Buried Troubles

by Marian McMahon Stanley

  She opened her palms on the wheel to stretch her fingers, which had started to tingle from her tightened grip. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s just a road. Other people drive on it without a problem. Roundstone’s only nine kilometers, about six miles away at the end. And besides—I’m not alone. There’s another car on the road behind me, with people who could help me if I had a problem.

  She started to think about who might be waiting to meet her at the pub in Roundstone. Michael Cahill. Where did he hear of her, and how was he connected in this shadowy, complicated story?

  A picture was starting to emerge of what young Patrick Keenan had found out. Somewhere at the heart of the story, the mystery of a man murdered during an IRA operation at the Mother and Baby Home. Murdered outside a burial vault where the bodies of sick little babies and their exhausted, young unwed mothers lay in uneasy eternity. A dismal story.

  Rosaria almost forgot for a moment that she’d made a grave navigational error which left her now, with her impaired vision, inching along a lonely bog road in the dark. She glanced in the rear view mirror, into the glare of the headlights. She saw that the car behind was getting very close. Rosaria sped up a little, but then so did the car. The other car got so close that it bumped her rear fender, lightly at first and then aggressively several times. What was he doing?

  Rosaria put her arms out the driver’s side window and waved to the car to pass—not being sure how it could on this narrow road and where she could ever pull over to make more room. The other car ignored her wave. She looked in the rear view mirror, seeing her worried frown reflected back at her along with the headlights on the other car and two dark shapes inside. She could tell they were men. They started to bump her car fender again—this time at an angle. What were they doing? Jesus, Mary and Joseph—they’re pushing me off the road!

  She looked around frantically and fruitlessly—nothing around but miles and miles of bog. No people, no lights—just a car behind her trying to push her off the road into the bog. Jesus Christ. Rosaria did the only thing she could think to do. She floored the gas pedal—hurtling down the road, seeing only as far as her headlights allowed. Her hands were frozen to the steering wheel.

  The other car followed. She could hear the driver gunning his engine, but he responded just a hair too late. She had a small distance advantage and increased it as much as she could with a heavy foot on the pedal. Somebody, anybody—even a broken down peat truck with a dog in the passenger seat. Wouldn’t anyone come?

  Then, a sudden moment of awful clarity. She wouldn’t meet another car on this road. No one would be stupid enough to take this road at night except a reckless Yank with a bad eye who didn’t know how to drive in Ireland.

  And who else? Who else would take this road? Men who were following this reckless Yank. Men who meant this reckless Yank no good. There was no Michael Cahill. Jesus. I’m such a chump. That blow on my head last winter didn’t impact just my eye. My brains are turning to mush. Christ.

  She drove head-on—not seeing where she was going. Mr. Burke’s toy-like Fiesta bumped along wildly—not equal to the challenges of a rough bog road. She’d ruin it, but that was the least of her troubles right now.

  Rosaria could hear herself crying and gasping when she missed a switch and ran the Fiesta off the road into the bog. Jesus God. Her heart ceased beating for a moment.

  She could hear the spray of gravel and loose dirt hit the boulders beside the road as the car behind her braked to a fast, full stop. Then, she could hear the hurried movements of the two men rushing to get out of their car.

  Shaking, Rosaria crawled as fast as she could across the seat to the passenger side and half fell out the door. Staying low, protected by the car, she inched toward an outcropping of boulders, stumbling on the grassy hillocks, rough ground and rocks. She didn’t think the men could see her.

  “Where is she? You take that side.” Sharp, rough voices.

  Rosaria’s mind was swirling, her senses on some kind of disoriented alert. What was going on? Her animal instincts screamed—danger, danger, run, run!

  “Jaysus. I can’t see a thing,” responded another voice. “Get the damned torch.” A clipped, angular northern accent.

  Rosaria could feel the comforting rough surface of the large stone between her and the men, whoever they were. Who were these people?

  There was a rustling on the other side of the road. “Over there,” she heard the first man call. The lights from the Fiesta were still on. She peeked around the corner of the boulder and saw the men heading across the road away from her. Her heart stopped. Both men were carrying handguns. Handguns. For her?

  The face of one man looked dimly familiar. A broad pug nose, square jaw. The man who called himself Joseph Mulvaney—the missing aide from the care home? Was that possible? Her head was whirling. This must be a weird, horrible nightmare.

  “Watch for the stream here,” the first man called to the other. “Ach, why isn’t Moran taking care of his own job?”

  Rosaria covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. Moran? That couldn’t be her Moran. Hugh Moran connected with these men searching for her with guns in their hands? Impossible.

  ‘She’s an old flame. Doesn’t have the stomach to do it himself,” the sham Joseph Mulvaney responded. No northern accent there. Dublin?

  Old flame? Do what to his old flame? thought Rosaria, trying to keep herself under control.

  “Piece of luck though, that he had that connection when we got the word.”

  Got the word. What word? Even in her disoriented state, Rosaria knew what they meant. She just couldn’t absorb it.

  “Well, not the time for hearts and flowers. He’s the one who’s always saying that hard things have to be done and...Oh, Jesus Christ.” The man apparently had stumbled on yet another rocky hillock. “And now, suddenly,” he said as he recovered, “he has one goddamned assignment, to off an old girlfriend from years ago and he hasn’t the stomach. Big talker. That’s all he is.”

  She wasn’t sure she could move from the shock. Off an old girlfriend? Suddenly there wasn’t enough air to breathe. Her breath was ragged. So loud, Rosaria was sure the men would hear her. She desperately held the sobs in by covering her mouth with both hands. Her body shook from the effort.

  “You know, he should have done the old guy in the care home—the one who was going a little soft and got talkative. He should have done him too. You notice how he never gets his hands dirty?”

  “Shut up, for Chrissakes. She’ll hear us coming, if she hasn’t. This whole thing already looks like one big fuckup. Let’s get this done.”

  Poor Thomas Martin. And now they want to get this done. Shoot her. Get the job done. Hugh’s job. A great wave of fear and shock and grief washed over her all at once.

  Another, quieter rustle nearby. Rosaria was shaking almost uncontrollably, terror clawed at her heart and her movements were clumsy, but she willed herself to crawl to the side of the boulder, away from the rustle. A musky smell. A sheep. God bless the sheep. Now she could hear other small rustles around the bog. The sheep were out here tonight. Some sleeping, a few moving about, alerted by people intruding on their territory. Those men seemed like city men—they would certainly never know about sheep.

  Rosaria hoped the random noises from the sheep would keep the men off kilter. She had to get out of here. The prospect of spending the night in a cold bog was not pleasant, but the bog was vast. If she could find a place to hide, some small bolt hole, they would have a hard time finding her. She thought of the old saints and hermits who lived in holes in the ground or caves. To crawl into a hermit hole and hide from men who were roaming the bog looking to kill her. Men that Hugh sent to kill her—for what? For what?

  She could see the men’s flashlights in the distance, moving diagonally toward her. They would cross back to where she was hiding soon, having finally figured out that the rustling noises were from a flock of sheep. Rosaria looked around wildly—where could she go in this vast space when sh
e could see so little? And then she glimpsed the outline of a pile of rocks on a small knoll. Christ—the Halfway House. Is that where she would meet her end?

  She gave a crazy snicker. She was losing it. The long hand of a grisly history reaching out for her tonight. No time for old tales. There might be something near there to hide in. She would try.

  Running low and as fast as she could, Rosaria stumbled over the uneven ground and fell once on a rock, bruising her leg painfully. She turned to see the flashlights coming in her direction. Limping, flooded with adrenaline, she pushed forward. Her leg shrieked from the pain. Nowhere to hide. When they saw the rock piles, they would know where she would head. Maybe she was better out on the wildness of the bog.

  She stopped and looked around, breathing heavily. Then, she saw a tall stack of something—wood. No, peat. The peat harvesters had been here. Oh God, she wished they were still here with their dogs, tractors and trucks. Trucks. Oh, she could never be so lucky. Never.

  Should she keep going in hopes of a truck, knowing that the men would know where she was or should she just forge ahead into the vastness of the bog? Rosaria went for the possibility of a truck.

  There were a number of peat piles. The first one had no conveyance around it, nor did the second. Oh, Jesus, behind the third there was an ancient harvesting truck piled high with peat logs. She ran, crying, with her leg collapsing on her several times. She lost a shoe and ran lopsided, the rocks maiming her feet.

  Rosaria reached the fender of the old truck and hung to the side until she reached the door. The door opened with a loud creak. “There!” she heard behind her. Breathless, she climbed in and peered at the dashboard in the darkness. A key in the ignition.

  But. Oh shit. Of course. Another manual shift. She was inept at driving a manual shift in the best of times. Now her hands were shaking, her mind buzzing with a terrified confusion. Rosaria could hear the men running toward her, but closed her eyes for a nanosecond. I can do this. I can do this.

  Opening her eyes again, she whispered a Hail Mary as she pushed in the clutch and turned the key. Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women...It started. It started rough, but it started.

  She heard a shout again. “Over there!”

  No hiding now. She put the truck in gear and...it stalled. It stalled and it made a lot of noise stalling.

  Rosaria’s hands were shaking. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus..., she stuttered as she pumped the gas. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death...Please. Please. Don’t flood. An endless few seconds and...it started again. She heard the crack of a gun behind her and was unable to stifle a scream.

  Somehow, trembling and weeping, Rosaria turned on the headlights and maneuvered the truck onto the narrow lane. It started slowly, but she floored the gas, struggling to stay on the narrow road with the bog on either side. The old truck bumped and jostled her on the seat. In the cracked rearview mirror, she could see the dark outlines of the two men joining the road behind her and running. Ordinary-looking men—she would have passed them on Market Street without a second glance. Maybe she already had. No, they were not from Clifden with those accents. She had no time to think about it. Hugh’s men wanting to kill her. She had to get away.

  The workaday truck was not built for speed, and the men were gaining on her. She floored the gas, and then in the dim light—saw a wide lever to the side. “Release”. Was that what she thought it was? Oh God, she hoped it was.

  She pushed down hard on the lever. It stuck. The truck veered to the side of the road when she’d taken her eyes away. She turned her eyes back to the road—she couldn’t go off the road. I can’t go off the road. She pushed the lever again. Again. And then. It popped.

  The rear gate on the truck bed flew open with a rush and a clatter. The truck’s speed and the bumpy road surface quickly loosened the peat logs piled high in the back of the truck. Heavy, water-soaked logs of earth and vegetation began cascading onto the road before the two men.

  “Shite!” she heard behind her. “Shite, shite, shite.” They had to jump off the road out of the way of the heavy logs—into the bog where walking, never mind running, was difficult. But, while they were slowed, the two men kept coming.

  Rosaria could see the metal road gate ahead at the exit of the peat harvesting site. She had no time to get out and lift the rope securing the gate. The men were making up time, running behind her. She had to smash the gate and break the rope.

  The first time didn’t work—she backed up, with one long-legged man in the lead getting closer and his partner not far behind. Rosaria floored the gas again and this time the rope snapped. In the dim light, she saw the shadows of the men as they stopped running when the truck broke through the metal gate. Winded, the first man slapped his hands on his knees as he watched the truck move away, the outline of his body an agony of disappointment.

  A long ago image of Hugh flashed across Rosaria’s mind, Hugh panting from one of those strenuous Donegal hikes when they were students. Hugh, laughing with his hands on his knees like that. Hugh before time, before—for some reason—he wanted to kill her.

  Within minutes, Rosaria was on the Ballyconnelly Road again. Here, she knew the way. Hands glued to the wheel, she leaned over—peering out the windshield to stay on the road—past the beach, past the hedgerows. She didn’t stop until she got to Keough’s Pub across from the Holy Family Church.

  With the gas pedal on the old truck still floored, Rosaria roared into the parking lot. She threw the shift into Park, stalled the truck out and hurled herself out the driver’s side door. Her leg was collapsing, but she made it to the front stairway of the pub, where she hung onto to the railing and crawled up the steps. She was able to stand by hanging on to the door jamb.

  The door to the pub was sticky and wouldn’t open. Dammit. Is there no mercy? With an exhausted grunt, she pushed hard against the door one more time and fell through when it opened. The pub was crowded and noisy. No one noticed her falling through the door. Everyone was facing the television over the bar where Rosaria could see the images of what looked like last week’s football match—apparently a very exciting one as not a soul turned to see her on the floor near a back table. Until a barmaid looked over.

  “Mother of God. Someone see to that poor woman.”

  CHAPTER 36

  If there were budget cuts at the Galway Garda and emergency services, it would have been hard to tell from the number of vehicles that descended on Keough’s Pub after the barmaid called. Rosaria sat in the midst of a swarm of guards and medical personnel, her leg propped on a chair while an EMT bandaged her up. No breaks from her fall in the bog—just painful bruising and cuts, especially to one leg and her feet. She’d be fine. Physically, she would be fine. Emotionally, maybe not so.

  Sergeant Conneely pulled the story of the chase in the bog from her, as Rosaria sipped a hot coffee with a generous shot of Jay. The coffee and the Jameson smelled and felt good going down—warm, comforting. She needed it. She was a wreck—wanting to cry, but too numb. She let the magnitude of Hugh’s betrayal sink into her. Into her very being. Into her guts. A tear escaped. She didn’t bother to wipe it away.

  Hugh Moran sending men after her with guns. What in the world? Everything was upside down. His deep hazel eyes gazing lovingly into hers these past weeks, his caressing her face with a seagull feather on the quay, bringing back old memories at a time when her very soul needed the solace of those old memories.

  But now she knew that it was all so that he could pump her for information and then send someone to get rid of her. It was all a farce, his attention, the way he’d looked, the words he spoke.

  Her Hugh. Using her, offering her up.

  Pushing those thoughts away, she told Sergeant Conneely the story in a hoarse, halting voice, her body buzzing with pain and relief and betrayal. A false old friend named Hugh Moran and two accomplices had tricked her into driving to Roundstone. She’d gotten lost on the Bog Road, and two men had driv
en her car off the road, then chased her with guns through the bog.

  No, she didn’t know why. Wait, maybe she might. But she was so confused, so tired, so shocked. She couldn’t really talk to it right now. The guards had already called in an alert for a car with two men, probably driving on the Galway Road. And another call to the Galway City station to pull Hugh Moran in for questioning.

  Rosaria had become an attraction in the pub, which had started to fill with curious locals. News had spread about a murderous chase out in the bog involving the American woman—“just like in the movies”. No one knew why. Word was that the mob from Dublin was involved. Probably drugs. You’d never think that, would you? She looked like such a nice lady to be involved with that kind of thing.

  A Mr. O’Malley in heavy work clothes and a flat hat arrived at the pub with his collie looking for his peat-hauling truck and a crew to help him recover his logs in the morning. They were all over the bleeding road, half of them broken. Rosaria saw in her mind the moment when she’d released the logs in a frantic attempt to impede the two men. She felt again how frightened she was. She started to tremble. A woman nearby put a sweater over Rosaria’s shoulders and cooed. “That’s all right, dear. It’s all over. They’re gone. You’re in a safe place now.”

  Suddenly, there was a roar at the front entrance to the pub and what looked like a very angry, very large bull seal burst through the door. A bull seal holding a hurley stick. All conversation ceased.

  Mossie had seen her text. And, sweet Jesus, thought Rosaria, he had turned around on the road to the hurling match because he was worried about her driving. Along the way back, someone had called him to tell him about the assault on the bog road.

  “Where are they? Where are the bastards?” roared Mossie, “They’ll be eating dandelions by the roots when I’m done with them.” Alarmed, people jumped to the side, out of the way of the lethal ash stick Mossie was holding. Two guards in the pub started toward Mossie, but not before he confronted Rosaria. “Did I not tell you he was a lowlife son of a bitch, not to be trusted? Jaysus. Did I not tell you that?”