Many dictates were in place to prescribe everything about the ceremony—from the scriptures read, to who was in attendance, to what he wore—but Kavan determined to pick and choose what he would follow. Creating a service that honored his longtime friend, mentor, and confidant was important to him, but he railed against the strict confines of history and sensed there was more he could do.
As much as he wanted to infuse the service with new life and vitality, he was duty bound to honor its traditions. Soon, the mass would conclude, and the time would come to make the announcement Bragdon provided him. As much as Kavan wanted to share the news that all voices would be welcome, at last, around the negotiation table, he knew, with every fiber in his being, the timing of making such an announcement was wrong. The outcome was what the parties wanted, but legitimacy and a voice were intoxicating brews when received as rewards for violence. The exact opposite message needed to be given as a response to Arndale. He felt locked in and manipulated into making an announcement he knew would lead to more violence. Waiting until after the concluding prayers would not tarnish the formal service. But how could he not make the announcement at all and still be considered worthy of Bragdon’s and the government’s trust? He gathered himself to stay focused.
He placed himself in the deeply prayerful state that enabled him to remain fully immersed in the love and the presence of the Lord. His celebration channeled from a higher source. He felt himself to be the conduit of God’s will as he read the gospel and listened to Father Storm’s sermon. The priests and acolytes moved about the chancel with choreographed grace, and the understanding and familiarity of the movements allowed him to detach from this world to commune with the next.
When the parishioners lined up for communion, Kavan stood beside his friend and asked the Holy Spirit to guide his actions. No mishap could occur. No words stumbled over. In the perfection of the moment was extreme peace. He placed the blessed wafer either to cupped and outstretched hands, or to an open mouth in a face turned upward. In this consummate moment for believers, one face above all woke him from his prayerful stupor and reminded him not only of the frailties of the human spirit but of his failure as a man.
Bridget was there.
She stood not more than fifteen feet from him, pausing in the center aisle, hesitating with indecision of whether to come forward or to take her seat again, not willing to disrupt his prayerful state. True to herself and to him, she was instinctively aware of the discretion in which she needed to conduct herself in his presence. She looked so different from the last time he had seen her, when she was weak with injury and hunger.
She was vibrant and alive and exuded a life force that nearly buckled his knees with the strength of it. The plain dress and demure hat were of a style that accentuated her beauty with their simple lines. Her eyes shone with the same keen intelligence he fell so hopelessly in love with. Her manner was confident and tentative, aware of the power of her presence, but not knowing quite how to harness it. She was cautious and judicious and did not allow even the hint of acknowledgment that would have derailed them both. At first her eyes were downcast, unsure of where or how to look up, but when she did, she was the firebrand that sliced through him. Well over two decades had passed since the last time he looked into those eyes, and he vowed then and there never to look away from them again.
Paralyzed, he watched as she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back as if to dare anyone from ever taking from her again. Her expression never changed. She did not smile or wince, but coolly stared at him, declaring her right to be there—declaring her right to be.
The line for communion waited patiently behind her. His chest tightened as he watched her take a half step forward, suddenly unsure of what to do. She raised her foot as if to re-enter the pew, then put it down again, half turning back to the aisle. Her eyes flicked from his face to Father Storm’s hands as he raised a wafer. Even, white teeth bit her lower lip, and she tipped her head back, mad at herself for her indecisiveness. It was so like Bridget to push herself into action when logic told her no. Bridget’s daughter—no, his daughter—was alive and breathtaking and here!
The swell of harmonized voices and a crescendo from the organ masked the guttural moan that dredged upward from deep inside of him. He tried to hide his gaff by coughing, but Father Storm noticed his change in attention. The old priest had been steadfastly offering the Eucharist on an outstretched hand, stopped from reaching higher by his humped back. Communicants were forced to bend down to his hand’s level, giving the priest a clear view of what had caused the bishop’s sudden alertness.
Kavan watched in horror as Father Storm reddened and trembled as he began to speak. “By the power of God save us! The devil is among us and flaunting the full power of his deceit.”
Only the acolytes closest could hear him and exchanged confused and nervous glances.
Father Storm continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Proof of his power over man and God is here. You,” he pointed his finger at Kavan, “you broke your vow to Him.”
Two acolytes moved beside the priest and placed their hands gently on his elbows. He recoiled from their touch.
“Wasn’t it bad enough that you used me as your confessor? So stooped from the weight of your truth that I can no longer walk upright, yet you bring her here! You’re an arrogant and prideful beast.” He turned and raised a shaking hand to the congregation, slightly tottering off balance. “Do not listen to the words of this man. He cannot be trusted. He is a father. A father! The woman who bore his child is there!” He had raised his voice as much as he could over the music, but it was not enough to carry past the front pews. The acolytes gently edged their way in front of him. Three continued serving communion and two began to escort him to the chairs in the back of the ambulatory. Father Storm struggled against them as he pointed his finger at Jessica. “She is the mother of a child who should never have been. She is the whore.”
Kavan watched as Jessica’s head fell backward as if struck and her knees buckled with the weight of Father Storm’s words. He thought she would turn and run from the cathedral and wondered why she hesitated. She moved as if in a daze and looked up into the balcony, then turned to him. She sank to her knees and hunched herself into a ball of prayer—head bowed and hands laced behind her head. As sudden as her crouch, she then started toward him, one arm outstretched, saying something that was lost in the rush of movement.
The music from the organ grew louder and discordant, threatening chaos from disorderly tones. The choir voices rose to meet the organ’s reach. The shock of knowing the burden carried by his dear friend split him open. Never did Father Storm shrink away from his confessions, but the weight of Kavan’s sin was too great to be carried by the old man. This load and the shock of seeing his beloved Bridget’s eyes in the face of his daughter grew. His heart suddenly ripped in two. His only rational thought was that it must have been the vision of a woman he could never acknowledge that tore a hole in his heart. Puffs of plaster rained from the ceiling. He brought his hands to his chest and stumbled back.
Paddy’s hands sweated in the thin kidskin gloves he preferred over latex, and the muscles in his legs and back screamed in pain from not moving for hours. This was part of his job—getting into position early and staying hidden until it was time. His exit was to his left, behind the pipe that played the note C-1. Then he would easily slip away with the tidal surge of bodies rushing to get out. The rifle, scope, and silencer were not important to him. He could get others. He had wiped the equipment clean of prints and serial numbers knowing they would be left behind. Simple. Except today it was not.
The foam plugs in his ears were not nearly enough protection. The sound was deafening. His skull vibrated, and he kept checking his ability to dead reckon his aim against the laser. The habit was his own nod to quality assurance that also served to keep him alert even though he felt his stamina lag from the onslaught of sound. He would aim, then briefly flick on the laser to verify his
accuracy.
Suffering from the sound so close to his head, he understood why the RUC had once used unbearably loud music to drive the occupants of a suspected hideout insane. They had propped up enormous speakers and blasted bagpipe music at a tiny farmhouse south of Derry. In a few hours, the blokes crawled out of the front door, waving a white flag as they vomited. Paddy initially thought them soft, but after having his bowels bounced around on sound waves for the past hour, he had an ounce of sympathy for them.
Before the service started, he had wondered if the girl was actually going to show, but Nan was sure of it. He had learned to trust her instincts, especially if Liam verified them. They were both uncanny in sniffing people out. Nan told him to look in the front center, not too close as to risk being spotted by the bishop, but not so far back that she wouldn’t get a good look at him.
He scoped out angles on the Bishop’s Chair to cover his bases in case she went up the receiving line to greet him as many parishioners did after the mass. He did not see Jessica. He was looking for her jeans or a blonde head, but when the folks presented the gifts to the priests, the woman reacted to someone in the crowd. Once he picked her out, he had no question. The simple dress and hat couldn’t hide what was underneath.
He raised the scope and checked his angles. Then it was just a matter of waiting until other activity hid the victim’s reactions and added to the pandemonium. Communion was the perfect time. Heads bowed in prayer, people walking up and down the aisles. Lots of loud music.
He did not have a clear shot until she had gotten up out of her pew to take her place in the communion line. He aimed, she moved. The beam fell on the back of another’s head. Some kind of commotion started at the altar. The old priest was waving his hand at the bishop then pointing a shaking hand at Jessica. He aimed again. The laser landed on the back of another’s head. She moved in a way that showed no confusion about what she was seeing. No hesitation at all. She’d been prey before, and her reflexes were tightly coiled springs. He saw her as she turned her head to follow the path of the beam and immediately understood she was the target. She curled up into a tight ball. Paddy’s aim was true.
No sound left him as his windpipe collapsed.
His vision narrowed to a tiny tunnel.
Trained, he kept one hand on his rifle as the other flailed behind him, groping for his assailant.
His chest burned with spasms searching for air as his mouth opened and shut, trying in vain to open his airway.
The rifle’s thwip thwip as it fired was lost against a resonant bass note.
His head jerked upward and twisted, muscles convulsing.
Tiny pricks of light dulled to darkness.
Paddy never knew who killed him.
Michael sank to the floor of the gallery and pressed himself up into the shadows. His breathing came in heavy gasps, and he swallowed the bile that inched up his throat. The feeling of the tiny bones of the larynx breaking under his fingers sickened him and filled him with fear. What he saw below eclipsed anything he felt for himself. Bishop Hughes’ face was ashen, and his eyes were open but unseeing as he lay on his back before the altar. He imagined Jessica’s scream and watched as she clawed her way forward through the rush of people. Two acolytes led the older priest to a chair. Other men in white robes tended the bishop.
A collective gasp emanated from the crowd. Congregants in the first rows stumbled into one another in the confusion. Voice by voice the choir stopped singing, and the organ playing stumbled a few more chords before ceasing. He could see the bishop’s chest rise and fall in great heaves, sucking in as much as he could. The gold and silver embroidery caught the light and made his vestments shine like metal. An acolyte propped his head up on a rolled cloth.
Michael watched all of this in a state of suspended desperation as he waited for the inevitable when someone would come crashing through the pipe room door. His world collapsed to that moment. His eyes never left the altar as he waited.
Jessica tried to push her way to the bishop’s side but other people held her back. The woman who had walked to the altar earlier in the service first stood next to the old priest, gesturing with her hands and shaking her head. Then, she guided the priest to his feet and motioned for others to assist him off the altar. She turned to see Jessica and walked to her side, giving her shoulders a quick, one-armed embrace. Jessica brought her mouth close to the woman’s ear and spoke, pointing to her head and the bishop. In unison, they turned and looked up at the gallery.
Another murmur rippled through the crowd, accompanied by applause. Bishop Hughes, red-faced and shaking, was helped to his feet. He nodded and smiled to his acolytes and others who brushed him off and offered assistance. Jessica reached her hand out to him. Before he could grasp it, she was shuttled off the altar. She stood in the center aisle confused. She took a step to return to her seat, then half turned as if to leave through a side door, her eyes never stopped searching the balcony. The other woman guided her out of the sanctuary.
The organ started playing again and the choir began to sing. Michael clasped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. In death, the body released its fluids. The fetid stink of piss and shit enveloped him.
He had no idea how long he stayed there. He listened as the service concluded and congregation slowly sifted out. The choir and the organ master thumped and milled about for too long, filling him with dread of discovery. Eventually, he heard no more voices or footsteps.
His knees resisted movement as he slowly got to his feet. His head ached, and his ears rang from the onslaught of sound. He peered through the narrow gap and craned his neck to see if anyone remained. Half deaf, he kept his gun raised as he pressed his other hand against the wooden walls for any vibration of sound. Feeling nothing, he turned to leave when the room filled with light.
The woman who had been speaking with Jessica at the altar peered inside. She crouched down and entered, not hesitating when she saw the body. She was fully inside before she saw Michael. She reached for something on her leg.
Michael waited the split second long enough to see she had grabbed a knife instead of a gun. He kept his gun pointed at her head.
She raised her hands, dagger dangling by its handle. “You stopped something terrible from happening today.” She cocked her head to the side and stared at him. “You Michael?”
He didn’t answer as he looked beyond her. “The woman you left with. Where is she?”
“Not here. She’s safe.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Keeping her hands raised, she motioned to the body. No fear or surprised showed. “We’ve time enough for chit chat. The cathedral is locked up tight. Help me get this bloke out of here.”
Jessica paced back and forth in the cellar room. Aoife had left hours ago, and she was beginning to panic. Even though they agreed that she was to wait a full twenty-four hours before leaving the cathedral, being patient was excruciating.
Events happened so quickly, but when Aoife didn’t question what Jessica had seen or the theory she had as to what happened, Jessica didn’t hesitate to follow her precise instructions. Aoife’s movements were preordained and executed with precision. All Jessica had to do was stay put and wait.
She boiled a pot of water and had her hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of Chinese noodles when she heard footsteps descend the stairs. Jessica remained motionless as she heard the door to the women’s loo open, and water run. More minutes passed before Aoife strode into the room and sat heavily on her bed, fresh from a shower with a towel wrapped around her wet hair.
Aoife rubbed her arms and legs dry. “You were right.”
“Michael?”
Aoife nodded. “Seems you knew the other gent, too,” she said, motioning to the bruise on Jessica’s chest.
A precision shot could only have been executed by Paddy. Her memories of him were fuzzy, but one detail was clear. “Red ponytail?” She received a nod in response and knew not to ask more. The thought sickened her, but Aoife seemed unaffe
cted.
“Newspapers won’t waste ink on a body found near an abandoned warehouse. There were no witnesses.”
She looked at Aoife’s chapped hands and shuddered at the kinds of filth she cleaned. “Did you and Michael talk at all?”
“Enough for me to be sure your man knows what he’s doin’.” She vigorously rubbed her hair dry, working her way around her head. “I told him he’s not to see you until you’re good and ready. Not a minute before. He got the message.” She reached over, grabbed the cup out of Jessica hands, and poured the noodles into her mouth. “Thanks,” she uttered between mouthfuls.
“The bishop’s fine, too. He had a spell or something. From what I heard from one of acolytes, Father Storm started croaking worse than a box of frogs. Hoppin’ crazy, and talkin’ in circles. From where I stood, the bishop had seen you and was about to crap his britches, then Father Storm started spoutin’. I guess it was too much for the bishop and he fainted.” She stifled a titter and feigned a serious manner.
Jessica breathed in relief, not seeing the humor. “Just fainted? He’s okay?”
Aoife slurped down more noodles, using her fingers to corral them into her mouth. “There’s people who were expecting some kind of announcement. Rumors were that the bishop was to break some kind of news about the talks. If you ask me, if the man had something he wanted us to hear, he would’ve yelled it at the top of his lungs and kicked off anyone trying to stop him.” She wiped her mouth and hands with an end of the towel. “Using the commotion was as good excuse as any not to do something he didn’t want to do.”
Jessica made another cup of noodles and offered it to Aoife who waved it off and rummaged for clothes instead. Jessica spooned the salty broth into her mouth, wondering what would happen next and if she was the one who needed to make it happen. Aoife’s ability to take it all in without concern or worry hinted at a dark life filled with harsh acts done in the name of good. As she pulled on chinos and a shirt, Jessica noted Aoife’s muscles were lithe and strong, like her own, and her arms and legs were scarred from untold struggles. She wondered what their lives would have been like without the need to fight for survival. The unspoken bond between them grew stronger.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 48