McGarr’s heart sank.
“You know that we ran some tests late yesterday.”
McGarr nodded.
“To confirm our findings, we repeated them an hour ago. And we’re now sure that a catastrophe has occurred. As we tried to repair the damage to your wife’s brain, we had to place a clamp on a major artery that has subsequently ruptured, we think, beyond the clamp. But only an autopsy will confirm that.
“The rupture, however, flooded the brain, and your wife no longer has any brain function.”
Wichman waited for a few moments. “Do you want to sit down?”
McGarr shook his head.
“Shall I continue?”
He nodded.
“We could continue to keep her on life support, but…”
What was the point?
“Or…”
You could say your good-byes and switch off the machine.
Holding hands, the three of them entered the darkened room together, where the only noise was the sound of Noreen breathing.
Stopping at the side of her bed, Maddie, Nuala, and McGarr looked down at her—untouched apart from the bandages that swathed her head.
And in an overwhelming, smothering, blinding wave of remembrance, McGarr seemed to recall every vivid moment that Noreen and he had shared together.
From the first time he met her in Nuala and Fitz’s picture gallery in Dawson Street, and he tried to kiss her, and she slapped his face. Through the early, heady infatuation he felt for her that in some ways never truly stopped. To their marriage, which had been profoundly happy without ever being…tritely happy, and the deepening of their love.
Which had everything to do with Noreen, McGarr believed. She had been courageous, truthful, loyal, passionate, fiery about the causes that mattered to her—and so many did—and never petty. But mostly she had been loving through the daily trials and tests that, added up, reveal who a person truly is.
Leaning down toward Maddie, McGarr whispered, “What you’ve got to say to yourself is that it’s only your mammy’s body that is leaving us here today. But her spirit is carrying on in each of us and will live in us just as strongly as we’re living ourselves for the rest of our days. Say it to yourself, Maddie—say, ‘Mammy, come live and be with me, now and forever.’”
A sob racked the child, who, turning her head into McGarr’s chest, said, “Oh, Mammy—Mammy, come with me. Be with me, always.” Before she broke down, and McGarr had to take her from the room.
Where Nuala stayed for the better part of an hour, saying prayers.
When she could sit with Maddie and comfort her, McGarr moved to the desk, where Wichman was waiting. “I want to be the one to throw the switch or whatever. I couldn’t have anybody else…”
McGarr remained by the side of Noreen’s bed for the day and a half it took her strong heart to stop beating.
EPILOGUE
THE MORNING OF Noreen’s burial was stormy.
In Dublin, waves rolling in from the bay were washing over the granite blocks along the Liffey. Hugh Ward had to hold tight to the brim of his fedora as he moved from his car to the battered front door of Sweeney’s building.
Ringing the bell, he glanced up. Overhead, the sky was freighted with lines of dark cloud, rather like an armada, that was sweeping to the west.
A woman opened the door as far as a chain would allow. “Yes?”
“Charles Stewart Parnell Sweeney—I understand he’s here. May I see him?”
“And you are?”
“Detective Superintendent Hugh Ward, Garda Siochana.” From under his mac, Ward pulled his photo ID.
“I’m afraid Mr. Sweeney can’t see anybody this afternoon, he’s—”
“This isn’t a social call. I have warrants for his arrest.” Ward displayed these as well.
Her eyes widened. “May I ask on what charge?”
“Charges. One count of murder. Four counts of conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Can you wait a moment?”
“No. Open the door.”
“I can’t, Mr. Swee—”
“What’s that arsehole want?” Ward heard Sweeney boom from the top of the stairs.
Stepping back, Ward raised a foot, stomped on the lock stile, and the old door sprang open, knocking the woman to the side.
Sweeney was gone from the top of the stairs that Ward charged up two at a time, his Beretta drawn. He caught Sweeney in his office, fumbling with a lower drawer of his desk, and a second kick—delivered at speed—sent the large man sprawling into a corner of the room.
“What have we here?” By the tip of the barrel, Ward drew an old handgun out of the drawer. “Could this be my lucky day? Is this the gun you used to shoot Flatly?”
“Who’ll believe you after I run the story in Ath Cliath? You planted the bastard. I never saw it before in my life.
“You know”—picking himself up, Sweeney began to laugh—“in many ways, I’m going to like this, especially after I sue you, the government you represent, and your fucking whores into the next generation. One million pounds? Pah—this time it’ll be ten million.”
With everything he had, Ward sank his right fist into Sweeney’s upper stomach, collapsing the massive man across his desk. Wrenching Sweeney’s arms behind him, Ward cuffed his wrists.
And at the top of the stairs, Sweeney tripped, when Ward stuck a foot between his legs. After a brutal tumble that broke the banister, the large older man slammed into the edge of the door.
Ward waited until Sweeney finally opened his eyes. Bending—ostensibly to help the man up—he whispered so the woman would not hear, “That’s only the beginning of your accidental life, Mr. Sweeney. You want to run that story about me and my family? Go ahead. But cops talk, and you’re a cop killer. Like you, we take care of our own.”
At Sweeney’s arraignment in Central Criminal Court, Lee Sigal, Ruth Bresnahan, Maddie McGarr, and Nuala Frenche sat in the front row.
Behind them were McGarr, Ward, McKeon, and nearly the entire personnel of the Murder Squad, less the few needed to answer phones.
And behind them were dozens of other Guards. In fact, the courtroom was packed with police. Word of mouth being what it is in police circles.
About the Author
A graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, BARTHOLOMEW GILL was the author of sixteen acclaimed Peter McGarr mysteries—among them The Death of an Irish Sinner, The Death of an Irish Lover, The Death of an Irish Tinker, and the Edgar Award nominee The Death of a Joyce Scholar—and a journalist who wrote as Mark McGarrity for the Newark Star-Ledger. He passed away in the summer of 2002.
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High praise for
BARTHOLOMEW GILL
and
THE DEATH OF AN
IRISH SINNER
“Sure, ’thas been said that an Irishman can spin a yarn in a league with no other. Bartholomew Gill has been proving that adage for 20 years…The reader is lulled immediately by Gill’s storytelling voice—the tone, the rhythm and dialect, the tongue-in-cheek humor and the affectionate national pride…These mysteries are literary tales…[McGarr] is interesting and entertaining, to be sure, and skillful and erudite enough to lead the reader along the trail.”
San Antonio Express-News
“Superb plotting and riveting background…This is vintage Gill, the steady McGarr making his way through unaccountable evil in a setting that includes Dublin streets and stately homes…Gill brings a bracing, biting intelligence to the police procedural.”
Booklist (*Starred Review*)
“McGarr is as complex and engaging a character as you can hope to meet in contemporary crime fiction…and Gill is a marvelous tour guide, showing us [this] troubled country’s charm and warts with style and wit.”
Denver Post
“The Peter McGarr mystery series [is] heavily imbued with Irish wit and wonder…[Gill] has managed to combine erudition, humor
, and intelligence.”
Dallas Morning News
“Gill’s novels are quite a bit more than police procedurals…They are distinguished by the quirky integrity that makes McGarr a vivid individual, by Gill’s ability to render the everyday speech of Dublin as music, and by the passions so keenly felt by his characters on both sides of the law.”
Detroit News
“Gill’s descriptive powers paint a vibrant landscape peopled by well-drawn characters…From cover to cover author Bartholomew Gill packs a plot with punch and poignancy.”
Boston Herald
“Enough murder and mayhem to boggle the mind. McGarr is in for the shock of his life in the moving, ghastly finale.”
Providence Journal
“Beguiling…The beauty of Bartholomew Gill’s Irish police procedurals has as much to do with their internal complexity as with their surface charms and graces.”
New York Times Book Review
“It’s hard to decide what Bartholomew Gill does best. Certainly his Irish settings are unequaled, producing an almost irresistible urge to pull on an Aran sweater and drink strong tea in front of a raging peat fire. But even his evocative settings pale before his well-developed plots…Gill never fails to deliver.”
Kansas City Star
“[A] splendid series…Gill shapes wonderful sentences and zestfully evokes the scenery and the spirit of his former homeland. He is also an imaginative portrayer of character.”
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Gill’s books are both earthy and elegant. The cadence of Dublin life sings in [his] pages, and the wit is ready and true.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“Gill is a nimble plotter and fine writer.”
Orlando Sentinel
“Gill’s dialogue is always superb. It’s the Irish talking.”
Newsday
Also by Bartholomew Gill
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH LOVER
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH TINKER
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH SEA WOLF
THE DEATH OF AN ARDENT BIBLIOPHILE
DEATH ON A COLD, WILD RIVER
THE DEATH OF LOVE
THE DEATH OF A JOYCE SCHOLAR
MCGARR AND THE LEGACY OF A WOMAN SCORNED
MCGARR AND THE METHOD OF DESCARTES
MCGARR AND THE P. M. BELGRAVE SQUARE
MCGARR AT THE DUBLIN HORSE SHOW
MCGARR ON THE CLIFFS OF MOHER
MCGARR AND THE SIENESE CONSPIRACY
MCGARR AND THE POLITICIAN’S WIFE (recently published as The Death of an Irish Politician)
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH SINNER. Copyright © 2001 by Mark McGarrity. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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