Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  And no sign of his boy.

  The long drive against the monotonous, bland, unbroken scenery was a tableau of pain for Mike. No radio, no sound at all save the hum of the engine to muffle the pain of his guilt, the growing horror of the thought he couldn’t keep down: Have I lost him for good?

  When the low-petrol light blinked on the dashboard, it felt like a sign from God.

  Go home. You think you’re doing something but you’re only running in circles and your family needs you. The compound needs you.

  Mike turned the Jeep in the direction of the compound and felt despair build in his chest with every mile that drew him closer to home and away from the hope of finding Gavin. Was the lad hurt somewhere? Was he afraid? Cold?

  When he passed the place where he’d first noticed the druids’ campfire, he looked to see their smoke but the sky was clear. Either they’d moved on or had found nothing else to burn. His stomach clenched when he thought of the ribbon. Why would five men have a child’s hair ribbon with them? Even if Mike did contact the Dublin Guard, they likely wouldn’t come to investigate. They had their hands full with the rest of a crippled Ireland—especially the cities, or what was left of them.

  A few suspicions and a family of dead Irish Travelers won’t be enough to warrant a trip inland for the only law enforcement body in a post-apocalyptic state.

  The woods hugged the road snugly on the east and pastures gave way to a dizzying expanse of countryside to the west. The sun was sinking quickly and Mike knew he wouldn’t make it back before dark.

  Sarah would be worried…

  Suddenly, in the last glinting rays of the dying winter sun, he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of color in the woods. He was only a couple of kilometers from the druids’ campfire site. He slammed on the brakes and parked the Jeep in the middle of the road. Then he grabbed his rifle and jumped out of the vehicle. Were they watching him? Following him?

  The silence that enveloped him was eerie and complete. Only his own breath was audible except for the crunching of the gravel under his boots before he stepped into the woods. Again he stopped and listened and again heard nothing.

  He walked gingerly through the thick woods, touching the trees with his left hand as he passed, holding his rifle in his right. Ready. The deadly quiet of the woods seemed to swallow him up. The daylight was nearly gone in the woods and Mike was surprised he could see as well as he could. He stopped again to get his bearings and try to remember how far back he’d seen the flash of color. He suddenly felt a slight vibration that began under the soles of his boots and moved steadily up his body.

  Mike stamped his feet to relieve the sensation and grasped a nearby tree to steady himself. The vibration seemed to erupt from the scales of the tree bark into his fingers, and he pushed himself away as if scalded. He lost his footing and stumbled to his knees. His gun jerked from his hands as he fell.

  Like a detonating bomb, the sound of the gun’s explosion ripped through his head. The very woods seemed to erupt in pandemonium. Screams and howls lacerated the air as Mike fumbled for his rifle on the ground beside him. He snatched it up and dragged himself to his feet, dazed by the cacophony in the forest. He shook his head to clear it of the din.

  And that’s when he saw it.

  The towering figure loomed, its arms outstretched toward Mike in malicious invitation. Its head a horrifying tangle of branches and sticks covering a gaping maw. Stuffed in the cavity behind jagged wicker ribs was the flash of color he’d seen from the road—a man’s body.

  Wearing a red plaid shirt.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sarah and John stood at the rampart overlooking the front gate. It had taken nearly two years and employed every able-bodied man in the area until it was constructed, but the high wooden walls that surrounded the compound were strong and impermeable. Covered watchtowers anchored the four corners of the compound, allowing monitoring of the immediate exterior grounds, and a high, narrow catwalk ran the entire perimeter.

  It was Sarah who insisted that the catwalk be built to a height that would allow an average sized woman to stand behind it with a rifle to her shoulder. She pointed out to Mike that there was actually a third more women in the compound than men. They weren’t going to have the luxury of an all male army.

  Tonight, she leaned against the top of the wall with a mug of hot tea in her hands and looked into the darkness. The lights on the towers were motion-activated to alert them to anyone’s approach. But as long as the brushes and the trees were still, the camp remained invisible in the darkness.

  “What do we do if they don’t come back?” John asked.

  “They’ll be back.”

  “I know. But if they don’t?”

  Sarah dropped a hand to her boy’s shoulder and squeezed him lightly. “We’ll have to go after them then.”

  He nodded grimly and then snapped his head up. “I hear something.”

  A rush of fear shot down Sarah’s arms and she felt the mug tremble in her hands. But then she heard it too. A car engine.

  “It’s them,” she said. They both turned to climb down the ladder and run to open the front gate. John was faster and was already hauling the rope pulley that operated the large wooden door. Sarah stood to the side, when it occurred to her they didn’t know for sure it was Mike. But who else would be driving a vehicle?

  The Jeep drove through the gate but didn’t stop although Sarah was sure Mike saw her standing there. She hurried behind it as John struggled to close the gate. People began to emerge from their homes to follow the Jeep.

  Mike parked in the center of the compound, which surprised Sarah. Why didn’t he drive it to the garage? She hadn’t seen a passenger in the Jeep which meant he hadn’t found Gavin. When she reached him, Mike was standing beside the vehicle with his hands held out as if to fend off the crowd.

  “I’ll be needing you to stand back,” he said. He looked exhausted, his face a mask of pain. Sarah walked to the edge of the crowd. Something was wrong. Something had happened.

  Declan broke from the crowd and walked to the Jeep. He and Mike spoke briefly and then Declan opened the rear door. A woman standing nearby screamed and Sarah felt her heart fill her throat.

  “Mom? What’s happened?” John said as he came up beside her.

  Sarah grabbed his arm. “Hang back, sweetheart. Until we know what’s going on.”

  Mike was looking for her, and Sarah stepped forward in time to see Declan pull a body from the back of the Jeep. The crowd erupted in horror. Another woman screamed. The body was wrapped in the blanket kept stored in the Jeep. Two men came to help Declan lay it down on the ground.

  Oh, please God, no…

  “Mike!” She called to him through the swarm and he looked over at her, his eyes a visage of bleary helplessness. She pushed through the gathering until she touched his hand and he pressed her to him in a one-armed hug. The mob swirled around them in a vortex of noise and motion. When Sarah pulled back, Siobhan was kneeling next to the body. She pulled the cover from the face.

  It was Mickey Quinn.

  *****

  The questions were unanswerable. And they were relentless.

  Why was Mickey wearing Gavin’s shirt? How was it nobody realized Mickey hadn’t returned from the mill the night before?

  Why kill Mickey? Did this mean Gavin was dead too? Had the druids killed Mickey or was he stuffed inside the Wicker Man to make it look like they did? Mickey had not had his throat slit but there were multiple stab wounds on his body. There had been surprisingly little blood, however, for all that.

  Mike sat with Sarah in Declan and Fiona’s house. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table and a plate of food but only Mike was eating. Ciara and John were both asleep, Ciara in her bed and John on the couch in the living room. Sarah hadn’t wanted to leave him alone and Mike couldn’t blame her. They’d already lost one boy.

  “And so this Cormac gobshite threatened us?” Fiona said.

  “Aye,” Mike s
aid tiredly, looking into the amber liquid of his whiskey glass. He still couldn’t believe poor old Mickey was dead. Poor bugger. “That is if we continue work on the dam.” He glanced at Declan but the man sat staring at his own hands. Mike noticed he wasn’t drinking.

  “And they really think they’re druids?” Sarah asked.

  “All I know is they’re not arsing around,” Mike said. “Whatever they are.”

  “Are they responsible for the altar, then?” Fi asked. “And the killings?”

  “They all but admitted to it,” Mike said.

  And Gavin?

  It was unspoken but loud and clear. Why was Mickey wearing Gavin’s shirt unless they’d already killed Gavin?

  “And you saw no signs of Gavin when you met them?” Sarah asked.

  “Because clearly it was them what killed poor Mickey,” Fi added. “What with stuffing him in the Wicker Man and all.”

  “There’s another explanation,” Declan said sullenly.

  “Darlin’…” Fiona said in a low voice.

  “You don’t want to hear it,” Declan said heatedly to her. “But if it’s the truth you’ll be wanting, you need to hear it.”

  “Goblins didn’t kill Mickey,” Mike said, draining his whiskey and slamming the glass down on the table. “Arseholes in polyester robes did.”

  “All right,” Sarah said. “So what do we do? Call Dublin? See if they’ll send the Guard down here? I mean, this is murder.”

  “This is nothing,” Mike said with disgust. “Murder happens every weekend in every part of Ireland now. They’ll not come for that.”

  There was a brittle silence and then Fiona sighed and poured another tot into Mike’s glass and held up her own. “To Mickey,” she said. “A daft auld bugger that we loved as our own. God rest his soul.”

  “Here, here,” Mike and Sarah murmured, and lifted their glasses.

  Mike stood up and ran a hand down Sarah’s arm. “Wake the lad. He’ll sleep in his own bed tonight as will I.”

  He turned to Declan. “The compound stays in lockdown. Nobody in, nobody out.”

  Declan didn’t respond. Mike leaned over and kissed Fiona goodnight.

  “Will you be going back out?” she asked.

  “At first light.”

  “I’ll come with you,” John said sleepily.

  “No, lad. I need you here.” He turned to Sarah who gave him a grateful look.

  *****

  Mike left in the morning, this time on horseback. He’d promised to stop by the rectory and send Father Ryan to the compound. Now Sarah stood at her stove flipping pancakes and frying sausage. The good Father ate a stack of pancakes. He was the only one with an appetite.

  Even John stood by the window in the cabin staring out. Sarah had tried to talk to him after Mike left to resume the search for Gavin but John brushed her off.

  “Sure, it’s a terrible shock,” Father Ryan said, sitting at Sarah’s kitchen table. His dog Daisy was at his feet. “Just terrible. Can I ask what Mr. Donovan intends?”

  “Well,” Sarah said, massaging a kink out of her lower back and easing herself into a chair. “He’s kind of got his hands full right now trying to find Gavin.”

  The priest clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I’m that sorry for your trouble, Sarah.” Father Ryan’s eyes were mournful. He’d no doubt seen a lot of things to be mournful about in the past four years.

  Sarah was sorry Mike wasn’t here. As the leader, he should be. And there would be muttering from the members prone to criticism. But there was nothing for it. Gavin’s trail cooled by the hour. If Mike had any hope of finding him, he had to go now.

  Father Ryan wiped his mouth and stood up. The dog climbed to her feet and watched the priest’s face. “I’ll be thanking you kindly, Sarah. I understand we’ll not be taking Mr. Quinn to the churchyard?”

  “No. Mike doesn’t want us going far from the compound right at the moment.” She stood up and turned off the stove then fetched her coat from the hook by the front door.

  “John? You ready?”

  John tore his eyes away from whatever he’d been staring at outside and shrugged.

  “You go on, Mom. I’ll catch up.”

  Sarah frowned. Losing Gavin and then Mickey in the space of two days was awful for John. She shivered.

  “Someone walk over your grave, Sarah?” Father Ryan said, smiling sadly from where he stood at the door waiting for her. Sarah couldn’t help but think it an odd thing for a priest to say.

  They buried Mickey behind the compound in a pasture that used to belong to a couple of wealthy Londoners. There once was a holiday fishing cabin on the land but it had been burned to the ground by a murdering gypsy band the first month after the Crisis. The creek behind the charred ruin, still bursting with brim and trout, was now being dammed to create the compound mill.

  Mickey’s was the first cross in the plot that would be the graveyard for New Dublin. Up to now, they’d taken their dead to the church near Ballinagh. Father Ryan performed the ritual to sanctify the ground so that Mickey could rest in peace and Declan and three other men lowered the pine casket into the ground.

  Fiona stood solemnly holding Ciara’s hand as the baby tried out her chubby legs and stumbled on the uneven ground. As far as Sarah could tell just about everybody from the compound was there. One little boy said loudly in a plaintive voice, “Who’ll tell us stories now around the campfire?”

  It was a sad day, made harder and colder by a brisk wind and finally the rain that came in icy sheets. So fitting for the occasion, Sarah thought.

  After the ceremony, Father Ryan was taken into the warmth of one of the cottages surrounding the compound interior to be fed again. Sarah knew he’d be handed around until he was warm, dry and stuffed as a tick. It was a long walk back to the rectory.

  Sarah thought of Mike out in this rain with just his slicker and hood.

  What is the point? You can’t see anything in the dark and the rain is obliterating whatever trail there might have been. Come home, love. Come home and wait for whatever will happen next.

  But Sarah knew that if John was out there she’d never stop searching.

  She looked in the group for him but didn’t expect to see him. She had seen John like this before and leaving him alone was really the only answer. He had to work it out himself and sort it into something that made sense to him. And until then, he did better left alone. Sarah sighed and made her way back to her cottage in the cold rain, pulling her collar up against the chill.

  Siobhan and Margaret walked hurriedly arm in arm and Sarah felt a pull in their direction. She was glad Siobhan had a special friend. While Margaret wasn’t someone Sarah was going to warm up to it was good that Siobhan had her.

  Sarah hurried inside her cottage and away from the rain. She hesitated on the porch for a moment. Would he come back? Would she see him tonight?

  She put a hand to her abdomen but it would be awhile yet before she’d be able to feel anything. Her best guess was that she was four months along. How would John feel when she told him? Would he care? Fourteen years was a pretty big age difference. She went inside and shook out her wet coat and hung it up.

  It was late afternoon. There were chores she could do. Or she could just sit down at the kitchen table and have a cup of tea. That sounded like the better idea. She put the kettle on and pulled a mug off the shelf just as she heard footsteps running up the front steps.

  “Sarah, darlin’?” Siobhan popped her head around the open door. She had Ciara in her arms. Fiona seemed to really be taking this “It takes a village thing” to its fullest extent.

  “Come in, Siobhan,” Sarah said, rising to pull another mug from the shelf. “I see you’re on duty again.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Siobhan said, kissing Ciara’s head and settling in a chair at the kitchen table. “Ta, that looks grand,” she said as Sarah filled her mug from the teapot on the table.

  “It’s a mess out there,” Sarah said. “I was ho
ping the rain would hold off until Mike got back.”

  “Well, that’s a bit of jam on your egg, hoping for that,” Siobhan said. “Still, I’ll feel better when he’s back.”

  “Will there be a wake for Mickey tonight?”

  “We had it last night, darlin’. Didn’t your man tell you?”

  Sarah shook her head. She and Mike had gone straight home from Fiona’s place. If there had been a wake for poor Mickey, they hadn’t been told about it.

  Not good.

  “Are people angry with us?” Sarah asked.

  “Sure, no. What a question,” Siobhan said, but she didn’t look at Sarah when she spoke. They drank in silence interrupted only by the cooing and occasional laughter from the toddler. Sarah had to admit that children helped relieve anxiety—when they weren’t the cause of it. Still, was Fi handing the baby off more than usual?

  “What was Fiona up to that she needed you to watch Ciara again?”

  “Helping her Declan with something,” Siobhan said absently.

  “There’s something going on there.”

  Siobhan’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Aye,” she said, watching Sarah’s face.

  Did Siobhan know something? Was there something going on between Fi and Declan that the old woman had seen? She missed very little. Before Sarah could try to prod Siobhan for more information, she heard a set of footsteps pounding up her porch stairs.

  “Miz Donovan!” a man’s voice called out. “We’ll be needing your help!”

  Sarah and Siobhan exchanged an alarmed look and Sarah hurried to the door and jerked it open. One of the gypsies stood on the porch, his arm around an older man. Sarah pulled the door open wide.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Dunno, Miss,” the gypsy said. “Only Declan said I was to deliver him to you for fixing.”

  As the tall gypsy helped the old man into Sarah’s cottage, she saw a small pony wagon in front of her cottage with a woman and two children in it. Beyond them were two other families on foot coming in through the open gates.