“John Culhane called to say he had looked into the cases Marie Therese researched for us and that, while they were all good ideas, those people were not involved. He also said that the actual bombers are probably Dominicans from New York.”
“Dominicans like Thomas Aquinas?” She gave me a piece of soda bread slathered in butter and raspberry jam.
“Dominicans like Sammy Sosa.”
“Oh, poor dear man.”
We sipped our tea.
“I forgot to mention that Blackie wants me to sing gospel songs over at the church for Johnnie Pete’s Baptism on Saturday.”
“Across the street?”
“Don’t herself and Peter Murphy think it appropriate?”
“Does the pastor know about it?”
“I assume so.”
“He’s not going to like our crowd taking over his church.”
“Poor dear man will have to learn to get used to it, won’t he now? I’d better go down to the music room and practice a little.”
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BET SHE CONCEIVED LAST NIGHT.
It would be just like her.
I went over my notes again. I could find nothing in them that shed any light on the exploding River House or the almost exploding automobile. In the first case, it would appear that the bombers either had erroneous information or intended to kill the inhabitants. In the second case they had intended to kill the people in the Lincoln Continental and anyone else who might have happened to be around. Did they then intend to kill in the first explosion? That seemed likely, didn’t it? So the information was erroneous. They thought that at least some people, mostly likely John and Estelle, would be in the house, didn’t they? They knew for sure where the Lincoln Continental would be. Had their spies become more competent or had the ante gone up? Warn them first by blowing up the house, then, after they’ve suffered the purgatory of waiting and wondering, blow up their car and them? Having failed in that, what would they do next?
My wife returned to the study, small harp in hand.
“May I sing ‘Down by the River’ for you?” she asked shyly. “I’m not sure I have it right, I mean for a Baptism in a Catholic church?”
“Marie Phinoulah Annagh, you have carte blanche to sing anything you want for me from this day forward for the rest of your life!”
It was very different from the way she had sung it the first time at the recording studio. She had toned down the enthusiasm a little and toned up the sacramental reverence. It was still gospel music, but maybe Catholic gospel.
“They’ll love it!”
“You sure?”
“Certain.”
She nodded dubiously.
“You got a minute? I want to run through some reflections about the Curran case.”
She nodded solemnly and sat down, harp resting in her lap.
I went through my notes.
“This has gone on too long, Dermot Michael. It has to stop. Those poor innocent people have suffered too much. It has to stop.”
“And how will it stop?”
“I don’t know, Dermot love, but it will. It all has to do with the spies, don’t you see? We have to find the spies, don’t we?”
“Sure.”
She frowned as if reaching for something.
“I don’t know who the spy is, but I can’t quite see … No matter how hard I try … I half think it is in the family, just like poor Sarah Curran … I don’t see yet … But I will … The clouds are very dark and”—she shivered—“they’re closing in …”
I waited. She slumped and became very sad.
“Those poor people … I have to go back and practice my song … Are you sure I’m going in the right direction?”
“Catholic gospel?”
She grinned, the clouds banished temporarily. “Don’t you have the right of it, Dermot Michael?”
The Mass late on Saturday morning was a festive event. The multiple divisions of the Ryan-Murphy clan showed up in force, all three generations of them. The Archbishop said the Mass, uh, presided over the Eucharist, assisted by Father Rory, whose job description apparently included making sure Blackie was properly dressed. Cardinal Cronin presided from the throne—in this instance a chair at the side of the altar. The pastor scurried around looking anxious and unhappy.
“My white dress, I think?” Nuala had said as we woke up on Saturday morning.
“Green suit,” I had replied. “Stands for spring and hope. We’re filled with hope today.”
She had thought about it.
“You’re right, Dermot Michael, as always. Green it is.”
“With green lingerie.”
“I don’t need your advice on my lingerie, Mr. Coyne.”
“You’ll get it anyway.”
Nuala, blushing from compliments about her green suit, gathered all the children around and taught them how to sing refrains from “Down by the River,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Balm in Gilead.” Herself is wonderful with little groups of kids. She can turn them into a presentable choir in five minutes.
The liturgy began with “Down by the River” sung by herself as Catholic gospel, enthusiastically answered by the choir.
Cindasue turned to me and whispered, “Fust time I’m a-knowing that this hyar Church shunuff be a hard-shell Baptist church.”
“Catholic Baptist,” I responded.
Blackie preached about the waters of Lake Michigan—“A gift of God for which we Chicagoans are not nearly thankful nor for the protection offered on the Lake by the always prepared United States Coast Guard.” He described the joy of plunging into the Lake on a hot, humid summer day and coming out revived and refreshed. Baptism was an experience of new life, a promise of life without end. Heaven must be built on a place like Lake Michigan without lake effect snowstorms. Water means life. New life, old life renewed, promise of life eternal. Baptism an Easter Sacrament, Easter a baptismal feast. Sacrament of resurrection.
He was good, no doubt about it.
The Coast Guard was nothing if not visible. Cindasue wore her white dress uniform as did her commanding officer, whose name I never quite caught, a Coast Guard captain equally in white. Katiesue, clinging nervously to our tiny one’s hand, was also in a white uniform, and the peacefully sleeping Johnpete was wearing a little Coast Guard jacket.
The Ryans, who adored their little Appalachian in-law, thought it was wonderful. My opinion, for what it was worth (not much), was that from anyone but Cindasue it might be tacky. From her it was classy.
At the beginning of Baptism, Blackie asked each of the children to come up and touch the head of John Peter to welcome him into the Church. “You first, Katiesue.”
With considerable shyness and some fear, big sister approached little brother, clasping the hand of Socra Marie, who characteristically was not at all timid.
“You can touch his head too, Socra Marie, now that you’re up here.”
This permission merely legitimated what our daughter had every intention of doing. Nuala smiled proudly. At the promises I was afraid for a moment that Cindasue would respond “shunuff.” I think the presence of “that thar Cardinal man” intimidated her just a little.
Blackie asked the kids whether they thought John Peter would cry when he poured water on him. They all thought he would. Blackie was willing to bet that he wouldn’t.
After the water was poured—Johnpete continued to sleep peacefully—the impromptu choir sang “Amazing Grace.” Nuala did her own top-of-soprano riff at the end. At Communion, they sang, “There Is a Balm in Gilead” and, at the end of Mass, Nuala and her faithful choir had the walls of Jericho come tumbling down.
Cindasue received Communion of course, like she always did. She was as she had often explained a “hard-shell” Catholic. Neither Blackie nor the Cardinal man batted an eye. There was a fix in somewhere.
There were many compliments after Mass to the parents, to the sleeping babe who refused to be wakened by admiration of the women of the Ryan-Murphy clan, to the Yewn
ited States Coast Guard, to the choir, to the bishop, to the Cardinal, and to Nuala for her green dress. Arguably, as the Bishop would say, she received the most favorable notices.
I would claim credit later.
“Any developments?” Rory Curran asked me.
“Herself says the pieces are coming together.”
“I hope so … The family is very anxious. Jack and Marti are going up to their little house at Twin Lakes tomorrow morning, just for a day away from it all. They say that they are certainly not the targets. Everyone else would like to do the same, but are afraid.”
“By next weekend,” I promised, “it should be all right.”
None of the Currans had any reason to trust me. But they trusted John Culhane’s endorsement of Nuala.
“This is not fair,” I told myself. “Nuala should not have to tolerate all this pressure. I’m going to have to put a stop to it.”
LOTS OF LUCK, BUSTER!
Point taken.
“What was the young priest talking to you about?” she asked me as we walked down the street to the Murphy A-frame, our kids in front of us.
“He’s worried about the family. They’re going stir-crazy. Jack and Marti are driving up to Twin Lakes tomorrow morning.”
“Where’s Twin Lakes?”
“Right on the Wisconsin-Illinois border, just west of Kenosha, a lot closer than Dorr County.”
“Why not the Dunes?”
“They live up in Lakeview—Balmoral. They just have to drive over to the Edens, take it to I-94 and get off at Wisconsin 30. Short trip. Why do you ask?”
“Curious … Och, Dermot aren’t young people reckless these days?”
“They’re not much younger than you are, Nuala.”
“Sure, they don’t have kids, do they? So they’re still young and they think they’ll live forever. When you have kids, you friggin’ know better.”
“You’re right as always, Nuala.”
“Right as sometimes … I just want to know where they are.”
“Why would they be targets?”
“Isn’t he John P. Curran?”
“He is?”
“These people are like coyotes. If they can detach one animal from the pack, they go after that one.”
My wife had never seen a coyote all her life, save perhaps on television.
She seemed happy enough at the Murphys’ party, smaller than their earlier one and sang lullabies to Johnpete, who smiled up at her adoringly. Katiesue and Socra Marie watched very carefully; no one was going to hurt their little protégé.
There were also many more compliments on Nuala’s mint green suit.
“Daddy”—Socra Marie hugged my leg—“can we have a baby like Johnpete?”
“We might someday.”
“Then I won’t be the baby anymore! Cool!”
Nuala heard the conversation and just rolled her eyes.
We already have three kids. They’re healthy and happy and lots of fun—also lots of work. Why does she want another one so badly?
STOP THINKING LIKE A FATHER. BESIDES YOU HAVEN’T THE COURAGE TO SAY THAT TO HER.
Shut up.
We were both dead tired and went to bed early. No lovemaking that night.
I slept immediately and deeply.
Sometime in the middle of the night I heard my wife screaming into the phone. It was far away I thought and certainly a dream.
“Lakeview Balmoral is where they live … How do I know they’re not there? That’s a dumb question, John. I called them … I assume they’ll go up Edens to 94 and then to Wisconsin 30 … And I want those telephone records today … Yes, in the morning … Wake up and listen to me, John … I told you it’s a matter of life and death and tell that eejit at Area Six that when I call for you in the middle of the night it is always a matter of life and death and he shouldn’t try to put me down … Yes, their lives are in mortal danger … You should be after knowing better to ask me whether I’m sure … Do they have garda in Wisconsin … State Police? Well, alert them too … I suppose they’re most likely to be waiting on Wisconsin 30, not the interstate, but I don’t know that … I just know they’re in deep trouble … Call me as soon as you find out … Apologize to your wife for me … I wouldn’t have awakened you if it wasn’t deadly serious … She at least knew who Nuala Anne was … Not like that asshole at Area Six.”
“Are you awake, Dermot love?”
“Woman, I am!”
I rolled over and tried to sit up.
“You heard what I said?”
“You gave Commander Culhane his marching orders, didn’t you?”
“That focking eejit who answered his phone didn’t know who I was … Can you imagine anyone over there who hasn’t heard of me?”
“New man in town?”
“Still.”
“The younger Currans are in danger?”
“Terrible, mortal danger. It’s going to be close. And it’ll be all my fault for not seeing the threat all along.”
“They left awful early for their few hours in Wisconsin.”
“Wasn’t I after telling you that they’re kids! No sensible adult with children leaves that early for a trip on Sunday morning. What’s the rush?”
“When did they leave?”
“How should I know? I called them when I woke up. It was three-thirty. It may already be too late.”
“Your instincts wouldn’t have bothered you if they had left long before.”
“I don’t trust my instincts on matters of time. Back in the Stone Age they didn’t have clocks. Get up, Dermot, we have to pray for them.”
She flipped on the lights.
She was wearing one of her most frilly gowns, which means that I’m correct that there’s no correlation between the gown and sexual interest.
So we knelt at the side of our bed until first light broke in the sky, saying the Rosary over and over again.
Then my wife relaxed.
“They’re all right, Dermot, we can go back to sleep.” Which I tried to do.
I didn’t argue. She was a wonderful wife. But why did she have to be fey, especially in the middle of the night. And how did she know that Jack and Marti were safe?
Then the phone rang again.
“Yes, John, I know … I just know that’s all … State Police intercepted them north of Mundelein … The cops are taking the Curran car north in hopes of trapping the bomber? Fair play to them … And Wisconsin police will patrol Highway 30 … Brilliant … Thanks for the call, John … Oh, don’t hang up … One more thing … Tell them to watch out for roadside bombs … I’m very serious.
“Before you even ask, Dermot Michael Coyne, I don’t know why I thought of a roadside bomb. I just did.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not completely … Now go to sleep, you poor dear man.”
I don’t know when, but later, the sky alight with the grayness just before sunrise, the phone rang again.
“Yes, John? Did they really! Thanks be to God and all the Holy Saints and Angels … Four Dominicans planting a roadside bomb on a deserted stretch of Wisconsin 30! … How are you going to explain that to the Wisconsin State Police!”
I didn’t want to hear any more. I was married to a witch, a very dangerous witch!
“You heard that, Dermot love?”
She was crying with relief. And happiness.
I put my arm around her.
“You’re quite incredible, Nuala Anne McGrail, and yourself saving six lives this morning!”
“Six?”
“Figure four Wisconsin cops in the car.”
On a daffy assignment in the early light of Sunday morning there was probably only two cops in the car at the most.
“Didn’t they capture these four perpetrators in the very act of planting a roadside bomb. The cops are all pleased with themselves. Only some of the people at Area Six know how it went down. Commander Culhane looks like a genius.”
“Good for him.”
�
�Go to sleep, Dermot Luv, I’ll get the kids up and feed them. Isn’t that Fiona bumping the door to remind me that’s it’s time for Ma to get to work? You’ll need a good night’s sleep … We have a long day ahead of us.”
I’m not sure I liked that promise, but I was too tired to care.
30
We were in Mike Casey’s personal limo, a Mercedes 300SL equipped with every known electronic gimmick, and ourselves about to solve the mystery, as Nuala herself had put it.
We had met at our house at eleven—John Culhane, Mike Casey, Nuala, and myself. The dogs were in attendance. Fiona would not be denied admission once she smelled a cop in house. Maeve had to come along. Ethne had readily agreed to take charge of the kids for the day. His eyes wide with affection and desire, Damian agreed to help her.
Nuala had proposed her plan. John was reluctant. Mike sympathetic. The three of them argued it out—I was, as usual at these times, odd man out. John finally agreed that Nuala had to be right. She’d saved a whole bunch of lives last night, who was he to argue with her instincts? There could be no doubt about her solution. The telephone records were on the coffee table with the key dates circled.
I had called Jack. He knew that the Dominicans had been caught but was astonished by the events.
“Both of us are still trembling, Dermot! Then we heard about the roadside bomb and we trembled even more … What’s happening?”
“It’s almost over, Jack, almost over. Your family is safe. Have you talked to them?”
“We didn’t call them because we didn’t know what to say …”
“Good! Don’t call them. By tomorrow afternoon we will have a full report.”
“Marti is on the other line. She wants to say thanks too, Dermot.”
“I bet your wife saved our lives. Tell her thanks too.”
I had passed on the message to my wife.
“And herself pregnant too!”
The two cops were astonished.
“And herself probably not knowing it.”
Neither John nor Mike had asked a question. I had given that up long ago.
So Commander Culhane went home to catch up on his sleep and the rest of us went forth on our mission.
“This is a little dicey, Nuala Anne. I hope it works.”
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