by John McEvoy
His run was interrupted by a wind-spurred rain that forced him back to the Lodge thirty minutes earlier than he’d planned. That weather continued relentlessly, prompting some of the Hanratty party to leave a day early for home. The dining room that Saturday night for the most part was subdued. Jack and Nora sat with the Hanrattys. Niall said, “The weather channel says this deluge will be over by morning. I hope he’s right.”
He looked around the half-empty room. “Tony Rourke took off for home before lunch. Barry said he and his wife Maeve were headed tonight for a nearby pub to watch soccer and play darts,” Niall said. “At least the Michigan boor has departed.”
“Not so,” Nora said. “Fiona told me Whitesell had taken to his bed for the night with an illness.”
Doyle said, “We can only hope it’s laryngitis.”
Chapter Forty-one
Nora was already up, dressed for the day, packing her laptop, when Doyle awoke that bright, sunny Sunday morning. She declared herself “wildly hungry for breakfast. And yourself?”
“I am indeed,” he yawned. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’m just going to jump in the shower.”
“I’ve never quite understood that expression,” Nora said. “Do you mean you’re going to take a little run and then a kind of nimble leap in order to get beneath the showerhead? Or be jumping about once you’re in there?”
“Hah hah. You’re evidently in mid-day form at seven.”
Twenty-five minutes later they entered the dining room, which was busy with a lively Sunday morning crowd that included a tour van group. “Ah, shoot,” Doyle said to Sheila as they stood at the doorway.
“What’s wrong?”
“Only table left open is over in the corner next to the Michigan Mouth. Him and poor Missus Mouse. Oh, well. What the hell! I’m starving. Are you game for placement over there within range of that bloviator?”
They walked through the room waving or saying hello to people they either knew or had recently met. Many cheery faces. Fiona, in her role as a morning server, greeted them with a smile and a choice of tea or coffee. Doyle, hearing the adjacent Dr. Whitesell, said, “Earplugs, Fiona, would be lovely.” Fiona smiled sympathetically.
After Fiona had returned with green tea for Nora, orange juice for Jack, she took their orders, granola and fruit, the full Irish fry-up, respectively. Nora said, “So. The inquiring reporter wants to know. What were you and Niall on about out there on your early morning walk yesterday? I didn’t want to ask you about it after you came back, sweating and disturbed. So, I went out with the ladies on a shopping group. With the Hanrattys there at dinner last night, I didn’t want to bring up the subject. And, after dinner and drinks and that dancing, I never got around to doing so.”
“But that, of course, was because you were otherwise occupied,” Jack leered. She punched him on the arm. “Don’t give me that Groucho Marx jiggling eyebrow act.” He reached into the basket of scones, split one, offered her half, and glanced around the room.
“Don’t want to talk here now, Nora. Besides,” he said, “you’d probably have a hard time hearing me over the sounds of Doctor Buffoon.”
After a wink to Nora, Doyle suddenly lurched forward in his chair. He grabbed his white napkin and pretended to cover his mouth. The sound that emerged was a disturbingly loud combination of a cough and a sneeze. Another even longer such utterance shortly followed. Nora looked at him with alarm and started to get to her feet. Even Dr. Whitesell momentarily stopped talking. Doyle took a deep breath, wiped his face with the napkin, and sat back in his chair.
Less than two minutes later, before Jack had apprised Nora of what he was doing, Dr. Whitesell had resumed loudly declaiming his negative views of “Obama Damn Care.” Doyle let loose with an even more energetic sneeze/cough combo. This one was loud enough to startle all the nearby tables. He peered up over his napkin at the concerned Nora, laughter in his eyes.
Nora got it. Frowned, sat back, watching Jack take a deep breath and place his napkin back down on the table, giving her another wink. She said quietly, “I presume you’re not a victim of choking or allergies, Jack Doyle. What, pray tell, or if you don’t mind me saying so, what the hell is the meaning of that little performance? Those sounds you produced? I didn’t know if you were blowing your nose or choking to death.”
“I am glad you asked.” He paused to drain his glass of juice. Wiped his mouth again and looked around the room, many of whose occupants regarded him with concern. He nodded toward them reassuringly. Niall and Barry had gotten up from their chairs, but Jack quickly waved a not-to-worry hand in their direction and they sat back down. The Michigan physician had thrown his napkin down on the nearby table and left the dining room, Missus Mouse trailing.
“What you heard, Nora, was the sound of WGAF, pronounced woo-guff. I’ll explain in a minute.”
He offered Nora another scone, which was declined. He buttered his. “It goes back a ways. To be brief, that sound is a verbal acronym. I developed it several years ago for application in the presence of such world-class, boring assholes as Dr. Whitesell. When you hear a person like Whitesell producing a full throated cascade of egomaniacal verbal irritation, you have the opportunity, no, I should say the obligation, to respond with a resounding WGAF. Which at least might stop him for a moment or two. Maybe even halt him for more than that. If nothing else, your tipped-off companions will know what that sound stands for.”
“Well, Jack, I’m not sure I get it. What does that sound mean?”
Doyle leaned across the table to confide, “WGAF, my dear, is the acronym for Who Gives a Fuck? Consider yourself tipped-off.”
She was still muffling her laughter as Fiona placed Nora’s cereal bowl before her, then served Jack’s breakfast. He happily dug into his platter of sausages, rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, black pudding, baked beans, with brown soda bread on the side.
Nora shook her head as she watched him. “A breakfast like that would put me under for the day.”
“Aw, it’s great. Puts a skip in me step.”
An hour later, Jack carried their luggage to Nora’s Peugeot. After closing the trunk, he stepped back and admired its still very decent paint job. “All the rain here, they must never have to wash their cars,” he said to himself.
The Hanrattys were at the Lodge entrance, accepting thanks from their departing guests, wishing them all “safe home, now.” It continued to be a sun-blessed Sunday morning. Dr. Whitesell “and his meek wee woman,” Niall told Jack, “left some time ago. Him evidently eager to infect some other corner of our nation.”
Nora offered to drive half the way back to Bray. “Fine with me,” Doyle said. “I’ll leave these rural routes to you. You’re probably more capable of weaving your way through the occasional roadway livestock. I enjoy the challenge of your city motoring.” There was a dismissive glance and no reply to that. Rummaging through her glove box CD collection, he found another Van Morrison. “I don’t know this one,” Doyle said. “Mind if I play it?”
“Not at all. But before the music begins, I have this to ask. It’s about you here on a return visit to your ancestral home in a matter of mere months if not weeks. Inquiring journalist that I am, I’d like to know why.” She deftly turned onto the main highway before turning to smile at him. “I don’t believe it’s me unknowingly sending out siren songs that lure you back, Jack.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. But, to be honest, the nearly overpowering lure of you is not the sole reason.”
She said, “I appreciate your candor. So, tell me what’s going on here?”
He reached to pat her hand on the steering wheel. “I don’t mean to make light of your allure factor, Nora, believe me. Not at all.” He stopped talking and gazed out his window at a large pasture dotted with robust, white sheep, an observant black border collie monitoring their pasture parameters.
“Do you think you could
put up with me for a few more days, Nora?”
“The room rate will remain the same,” she said softly. “But why? I know you’re not desperate for my company.” She put her right blinker on and angled off the side of the highway to a rest area and pulled the Peugeot to a stop.
“I think I’ve already had enough driving for this morning. You can drive us home from here. And you can also tell me what you’re up to.” They got out and exchanged seats.
Doyle sped through five more miles before answering. “Me being here,” he said, “all has to do with Niall, his safety. The attempts on his life. Sheila’s growing fear for him. Because somebody, identity unknown, seems determined to kill our Niall.
“Right after breakfast at the lodge this morning, Barry Hoy pulled me aside. He said he had some thoughts about who was targeting his boss. Said he couldn’t talk there, but asked me to meet him for a drink late this afternoon in Dublin. I said I would. He seems to be as worried about Niall as Sheila is.”
“Seems to be? Do I detect a note of doubt?”
“Nah, not really. Hoy strikes me as a reliable sort. He’s been Niall’s right-hand muscle for a lot of years. Been aboard since the time the company first took flight and seems to be a very loyal employee and friend. He’s an ex-boxer,” Doyle added.
“Hah! As if that means anything as far as his ethical credentials. The fact that he’s laced out punishment and taken the same? Just like you, in your youth?”
“Ah, you journalists. Cynical streaks wider than the highway we’re driving.” Doyle reached to lower the volume on the Van Morrison CD. “At least you didn’t refer to it as my ‘distant’ youth. But, no, of course I’m not qualifying Barry Hoy for the Morality All-Star Team just because he boxed like I did. But I’ve spent some time with that fellow, and he seems genuine to me. Niall Hanratty is pretty much a hero and a big brother and benefactor to him. I’m convinced of that. That’s why I want to hear what Barry has to say to me.”
***
Nora was listening to the ten o’clock RTE Radio One news that night when Jack lightly rapped on her front door. “Woo,” she said, ushering him into her living room, “did you happen to tumble into a vat of Guinness at the Dublin brewery?”
“Don’t be so dismissive, missy. Yeah, I had a few ’arf and ’arfs with Mr. Hoy. That pub I met him in, the breath mint dispenser was empty.”
“Did you not eat dinner?”
Doyle said, “This was a business meeting. No time for fooling with menus. Do you happen to have any late night sandwich makings in your larder?”
“Follow me.”
After she sliced the bread and cheese and turned on the broiler, and started brewing the tea, Nora said, “Well, how did it go? Was it an enlightening experience with Barry Hoy?”
“Pretty much so. Thanks for making the grilled cheese, by the way. Do you happen to have a tomato to place atop it? Yes, Hoy gave me some information that could prove valuable regarding Niall’s mysterious enemy.”
Nora handed him a cup of tea, poured her own, and sat down across from him. “What kind of information?”
“Well, you might term what Barry told me is the tip of the iceberg. Now, I need someone to probe under the water into the heart of the iceberg. So to speak.”
“Good God, Jack, enough of the foggy talk. I sense there’s something here you want from me. Am I right?”
“There is, Nora. In your role as the inquiring journalist, would you be able to find out details about an Irish company’s incorporation? Its officers? Major stockholders? Things like that?”
She sipped her tea and sat back, eyebrows raised. “I hope you recognize this as an appraising look.”
“How could I miss it?” Doyle said.
“I’m not sure what you’re up to. Yet. But to answer your question, yes, it is possible for me to undertake that sort of research. If the company is registered here in Ireland, I could access the Companies Registration Office. This can be done online. There’d be a small fee to download the company’s filings, which would include the information you mentioned. I could use a credit card to pay for the documents to be sent back to me.”
“I’ll give you my card number.”
“No rush. The Registration Office won’t be open for business on a Sunday. And, I leave early tomorrow morning for a conference in Spain, the town of Santiago de Compostella. I’ve never been there. Supposed to be very interesting. The conference subject is Internet privacy, and I’m covering it for some newspapers in the European Market countries. Once I’m there and set up, and when I get a bit of time, I’ll try to get this information for you. Might take a few days. All right?”
“That’d be great. My flight home is tomorrow afternoon. Maybe you could call or e-mail me with what you’ve come up whenever you come up with it.”
“That’ll be the plan, then,” Nora said, adding, “Are you sure you trust big Barry Hoy?”
Doyle finished the final bite of his sandwich before answering. “As you can see, I am chewing thoughtfully.”
“On with it, Jack Doyle. What’s your answer?”
“Yes, I trust the faithful Hoy. So far.”
***
Nora was up and off early the next morning for her flight to Spain, giving Doyle a hearty hug at the doorway before hurrying down the steps and walkway to the waiting cab. He waved good-bye, but she didn’t see it. She was already on her cell phone as the taxi pulled away.
He showered, packed, and took a brief walk in her quiet Bray neighborhood. Four blocks brought him to a spot with a grand view of the Irish Sea. Its strand was dotted with joggers and dog walkers on this pleasant morning. He wished he had time to join them. But his airport cab was due, as was he due back in Chicago, where two surprises would be forthcoming, one immediate, neither pleasant.
Chapter Forty-two
The publicized notice of the fifty-thousand-dollar reward made her smile. It was being talked about throughout the horse world. “Stop the killer of these valuable, contributing horses” pretty much summed up the outcries. “But what about the crimes being committed against these innocent, unrepresented horses?” she muttered. “What they are being put through in the cause of arrogant science?”
A humidity-ridden August afternoon in southwest Michigan. She’d started early in the morning and curved around the southern border of the great lake that glistened in the sunlight like the bottom of a giant, watery paper clip. Her drive there had been easy. Her research about Washtena College and the routines of its veterinary school indicated promise and possibility.
She stopped at a Dairy Queen drive-in on the outskirts of South Haven for an iced coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich. Kept her ball cap low on her face as she ordered, then paid the teen-aged car hop. Checked her watch. If the vet school’s published schedule was accurate, her target should by now be having her late afternoon grazing session in a field farthest away from the school’s buildings.
Thirty-two miles later she pulled off the black-topped county highway onto a graveled side road, parked, and picked up her equipment bag. Got out and stood for a moment, breathing in the delightful air of a rural summer, the silence broken only by some treetop bird chattering.
The old black mare was alone in the lush, green pasture, some twenty yards away from the fence. Her head was down, lips working slowly as she nibbled. Flies were nearby and she flicked them away with both her tail and her ears, not looking up.
Standing quietly in the advancing dusk, shadowed by the thick branches of a tall chestnut tree, she whistled softly. Just enough to make the horse’s ears come all the way up as she raised her head.
Leaning over the wooden fence, she reached into her kit. Extracted a package of peppermint mints. She confidently crinkled the cellophane wrapper. She’d never known a horse that didn’t love peppermint. This one was no exception.
The old mare clopped eagerly toward
the fence, head up, ears still pricked, a picture of expectancy. For a moment, the hand holding the syringe trembled. How she disliked doing this. But it had to be done if the message would ever be understood that these innocent, four-legged creatures should never be subjected to physical intrusions, that such treatment no matter how “well intentioned” violated nature’s law.
The old mare stopped at the fence. Regarded the visitor, looked away, then looked back. And stepped closer to the outstretched hand.
That hand delivered the candies and its owner smiled at the familiar feeling of soft horse lips on her palm, the grateful snorting sound the horse produced. Her eyes began to tear as she watched the trusting mare’s large eyes shift up to her face.
It was with even more reluctance than usual on this sweet-smelling early evening that she gave a final caress to the right side of the old mare’s neck, stepped forward, reached across the fence, and plunged the needle into the other side of that neck.
She turned away. Leaned down to pick up the empty cellophane package. Heard the sound of the thousand-pound suddenly dead body hit the grass on the other side of the fence.
Not looking back, she ran, reaching for the keys with her right hand, brushing the tears from her face with her left.
Chapter Forty-three
An overcast August morning. Doyle, restless and unable to sleep soundly, had taken a dawn run along the lakefront. He was back in his condo, showered and dressed before seven, when he decided to drive out to Heartland Downs and watch the workouts with Ralph Tenuta.
It was one of his favorite things to do. Mornings at the racetrack were Doyle’s favorite times in that setting. Stands empty but for a dozen clockers, numerous trainers and owners sipping coffee, eyes on the action in front of them. The racing strip with dozens of horses going through a variety of training exercises. The sounds they made, as well as the bright voices of the amazingly physically fit little men and women riding them, darting through the early morning air. Hoofbeats pounding into the loam, equine snorts and whinnies, riders chirping to their mounts or cajoling them, meanwhile exchanging good-natured greetings or barbs. The sounds of a world unto itself.