in the back of the nave. The numbers expected to receive communion rites at the formal mass dictated that the communicants would stand to accept the wafered body of Christ. He walked the semicircular edge of the altar area, pausing at every step, looking at the balcony and cocking his head to different angles.
He stopped at the center and brought his hand up as if to give Holy Communion to an imaginary figure. Then his hand drifted upward as if touching their nose, to estimate their height. He continued to the end of the perimeter and worked his way back, checking his calculations. Nodding in satisfaction, he walked to the back of the nave, passed the confessionals, and pulled on the door to the balcony—tugging at the handle when he found it locked. Within a few seconds, he had picked the lock and opened the door. The ancient stairs creaked as he ascended.
He performed the same ritual, walking the perimeter of the balcony and the organ gallery. The area spanned the width of the church. One side held the choir and the other side the organ. The choir’s pews stepped up in height, allowing the voices in the back to carry when they stood to sing. He paused at the center of the railing and leaned over as far as he could. Straightening, he held his arms up as if holding a long-barreled rifle, pointing it to the center of the altar, then at various points at the pews in the nave. He reversed the process, ending at a carved throne of the Bishop’s Chair.
He sat himself on the velvet cushion of the organ’s seat and lit a cigarette, looking at the assortment of keys and knobs. He pushed a few with a child’s curiosity, testing the limits and seeing what would happen. Then his feet toyed with the long foot pedals. The organ’s bellows were mute and unresponsive. Without power to push air through the pipes, only an impotent click sounded. He pushed a few of the long pedals with the toes of his boot and heard the mechanisms shifting behind him. A narrow passageway provided access to the area reserved for the multiple racks of pipes.
He slowly opened the door and looked around. The room hid the unsightly aspects of the bellows while allowing the top portion of the organ pipes to be seen from the nave. All notes sounded through a vent at the top of each pipe. As the notes got higher, the pipes got smaller, some the size of a child’s finger. The organ’s huge bass rank held the largest and deepest toned pipes as big around as a man’s thigh. To balance acoustics, the bass’ sonorous sound escaped through narrow window-like gaps placed at intervals along the narrow room. The front-most section of the bass rank left enough room for him to wiggle between it and the wall and to raise the rifle. A narrow vent provided enough space to position the rifle at a perfect angle to the altar. He reached into his pocket, rolled two orange nubs of foam between his fingers, and lit a cigarette.
Alone, he did not bother to cover the sounds of assembling his rifle or wave his smoke away.
STORMONT
THE DIM YELLOW circle of light made by Bragdon’s desk lamp was the only illumination in the wood paneled room. He liked working at this hour of night when he didn’t have to contend with prying eyes or cocked ears. The wing where his office was located at Stormont was deserted. Any activity occurred on the opposite side of the complex where a never-ending cycle of review of Telexes from Interpol or faxes from MI5 hummed. The quiet and lack of interruption helped him think.
Connecting the dots between Magnus Connaught’s MMC Enterprises and support for the blood sucking IRA was challenging. Bragdon’s calls to his friends at the corporate offices of 2100 Ltd. were promptly and politely answered, illusions of warmth and respect carefully given. Yes, the peace line would be rebuilt. Thank you for your support. No, the city council would not be a problem. The new members were pleased with the election results. Connaught? Yes, know the man but not sure of the connections you refer to. Regardless of his guile
, no new information flowed. The invisible network once again closed off circuitry and shorted connections before he had a chance to confirm their existence. He needed another way in.
What enticed him was that Kavan Hughes might be more connected to either Connaught or Wyeth than Hughes admitted to. Gus Adams was a boyhood friend and the other connections were merely six degrees of coincidence. Bragdon could smell a man’s weakness and should have realized it earlier. Of course. The girl.
The reports he had in front of him gave him tools—if he decided to use them. Jessica Wyeth traveled to the Republic of Ireland via Gibraltar. Routine processes flagged her travels upon her entry into Ireland as a foreign national traveling from a known hotspot of IRA activity. Less than ten years before, three members of the IRA were shot by British Special Forces due to suspicion they were planning to bomb a British military installation. The dead had no weapons, witnesses perceived no threat, but the two men and one woman were gunned down nonetheless. A brouhaha ensued and ever since then, all travelers from “The Rock,” as Gibraltar was fondly referred to, received a second look. They earned a third look if they were not a citizen of either Ireland. And when they traveled on a passport that was issued less than six months in advance of their travels, the agents nearly hyperventilated with excitement.
Bragdon noted with great interest that Miss Wyeth not only fit all of those criteria but one more.
Her passport had been issued without proper original documentation.
No sooner were the dweebs in due diligence asking their U.S. counterparts to comb through her records did another alert pop up on her travels. Via private jet, she traveled to Manchester, England then to Northern Ireland. Ah, yes, and the dates for her trip surrounded the Arndale bombing, but he already knew that.
Bragdon was inclined to be sympathetic to the woman who lost her identity and her home when hiding in panic from that scourge, Connaught-the-Elder. Such sympathies were obviously enough for the blokes in the States to re-issue her expired passport when she emerged from hiding and was rid of the Murdering Heiress label. With the recent pressure from Northern Ireland’s Security Branch, efforts to verify her birth renewed. Authorities contacted the U.S. hospitals surrounding the area where she alleged to have been born, but no independent records existed.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 46