Joyce straightened the dark brown fabric around his legs. “Can’t get used to all this cloth around my legs. Gets in your way, especially when you’re working.”
“Where are you working, Liam?”
Joyce gave Solly a sideward glance and shy grin. “I’ve been assigned to the brewery.”
“Not a bad gig.”
“Got lucky. I could have gotten jam-making or—God forbid—managing inventory for the gift shop.”
The future Brother Liam seemed at peace. A different man from the one Solly had interviewed in his offices at Saint Martin’s.
“Tell me about the story we heard from Eleanor Martin, Liam.”
Joyce walked, head down, in silence for a few moments before looking up. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath and responded.
“The story your friend Ms. O’Reilly heard from Thomas Martin’s widow was essentially correct.”
“Go on. Fill me in.”
“My father—God rest his soul—was an IRA sympathizer—no, I’d have to say that he was an IRA operative, part of a gunrunning operation at the Saint Mary of Egypt’s Mother and Baby Home. What the nuns knew or didn’t know, I can’t say. I’ve always thought they were reconciled to seeing nothing and to hearing nothing—a special Irish talent. The Compassionates were compensated for their complicity with special Irish-American financial contributions to the Home, but perhaps also compensated in another way by satisfying some ancient Republican sentiments of their own.”
Liam began to finger a heavy rosary at his waist and took a moment before continuing. “I was just a small boy and understood none of this, of course. When I saw what I did that night at Saint Mary’s, all I knew was that there were a group of men with strange accents and my father was helping them.
“I did remember a tall, bearded man to the side, leaning on a car. He didn’t say much but seemed to be running things. As I got older and saw the news on the telly and the pictures in the paper, I recognized him, of course, as Cathal McKenna—the TD, the parliament member who’s now running for Taoiseach, our prime minister.”
Solly found it interesting that Joyce referred to the Taoiseach as our prime minister. “Are you a United States citizen, Liam?”
Joyce smiled, “Ah yes, I’m both, Detective. Dual citizenship, God save me. Perhaps I should have made the hard choice, but I was never good at making hard choices. Which is, I guess, the root of all my trouble today.”
“How so?”
“That night was not the last time I saw Declan Twomey as a child. There were more operations moving arms through the cemetery. Each time, he’d ask after me, maybe bring me something from a shop in the north—a sporting ball or maybe a kite. Once he brought two pairs of binoculars—one for my father to watch for the boats carrying the arms and another small pair for me for watching the birds.
“He came to our cottage regularly—always at night, though my father didn’t encourage that—concerned about security and what people might see. At first I was afraid of Declan. I had seen him kill a man. Even at that age, I sensed he had taken other men’s lives, perhaps many other men. And he was big with that reddish hair and those godawful eyebrows.” Here Joyce paused to give a sad chuckle. “And by then, he’d had that mark on his face from when the murdered man had thrown a big rock at him.
“But over time I warmed to him. He often came to our cottage, would ruffle my hair and call me the “wee Fenian” and the “young soldier.” I liked to think he came just to see me. Perhaps he thought I would grow up to be a militant like he was.” Liam laughed softly, “but he sorely overestimated me there.”
“How did Declan end up here? How did you end up here?”
“I never really knew precisely why Declan left Belfast, but as best I understand it, there was some dissension in the ranks of the organization. For some reason, Declan had fallen out of favor and was on the outs. Not enough to be eliminated, but it would be wiser to for him to move on. And he could be useful in Boston.”
“How so?”
“He’d come to Boston a number of times before to make different arrangements on the gun shipments. And there was still work to be done to keep the level of support in the Irish-American community up.”
Liam stopped and pointed to a small bench by a rocky stream. “There’s a little resting place here that I like. It’s very peaceful. Would you mind if we took a break while we talk?”
Solly sat with Joyce on the wooden bench, watching the water in the stream flowing over smooth gray stones. Lost in time. The air was cool. He turned up the collar on his light jacket.
“I could never get over that night at Saint Mary s. It was always with me. I would wake from sleep with nightmares, terrified.” Solly thought he heard a light sob but saw no sign on Joyce’s face when he looked over. “I still do.” He shook his head as if to throw off dark thoughts and memories.
“Later, when I was older, I applied to Trinity in Dublin. I did poorly on the admissions test, but got in anyway—only to find out later Declan had pulled strings to get me in. In school I struggled—both academically and emotionally. I was more sensitive, weaker in so many ways than my father and certainly than Declan Twomey. I was just not equal to it all. I wanted to drop out to save my father the tuition. That’s when I learned Declan was paying it.”
Joyce picked up a small stone, rolled it around in his palms and threw it into the stream. He let out a wet breath and Solly could see tears on the man’s cheeks now. “If they were disappointed that I was such a weakling, they never let me know.”
Joyce took a deep breath and straightened his back. “My mother had died by then and my father was getting older. My father contacted Twomey, to my great embarrassment.”
A small bird landed in the bushes near the bench and two squirrels rustled in the leaves across the stream. Life proceeds. Life goes on.
“Then one day, I got a letter from Declan. He was doing well in Boston, had his own construction firm now. Would I consider coming over to join him? He could use the help.”
The small bird in the bush had started to chirp. Solly wished he knew his birds. Gray—what kind of gray bird? Didn’t matter. Peaceful here. Listening to an old story. This was the real heart of his job—listening to stories. The reasons why things happen. He had to get this down formally later—written, recorded. For now, listening without interruption to the story of why an innocent young student was murdered.
“The letter came at the right time and I decided to take the shot. Declan had this...this life force, you know. It felt as if someone had thrown me a life preserver. Turned out I was not the best fit with the construction trade. So when there was a staff opening at Saint Martin’s, Declan suggested I apply for it, even though I felt I was unqualified. Needless to say, I got it.
“But I did have a talent for dealing with the damaged, the lost—feeling so damaged, so lost myself. I worked my way up the administration ranks and when the executive director job opened, I got that, too. Only later did I realize that every promotion I got coincided with a generous donation by Declan. Declan was beyond generous to the House—and to me.”
Two monks walked on the path behind Joyce and Solly. Seeing the weight of the conversation taking place on the bench, they gazed tactfully forward and did not acknowledge the occupants.
Without looking at the bush beside him or at Solly, Liam commented, “Lovely little dark-eyed junco. They have that sweet, sort of tinkling sound to their song.” And then Liam mimicked the bird’s song perfectly. It was a beautiful moment. Solly almost hated to ruin it. But he had a job to do.
“And Patrick Keenan?” Solly asked.
“I didn’t know what to do when he called wanting to talk about an event at the Mother and Baby Home in the 70s. When he came to my office that day, it was clear he had the whole story you have except for Declan’s name—he didn’t have that. But, he was a smart kid. With a little research, it was only a matter of time. I...I didn’t know what to do. And it all came back t
o me, stronger and darker than ever. That night in the cemetery at the Home with my father and those men. A man weeping and pleading for his life, for his children without a father, Cathal McKenna’s cold words—and Declan’s laughing before he shot him. That was the worst.” He covered his eyes.
“You told Declan about Patrick’s visit?”
Joyce said nothing, lost in thought. The small bird in the bush had flown away and the squirrels were busy elsewhere. Solly looked up to see a red-tail hawk cruising in the sky.
Joyce dropped his hands to his lap. “I told him, right after Patrick first called. I told him the boy was coming to see me. I felt I had to—after all Declan’s done for me.” Joyce stopped talking briefly, and when he spoke again his words came out choppy through small sobs. “Declan came to my office after Patrick left. He wanted to be clear about what Patrick knew. He was enraged.
I left the office and went to the training area where we were to have our picture taken with the graduates. I was trying to keep to some normal routine, even if I was falling apart. But Declan was white hot. You saw the picture. In the end I couldn’t take part in the graduation ceremony—though it turned out that we were in a picture, if not the formal one.” Here Joyce gave a wet laugh. “I was a mess and he was—what? He was volcanic.”
“Volcanic like what?” Solly asked.
“Volcanic like murderous.”
“Do you know if he killed Patrick, Liam?”
“I don’t know that, but I think that. I asked him outright.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Don’t ask me a question that you don’t want an answer to, Liam. I’m not afraid to do things that need to be done. But don’t ask me what you don’t want me to tell you, lad.’”
“Mr. Joyce, did you think that Declan Twomey would harm Patrick if you told him about what the boy knew?”
Joyce gave a strangled sob. “God help me.”
“Did you tell Mr. Twomey that you were going to talk to me?”
“I did. I did. I told him. I had to. After all this time. I had to.” Joyce put his face in his hands and wept.
CHAPTER 41
Rosaria listened on the phone as Solly told her about Liam’s story that night. “My God, what a tale, Solly. The IRA killer and construction magnate who loved a little boy, tried to take care of him in his fashion, and ends up killing someone else’s boy. I wonder what Liam Joyce’s life would have been like without Declan Twomey.”
“I guess we’ll never know,” Solly replied.
“Have you picked up Twomey yet?”
“In a fashion, as you say.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Chatham Police went to Twomey’s house on the Cape. Out on the porch, they found Twomey in a rocker facing the ocean, with a half a bottle of Bushmills and an old IRA revolver, a Webley, in his hand. He had used the gun on himself.”
“Good God.”
“Mrs. Twomey was at the kitchen table, saying the rosary. She wouldn’t talk except to say over and over, ‘He was a good man. No matter what, a good man. Heart of gold.’”
“What would Nora Keenan say to that?” Rosaria commented sharply. “A cold-blooded killer.”
“Right.”
“Do you think he was still IRA? Such a long time ago. Do they even do things like this anymore?”
“I’m told by a couple of experts here that only a small number of extremists are active that way these days. Everyone else has moved on to the political process. Twomey was not an extremist. I think he was protecting Liam from it all coming out. It would have destroyed Liam’s life completely. For Patrick’s death, I could see Saint Liam as an accessory to murder, but that depends on the prosecutor.”
“You know, Solly. Liam knew Declan and what he would do with that information. Joyce might as well have hit Patrick with that oar himself. And he might as well have killed Thomas Martin—his own cousin, for God’s sake— after telling Declan where Patrick got his information. Liam Joyce has blood on his hands.”
“I’m with you on that.”
“How do you think Patrick’s murder happened?” Rosaria asked.
“Best we can figure out, Patrick learned that he should be talking to Declan Twomey, who looked like an old-line IRA operative. So he set up a meeting. Declan said he had work on the Long Wharf and could Patrick meet him there? Completely naive. Kid had no idea who he was dealing with. Those days are so far removed from this generation. They think it was all like a movie or a TV special or something. Anyway, he unwittingly set up a meeting with a seasoned killer with a long history.”
“It’s painful to think about it...” Rosaria said. “What people will do for love. Twomey loved Liam, didn’t he? Like a son, I mean.”
“That looks like the heart of the story. Of course he wanted to protect himself, but Declan was always very fond of Liam and had high hopes for the boy. Aspirations Liam couldn’t live up to as tortured as he was by the crime he witnessed. Now, Declan just wanted to protect him from more pain. One last favor for Liam that went so terribly wrong.”
“What a favor. It’s all so tragic. A little boy sees something no child should see and it defines his life.”
“Yeah.”
“Liam wasn’t a child anymore. He should have stepped forward. He didn’t, and he sacrificed not only Patrick but Thomas Martin, his own cousin.”
They settled into a sad silence for a few moments.
“When are you coming home?” Solly asked.
“End of this week.”
“Thank God for that.”
“You sound almost Irish.”
“Sounds like a dangerous thing to be. Save this nice Jewish boy from that.”
“Hey, Solly?”
“What?”
“I’m signing papers for this house.” Solly was very quiet. She could hear only his breathing.
“You’re shitting me. You’re not moving there, are you?”
“No, no. It’s just a good buy. Mossie’s going to rent it. Move out of the mountain hut he lives in. He’s taking the dog too. What a pair. I’ll miss them both.”
“I miss you more.”
“And I miss you more,” she murmured.
In her hand, Rosaria was rolling some flecked gray stones from the beach in front of the house. She’d taken to picking up stones she liked, perhaps the odd interesting piece of driftwood or seaweed, some shells and a feather or two. They lined the window sills of the house. She’d taken down all of Mrs. Burke’s fussy curtains and had put up some light, sheer ones which she kept open to the view.
“He’s already bought a big Galway hurling flag he’s going to hang outside.” She placed the stones on the side table beside Mr. Burke’s pipe stand. His daughter had bought him a new one for Christmas, probably sitting on another end table now in his new Seattle apartment. She hoped he’d be happy there. Perhaps she’d keep this old pipe stand here—kind of a shrine to an old man she’d never really met, but felt she knew.
“I thought maybe I could ask Mossie to move back to his little cabin up in the Ingah Pass every once in a while so that you and I could come over in the summer for a vacation. The scenery is gorgeous, the people are great and the days are so long and magical in the summer.”
“I hope I don’t have to go to a hurling match.”
“You will, and I think you are going to become an addict, Mr. Belkin. Just like Mossie. You might even forget your Bruins.”
“Now, that’s just crazy talk, Rosie.”
CHAPTER 42
The last thing Rosaria wanted to do was take another phone call. It was all so tiring and sad. She only hoped that what she’d found out and what the police investigation uncovered would bring some comfort to the Keenans, though she honestly didn’t think it would bring much comfort to her if she’d lost a son. But then, she’d done the best she could.
She saw it was Sarah on the phone. She picked up. Maybe there was some follow-up.
“Ms. O’Reilly?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, Sarah. How are you?”
“Good. Good. I’m good, Ms. O’Reilly. I’m calling because I got something in the mail from Patrick.”
“From Patrick? How could that be?”
“He must have sent it before...” she paused, “Before, you know. Before it happened. He sent it to our old place, the Corrib Village, where we were staying before.”
“And no one ever forwarded it to your new place?”
“No, it’s a little packet—too big to fit into the letter slot, so it was thrown onto a hall table with all the circulars and the other junk. You know what a mess it is when so many students live in one place—coming and going. Just lucky it didn’t get tossed. Now and then the caretaker just dumps it all. But one of our old neighbors picked it up and called me. I just opened it.”
“Yes?”
“It’s a flash drive. There was a little note. Shall I read it to you?”
“Please.”
“Sarah—yours for safe-keeping. Pulled an all-nighter to get this done after my meeting with Joyce yesterday. Tell no one. It’s big. Home soon. Always, always, yours alone. — P.”
The girl’s voice broke on the last words.
“Not easy, Sarah.”
“Yeah. Not easy.” Sarah let some moments pass. “Yeah. Well. So I took a look at it. I figured what harm could it do now?” “Should I come?” “Yes, I think that would be a good idea—as soon as you can.”
◆◆◆
Mossie picked Rosaria up for the drive to Galway City within the hour, dropping her off at Sarah’s new apartment on Seamus Quirke Road after morning classes. Sarah opened her laptop on the kitchen table. She brushed away the crumbs and debris of a rushed early morning tea. Neither woman spoke as she loaded the drive.
Rosaria had a sharp intake of breath as Patrick’s words came up on the screen. A newspaper article ready for submission. The headline was sensational:
Nuns and Guns—Murder and the Taoiseach Candidate
Buried Troubles Page 22