“Bad?” Con asked.
Linn couldn’t speak. His thigh was a gaping hole filled with pus and blood and surrounded by the ragged edges of torn flesh. Linn could see the glint of a metal fragment embedded in the lumpy scar tissue.
“Talk to me, girl,” Con said weakly, with a trace of amusement in his tone. “I’ve not known you to be at a loss for words.”
Linn found her voice. “Con, I can’t handle this,” she said, striving to sound calmer than she felt. “You must let me call a doctor.”
He sighed. “Book next to the phone,” he said. “Neil McCarthy. The number’s there.”
Linn went to the phone, which was on his desk next to the typewriter. She pushed aside several stacks of papers and found a leather bound notebook underneath them. Dr. McCarthy’s number was scrawled in Con’s bold, angular hand.
She glanced over at Con while she got the operator to ring the number. Bally was still on the antiquated system which made every phone call an involved project. Con was peering down at his leg, trying to see what it looked like without moving.
McCarthy’s wife answered and then put him on the phone.
“Dr. McCarthy, this is Aislinn Pierce.”
Uncomprehending silence.
“Dermot Pierce’s granddaughter. I’m at Ildathach for the summer, straightening out his estate.”
“Yes, Miss Pierce?” His voice indicated that her identity had registered.
“I wonder if you could come over to the gatehouse on the property. Connor Clay is…injured.”
“Connor, eh?” the doctor answered. “Well, I’m not surprised. What is it this time?”
Linn tried to think of a way to explain and then just plunged into it. “He was shot in the leg a while back, and somehow he managed to reopen the wound. It looks like there’s a piece of metal emerging from the skin or something. I’m afraid I really don’t know what the problem is, but it looks…I really wish you would come,” she finished lamely.
“That will be the piece of bullet casing left in when they sewed him up. A botched job but it was an emergency. Tell me, is he conscious?”
“Yes, but feverish.”
“Best not to move him. Keep him warm and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, doctor. Thank you very much.” Linn hung up and turned to face Con, who was resting back on the pillows, watching her.
“He’s on his way,” Linn said. She folded her arms and surveyed him critically. “Are you going to tell me how this happened?”
“Do I have to go into it now?” he asked wearily.
He looked so beaten that Linn relented. “All right. You can tell me the details later but you went north again, didn’t you?”
“I did. And don’t look at me as if I were demented. I had to go. You know nothing about it.”
Linn felt a surge of anger so intense it almost made her ill. “Fine, Mr. Independence, just great. I think I’ll leave you here to bleed to death; how would that be?’‘ she flared at him.
Con’s eyes closed. “You won’t leave me, Aislinn,” he said. His voice was quiet but full of certainty.
He was right, of course. “I should,” she said. “You take off without a word to anybody and show up again in this condition. I never heard of anything so inconsiderate.”
His lips twitched. “Why, lass, I think you were worried about me,” he said without opening his eyes.
“Bridie and I were both worried. And with good reason. Look at you. You have to be insane to keep going back up there for more of this.”
Con’s eyes flashed open. “They were putting my friend in a camp,” he said heatedly. “No hearing, no trial, just off to the camp, which is a jail if you don’t know.”
“Well maybe he belongs in a jail,” Linn fired back. “Those people are terrorists.”
“Christy Dugan is not a terrorist. He doesn’t hold with the violence and neither do I. But his brother is a different sort and Christy got hauled in along with him. Could I sit back and do nothing?”
Linn could see that she was getting nowhere; he was only becoming more incensed and even weaker. This was an argument she would never win. He had been shaped by different forces and was pulled by different tides. She went over to him and pushed him back on the pillows. He had risen to his elbows in agitation and he subsided reluctantly, wincing as the movement disturbed his leg.
“You’re ill, and I’m not going to fight with you,” Linn said. “It’s no concern of mine if you want to trifle with your life.”
“I’m not trifling with my life,” he answered, his voice low and losing volume. “I’m here, as you see. I got out.”
“This time.”
“Every time. I’m lucky. I’ve always been lucky.”
“Oh, I can tell that just by looking at your leg,” Linn said sarcastically. “You were lucky when you took that bullet, I suppose?”
“Certainly. Anyone else would now be guarding the entrance to a harem.” He smiled slightly and closed his eyes, drifting off into a doze.
Linn smiled too, in spite of herself. She discovered again that she couldn’t remain angry with him. She unfolded the blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it over him, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his forehead with the back of her hand. His eyes opened.
“I’m glad you’re here, Aislinn,” he whispered. He reached up and took her hand, drawing her to the edge of the bed. “Sit with me,” he added.
Linn sat gingerly, careful not to jostle him. He closed his eyes again, still holding her hand. She was in the same position, watching the rise and fall of his chest, when McCarthy came to the door.
Linn got up and let him in. He was a tall, heavyset man in his fifties with graying blond hair and a small moustache. His direct gaze swept quickly over Linn and then took in the patient, prone on the bed.
He brushed past Linn and pulled over a chair, depositing his bag on the seat of it. He examined Con’s leg and shook his head.
“Will you look at this, now?” he said to Linn. “Do you think the wild man here will ever learn? Six months ago he stops a bullet that nicks the femoral artery, and he damn near bleeds out before they slap a tourniquet on him and rush him to hospital. Once there it takes enough blood to float the Armada to get him back on his feet and yet here he is, up to his old tricks again. He will mix it up with those hooligans in Ulster and this is what it gets him.”
Con’s lashes lifted. “Will you skip the oratory and patch me up, Neil?” he asked faintly. “She doesn’t need to hear the sordid history of my life.”
“Be still,” the doctor said sharply, picking up his bag. “You’re a sick man.” He took a probe from his case. “This one defeats me,” he said to Linn, continuing his monologue. “I’ve been making a career out of stitching him up since he was fourteen. That time he jumped off the roof of Saint Michael’s, if you please, and broke the other leg. He’s been trying to kill himself creatively ever since.”
“Can you help him?” Linn asked anxiously.
McCarthy sent her a measuring glance. “Have you a strong stomach?” he asked.
Linn swallowed. “I think so.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Good.” He removed forceps, a pair of thin rubber gloves and a tin of antiseptic powder from his case. “I’m going to take out that scrap that’s causing all the trouble. It had to come out sooner or later. This really should be done under sterile conditions in hospital but I don’t want to move him. Now you keep him still, lass. This will smart a bit, and I can’t have him jouncing all over the place. Get up there with him and hold him fast.”
Linn climbed onto the bed and cradled Con in her lap. He was losing consciousness again, his head lolling, his breathing shallow. She looked away from the wound when she saw McCarthy packing it in gauze and sliding a wadded sheet under Con’s leg. That done, he uncapped a flask he’d brought with him and held it to Con’s lips.
“Have some of this, son; it will
ease the pain.”
Con came around a little and sipped, choking on the strong spirits.
“That’s good Jameson’s, boy; don’t waste it,” the doctor said kindly, giving him some more and wiping away the spillage. He waited until Con swallowed and then put the flask aside.
“Let’s get to it,” he said to Linn, picking up the forceps.
Linn couldn’t look. She bent her head over Con’s, holding him close, pressing her lips to his hair. She felt his fingers close around her arms as the doctor went to work.
Con gasped and stiffened as the instrument probed his flesh. He writhed in silent agony, his hold on her like a vise. Linn murmured to him, hardly knowing what she was saying.
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice breaking. “Almost over now. Just about done.” His body relaxed and she knew that he had lost consciousness. She went on talking to him anyway, kissing his head, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach. She was unaware that she was crying.
“You’ll be fine, my darling, you’ll be fine. I know it hurts and you’re so brave, you haven’t made a sound. It’s wonderful to be so strong.”
She continued that way, holding his limp body and babbling nonsense, until McCarthy said triumphantly, “Got it. Now let me sew him up and there’s an end to it.”
Linn raised her head, blinking through her tears. “He’ll be okay?” she whispered. “He doesn’t need a transfusion?”
“Of course not. He’ll be fine. No doubt of it. This looks a sorry lot, worse than it actually is.” He saw Linn’s death grip on his patient and added gently, “You can let him go now. Help me clean him up.”
Linn settled Con carefully on the bed and wiped her face with the sleeve of her blouse. She crawled around to the doctor’s position and assisted him silently while he cleaned and dressed the wound.
“There,” McCarthy said, taping the gauze in place. “Done, and done.” He glanced at Linn. “You look like you could use a drink yourself.”
Linn tried a smile. “I guess I could.”
McCarthy raised his flask. “Neat, from the jug?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He handed Linn the bottle. She bolted a large swig and gasped, more tears springing to her eyes.
“That’ll set you up,” the doctor stated, then took a substantial pull of his own. He eyed Linn worriedly. “Are you all right, girl?”
“Yes, I think so. I guess I didn’t realize that it would… hurt him…quite so much.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “Does he know how you feel about him?”
Linn stared at McCarthy in silence.
The doctor shrugged. “I’d tell him if I were you. Con’s a smart lad about most things, but he can be a bit thick when it comes to women.”
Linn couldn’t think of a suitable reply to that observation, but McCarthy didn’t seem to expect one. He set about washing his things in the sink at the other end of the cottage, humming cheerfully. Linn had composed herself by the time he returned. He loaded a syringe from a bottle and injected Con with the solution.
“This will hold him ‘til morning,” he said. He gave Linn a paper packet with a handful of pills inside it. “Give him one of these every four hours. The shot was a pain killer and these are antibiotics.” He looked at Linn. “You’ll stay with him?”
“I’ll stay.”
“He’s a tough character, you know. Terrible strong- minded. He has to stay quiet and he may take a notion to get out of bed when he wakes up.”
“I can handle him,” Linn answered with grim determination.
McCarthy turned away to hide his smile. “I believe you can,” he said evenly. “Now he may spike a fever, which is normal under the circumstances; just keep him warm and off that leg. Call me if he becomes agitated or if anything seems wrong. I’ll be back to check on him tomorrow.”
“All right. Thank you, doctor. I’m so grateful that you came to take care of him.”
“Oh, Con’s a favorite of mine. He’s trouble on horseback, to be sure, but he has a great heart.”
That’s just what Bridie said, Linn thought.
“By the way,” McCarthy said as he was packing to go, “do you know how he got back here without his car?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t even know how he was hurt, except that it happened while he was trying to spring some friend of his who was picked up for internment.”
The doctor nodded. “A familiar story. Those boyos stick together.” He picked up his bag and glanced around to see if he had left anything.
“I think that’s all,” he said with finality. “Goodbye then, Miss Pierce, and take good care of our patient.”
“I will. And thanks again for coming.”
He made a deprecating gesture. “Not at all.” He saluted Linn with two fingers and slipped through the door.
Linn glanced at her watch. It would be a long night. She settled down in the chair next to the bed and decided to take a rest.
Later, while Con slept, she would tidy up the cottage.
* * * *
Linn fell asleep in the chair and woke an hour later. The moon had risen and shone through the window above the bed, casting a shaft of light across Con’s face. He was sleeping peacefully and Linn pulled the cover up under his chin. She put the back of her hand to his forehead, and it felt cool. Satisfied, she got up and went to the kitchenette, putting the kettle on to boil. She thought with a mental sigh that she could kill for a cup of American coffee, but she’d found that it was scarce in this country. They were all passionately devoted to tea.
She had the opportunity to examine Con’s home for the first time since she’d arrived. He had converted the interior of the stone cottage into a sort of bachelor pad. There was a small modern kitchen in one corner next to the brick fireplace, which was obviously original. A combined leisure and work area consisted of twin couches in front of the hearth and a sturdy worktable, which contained the telephone and typewriter. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, which were crammed with everything imaginable, including a small Japanese television set and a stack of clean shirts. He had a dresser and a chest of drawers in the alcove that housed the bed. Chintz curtains that matched the print on the sofas covered the windows. Linn looked around curiously for the bathroom and saw a door leading off from the rear of the kitchen. He had added that, as well as the many electric outlets which dotted the walls. He must have rewired the whole place to accommodate his appliances, a process that Linn was just beginning at the main house.
The kettle whistled and Linn went to turn it off, glancing at Con, who slept undisturbed. She turned on the small lamp on the bar portion of the kitchen and looked around for tea bags. In one of the cupboards she found something better: a jar of instant coffee. It was a British brand and didn’t compare favorably with her beloved ground roast, but it was better than nothing. Mug in hand, she wandered over to the bookshelves and investigated their contents.
He had an Irishman’s taste in books. He had many volumes of poetry, including a copy of Yeats’ original notes in the writer’s own hand, which must have cost a fortune. There were selections on Irish, American and British history and a wide range of contemporary fiction. Quite a few were in Gaelic, written with a runic alphabet and read from right to left. Linn flipped through a volume, thinking that the writing looked like Hebrew. Con seemed particularly interested in the Celtic folktales, which were Seamus Martin’s stock-in-trade; Linn examined a book on Deirdre of the Sorrows, which featured lovely pen-and-ink sketches of the principals in her tragic story.
There were some textbooks he’d saved from Fordham, and a Trinity yearbook in which she found his picture. Linn checked on the patient guiltily; he might not like her inspection of his library. You could learn a lot about people from the books they owned. Linn felt that this tour was the best insight she’d had into his character, providing information he would never volunteer himself.
There wasn’t a single copy of his own bo
oks. She thought this odd; if she ever had anything published she intended to wallpaper her rooms with the cover proofs.
Linn drained her cup and set about putting the large room in order. The cottage wasn’t dirty, just cluttered. She put Con’s papers into neat, organized stacks and resisted the strong temptation to read the manuscript pages she found on top of the typewriter. She washed the dishes in the sink and put away a bag of groceries he’d left to decompose on the countertop. Most of the stuff was salvageable; she poured the soured milk down the sink and tossed out the rock hard loaf of bread. He had evidently left in a hurry.
She was crouched before the mini refrigerator, putting things away, when she heard a sound from Con’s direction. She hurried to his side. He was whimpering, muttering under his breath, bunching the bedclothes in his fists. Alarmed, she felt his forehead, but he was still cool. He wasn’t delirious; he was having a bad dream.
She touched his arm lightly but he continued to talk, louder now. He spoke in Gaelic and she couldn’t understand a word. He was becoming more upset, and she was just about to shake him when he sat up with a loud cry, shocking himself awake.
“Con, you’re all right,” Linn said soothingly, putting her hands on his shoulders. “You had a bad dream.”
He looked at her and around at the room. Relieved, he sank back on the bed. “It seems I did,” he answered hoarsely.
“You were yelling in Gaelic,” Linn said.
He nodded. “We use it for a code. The tans can’t understand it.”
The tans. He used the old word, with the old bitterness. “Is that what you were dreaming about, the trouble?”
“Aye.” He swallowed. “I was trying to warn someone but he couldn’t hear me. I’ve dreamt the same before.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t bear repeating.” He took her hand. “Will you get me a drink? I’ve the mother and father of a thirst.” He glanced at his leg. “I see Neil patched me up.”
“I’ll get you a drink of water,” Linn replied. “You’re full of drugs; no booze for you. It’s time for your pill anyway.”
The Eden Tree Page 8