“At least ten miles north. Let me see.”
Nan unfolded the map. A red-penciled line wove a complicated path to the border. She studied the roads—some familiar, others she barely knew existed. “Who do you think plotted this course?”
He shook his head. “Not the doc. Whoever gave her the map. Great details, right down to checkpoints and petrol stations. Have you been to this abbey?”
“Can’t say that I have. There’re hundreds of ruins in Ireland. Cottages, castles, abbeys.” She glanced at the lorry instruments. “But not that many petrol stations. We’ll have to stop, won’t we?”
He nodded, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “There’s a place marked on the map. And there’s money. See it? And a ration book and fake ID.”
Nan peeked inside the envelope. “She thought of everything, didn’t she? Wait. I don’t see a ration book. Some money, but I don’t see an ID, either.”
“What? Look again; it has to be there.”
She rummaged through the envelope, took everything out. “Not here.”
Dutch smacked the steering wheel with his open palm. “It must have fallen out when Lady Margot ran us over.”
“Maybe we won’t need it. I mean, we have money.”
“Maybe.”
It was possible. She opened the glove compartment and searched through the contents. Rags, a leather-bound ledger. Her heart skipped a beat. “A ration book. And Brian’s ID.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Dutch said, flicking his eyes upward.
“Amen to that.”
Nan opened the map and studied it. “I wonder how Dr. Mann got this?”
“I reckon the same way she got the penicillin,” he said.
Recalling the story of how Dr. Mann had come by the medicine, or rather charmed it off a research scientist, now Nan wondered exactly what the doctor had done, and with whom, to get this map.
How magnificent Juliet Mann was in her formfitting suit, Nan thought, picturing the woman’s shoes, which never seemed to acquire mud, that perfect skin with perfect makeup, the hair in gorgeous waves, that brilliant lipstick and matching fingernail polish.
Nan stared at her own rough fingers and short nails, the ripped trouser material coarse under her touch.
“The doctor.” Nan paused.
“Yeah? What about her?”
“Who do you think she really works for? Do you think she’s MI6?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe some sort of American intelligence organization.”
“In Ireland? Why?”
“Nazi spies.”
“What? Here? You must be joking.”
“I’m not. They’re everywhere, including Ireland. The Nazis are up to no good, and we have to stop them.”
His knee moved to touch hers. “It’s called a world war for a reason, and it’s here, like it or not. The internment camp is real. Consequences for what you and your friends have done to help me, that’s real, too.”
“I’d do it again, any day. You’re on the right side of this awful conflict.” She glanced at the map. “There’s the crossroads ahead. Take a left.”
The lorry’s wheels spun in the mud as he made the turn.
“What is the RAF concept of ‘slow down’?” she asked.
“Don’t crash.”
The road became rocky and bumpy for the next couple of miles, and then they passed a farmhouse with a score of chickens plucking at the ground. A few yards away, a flock of sheep mobbed the road. Dutch stopped the lorry amid the loud sounds of bleating.
“Great. Just great.”
“Well now, it wouldn’t be a journey without an Irish traffic jam.”
“How long is this going to take?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Patience, city boy. You’ll have to ask the sheep.”
“Fine.” He rolled down the window. “How long are you going to take?” he yelled.
“Dutch, are you daft?” she laughed.
“A little.” He placed his hand on her thigh. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Only to the border. You obviously need my help.”
“I do. How are you doing?”
She hesitated. There seemed no end to the slow-moving lumps of baaing wool blocking the road.
Pressing her hand against the cold window, she stared at the cloudy impression forming around her fingers. Ah well, isn’t this a grand time to tell Dutch he was right about Teddy?
“Nan? You okay?”
She turned to face him. “I am, now. I want you to know something. You’re right about Teddy, about my needing to let him go. I’ve been hiding in his shadow, cloaking myself in sorrow and fear. You showed me that. You’ve taken me out of the murky gloom.”
There. She’d said it.
“Teddy wasn’t worthy of you.” His voice was soft. “You deserve much more. What happened that day?”
She shook her head. “It was shameful.”
“You can tell me, no matter what. Go on. The truth will set you free.”
His eyes, kind and openhearted, and the slight nod of his square chin urged her toward the truth.
“That day. I came home from a birthing to find Teddy had been up all night, drinking. He was inconsolable, crying. And then he, I don’t know, went crazy. He pushed me away, grabbed the gun, and ran out of the house. I followed him, screaming for him to stop. When he did, it was at the edge of the cliff.”
The scene bore down on her, and she shuddered. She relived the feel of the wind on her face, the wet grass on her calves. The horrible grimace on Teddy’s face.
Dutch wrapped his arm around her. “I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been for you.”
“It gets worse. He held the gun to his neck. ‘No, Teddy,’ I yelled. ‘What are you doing?’ I tripped, gashed my hand on a sharp rock.” She looked at her palm, at the scar on the fleshy side of her hand, a reminder of the day.
“He stared at me with eyes so bitter, so dark, I almost thought he was a different person. ‘I’m ridding myself of you,’ he shrieked. And then he shot himself in the neck.”
Dutch pulled her into his chest. She threaded her hand inside his vest, felt his heart beating beneath her fingers. “I can still hear the sound of the bullet. The smell of gunpowder. He fell backward into the sea. The gun stayed behind. I crawled over the wet grass until I reached the cliff. Teddy was facedown on a boulder, his blood spilling into the sea, turning the ocean red, then pink, until a wave picked him up as though he were a piece of driftwood. Under he went, out to sea. The gun was stuck in the dirt, so I picked it up and threw it into the ocean.”
“He’d taken his life and blamed you,” Dutch groaned. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’ve told myself that a million times, but I should have stopped him.”
“You couldn’t stop him. No one could. There was nothing you could have done to change the outcome. He was sick. Mentally.”
“There’s more.” Nan hesitated for a second, but she’d told most of the story, and now she had to finish it. “Teddy’s body washed up onshore the next day. There was no gunshot wound. He must have nicked his neck artery, I guess. Halpin declared Teddy’s death was accidental. My biggest sin . . .”
“What?”
She tasted the salty tears that streamed down her cheek. “I said nothing to Father Albert about the suicide. I watched my husband be buried where he did not belong, in hallowed ground. I knew it was wrong from the second the first shovel of dirt hit Teddy’s coffin.”
“Nan,” Dutch whispered. “He is the potter and we are the clay. We’re a work in progress. None of us is perfect. We don’t always make the right decisions or do the right things. And unfair situations come against us. What happened to you was beyond the pale.”
“I should have demanded Teddy see a doctor. I should have spoken to the priest about him. I shouldn’t have kept silent when he took his life.”
“You can ask for forgiveness. Ask right now. I’ll sta
nd by you. No matter what. Go on.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. He’s ready to listen. Close your eyes and seek forgiveness.”
Nan closed her eyes.
Sweet Jesus, have mercy on me. Wipe away my sins. Make me clean again. Forgive me. Please forgive me.
She waited for a beat. An answer came with a warm sensation that started at the root of her soul and flowed and bubbled and rose within her. The Holy Ghost. She could feel God granting her forgiveness. Peace. A burden seemed to lift from her shoulders. The sound of waves crashing, that only she could hear, made her flinch. She was forgiven, yet the Holy Ghost prompted her that there was more to be done. And in that instant, she knew what He required her to do if she truly wanted to find peace.
She opened her eyes. “Oh, Dutch. I’ve been forgiven.”
“Of course you have. Have you accepted the forgiveness?”
“Yes. But there’s more work to be done. I need to fully reconcile.”
“What do you mean?”
“Father Albert. I lied to him many times about Teddy’s condition. Then about his death. I’ll not rest until I’ve confessed and asked Father Albert for his forgiveness.”
“If you feel it’s necessary.”
“Yes. The Holy Ghost is prompting me.”
“Then you must follow.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Nan O’Neil.”
This aching in her heart. She knew what it was. It was love for Dutch.
“I love you, too. The Lord sent you to my door. I may have healed your wounds, but you’ve helped to heal my soul. Thank you.”
“No, you set yourself free by facing the truth. I’ve never been more proud of anyone.” His smile lit his features. “I guess the Holy Ghost led us to each other. Think He intended us to become the Irish Bonnie and Clyde?”
“Who are they?”
“American gangsters. After all, we tied up an LDF officer and stole a truck.”
“Borrowed.” Nan laughed. “Ah, you’ve ruined me, all right. Turned me into a desperado.”
The final sheep crossed the road, and a weary old man with a cane followed. He tipped his flat cap to Nan and Dutch before he closed the gate. An old woman stood in the doorway of a cottage, with a steaming cup of tea. The scene touched Nan. Would that ever be her? Waiting with a warm greeting for her husband in the twilight of their years? Dutch, maybe?
“Kinda sweet, huh? Will you be there with a cup of tea for me when I’m old and bent over?”
Fear of losing him spiked through her again. Please, Lord. Watch over him. Keep him out of harm’s way. “Sure, I will. You plan on being a sheepherder?”
“Only if you insist.” They waved to the old couple before continuing down the bumpy lane, the beer barrels rumbling behind them. Funny, she marveled, how the scent of freedom would be that of sheep and rain, but wasn’t He the shepherd and herself a lamb?
Here she was, running from the law with a sackful of sins to declare; still, she’d never felt so free. And, she vowed, she would confess the entire Teddy affair to Father Albert. Right now, she needed to get her secret flyboy over the border. She sighed. Which meant delivering him back into harm’s way.
CHAPTER 24
Nan focused on the map with all its notes and arrows. She felt as if she were going cross-eyed. “Wait. We missed a turn.”
He slammed on the brakes, sending the barrels knocking against the sides of the lorry bed. “I’m going to fire you as my navigator.”
“You should have fired your Wellington navigator. Then you wouldn’t be in this situation a’tall.”
He grumbled, backing up the lorry a few feet.
“Stop.” She rolled down the window and leaned outside. A few feet behind them, a pile of rocks spread across a lane. “I think that must be the turn. Looks like a mudslide washed out the road.”
He popped open the door, slid out, and walked to the debris blocking the road. She watched him, standing there tall and lean, scratching his head. Ah, but he was a warrior. He kicked the pile before he turned on his heel. Even with the scowl, he looked incredibly handsome.
“Impossible,” he said, climbing back into the lorry. “Let me see the map.”
She passed it to him. He stared at the chart for a few seconds, then handed it back. “It’s okay. We’ll take the next northbound road. Start praying it’s not washed out, too.”
For the next few miles, she prayed.
“There. The boreen. Lane. There.” She pointed to a slit of a road wedged between two overgrown hedges. “Slow down.”
He braked hard. The lorry swayed from side to side, and he struggled to keep it straight. “Next time, give me more warning.”
“It’s not like I know the roads. Why don’t you try slowing down?”
The lorry barely fit between the narrow hedges. The branches whacked the sides of the vehicle and rattled the beer kegs.
He uttered a sigh of relief when they emerged through the tunnel of foliage and into the open, bare landscape. A few falling-down homes, their walls reclaimed by nature, stood neglected. Fog descended around them, consuming their vision of the horizon.
The lorry chugged up a hill. A car was parked at the bottom of the other side, blocking a humpbacked bridge. Her heart leapt. She dug her fingers into his arm. “A roadblock.”
Two men with rifles stood in front of the car, with another man behind the steering wheel. “Oh, for the love of all things holy. LDF.”
He stopped the lorry. “Was that on the map?”
“No, but it wasn’t our route, either.”
Dutch pulled the cap down over his creased forehead. “Should I plow through them? Or brandish my gun?”
“Don’t be daft. You might kill someone. I’ll get out. Let me do the talking.”
“Fine. But I have a gun, and I’ll use it. The truck’s a weapon, too, you know.”
“You won’t use either. If you did, which man would you pick off first? The fat one who probably has a wife and seven children? The old one? Make his wife a widow? The young man behind the wheel, who doesn’t look old enough to drive? Which one, Dutch?”
“The one who threatens us.” Dutch gripped the steering wheel with one hand while the other went to the gun tucked against his side. He revved the engine. What was he planning to do? she wondered, terrified.
“You don’t need brute force.” She touched his fingers. “Promise me you won’t use your weapons. It’ll do only harm in the end.”
A man with a fedora took off his hat and waved at them. Nan sat up. She gazed skyward and whispered, “Thank you, Lord Jesus. I know him.”
“Who? Christ? This is no time to be evangelizing to me. This is war. People die.”
“The man with the fedora, I delivered his grandson last year, the first after a dozen girls. We had a grand time at the christening. He sang many of the old tunes and, after a few pints, got up on the table and did a jig in honor of his first grandson.” She reached into the knapsack for the bottle of whiskey.
“You getting out the other gun?”
“What did I just say to you?” She pulled the bottle of whiskey from the knapsack, her nose twitching at the powerful scent. Ever since Teddy had started drinking, she could no longer tolerate liquor.
“What are you going to do with that? Hit him on the head?”
“Don’t be an eejit. He has a weakness for the drink.” She let the knapsack fall back to the floorboard.
“Be careful. There’s a loaded gun in there. You’re gifting him a half-gone bottle?”
“A bit of whiskey on a cold day will always warm an Irishman’s soul. Unless he’s taken the pledge, like he promised his wife he would do that night.” She straightened her jacket, combed her fingers through her mass of curls. “I must be a sight. Do I look all right? Presentable and all?”
He rubbed a spot on her chin. “Like an angel straight from heaven.”
A chuckle rattled her throat. “Ah, that flat cap has infused you w
ith more of the blarney.” She opened the door, dropped to the muddy road. “Hello, Mr. McClare. How grand to see you again. What a strange, small world we live in.” No truer words had ever left her mouth.
Dutch pulled at his collar and shoved the cap farther down his forehead. The joy he’d felt when Nan had slipped into the truck had gradually turned to fear. This could be very bad. He looked toward Nan, who was a few feet away, conversing with the men as though she were the heroine in some light opera, her musical laughter ringing over the barren hillside.
She’d been chatting for only a few minutes, but it seemed like an hour. The men spoke with such heavy brogues, Dutch couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were getting toasted, taking turns, swigging on the whiskey. Nan said something; the men looked at Dutch and then roared with laughter.
“Glad you think I’m so funny,” he muttered, wondering what she’d done to elicit such a response. Didn’t seem right, those guys in uniform boozing before noon. Reminded him of Teddy. His chest warmed when he looked at Nan. She could move on now. If only she’d move on with me, he thought, yet he was glad to have played a part in her healing. She deserved the best in life.
His foot was poised to engage the gas pedal if she looked as though she were in trouble. He wondered which man he would pick to shoot.
Then her words carried back to him, making the uniformed men human, not merely enemies or obstacles to his escape plan. The fat one could be Margaret’s husband—one-minute Mikie. The boy could be Tuda’s son. And the old man chatting with Nan was a grandfather of thirteen children.
Dutch rubbed his eyes. Over the last few days, the war had developed faces. The realization knotted his stomach. He’d never given it much thought, sailing above the fires after his crew had dropped their arsenal on the Germans.
It was them or us—that was the motto, the way to get around thinking or feeling or questioning their mission. Until today on this lonely Irish road, he’d never allowed the war to get personal.
No. He could not . . . would not shoot these men, unless they threatened to hurt Nan. He slipped the gun from his belt and shoved the weapon into the glove compartment.
What if the officers have a radio? he suddenly thought. What if Finn has been found or the rightful owner of this truck filed a police report? He closed his eyes. The gun was merely a reach away if he needed it.
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