Creatures of Habit

by Pat Mullan

  An hour later, sated by their lovemaking, they lay side by side in serenity. Maria kissed him gently and looked at him with concern in her eyes.

  “You seem troubled.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why? You almost died the last time. And this is no longer about the death of Terry Joyce, is it?”

  “No, you’re right. But I can’t walk away from this. I just can’t.”

  “But it’s too dangerous!”

  “I don’t think I’m in any danger. Nobody’s trying to kill me. Why would they? I’m not a threat.”

  “But if you pursue this, you will be a threat. Can’t you see that?”

  “And you think they’d have me killed? Do you really believe they’d do that?”

  “You’re digging into something that’s very rotten. And I believe totally immoral. Why should they stop at murder? Why?”

  “But I have no choice. We have to confront these people, challenge them, stop them.”

  “And that’s why I’m worried. They’re very powerful. You’ll become a huge threat to them.”

  “But they’ll be too busy dealing with their own internal threats.”

  “And you think you can challenge this? You think you can overturn something that may have even been going on for centuries!”

  “No, no! I don’t. I’m not naïve. They can do it themselves. They can expel this evil from within. They can stop the coverup. They can start excommunicating every one that they find. They can begin working with the law in every nation. They can restore the belief of the faithful. Only they can do that. If there’s any way that I can set that in motion, I will!”

  Maria pulled him close to her and held him. Then she kissed his eyes and lingered at his lips before pulling back, “You’re a stubborn man!”

  Ed laughed, “Oh, well, you better get used to it. I can’t change now.”

  And then, more soberly, he said, “I have to go where this takes me. You must know that. I’ve always believed in separation of Church and State. If, by exposing all of this, I can get Ireland to do that, then Terry’s death will not have been bloody useless. And any risk I take will be well worth it.”

  Later, over lunch, Maria said, “Kevin’s excited about seeing you. He’s been here for a couple of overnight stays when you were away. We’ve done some fun things together. I don’t think his mother is too happy about it but it was a convenient place to dump him when they did weekends in the Bahamas or whatever.”

  “Yeah, his mother’s been pissed at me for a long time. And she’ll never forgive me for almost getting killed in front of Kevin at Shannon. I know it took Kevin a long time to get over that. Sometimes I think his mother would have preferred if I’d died.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  “But Kevin loves both of you.”

  “I know that. I never say a bad thing about his mother to him. I don’t speak about her at all. I’m sure he has tons of things to ask me but he never does. Maybe we can talk when he’s older.”

  “When he’s older maybe he won’t care.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already considered that. But I do the best I can. I’d sure love to spend more time with him. But I can’t live here now. That’s my loss.”

  “And Kevin’s loss too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he’s going to meet you at five today. And he’ll stay over for the weekend. It’s all arranged.”

  Ed’s face broke into a huge grin, almost knocking twenty years off him and transforming him into a teenage boy again. Which is exactly the way he often felt when he hung out with Kevin.

  35

  Ed Burke took a taxi across town to Mordy Stein’s penthouse on Fifth Avenue. With a view over Central Park, he had to admit that it was one of the best locations in New York. Sue, his ex, was living in style and Mordy could afford it. Just hope they haven’t screwed up Kevin, given him an elitist view of life. He felt the loss inside again, the emptiness at not being there for Kevin, the missed birthdays, and all the holidays especially Thanksgiving. Stop it, stop it, he told himself. How many times have you played this record, over and over again? What’s done is done. You can’t live in the past. Let’s move on.

  Kevin was waiting at the front door with a big smile on his face. Ed held the cab door open for him and he jumped across the pavement, almost colliding with people walking past. He jumped into the cab and put his arms around his father.

  “You’d think I hadn’t seen you for a year or more,” joked Ed, “sure it’s only a little over a month since you were with us in Florida.”

  Ed squeezed him tighter. Then he pushed him back, looked at him and said, “You’re getting taller, skinnier. Growing up, huh?”

  “Aw, dad, I’m twelve now. Soon be in my teens!”

  “God help us!” laughed Ed and Kevin responded by throwing a punch at him.

  The cab driver had been sitting patiently through all this until he saw and opening and asked,” Where to, Sir?”

  “Oh, sorry, didn’t I say? Take us back to First Avenue where you picked me up.”

  Then turning to Kevin, he said, “Maria’s making dinner for us. Your favorite. Can you guess?”

  “Chicken Thai curry?”

  “Right first time!”

  “Then I thought the two of us would take in a movie. What do you think? Anything on you want to see?”

  “Oh, I‘d really like to see I am Legend with Will Smith. It’s playing now.”

  “You know, that sounds like my kind of movie as well. Good choice!”

  The movie was great and they both escaped into the frightening world of Will Smith. Kevin sat transfixed. He knew in his heart that no matter how bad things got, Will would come out on top and save the day. Just like his dad. So he was devastated when Will Smith died at the end of the story.

  They walked back in silence until Ed asked, “You’re very quiet. Didn’t you like the movie.”

  “Yes, I did. “

  “So what is it then?”

  “I didn’t want Will Smith to die at the end.”

  “But he sacrificed himself to save others. Isn’t that a good way to die?”

  The tears welled up in Kevin’s eyes, a lump grew in his throat, and he couldn’t speak. Ed could see the emotion that had overcome him so he didn’t push the subject, just left him time to pull himself together.

  “Dad, you nearly died too at Shannon. I can’t forget it. Sometimes I have nightmares. Can’t get it out of my mind.”

  Ed pulled Kevin to him right there on the street. Kevin felt a little self-conscious and tried to push away. Ed let him and said, “But you told me the nightmares had stopped.”

  “No, I used to get them every night for weeks after you were shot. I could see you falling and the blood spreading down the front of your shirt and I could feel the panic rise up inside. I used to wake up screaming.”

  “I know. Your mother has never forgiven me. Took a lot of persuasion to get you down to Florida.”

  “But I don’t get nightmares like that any more. I only wake up in a bad dream sometimes. I don’t scream any more.”

  “God, I’m so sorry to have put you through this Kevin.”

  “I’m afraid of losing you, Dad. I don’t want you to die.”

  “Kevin, you’re not going to lose me. I’m fine. Nobody’s trying to kill me now.”

  Kevin didn’t answer. Ed knew that he hadn’t entirely convinced him. They walked back to the apartment, just enjoying being in each other’s company.

  36

  The news media descended on the little village of Cong like a swarm of locusts: RTE, CNN, Sky, BBC, and other foreign networks. The killing of Monsignor Fallon was the story of the day. Coming on top of the murder of President McCafferty and the insidious rumour that another priest may be the killer was enough to propel this story to the front page.

  The guards had cordoned off Cong Abbey and adjoining streets and
were only permitting residents through. No-one was permitted onto the grounds of the abbey itself.

  CNN, Sky, and the BBC were in the air as well as on the ground. Helicopters hovered overhead. Villagers stood in small clusters and in twos and threes outside of their houses watching in wonderment.

  Charlie Crowe of RTE stood at the junction of the main street and the adjoining street that led to the abbey. With his back to the Market Cross, he stood facing the camera and started to speak, loudly enough to carry his voice over the sound of the other reporters’ voices and the whirr of the helicopters overhead.

  “The last time there was this much excitement in this picturesque little village was fifty years ago when John Ford brought Maureen O’Hara and John Wayne here to film The Quiet Man. That was innocent excitement and those were innocent times. And these are evil times. A priest, a monsignor was murdered here. This was the place where Roderick O’Conor, our last High King, spent the final years of his life. This is a peaceful place, revered by the people and respected by the thousands of tourists who come to visit. But, after this murder, nothing will be the same. Unfortunately it will be remembered as the place where a priest was murdered…”

  In New York, the news reached Ed Burke in a breathless call on his mobile phone from Sean Coyne. Ed immediately called Aer Lingus and got lucky. He moved their return flight to the next day.

  That evening, NBC carried the news on its broadcast. Maria Lane had turned on the news as she and Ed entered his apartment. Ed had already gone to the bathroom and rushed out as Maria’s screeched, “Ed, Ed, now! On the news! Quick! Quick!”

  Stunned, he watched Charlie Crowe reporting from Cong and then listened to Brian Williams try to give an American in-depth analysis of the story. But, as in all American news, even that of a respected broadcaster like Brian Williams, it turned into a sound-bite, another story dulled by the nightly news from Iraq and the crazies, loose with guns, shooting kids in schools and diners in places like McDonalds.

  “You told Sean we’re flying out tomorrow?,” said Maria.

  “Yes. He’ll come see us as soon as we get back?”

  “And what about Tom Buckley.”

  “I sent him a text. He’ll be up to his neck in this. I should be there. This is crazy. First President McCafferty and now the monsignor.”

  “You can’t beat yourself up. At least we’ll be back tomorrow.”

  They turned off the news and Maria crossed to the bar where she made two large gin and tonics. They had no lime so they settled for lemon instead.

  37

  The day after he arrived in Mullingar, Father Bernard Flaherty received a phone call from an old friend, an admirer, who had often shared his views and his anger.

  “Father Bernard. I’m glad I found you before the gardai.”

  “Peter, what’s wrong?”

  “The gardai are looking for you. They want to ask you some questions about the death of that monsignor in Cong. Haven’t you been reading the papers? It’s all over them. That fellow Sean Coyne’s had it on the front page of The Irish Daily News.”

  “We don’t read the papers here. No papers, no radio, no television, no outside interference. It’s a place for contemplation.”

  “Well, if I found where you are, I’m sure the gardai will not be far behind me. Get out of there right now. You’ll be safe here.”

  Father Bernard didn’t need a second warning. He knew they’d find out one day. He didn’t expect it to happen so soon. But he also knew the Lord would provide for him. And Peter McDaid was the Lord’s way of providing. Peter had been in the seminary with him but he’d left before ordination. Disillusioned , he said. In the years since, they often met to talk, discuss, and argue about the state of the church and about the evil ones who had infiltrated. In their darkest, and whiskey filled moments, they had even discussed the kind of torture and death that the Lord should mete out to these people. And he knew that Peter believed that to be wishful thinking, never once surmising that Father Bernard would one day act it all out. But Peter knows now, doesn’t he?

  Traveling light, he only carried an overnight bag. He walked into town and took a taxi to the railway station. He knew the gardai would have his car’s description and licence plate so he couldn’t take a chance on being picked up. He bought a ticket to Heuston Station in Dublin and saw that the next train was due within the hour.

  He bought The Irish Daily News, a coffee to go, and sat down in the station. He’d already seen the headline on the newsstand, Forgive me, Father. He’d seen other tabloid headlines that screamed out various headlines: Justice!, Vigilante Priest, Hang ‘Em. He was totally unprepared for that, for the angry sentiment in those headlines. So, as he sipped his coffee, he read the article by Sean Coyne in The Irish Daily News. It was a continuation of the previous day’s reporting about the finding of the monsignor’s body and the evidence that led them to him.

  Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He chastised himself when he learned that he’d given himself away when he lost his money clip among the graves stones at Cong Abbey. He’d missed it but assumed that he’d left it back in his room at St. Curnan’s. Reading on, it seemed that many people regarded him as a hero, a priest who was enacting the kind of justice they’d like to have done themselves. He had tapped into a people suffering in silence for too long, a people who had always obeyed their priests, who had been taught that everything that happened in their lives, good and bad, was the will of God. The gardai issued a statement asking him to turn himself in, if not to them then at least to his own church authorities. No comment seemed to be forthcoming from Archbishop McCready’s office. That’s not surprising, thought Father Bernard, as a Cardinal-to-be he’s the church’s political animal and will do anything to stay above it all.

  Interrupted by the arriving train, he folded the newspaper, put his coffee cup in the bin, and walked down the platform. He boarded about the middle of the train, ensuring that he found a seat pointing in the direction he was traveling. He never liked to feel that he was reversing in a moving train.

  Peter McDaid, ruffled, ruddy, and a little overweight, was waiting in Heuston Station when he arrived. McDaid had followed his passion for architecture after he’d left the seminary and, with the growing demand in a very affluent Ireland, had built a successful practice. He’d never married.

  They hugged and walked quickly out of the station to Peter’s car, parked on the street nearby. In no time at all they weaved their way through the Dublin traffic and reached Peter’s house in Rathgar, an upper middle-class neighbourhood of the city. Peter had a comfortable red brick townhouse, set back behind small hedges and wrought-iron railings on a peaceful tree-lined street. Inside, high ceilings and art captured the eyes, making the house seem even larger.

  Peter took Father Bernard to an en-suite room on the second floor, and ushered him inside, saying, “This is yours. Stay as long as you need to. But we’d better talk when you’re ready.”

  Father Bernard looked at him, his eyes moist, and said, “Bless you, Peter. You know, you would have made a very compassionate priest.”

  Father Bernard unpacked his bag, soaked a hand-towel in warm water in the bathroom sink and sank his face into it. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought that he showed no signs of the pressure of recent days. The Lord is good, he thought.

  The aroma of good coffee captured his nose as he made his way down the stairs.

  “In here,” he heard Peter call and followed the voice across the hallway, past the drawing-room, and through to the completely modern but perfectly homely kitchen. Coffee and croissants waited.

  “They’re the best. From my favourite bakery. Picked them up on the way to the station. Figured that you wouldn’t get anything like this in that monastery in Mullingar.”

  “How can I thank you?”

  “You’re in a lot of trouble. If you’ve done what they claim, then I owe you. You remember the nights we agonized over the church. What was happening. The abuse. The lies. The cover
-up. Even though I got out, I never truly left. Then to find out that my time had been sullied by these people. I’d have cheered the first person who’d have lined them all up against a wall and mowed them down. If you’ve mowed some of them down, than I cheer you. And I will help you in any way I can.”

  Father Bernard had a lump in his throat. Peter was probably the only friend he’d ever had, and Peter’s emotional outburst had overcome him.

  Peter waited until Father Bernard had pulled himself together and then asked, “Did you do it?”

  Father Bernard put his hands together, as though in prayer, and leaned his face into them for a moment.

  When he took them away, he looked Peter in the eye and said, “The Lord has used me as an instrument of his vengeance. You could say that I have acted as God’s Avenger. But why ask me this question when you already know the answer. You hold the name of the disciple that our Lord held in most esteem. Peter. And yet He told Peter that, before the cock crowed three times, he would deny him. You won’t deny me, will you Peter?”

  “Bernard, why would I give you sanctuary here if I was about to deny you? But someone will deny you. Someone will turn you in to the Gardai. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I must carry out the work of the Lord.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation to you, the people are behind you. Have you seen the papers? They sympathize with you. They see you as a fellow sufferer who decided to act on their behalf.”

  “God threw the money changers out of the temple and he has asked me to make an example of those who are defiling his temple today. His people know that.”

  “At least you won’t be crucified. We don’t have a death penalty.”