Rock Point (Sharpe & Donovan)

by Carla Neggers

  “It’s all right, Fidelma. I miss them, too.”

  “It’s part of the reason you’re leaving us now, though, isn’t it? You’re not just escaping memories. You’re escaping all of us, too. Our lives. Watching our three grow up while yours...”

  “While Kathleen and Mary stay forever little girls,” Finian said, finishing for her.

  She went pale and whispered, “Pay no attention to me, Fin.”

  He hugged her close. “God be with you, Fidelma. I’m not escaping from my life here, and I’ll come home. I promise.”

  Declan opened the door of the waiting car for his twin brother. “Feck,” he said, as only an Irishman could. “I hate goodbyes. We’ll see you soon, Fin. Godspeed.”

  As he climbed into the car, Finian held back tears of his own. On their twenty-second birthday, he and Declan had taken a long hike in the Kerry hills and ended up deciding to go into the whiskey business. They’d built Bracken Distillers and made it a success against the odds—against the wise advice of most commonsense people they knew.

  Now Finian had a different calling.

  Declan would continue with the whiskey business they both loved, and Finian would spend the next year serving the people of little Rock Point, Maine.

  Chapter 4

  Finian had the car stop at Bracken Distillers, located in a restored seventeenth-century distillery just outside Killarney. He asked the driver to wait for him. Instead of going into the main building, Finian walked around to the back, then down a hill to a roofless stone shed he and Declan often talked about turning into a health club for employees. This was where, in March, Finian had walked with Becan Kennedy. Finian had assumed Becan, a carpenter who’d worked on many old buildings, had wanted to give his opinion on the shed’s potential as a health club, but that notion had soon been dismissed.

  Becan had requested Finian meet him in the same spot.

  The partial walls and foundation of the old shed were covered in vines and moss, shaded by an oak tree. Becan eased out from behind the remains of the stone chimney. He was a thin, nervous man, no more than forty himself, in terrible shape despite his work as a carpenter. He had sagging, pallid skin and watery blue eyes that didn’t connote midnight romances or quiet seas but, rather, a tormented soul. He wore nondescript jeans and a colorless T-shirt, and his trail shoes were crusty with dried mud. Finian hadn’t changed back into his clerical suit—he would in the morning, before his flight—but Becan recognized him from his work at the distillery, before Sean Murphy had invited Finian to Declan’s Cross.

  Without Becan Kennedy, Finian thought, he wouldn’t have been at the O’Byrne House Hotel in March and met Father Callaghan, and he wouldn’t be on his way to Maine.

  “I was named for a saint,” Becan said, tossing a cigarette into the mud.

  Finian nodded. “So was I. There are a number of Irish saints named Finian, but the one I’m named for served here in the southwest. Do you know about Saint Becan?”

  “He was a better man than I, no doubt.”

  “He founded a monastery in Kilbeggan.”

  Becan shifted from one foot to another; he was restless, distracted. “I only know Kilbeggan whiskey,” he said with a snort.

  “Saint Becan lived in the sixth century—at least a century after Saint Patrick.” Finian kept his voice steady, hoping to ease the younger man’s nervousness. “He was a religious hermit.”

  “Some days I’d like to be a hermit,” Becan said. “Just skip the religious part.”

  “Why did you ask me here, Becan?”

  He gave a crooked grin. “Not to discuss a lap pool in back of the health club. You know the guards are after me, don’t you?”

  The guards. Gardai. The Irish police. A certain detective Finian knew would want to be here now, and wouldn’t be happy that his friend had come to meet Becan Kennedy alone.

  Finian made no response. He felt his hike with his brother in the backs of his legs. He was in good shape but nonetheless hoped the exercise would help him sleep on the flight tomorrow.

  “I talked to your detective friend in March,” Becan said. “He tried to get you to give him my name, didn’t he? But you didn’t. You’re a priest. You can’t.”

  “What I’m wondering, Becan, is why you don’t tell the guards who you are. They can help you.”

  Becan withdrew a pack of cigarettes from a back pocket. “You were decent to me.” He tapped out a cigarette and pointed it at Finian. “You understand that men make mistakes.”

  “Spiritually or—”

  “All kinds.” He was nervous, fidgety, his eyes not meeting Finian’s as he spoke. “I’m afraid, Father.”

  “Not of the guards,” Finian said.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I told your garda friend some things, about what I’m into. Then I got scared. I don’t know what to do, Father. I don’t trust anyone—except you.”

  “Did you come here alone?”

  “Yeah, sure. Who’d come with me, you know? To see a priest?”

  Finian had no answer for that question. “You didn’t invite anyone else to join us?”

  “God, no. Not the lot I’m with.”

  “And no one followed you?”

  Becan stuck his cigarette on his lip and dug out a lighter. “No one followed me,” he said under his breath, lighting his cigarette. “I didn’t need that thought running in my head, you know, Father?”

  “It was already there, though, wasn’t it, Becan?”

  He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke off to the side, away from Finian. “I suppose you’re right. I’m glad you’re here, Father. Thanks for coming. I didn’t want to involve you...” He waved his burning cigarette. “But here we are.”

  “What can I do for you, Becan?”

  “I wish I’d stuck to carpentry work.” He glanced at the shed with an air of regret mixed with resignation. “But I didn’t, did I? I got into things I wish I hadn’t. I was almost hoping the guards followed you here.”

  “I understand,” Finian said.

  Becan threw down his partially smoked cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “You don’t know we used this back field for one of our operations, do you?”

  “What ‘operation,’ Becan?”

  “Smuggling.”

  “Whiskey smuggling?”

  “Whiskey, cigarettes, pills, counterfeit money. Not hard drugs or guns. Your brother doesn’t know. No one here does. We didn’t come onto distillery grounds, because of the security. We used the field.” He nodded down past the shed to a quiet field outside of the grounds but owned by Bracken Distillers. “It’s a good spot. You’d be surprised.”

  “I am surprised,” Finian said.

  “We distributed goods out across Ireland from here,” Becan said. “I think the guards are onto us. I want out, Father. I want to tell the truth. That’s all.”

  Finian reached into the pocket of his hiking pants and withdrew the card that Sean had given him in March. “It’s Sean Murphy’s number. He said to give it to you in case you contacted me. No one else has it. Only he will answer.”

  Becan seemed ready to bolt but snatched the card and tucked it into a pocket in his jeans. He sniffled. “The guards are watching us. We’re watching them. It’s a dangerous situation.”

  “You can make the call now, Becan. I’ll wait.”

  “I need to think. I just don’t know...” He shifted abruptly. “I have to go. You won’t tell anyone about me. The guards. Anyone. Right, Father?”

  “That’s right. There’s a time and place for each of us to speak and for each of us to keep silent. You need to speak, my friend. Call the number I gave you.”

  Becan said nothing as he shuffled back to the old shed and disappeared.

  Finian returned to his waiting car. He’d done what he could. His next stop was his hotel ahead of his flight out of Shannon Airport tomorrow.

  He looked out the window as the refurbished distillery—his and Declan’s dream come true—faded fr
om sight. He remembered a warm June day like this one when Sally had greeted him at the gate after a walk out past the fields, sweaty, smiling as she’d leaned into him. “Let’s go home early, Fin. I can’t wait another minute to get your clothes off you.”

  He could see her in the milky light of the endless June dusk as they’d made love.

  He hadn’t been a different man then. He’d been the same man he was now. To pretend otherwise—to try to make it not so—was to deny this life he’d been given, and the truth of who he was.

  Suddenly he couldn’t wait to be in Maine.

  * * *

  His hotel had dreadful food but a surprisingly decent selection of whiskey. No Bracken Distillers expressions, but Finian ordered an excellent Kilbeggan to take some of the edge off his soggy fish-and-chips. He’d ordered them before he remembered Rock Point was a fishing village and would presumably have restaurants that served proper fish-and-chips when the occasional urge struck.

  He followed his bad fish-and-chips with a delicious bread-and-butter pudding. He doubted he’d eat much, if anything, on the plane tomorrow. He could excuse, or at least rationalize, the rich meal and hoped it would help him sleep tonight.

  He was savoring the last bite of his pudding when Sean Murphy slid into the booth across from him. Sean had a devil-may-care look about him at the same time as the air of a professional law enforcement officer—an uneasy combination that no doubt he used to great advantage.

  Sean leaned back against the cushioned booth. “Your friend called.”

  “I have many friends, Sean,” Finian said.

  “Did you ask to meet him or did he ask to meet you?”

  “Does it matter now?”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. “Either way, Fin, you’re playing with fire.”

  “I’m not playing with anything. I’m flying to Boston tomorrow.” He abandoned his pudding and drank some of his whiskey. “Do you and your garda associates have Bracken Distillers under surveillance?”

  “For what?”

  “That implies you do, and there could be multiple reasons.”

  “It doesn’t imply anything. Practically speaking, we’d have to have good reason to put anyone under surveillance. Do we, Fin? Do we have good reason to investigate Bracken Distillers?”

  “You’re a suspicious man, Garda Detective Murphy. You’d suspect your own sheep of wrongdoing if you discovered one of your fields was being used behind your back for untoward purposes.”

  Sean barely smiled. “No doubt I would. Blasted sheep.”

  Finian left it at that and sighed. “You’re in danger, aren’t you, Sean?”

  “Comes with the territory.” Sean’s smile was genuine now. “Relax, Fin. Enjoy your flight tomorrow. Come back and see us soon, and stay in touch.”

  He didn’t linger, and Finian sensed the seriousness behind his friend’s easy manner.

  “Be careful, Sean.”

  “No worries, my friend. No worries at all.”

  * * *

  Finian had time for a breakfast that was worse than his fish-and-chips before he had to be at the airport. It wasn’t really close enough to walk to the terminal, but he walked anyway. His luggage was no trouble at all. He’d always been a light packer, even before he’d become a priest.

  “I have cousins in America, Fin. We should visit them one day.”

  “We will, Sally. We will.”

  “They’re in New York and Savannah. They say Savannah is beautiful in early spring.”

  Finian shook off the image of his sweet wife lying in bed next to him on a warm summer night as they’d dreamed of their future together, whispering about trips to far-off places. She’d never worried when he traveled, and traveled often herself. They’d staggered their trips after the girls arrived, but had found themselves more and more reluctant to leave home, especially alone.

  Finian entered the terminal. He wasn’t a whiskey man now. He was a priest, on his way to serve a small parish in America. He looked up at the board to check the number of the appropriate Aer Lingus counter at which to drop off his luggage and collect his boarding pass.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two men standing together in the wide, open doorway of a shop, next to a table piled with books.

  Finian thought they were watching him but couldn’t be sure.

  He looked straight at them, but they turned away. Middle-aged, average size, dressed in casual clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. No luggage. No air of urgency about catching a flight.

  Gardai?

  Becan Kennedy’s cronies?

  Finian ignored them and wheeled his luggage to the correct line. He was out of his mind, thinking they had anything to do with Sean’s investigation—and if they did, they’d have to be crazy to try anything at a highly secure airport.

  Was he half hoping they’d cause a commotion so he’d have an excuse not to board his flight?

  After he checked his bag and got his boarding pass, he spotted the two men behind him on the escalator up to the gates. He pretended to check messages on his phone and snapped their photo as he stepped off the escalator.

  In two seconds their image was off to Sean Murphy.

  As Finian stepped into the security line, he noticed that the two men had disappeared. He’d missed them entirely and had no idea where they’d gone. He stepped into the duty-free shop and had a look at the whiskey offerings, including a nice display of moderately priced Bracken Distillers expressions.

  He’d just paid for a bottle of water and was on his way into the lounge when Sean Murphy texted him, typically terse:

  “If you see them again, notify security at once. Safe travels.”

  So the men weren’t gardai, anyway.

  Finian texted Sean an equally terse response, just as an announcement came over the loudspeaker that his flight to Boston would soon be boarding. His heart jumped as he realized he was officially on his way to America.

  Chapter 5

  Rock Point, Maine, was just as Father Callaghan had described. A bit run-down and struggling but located on a beautiful stretch of the northern New England coast. Finian had a car—not a parishioner or another priest—pick him up at the airport in Boston and then drop him off on the quiet street above the harbor where St. Patrick’s Church and rectory stood side-by-side, sharing a lawn that was freshly cut but appeared to be mostly weeds. Father Callaghan had explained that the rectory was a Greek Revival house “due for a facelift,” and the church was a granite-faced building that had originally been an American Baptist church.

  Finian appreciated the mature shade trees as he carried his luggage to the back steps of the rectory. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, late in the day—even later if he considered that Ireland was five hours ahead. He’d slept little on his flight, but he’d be foolish to try to sleep now. Best to get on Maine time as soon as possible.

  He left his luggage on the back steps and walked down to the village. He observed a bank, hair salon, pharmacy, liquor store, hardware store, insurance business—if not thriving, Rock Point was holding its own. He crossed the main street to a restaurant, Hurley’s, a rough-wood building set on pilings and jutting out over the horseshoe-shaped harbor. High tide would reach under its floorboards. The harbor itself was crowded with working boats and a handful of pleasure boats, all bobbing in gentle waves.

  Only when he walked past Hurley’s down to the waterfront did Finian realize he’d been so caught up in taking in his new home he hadn’t experienced his usual gut-twisting reaction at seeing sailboats.

  It was a start, anyway, but as he walked out onto a pier, he felt the rush of excitement at arriving in Rock Point fade and melancholy creep in. He stood next to a stack of rectangular wire cages that smelled of dead things. It was low tide, which brought out more dead smells.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see the green of Ireland.

  “They’re lobster traps,” a man at the end of the pier said, turning, giving Finian and his priest’s garb a quick scan.
>
  The American was solidly built, with dark hair, small scars on his eye and cheek and perhaps the most penetrating gray eyes Finian had ever seen. He wore a gray sweatshirt, jeans and trail shoes. A local man? Yes and no, perhaps.

  “I’m not much of a fisherman,” Finian said.

  “Me, either, these days. You’re the new priest at Saint Patrick’s?”

  “I am, yes. Finian Bracken.”

  “Colin Donovan. I’d heard we were getting an Irishman. My folks are members. I’m not much of a churchgoer.”

  “Easter and Christmas?”

  “Funerals and weddings. When I can. I’m not in town that often.”

  “But you live here?” Finian asked.

  He shrugged. “I have a place a few blocks from the church, but I work in Washington.”

  “For the government?”

  “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  The FBI, then. The words seemed to come with difficulty, as if he wasn’t used to identifying himself to strangers, at least not in his hometown. He was good-looking in a rugged way. Blunt. Physical. A man’s man.

  Finian wondered if Colin Donovan wasn’t as removed from the church of his youth as he perhaps thought he was. But it didn’t matter. Finian wasn’t that kind of priest.

  “Home for a few days, are you?” he asked the American.

  “I am.” Colin looked out at the water and bobbing boats. “It’s good to get away from Washington for a few days.”

  Finian suspected the statement was true as far as it went and no farther. “I haven’t settled in yet. Where can I get a bite?”

  “There.” Colin nodded to the rustic restaurant on the water. “Hurley’s. It’s a local favorite. The clam chowder is good, but if you want anything fancier, you’ll have to go into Heron’s Cove.”

  “Hurley’s sounds perfect. What should I call you?”

  “Colin’s fine, Father.”

  “Finian, or Fin, if you’d like.”

  Colin seemed to relax somewhat, but he struck Finian as raw, hyperaware of his surroundings, reminding him of Sean Murphy. Finian doubted the FBI agent was as convivial as Sean by nature—not that Sean had been particularly convivial last night at the hotel restaurant, or this morning in his texted reply, or, for that matter, in March during Finian’s last visit to Declan’s Cross.