Free Falling

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  David struggled to sit up and pulled uselessly against his restraints. His legs were covered in bedsores that wept onto the dirty linens when he moved. His left arm lay impotently against this chest, duct-taped around his upper body. He pulled against the chain that was attached to the boat anchor until he was sitting up. He saw one of the men drag poor Betta down the porch front stairs, then slit her throat and toss her body onto the dahlias in the front flowerbeds. David jerked up and rasped out the single word “No!” It felt like barely more than a whisper, but the killer, wiping his blade on his shirt, turned and looked directly at David through the open window.

  Dierdre had made dinner. Sarah couldn’t remember being more moved by such a simple act. To have any responsibility at all taken from her shoulders was an incredible gift. John was very quiet this evening. He sat between his two dogs, absentmindedly petting them both at the same time. He watched the flames in the fireplace.

  “Sure, don’t worry about him, Sarah,” Dierdre said, putting plates down on the table. “The smart ones need time to think it all through. Seamus was the same way and I’ll bet your David is, too.”

  Sarah thought about it. It’s true. David did reflect more than she did. Sometimes when she thought he was in a mood, he was just lining things up in his head.

  “It’s just that he’s so young to have so much bad stuff to think about,” she said as she watched John.

  “Well, there’s little you can be doing about that,” Dierdre said bluntly. “Life is what it is. You’ll not be changing it just because you don’t want it troubling him.”

  Sarah looked at her and nearly laughed. “It’s weird, Dierdre,” she said. “Back home, that’s exactly what I attempted to do. All the time. And most of the time? I felt like I did change it.”

  Dierdre shook her head but she smiled. “That would be because you’re American, and all,” she said. “Now, no offense, but the rest of us don’t have the luxury for such nonsense.”

  “Or the arrogance?”

  “Some things are best left unsaid. Come, laddie. It’s dinner now.” Dierdre winked at Sarah.

  John came to the table and sat down.

  “Did you wash you hands?” Sarah said.

  He nodded.

  “Isn’t it great, having Dierdre here? Look, we’re having chicken again. Our lives have improved already.”

  John looked up at her from his hands. An indicting look, Sarah thought.

  “Look, sweetie, I have no control over the weather.”

  “I know.”

  Dierdre came back to the table and spooned up a chicken casserole concoction onto three plates.

  “And we’ll not want to be losing your mum out there in all this, would we?”

  “I saw the wisdom in you not going, Mom,” he muttered.

  Sarah and Dierdre exchanged a look.

  “Look, I’m not patronizing you, sweetie,” Sarah said, putting her hand on his cheek. “I know you’re not blaming me for the weather. And I’m disappointed, too.”

  He looked up at her and his eyes filled with tears. “It’s just, I keep seeing Dad in trouble and I can’t help but think every minute counts. That’s all.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  Dierdre came back to the table and sat down.

  “We’ll be saying grace now,” she said taking each of their hands. “And with thanking the good Lord for this meal—which so many in Ireland do not have tonight—and we’ll also be asking Him to keep our David safe and well until he can return to us.”

  John looked at her and nodded. “Amen,” he said. “Thanks.”

  The gypsy strode into the bedroom and threw back the door where it crashed into the wall with a bang. David felt like he was an actor in a grainy movie. An actor with no lines and no future.

  “Cor! Smells like something died in here.” The big gypsy stood at the end of the bed eying David. He was joined by two other men.

  “Jesus, Davey. She’s got him chained to a boat anchor. Blimey. And us with no workin’ cellphone cameras. God, but it stinks in here.”

  David watched the three men observe him and felt, strangely, no fear. In fact, he was surprised to note that he felt nearly joyful. The realization had just come to him that one way or the other, these men would be the method of his release from his hell.

  One way or the other.

  “Who is he?”

  “Oy! Can you speak? He’s daft as a loon. Look at his eyes. Should we tell Finn?”

  The gypsy, Davey, wrinkled his nose at the smell and turned on his heel to exit the room.

  “Don’t bother him with this shite,” he said. “See if there’s anything worth taking in here. Then kill ‘im.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dierdre hooked the pony to the harness. Sarah watched how quickly the older woman had buckled and arranged chains along the pony’s neck and back. She noticed that John had watched closely too. She had no doubt he’d be able to do it himself the next time they needed to harness up the little pony trap.

  “Little Ned will see you fine, please God,” Dierdre said, patting the pony on the neck.

  They had debated whether or not Sarah should ride Dan or take the cart. But the lure of goods that Dierdre had left behind at her farm had settled the question. Sarah would go there first, look for Seamus, then load up the trap with anything she could carry from the house. Then she’d go on to Balinagh to ask for word about David.

  That was the plan.

  Sarah tugged on Dierdre’s driving gloves and looked back at the cottage.

  “You’re going to be okay here?”

  Dierdre handed her the driving reins.

  “For the hundredth time, Sarah, yes,” Dierdre said. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, boyo?”

  John came over and gave his mother a hug.

  “We’re armed, Mom,” he said. “No one’s messing with us.”

  “Yeah, about that,” she looked at Dierdre who shook her head.

  “Stop worrying, Sarah,” she said. “We will be fine. It’s you that’s going out in the world and you’ll be needing to keep a watch out, mind. That group of gypsies travels by day. Mind you see them before they see you.”

  “God, I can’t believe any of this,” Sarah said as she hopped up into the cart seat. “I’ll be back by nightfall. Guaranteed. Okay?”

  “See that you do,” Dierdre said, her mouth in a firm line that made Sarah think she was trying not to cry.

  “I’ll find out where our men are, Dierdre.” She looked at John. “I will.”

  “I know, Mom. Be careful is all. Be real careful.”

  She smiled reassuringly at him and urged the pony into a walk.

  She turned half way down the drive to wave.

  The snow was still falling when Sarah left Cairn Cottage but she was determined to go on even if she spotted a funnel cloud hovering over the Irish dry stonewalls that lined the horizon.

  Do the Irish get tornadoes?

  She had never driven a horse-drawn wagon before and it felt awkward trying to control the pony without the use of her legs or seat. She consciously worked to tamp down her anxiety and impatience but, even so, found herself urging the little pony into a trot. She prayed he could manage any slick spots on the icy road. A video of the cart overturned and the horse hopelessly entangled in its harness and cart brackets flashed into her mind. Almost angrily, she banished the image and forced herself to slow him down to a brisk walk. She focused on the road between his ears and found herself praying outloud. She remembered she used to recite poetry, or sometimes even sing, when she rode her horse years ago—after she lost her confidence and needed to rely on such techniques to calm herself and her mount.

  “Dear Lord,” she said. “Please let me find Seamus. Dead or alive, although please alive, but in any case please let me find him so I can help Dierdre say her goodbyes.” She watched the pony’s ears flick backwards to catch the sound of her voice.

  “And please let me find David, I beg you. I hate to as
k for so much, because I need you to protect John, too, and keep him safe. And me on my trip today. Please let us get where we’re going safely. Dear God, I pray.”

  Sarah shivered in her Gor-Tex coat and tightened her grip on the reins. When she pulled up in front of Dierdre and Seamus’s little farmhouse, she was surprised to have arrived so quickly. Her thoughts had been calm and her mind open and hopeful.

  It occurred to her as she looked at their house that the drive to it was virtually hidden from the main road. The house itself was tucked into a copse of fir trees, furthering camouflaging it. If you didn’t know it was here, Sarah found herself thinking, you might never find it.

  She stopped the cart, set the brake, and looked around for any sign of life. Déjà vu, she thought sadly, thinking of Devon. Her shoulder holster—moldy and already worn thin when she got it—now wouldn’t snap shut, and she was worried the Glock, which wasn’t the right size for it anyway, would fall out. She picked up the gun from the leather seat next to her and stuffed it in her jacket pocket, praying it was true what John had told her about not needing a safety on it. She jumped down from the cart.

  Finn sat in Betta’s kitchen drinking a mug of tea. He watched his men from the kitchen window as they fed and watered their horses. They had found several rifles in Julie’s mother’s house, some ammo, enough food to last them a few days, and two good horses. He recognized the Yank’s big bay as one of the horses he had tried to steal two months ago when the bitch shot him.

  The horse was his now, he thought with satisfaction.

  A young gypsy boy entered the kitchen. His eyes were badly crossed, his skin mottled with acne. Finn always marveled that the boy could take two steps without falling or crashing into something.

  “Oy, Finn,” the boy said. “What do you want we should do with the body?”

  “What do we usually do, you daft idiot?”

  The boy looked around the room.

  “Well, the rushes are set,” he said.

  “Mind if I finish me tea, first?”

  The boy nodded and left the room.

  Finn looked in the direction of the bedroom. His arm hurt him today. It didn’t always. The bullet was still in there but it didn’t worry him. Didn’t he have an uncle lived to seventy years with two bullets in ‘im? One in each of his legs. He stood, tossed his tea mug in the sink, and walked out onto the porch. His men turned and looked at him as if awaiting orders.

  “Light ‘er up,” he said, mounting the large, saddled, bay and turning its head toward the road. He knew he’d get a better view of the fire from the rise at the turn of the road. It was nearly his favorite part.

  Nearly.

  Sarah found Seamus in the back bedroom.

  Alive.

  When she first pushed open the bedroom door and saw him, her heart flew into her mouth and she thought, instantly, of the joy she would be bringing Dierdre who had not had the heart to hope for so much. The second thought she had, as she approached the bed where the old man lay, was that she would have to delay her trip to Balinagh and her search for David again.

  She approached the bed slowly but he was awake, sitting up in bed, with a book in his hands. He watched her come without fear or recognition.

  “Hey, Seamus,” she said. “Am I glad to see you. Dierdre will be, too.”

  “Ahhh, shite, an American,” he said, putting the book down.

  His response startled Sarah who had not ever heard him string together enough words to form a sentence before.

  “You…You remember me?” she asked, looking about the room.

  “I went for a wee walk,” he said, tiredly.

  “I know. You—”

  “And when I returned, the wife was gone and so, of course, was any hope of lunch.”

  Sarah sat down on the bed next to him.

  Did he have moments of clarity? Dierdre had never mentioned it if he did. Slowly, Sarah reached for his hand.

  “Dierdre’s at our place, Seamus,” she said. “Let’s go to her, okay? She’ll have lunch ready for us.”

  “You’re American,” he said again, studying her face.

  “I am,” she said. “My husband and son and I are renting the McGutherie place.” She cleared her throat. “We’re on vacation here in Ireland.” The words felt absurd coming out of her mouth but she forced a smile to accompany them.

  “The McGutheries,” he said, a moue of distaste forming on his lips. “Liam McGutherie is an idiot. I taught him for six years, you know.” He looked out the window. “Did well in London, I’m told. Bugger me. I never would’ve predicted it.”

  Sarah stood up.

  She didn’t know how long this new Seamus would last but in case this was a one-off, she really wanted to get him to Dierdre as soon as possible.

  “What do you want to bring with you, Seamus?” she asked looking around the room. “Can you get yourself up while I look for a few things in the kitchen? Dierdre asked me to bring her pie pan especially.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, pulling back the bed covers. He stopped and looked up at her: “Who are you again?”

  Thirty minutes later, Sarah had the pony trap packed and the cow tethered to a lead off the back. Seamus, although dressed, was still pottering about the house and Sarah began to feel the anxiety of wanting to be gone and on their way back to Dierdre and John. Although the thought crossed her mind that she could still make it to Balinagh today after she dropped Seamus off —on horseback this time—she knew that the fading light and quickly dropping temperatures made the idea a folly.

  She waited for a moment by Little Ned’s head, holding him by his cavesson and willing herself to be patient—even got a comical image of herself waiting for David in their SUV while he did one last pass on checking the house—until she finally let her frustration get the better of her. She pulled the handgun out of her pocket, tossed it in the floor of the cart, and bounded up the porch steps.

  “Come on, Seamus,” she called. “Let’s go. Lunch is on the table only it’s not this table.”

  He walked toward her uncertainly, his gaze foggy and unsure.

  “I’ve already put your valise in the cart,” she said, smiling and trying to make her voice sound reassuring and cheerful. A part of her wanted to grab him and physically propel him down the steps to the cart.

  “Dierdre?”

  “…is waiting for you at my place, remember? Have you got everything?” She touched his elbow and he moved toward the porch.

  Chatting and smiling and gently nudging, Sarah got him off the porch and into the cart. She ran around the other side of it, jumped in and collected the reins.

  “Off we go,” she said. Finally.

  “Wait! Wait,” he said, grabbing the side of the cart.

  “What is it?” She took a breath. “Can we talk about it on the road?”

  “I left my glasses.” He touched his breast pocket where he’d tucked a slim book of poetry. “I can’t read without my glasses.”

  This new clear-headed reading Seamus was kind of a pain in the ass, Sarah found herself thinking as she laid the reins back down.

  “Right, yes, okay,” she said. “Where did you have them? In your bedroom?” She was already out of the cart and back up the porch steps, not waiting for an answer.

  While she figured it was likely he’d go back to being catatonic before they even arrived at the cottage today, on the slim possibility he did remain clear and with it, she didn’t want to be the reason he spent the entire winter not being able to read. She ran to the bedroom and jerked open the nightstand. Nothing. She looked on the dresser tops, then on the floor in case they accidentally had fallen during his attempts to pack his valise. In exasperation, she was on her hands and knees looking under the bed, spending more time there than she’s planned, pushing past dust bunnies and old books, when she heard the sound of the gunshot.

  It had come from where the cart was parked in front of the house.

  Sarah froze.

  Dear God, had Sea
mus found the gun? Her first instinct was to rush out onto the porch. Instead, she stood up, held her breath, and listened. If he’d shot himself, fifteen seconds more would not make the difference in the outcome of whatever makeshift first-aid she would be able to offer him.

  Voices.

  She heard voices coming from the front. Silently, she moved to the bedroom wall away from the window. Dierdre and Seamus’s bedroom faced the back garden with a view of the well and the back pasture, but she’d left the front door open in her hurry and the voices carried easily to her.

  There were at least two, maybe more, male voices. Her hand went to her jacket pocket but she knew, before she even felt inside, that the gun would not be there.

  Shit!

  She took a breath and edged herself across the room to try to catch a glimpse of what was going on outside the front door. The last time she heard voices outside a cottage door, they had been friendly ones. Just because she was terrified didn’t mean these men were necessarily a threat to her.

  The first thing she saw was the immediate absence of something that should have been there but wasn’t. The cow, tied to the back of the cart, sagged against the cart in a brown mountainous carcass. The results of the gunshot, she thought, her stomach roiling.

  Not friends.

  She pressed herself against the wall again and tried to think of what to do. She looked around the room for a weapon. The voices were louder now.

  “We know you’re in there. Come out or we shoot the old man.”

  Sarah saw a shadow cross the back window. She crouched down and duck- walked out of the room just as a man stuck his head in the bedroom window. She crawled into the kitchen and wrenched a drawer open. Dierdre had already taken most of the knives and what she hadn’t packed last week, were now sitting on the pony cart outside.

  “She’s in there!” the voice called from the back of the house. “I just saw her.” The sounds of splintering wood indicated that the man was not bothering to walk around to the front to gain entrance.