Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

  And right now I had to get out.

  I put the Toyota in gear and roared away from the cathedral. As I did so, I heard the carillon bells ringing. I looked at my watch: 4:00. I lowered my windows and couldn’t help but smile because the largest collection of bells in the Republic of Ireland was playing Amazing Grace.

  I hoped my mother was in a place where she could hear them.

  ***

  I drove west on Highway N22, through the small town of Macroom looking for a medical clinic. Nothing but pubs, shops, eateries, a feed and seed store, a small hotel, and picture-postcard beautiful scenery. I drove over a stone bridge crossing a fast-moving river. The sign indicated Morris Bridge was built in 1768, the river rushing under five Romanesque arches. I continued driving toward Killarney, my destination was Shannon International Airport, and home.

  The pain hammered in my shoulder. My head throbbed. I pulled to the side of the road right past the Killeen Lodge, got out of the car, and removed my long-sleeved shirt. I wore a black T-shirt underneath. I ripped the sleeve off the shirt, pushed up the short sleeve on the T-shirt, and examined my wound. The bullet had entered my shoulder less than an inch from my birthmark, the round still lodged in muscle and tendons. I tied off the wound and wrapped the ripped sleeve around my shoulder, stopping the flow of blood.

  I braced myself holding the roof of the car, inhaling the cool country air through my nose, trying to clear my head. I heard sheep bleating, their hooves clacking across the road. I turned around and was met with at least two dozen sheep, a border collie running, and a man walking with a cane. The dog darted around the perimeter of the herd, the man at the rear. They came to my side of the road, the sheep ignoring me and climbing a green hill to pasture land. The man wore a tweed cap, flannel shirt, and blue jeans. He was in his mid-sixties, his closely shaved cheeks flushed, green eyes like spring clover. He said, “Good day, sir. Looks like you could use some medical attention.” His accent was thick as the grass on the hill.

  “Is there a hospital or medical clinic nearby?”

  “Nearest would be Cohb to the east, Killearny to the west.” He raised a bushy white eyebrow. “From the looks of things, I’d say you ought to have that examined right now.”

  I blew air out of my cheeks. “What do you suggest?”

  “I could take a look.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Don’t carry a license, but I carry the knowhow.” He leaned in and pulled back the sleeve, carefully inspecting the wound.

  “How’d you get in the way of a bullet? You rob a bank?”

  “No. It’s a long story. A deranged man tried to kill me.”

  “Seen plenty of those types in the service. I was a medic in the British Army. Twenty bloody years. Saw my share of combat and treated more wounded men than I want to remember. I retired to the farm, and today I administer medical care to all my animals. My house is a hundred meters down the drive. Between my wife and me—she was a nurse, we can help you. Name’s Cormac Moore.”

  “Sean O’Brien.”

  “Come on, Sean, let’s get you patched up.”

  ***

  I lay on a bed in the guest room, the small county house very clean and well-kept. The man’s wife introduced herself as Rebecca and told me she’d retired as an emergency room nurse from a Dublin Hospital. She was in her early sixties, a round face, kind eyes and a calm demeanor. She looked like a woman who’d seen the worst and yet the best in people.

  Considering their backgrounds, generosity, and the fact that I might come out of surgery at a large hospital and look into the faces of people wanting to arrest me, this was becoming the best option I had.

  Cormac Moore poured three fingers of Jameson’s into a clear glass. “Here, knock this back. Best thing we have here to dull the pain.”

  “I usually sip this stuff.”

  “We need it to kick in now. No time to sip. Becky’s boiling the tools. We want to keep the possibility of infection to a minimum.”

  “Good idea.” I downed the whiskey.

  Rebecca Moore brought in a tray, the surgical instruments—whatever they might be, were wrapped in white towels. She set the tray down on a bedside table, cleaned and prepped my wound, her eyes kind and confident. “Cormac, he’s ready.”

  He came from an adjacent bathroom, flannel sleeves rolled up, hands and forearms wet from washing. He used a towel to dry them and said, “Sean, you just lie here and stare up at the bloody ceiling. This ought to be quick.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  He nodded, lifted a long, thin knife up and began. I clenched my teeth and tried to block the pain, wishing I had another Jameson’s. The knife and knitting-needle-like-prod he used felt like both had been heated over a scorching flame until they were glowing. I gripped the mattress, neck muscles tightening, sweat rolling down my face and onto the pillow. The room felt hot, the air thick. I glanced out the bedroom window and could see sheep grazing nearby.

  Cormac said to his wife, “Hand me the retractor.”

  I could see her move, slightly, feel him scraping my bone, heard the bleat of sheep in the pasture. Fought back the urge to vomit. Then I heard the clank of a bullet hit the metal bowl.

  “Looks like a heavier caliber,” he said. “No splintering. All’s intact. Very little damage done, Sean. You’re a very lucky man.”

  His wife said, “Maybe that’s why you have that unique birthmark on your shoulder. It’s a perfect shamrock, and four leaves to boot. Most people have to get a tattoo to have that. You’re the lucky one. You wear the mark of St. Patrick himself.”

  Cormac poured himself a shot of Jameson’s and said, “Becky will close you up. She’s better with a needle and thread. Besides, I’ve misplaced my glasses.” He winked at me and touched me gently on the arm. “After she sews you up, you should have another whiskey. Looks like you could use it.”

  As his wife closed the wound, she said, “He’s teasing you, Sean. You look fine. Please stay and get some rest, give the wound proper time to set.”

  “Thank you.”

  After she placed a sterile bandage on my shoulder, Cormac poured two fingers worth of Jameson’s. I propped a little higher on the pillows, took the whiskey and swallowed it. Then I looked out the window for a second. Something caught my eye. Something black. I watched a raven fly from an elm tree to a clothesline just outside the window, the white sheep in the background. The bird turned its face to the sun, one yellow eye visible.

  It was then I knew where I’d heard what Father Garvey had said. And if I could make the connection, it might lead me to my brother Dillon.

  89

  I spent three days at the home of Cormac and Becky Moore, resting, recuperating, and planning my next move. On the fourth morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window, two sheep staring back at me. The pistol I took from Father Garvey was on the nightstand. There was a knock at the door. I turned as Rebecca Moore entered. She smiled and said, “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you. I have to hit the road today.”

  “I hope it’s not too soon. I have another fresh shirt for you, one of Cormac’s. Might fit you. But you’ll probably had to turn the sleeves up a bit. You’ve got longer arms. I’ve set out fresh towels for you. Please join us for breakfast. I made biscuits this morning. Cormac likes to brag about my biscuits.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded and turned to leave. “Rebecca.”

  “Yes?”

  “The hospitality you and your husband have shown me, what you did for me … I’m a stranger and you took me in. It’s rare, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Sean. I believe you’d do the same for us. As matter of fact, I know you would. I can tell.” She smiled and left the room.

  ***

  I finished one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in my life, pushed back from the table and said, “I want to thank you both. Can I pay you for all you�
��ve done for me?”

  Cormac Moore looked at me curiously. “For what? Doin’ what needed to be done? I think not.”

  “Just when I start to wonder if we’re doomed as a species, people like you come along. Thank you.”

  Cormac nodded. “Say nothing more.” He slid a full bottle of Jameson across the table, followed by a bottle of aspirin. “Wherever your journey takes you in Ireland, here’s a little something for the road. I’m no doc, but a shot of whiskey and two extra-strength aspirins will ease that pain in your shoulder.”

  “Sounds like a good prescription.” I smiled.

  “Where will your journey take you?” Rebecca asked.

  “That’s a great question. Immediately, I’m looking for some acreage in County Kerry.”

  “What kind of land?”

  “The old place was known as the Wind in the Willows. I hear it’s abandoned. Near the coast.”

  Cormac’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Wind ‘n the Willows, you say, lad? That’s not near the coast—that’s the coast. Maybe a half kilometer of coastline. We’re familiar with it because one of those international hotel chains was trying to muscle its way in, buy the land for below market price, and build a mammoth time-share resort, and a casino with all the garish trimmings.”

  “What happened?”

  “The woman who owned it refused to sell. It was in her family for more than three hundred years. A classic Irish estate was built there by the seventh earl of the Flanagan family. It burned to the ground in a horrific fire. Just an old caretaker’s cottage on it today, but the ownership of the land predates Cromwell’s invasion.”

  “Can you give me directions to the place?”

  “Of course. Follow N22 through Killarney to N70. Turn right or east on R565 and head toward the coast, on Skellig Road. The property overlooks Puffin Island.”

  I said nothing. My thoughts racing.

  Rebecca asked, “Are you in pain, Sean.”

  “I’m okay.”

  She smiled. “That part of Ireland is remote and so beautiful. Care for some more coffee?”

  “No thank you. Cormac, I wanted to leave the pistol on the nightstand in the bedroom with you. I can’t take it on the plane, the guy I took it from won’t be needing it anymore, but I still might need it before I leave Ireland.”

  He smiled. “I can only bloody assume that you’re being chased, hunted. You don’t have to tell us why if you don’t want to. You’re obviously American. I’d wager your appearance here it has something to do with your wound, and maybe your surname, too. Sometimes people run from something, sometimes they run to something. Which is if for you, Sean?”

  “I’m not sure any more. I’m trying to locate a man in America, and the only person who knows, or knew where he is, lived here in Ireland.”

  “And he’s dead, correct?”

  “He committed suicide.”

  Rebecca sipped a hot tea and asked, “Did he tell you what you came for before he took his life?”

  “Not directly. Do you have a computer with Internet access?”

  Cormac said, “Yes. Laptop. I’ll get it for you.”

  Rebecca cleared the table as he brought in a laptop computer. He turned it on and handed it to me. I searched online for key words to what Father Gravel had said before he jumped. ‘A place you’ll never find him. Maybe the distant Aideen … you need balm for the wound and your soul, lad, for your feelings of grief. Dillon found it, but you, I think not. You wretched soul … you enter my confessional, my private chamber opening my door, but there’s darkness there, nothing more and nevermore. Are you surprised?’

  “You bastard,” I mumbled.

  “What is it, Sean?” Cormac asked.

  “The guy who jumped to his death was baiting me, cat and mouse like. He wasn’t about to tell me directly what I wanted. But he did utter a clue before he died. And made a very subtle reference, an alliteration, to the words and cadence from Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, The Raven. From the house of God to the House of Usher.”

  “How’s that?” Rebecca asked.

  “He mentioned Aideen. That’s a poetic allusion to the Garden of Eden.”

  “It’s believed the Garden of Eden was somewhere near the Euphrates River in what today is Iraq.”

  “I have a feeling the reference the priest left is somewhere in America. And I have to find it.”

  90

  I drove through miles of rolling farmland, terrain in shades of avocado and olive greens, pocketed in deep shadow around old growth trees, and ancient cemeteries where many of the dead from Cromwell’s conquest lay interred. More than twenty thousand died in battle, and there were tens of thousands more civilian casualties. As I drove by cemeteries, I thought of Abbey Island Cemetery, the place my mother had told me my father was buried.

  Before flying out of Shannon, I’d find the cemetery.

  I had the windows down on the rental car, the smell of the sea now in the wind. I followed the directions that Cormac had given me, the last turn was left onto Skellig Road. I drove up a slight hill, grass green and verdant on both sides of the narrow road. At the top of the hill, it was as if I’d opened a panoramic window into a world that might as well have been sixteenth century Ireland.

  The green hills were like humpback leviathans bordering the cliffs and the sea, the lush acreage cascading down to the rock cliffs, the Atlantic Ocean a deep sapphire blue, the sounds of sea birds in the air. Less than a hundred meters off the cliffs was an island, and I knew it was Puffin Island.

  A weathered hand-painted sign nailed to a slanting post read: Wind ‘n the Willows. I got out of the car and walked past the sign, down a long gravel drive to a small, egg-white cottage. I cupped my hands to one of the sea-stained windows. The place was modestly furnished, wooden furniture, throw rugs on the floors. I could tell no one had lived here full time in years. Yet, it was fairly well preserved. No sign of vandals or broken windows or doors. Now I really felt as if I’d entered a different time period—isolated, the sound of breakers present, waves of humanity not, a barren rugged land, secluded, yet a strong feel of ancient Irish history in the soil.

  I followed an old stone slab fence down the property. The rocks looked ancient as Stonehenge, set by human hand from the top of the hill all the way down to the sea. The rock fence was less than three feet high, but it was at least the length of two football fields. I walked next to it to the end, the cliffs. From there the view of Puffin Island felt primal, as if I’d been transported through time to a Jurassic era and to a place humans weren’t supposed to go. It seemed only fitting that long-necked sea creatures should be breaking the surface off the island.

  Although there were no plesiosaurs, there were dozens of seals. Some lying on the rocks, others diving into the indigo sea. Thousands of aquatic birds teemed over the island. I could see cormorants, razorbills, gulls, and many birds I couldn’t identify—and those that I could because I first saw them on my mother’s mailbox, the puffins. With their orange, red, and black bills, their tear-drop eyes, and chalky white faces, they looked like little clowns waddling on the rocks.

  But it was in the air and water where their performance was anything but comical. They flew with bullet-like speeds over the ocean, diving and swimming like penguins on steroids hunting for fish. I couldn’t help but smile.

  And then a rock exploded below my right hand.

  I rolled off the stone wall, keeping the wall between me and the shooter. I peered through an opening in the stacked stones. A man, one lone shooter, crouched on a grassy hill, his rifle on a bi-pod, maybe a hundred-fifty yards away. There was one round left in the .357 under my belt. But to hit a target a hundred-fifty yards away with a round from a pistol was extremely difficult. I’d done it in the military, on shooting ranges under fairly controlled circumstances.

  Not here.

  Not with the wind blowing off the Atlantic. Not with a human target crouched in a near prone position. I crawled on my hands and knees behind the rock wall a little c
loser toward the parking lot. A second shot shattered a stone right above my head.

  I found a spot in the wall where I could peer through it, like looking through a rocky porthole. The shooter stood, lifting a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Now was my chance. I aimed the pistol through the opening in the wall, looked at the way the wind blew the grass and leaves, watched a puffin fly into the gust off the ocean. I knew I had to aim above the man, calculating for the pull of gravity, the long-distance drop of the bullet, the trajectory of the wind.

  He held the binoculars with both hands, lowered the glass and looked with his naked eyes, holding one hand above his eyes to shield out the sun’s glare.

  I raised the sight at the end of the barrel to about one inch above the top of his head, calculating the distance for a torso shot. For more control, I placed a rock under the barrel. Then I held the stock with two hands. I glanced up to see a peregrine falcon call out; it rose from a tree, the bird startled from its perch. I didn’t breathe. Focus. I had to enter a mental state of total control. Silence. I squeezed off the shot. The concussion sound blowing back from the rock was deafening. I watched, aware that the bullet would arrive at the target before the sound.

  He stood there. Lifting the binoculars.

  One thousand one.

  One thousand two.

  The shooter fell to his knees and onto his back. I could see his hand flaying at the center of his chest. I ran hard to the road.

  Someone was coming.

  The falcon cried out in flight to Puffin Island, and then there was the unmistakable noise of a diesel engine chugging up the gravel road. I stopped running and walked to my car on the side of the road.