“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” growled O’Neill in response. “Save your crocodile tears and inform the mistress.”
“She will be most pleased to hear this news,” replied Lucky.
“I’m so glad,” O’Neill replied in a flat voice.
O’Neill looked down at his phone for several seconds before closing it. Man, I hate this shit. First Cal, now O’Connor. Where does it end? How did I let myself get in so deep? As he pulled away from the run-down building, O’Neill knew the answer—knew it all too well—he reached this point one small step at a time, a small payment here, a larger payment there. Providing information, then active assistance, until finally, he slid completely down into the darkest depths of deception. How can I keep letting this happen? O’Neill knew the answer to that question as well, another question for which he had no answer. What else can I do?
Chapter Sixteen
The Monday before Thanksgiving found Eileen Griffin busily attending to the various details involved in family gatherings—finalizing the menu, cleaning the good dishes and place settings, shopping, cooking, and fretting over every detail. While Thanksgiving dinner was often held at Frank & Nuala’s house, some years Jamie and Eileen had held their own Thanksgiving dinner with the children. Jamie’s insistence that he was not going to have a repeat of Brighid’s birthday did not, by itself, present any real issues. The real issue was Jamie.
The past three weeks had seen an alarming change in her husband. Eileen had never seen her husband neglect himself and his family the way Jamie had done since Halloween. Winter had come early this year to New England, Jamie’s condition went far beyond a premature case of “winter blues.” Jamie, who had always had the energy of three normal people, not only stayed in, but did very little, if anything, each day. Jamie, who was always up at the crack of dawn, ready to beat the day into submission, was instead acting beaten, sometimes not getting out of bed until after Eileen and the girls had left. Jamie, who almost never took naps, now took at least one nap each day. Usually, he always paid detailed attention to his appearance, but now went days at a time without shaving. He stopped showering daily, and sometimes he wore the same clothes for two or more days. Eileen would often come home from the shop to find him sitting on the sectional in his pajamas and bathrobe, sometimes watching a movie or TV, but sometimes just doing nothing. It was starting to scare the hell out of her.
Worst of all, Eileen couldn’t get angry with him. They had a couple of arguments, not unheard of given both of their Irish tempers, but instead of fighting back, Jamie retreated, which puzzled Eileen and added to her worry. After failing to provoke Jamie with arguments, she tried to appeal to his sense of responsibility. She tried to humor him out of his funk. She had the girls talk to him, but nothing had worked. While Eileen was trying to be supportive, she was also desperately searching for some way to snap him out of it, to return Jamie to the man she loved. For the first time in her married life, Eileen felt as if she was in a situation that was not only bad, but also beyond her control.
Today saw the same pattern unfolding. Jamie sat in the living room watching an old movie on DVD. He had neither showered nor shaved, nor changed out of his pajamas. Caitlin and Riona had tried to reach to their father, but as with Eileen, Jamie’s responses were muted and distant. Now, as she prepared to go shopping for the holiday meal, Eileen tried again.
“Jamie?” she asked as she entered the living room.
At first, Jamie just sat there like he was entranced by the movie, which he had watched many times, but also like he was not there, that some part of him was elsewhere, wrapped up in a dark haze. “Jamie?” Eileen raised her voice slightly, and then finally stepped into Jamie’s view of the TV.
Slowly, Jamie came back to awareness of his surroundings. “Eileen. What’s up?”
Eileen sat beside him on the sectional, took the remote, and paused the movie.
“Hey,” Jamie protested.
“It seemed like you were somewhere else, my love.”
Jamie rubbed his eyes, absently patted Finn MacCool, who was Jamie’s constant companion on the sectional, and sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Eileen waited for her husband to continue. When he said nothing, she got angry. “Séamus Edward Griffin,” she said in her most authoritative voice.
Her tone and use of his full name snapped Jamie to attention. “What?”
“How long are you going to sit here on the couch? Do you plan to put down roots and expect me to come water you every day?”
Jamie frowned. “I’m not putting down roots, woman,” he replied peevishly. “I’m just trying to get better.”
“No, Jamie,” Eileen disagreed. “You’re sliding into some kind of black self-pity that I never thought I’d see from you. I’ve always believed you were a fighter. Now you’re just giving up.”
At last, Jamie got angry. “What would you have me do? You’ve seen what happens to me when I try to do too much. My headache threatens to blow my head off my shoulders. My fatigue becomes so bad that I turn pale and clammy and fall down. Jerry told me to rest and see if I can get over this.”
“Jerry also told you to take pills to help your depression.”
“I am not depressed,” Jamie denied heatedly, “and I’m not taking any damn pills. I don’t need any damn pills. I just need to get better.”
“Then, how do you plan to do that? You won’t listen to anyone, not me, not your doctor, nor your family. Resting is one thing, but you’re just sitting here vegetating.”
To Eileen’s dismay, the recent pattern now asserted itself again. Jamie deflated like an untied balloon, his anger draining away, his shoulders slumping, and his eyes fogging over with pain. “What would you have me do, love? I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to get better. I can’t be there for you or my children. I wasn’t there for Cal. I don’t have a job. I just don’t know who I am anymore.” His words were flat and weary. He had collapsed back into the fog that always engulfed him these days.
“I don’t know,” Eileen said, taking his hand and squeezing it, trying to keep his attention, “but you can’t go on like this. Jerry also referred you to someone you could talk to about all this.”
Jamie resurfaced briefly. “I’m not seeing any damn shrink either.”
“Well, you’ve got to do something. You’re scaring the hell out of me and your daughters. Your mother’s beside herself as are your brothers and sisters.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Paddy’s upset, just not on my behalf.”
“Maybe not, but you’ve got many people who care about you, and you’re just shutting us all out.” Eileen stood and looked at Jamie with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m going shopping for our Thanksgiving dinner. Do you want to come help me?”
“No.” Jamie restarted the movie.
“Fine.” Eileen shook her head in despair. “Maybe Johnny can beat some sense into your thick head.”
Jamie sighed. “I asked you to tell him not to come.”
“Too bad. He’ll be here soon. I’ll be back in a while.” Eileen turned, grabbed her coat and purse, and headed to the garage.
Jamie settled back to watch his movie. It seemed like only moments before Finn MacCool sat up, with his ears perked, and he then jumped up as he heard someone approach. Jamie shook his head and realized that quite some time had passed—the movie was rolling credits.
The doorbell rang, and Jamie called out, “It’s open.”
Finn MacCool jumped up to greet Jamie’s younger brother, but Jamie did not get up from the sectional. “Hey, Johnny,” Jamie said in an off-handed way. “Come on in. Eileen said you’d be by to beat some sense into me.”
Johnny Griffin bent down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. Once the scratching was complete, the dog hopped back onto the sectional beside his master. “Well, is she right?” he asked in a loud, authoritative voice.
“Right about what?” Jamie replied, confused.
“Right about me needing to beat some sense into you?” Johnny thunder
ed in response.
“Ah, Christ on a crippled crutch,” said Jamie. “What am I supposed to do? The doctors can’t find anything, can’t give me anything to do or take to get over this. When I do try to do things, I get worse, and all you or anyone else can seem to do is bitch at me about not doing anything.”
“That’s exactly the point, Jamie,” Johnny replied. “There are things you can be doing to help—you’re just too pig-headed to try them.”
“Like what?” Jamie retorted. “Take some pills and hope I feel better? If there were pills that might cure me, I’d already be taking them. Instead, they’re just ‘happy pills.’ I don’t have anything to be ‘happy’ about, and I’m sure not going to go see some damned head-shrinker so he can ask me why I hate my mother, and then sit around singing ‘Kumbaya’.”
Johnny shook his head. “Wow. Eileen wasn’t kidding—you really are in a bad place. Worse, you won’t let anyone help you get out of there. Why can’t you let someone, anyone, help you through this, brother of mine?”
“Because it won’t help.”
“How do you know if you haven’t even tried it?” Johnny demanded. “You said at Brighid’s party that you’d try any reasonable course of action that might make you better. Well, I’m here to tell you big brother, anti-depressants and therapy are reasonable courses of action, and I personally know that they have helped many people. You just have to get over your stupid belief that it makes you weak to get help.”
Jamie glared at his brother in silence for several moments. Finally, Jamie sighed. “Answer me this, then, Father Griffin—why has God allowed this to happen to me? Is it some kind of punishment? Sin of pride, that sort of thing? Why do I need to turn to drugs and talking to a total stranger if talking to God has gotten me nowhere?”
Johnny paused again, taking time to craft his answer before replying. “Honestly, Jamie? I don’t know. It’s one of the great mysteries of life. I’m sure you remember Father Martin’s spiel on ‘the human condition’?” When Jamie snorted and smiled, Johnny knew he could continue. “He may have been a flake, but there was something important hidden deep within his ramblings. We don’t know—we cannot know—what God’s plan is for us. Why does God set something before us just to seemingly snatch it away? I don’t know. Why do good people suffer and die young? I don’t know. Why do bad people often seemingly go unpunished? I just don’t know. I don’t think those questions can actually be answered in full during this lifetime, but I do know this.”
Johnny stopped, waiting until Jamie looked up at him. “Life is a mysterious and wonderful gift we’ve been given. One of the greatest sins a person can commit is to throw that gift away or abuse it. You’ve always tried to lead a good life, and from what I can tell, you have succeeded admirably, but right now, you’re being tried, being tested. I don’t want to see you fail now, to see you turn your back on God’s wondrous gift of life because your life seems to be falling apart.”
“Seems to be?” Jamie questioned archly.
“Yes, seems to be,” Johnny replied confidently, knowing he was finally getting through to his older brother. “We don’t know what God has in store for us. All we can do is fight the good fight and stay true to our faith and values. The Jamie Griffin I know never backed away from a fight in his entire life. Why are you backing away now?” Johnny asked softly.
“Damn. I hate it when you’re right,” Jamie replied heavily. He paused for several seconds, and then nodded. “Okay, okay. You’ve got me—I’ll be a good boy and do what Eileen and the doctors tell me. I’ll fight the good fight, even though I don’t see my way through to the other side.”
Johnny shrugged. “When do we ever have any guarantees in this life, brother?”
“We don’t. We don’t. Okay, out with you then. I’ve got some calls to make.” Both men stood, Johnny easily, and Jamie with some difficulty. “Thanks, brother.” He stuck out a hand.
Johnny shook his head, and said “Not good enough.” He grabbed Jamie in a big bear hug and did not let go until his older brother returned the hug. “You have many people who love you, Jamie. Hang in there.” He broke his embrace and looked into his brother’s face. He wasn’t sure he had gotten through completely, but any steps were progress.
Jamie watched his brother leave, and then turned to the dog. “Well don’t just lay there, Finn,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
* * * *
Monday evening saw no improvement in the early winter weather. It did not matter much to Sedecla. She had the money and resources to do whatever she pleased, despite the weather. She could have flown to a warmer locale, but she focused on gathering the power needed to successfully walk the dark paths and master the Qliphoth. Nothing else mattered. Sedecla gazed out the window of her formal dining room, standing in front of the head chair of the massive oak table, set for dinner with Astbury-Black Wedgwood bone china. She looked out at the cold, wet night that was lashing the trees across the street in Copp’s Hill Burial Ground. Sedecla found that the weather suited her mood.
Tomás da Silva entered the dining room. “Your tenentes have arrived, Mistress.”
Three men entered the room. No one spoke. They awaited a command from their mistress. At length, Sedecla nodded, then pulled out her chair and sat. They quickly sat as well. She nodded again, this time to da Silva, who reached into his jacket pocket and pressed a button. The far door opened, and two maidservants and a butler brought dinner to each person, starting with Sedecla. She examined and tasted each dish before approving and allowing the others to be served. The butler unobtrusively poured wine into everyone’s glasses. Then, the serving complete, the three attendants silently left the room, closing the door behind them.
The entire meal commenced in silence, save for the sounds of their utensils. Although the tension for the three managers built with each course, none of them thought about being the first to speak. They had seen graphic examples of the reaction Sedecla could have to anything she deemed inappropriate.
Finally, after the place settings had been cleared and they were once again alone in the room, Sedecla spoke. She spoke in a soft, but firm voice, which was nonetheless chilling. Her icy calm was often much worse than any angry outbursts. “I am disappointed, gentlemen,” she said, taking a sip of Inniskillin Icewine. “While my plans for achieving Abaddon by mastering the Qliphoth proceed apace, I do not feel as though my wish for pressure to be brought upon the remaining troublesome detective has been properly executed. I cannot tolerate any more interference with my process.”
“Mistress,” began ibn Ezra. He stopped when Sedecla held up a hand.
“Tomás tells me that you have each found excellent methods to ensure that former Detective Griffin back away from the case. However, no actions have yet been taken, which both puzzles and irritates me.” She stopped and nodded at ibn Ezra to continue.
“Qedesh,” he spoke rapidly. “We did not wish to proceed without your approval.” The small man repressed a twitch of nervousness.
“Indeed,” rumbled Choate. “I apologize if I misunderstood your instructions, Mistress. I thought you simply wished to know of these pressure points and would tell us when the time was right to proceed.”
Sedecla considered their points, and then looked at O’Neill. “Timothy, you are silent. Do you agree with your fellow managers’ statements?”
Of the three men, only O’Neill appeared at ease. Inwardly, the detective seethe with turmoil. Years of experience allowed him to keep his face impassive as he replied. “Of course, Mistress. I would not dream of acting without your authority.”
“I see,” Sedecla said. She paused to take another sip of wine. “So, if I now give each of you instructions to proceed, there will be no delays in acting?” When each man voiced his assent, she nodded. “Very well, then. Let us proceed under the assumption that my previous instructions were not clear enough, despite my feelings to the contrary. ibn Ezra,” she began, smiling coldly as the small man nearly jumped out of his chair w
hen her gaze fell upon him. “You have one of the Griffin brats coming to your island retreat, if I am correct. See to it that she has an accident while there. An accident from which she will not return.”
“It will be so, Qedesh,” ibn Ezra vowed emphatically.
Sedecla turned to Choate. “Rufus, you will proceed with selling the property that houses Eileen Griffin’s business as discussed.”
“I will do so, Mistress,” replied Choate. “Do you wish for me to obtain top dollar for the property or sell it at any price?”
Sedecla dipped her head and shrugged slightly. “A fair question. Do not give away the property, but do not waste time in pointless haggling, like some cheap merchant in a bazaar. Sell it sooner rather than later.” Choate agreed with a lumbering nod of his head. Now she turned to O’Neill. “Timothy, as I recall, last time you expressed some reservations about taking action against your fellow officers. Do you still harbor these doubts?”
“I do, Mistress,” O’Neill replied, returning her intense gaze. “You do not pay me to be a sycophant. While I understand your desire to prevent interference in your project, pushing on Griffin too hard is a mistake, perhaps even more so than killing Cushing. It will not stop the investigation. It will more attention and resources to it.”
“I have acceded to your concerns, Timothy,” Sedecla said smoothly, not diverting her penetrating gaze. “Thus Detective Griffin still lives and breathes, but I will not take any chances. You will arrest Father O’Connor the next time he avails himself of one of your prostitutes.”
O’Neill shook his head. “That would also be a mistake, Mistress.”
Sedecla took the half-empty crystal wine glass in her hand and whipped it to the left of O’Neill’s head, spilling wine on the table and floor as it passed him to shatter against the wall. O’Neill did not flinch. “No, Timothy. It would be a mistake to continue questioning my judgment.”
After meeting her smoldering gaze for several seconds, O’Neill looked away and meekly replied, “As you wish, Mistress. It shall be done.”
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