Blood of Cain

88

I didn’t know if anyone had heard the gunfire from the bell tower. I slipped on my shoes and ran full bore to my rental car parked on the street in the shadow of the cathedral. Father Garvey died in a courtyard in what appeared to be the rear of the church. No cars in the lot. I saw no people. I didn’t know if anyone was in the church on Saturday. I did know that I wasn’t going to be here when police arrived.

I sprinted to my rental car, the pistol wedged under my blood-soaked shirt, sweat dripping from my face. My heart raced, my mind playing back what Father Garvey said before he jumped through the open window and committed suicide. I recognized parts of what he said, but from where? Think. I couldn’t place it. Not now. Not with blood pouring out of a gunshot wound, and the sound of sirens in the distance.

As I opened the car door, I tried to remember if I’d spotted any surveillance cameras mounted on the exterior or interior of the church. It didn’t mean they weren’t there. If so, it was only a matter of time before they recognized me and then made the association to the U.S. presidential race and the notorious fly in the ointment for Senator Lloyd Logan. And that irritating insect would be me. Maybe the media would connect the dots — look at Courtney’s last name, my last name, and begin speculation as to why I might be in Ireland.

And right now I had to get out.

I put the Toyota in gear and roared away from the cathedral. As I did so, I heard the carillon bells ringing. I looked at my watch: 4:00. I lowered my windows and couldn’t help but smile because the largest collection of bells in the Republic of Ireland was playing Amazing Grace.

I hoped my mother was in a place where she could hear them.

I drove west on Highway N22, through the small town of Macroom looking for a medical clinic. Nothing but pubs, shops, eateries, a feed and seed store, a small hotel, and picture-postcard beautiful scenery. I drove over a stone bridge crossing a fast-moving river. The sign indicated Morris Bridge was built in 1768, the river rushing under five Romanesque arches. I continued driving toward Killarney, my destination was Shannon International Airport, and home.

The pain hammered in my shoulder. My head throbbed. I pulled to the side of the road right past the Killeen Lodge, got out of the car, and removed my long-sleeved shirt. I wore a black T-shirt underneath. I ripped the sleeve off the shirt, pushed up the short sleeve on the T-shirt, and examined my wound. The bullet had entered my shoulder less than an inch from my birthmark, the round still lodged in muscle and tendons. I tied off the wound and wrapped the ripped sleeve around my shoulder, stopping the flow of blood.

I braced myself holding the roof of the car, inhaling the cool country air through my nose, trying to clear my head. I heard sheep bleating, their hooves clacking across the road. I turned around and was met with at least two dozen sheep, a border collie running, and a man walking with a cane. The dog darted around the perimeter of the herd, the man at the rear. They came to my side of the road, the sheep ignoring me and climbing a green hill to pasture land. The man wore a tweed cap, flannel shirt, and blue jeans. He was in his mid-sixties, his closely shaved cheeks flushed, green eyes like spring clover. He said, “Good day, sir. Looks like you could use some medical attention.” His accent was thick as the grass on the hill.

“Is there a hospital or medical clinic nearby?”

“Nearest would be Cohb to the east, Killearny to the west.” He raised a bushy white eyebrow. “From the looks of things, I’d say you ought to have that examined right now.”

I blew air out of my cheeks. “What do you suggest?”

“I could take a look.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Don’t carry a license, but I carry the knowhow.” He leaned in and pulled back the sleeve, carefully inspecting the wound.

“How’d you get in the way of a bullet? You rob a bank?”

“No. It’s a long story. A deranged man tried to kill me.”

“Seen plenty of those types in the service. I was a medic in the British Army. Twenty bloody years. Saw my share of combat and treated more wounded men than I want to remember. I retired to the farm, and today I administer medical care to all my animals. My house is a hundred meters down the drive. Between my wife and me — she was a nurse, we can help you. Name’s Cormac Moore.”

“Sean O’Brien.”

“Come on, Sean, let’s get you patched up.”

I lay on a bed in the guest room, the small county house very clean and well-kept. The man’s wife introduced herself as Rebecca and told me she’d retired as an emergency room nurse from a Dublin Hospital. She was in her early sixties, a round face, kind eyes and a calm demeanor. She looked like a woman who’d seen the worst and yet the best in people.

Considering their backgrounds, generosity, and the fact that I might come out of surgery at a large hospital and look into the faces of people wanting to arrest me, this was becoming the best option I had.

Cormac Moore poured three fingers of Jameson’s into a clear glass. “Here, knock this back. Best thing we have here to dull the pain.”

“I usually sip this stuff.”

“We need it to kick in now. No time to sip. Becky’s boiling the tools. We want to keep the possibility of infection to a minimum.”

“Good idea.” I downed the whiskey.

Rebecca Moore brought in a tray, the surgical instruments — whatever they might be, were wrapped in white towels. She set the tray down on a bedside table, cleaned and prepped my wound, her eyes kind and confident. “Cormac, he’s ready.”

He came from an adjacent bathroom, flannel sleeves rolled up, hands and forearms wet from washing. He used a towel to dry them and said, “Sean, you just lie here and stare up at the bloody ceiling. This ought to be quick.”

“Let’s do it.”

He nodded, lifted a long, thin knife up and began. I clenched my teeth and tried to block the pain, wishing I had another Jameson’s. The knife and knitting-needle-like-prod he used felt like both had been heated over a scorching flame until they were glowing. I gripped the mattress, neck muscles tightening, sweat rolling down my face and onto the pillow. The room felt hot, the air thick. I glanced out the bedroom window and could see sheep grazing nearby.

Cormac said to his wife, “Hand me the retractor.”

I could see her move, slightly, feel him scraping my bone, heard the bleat of sheep in the pasture. Fought back the urge to vomit. Then I heard the clank of a bullet hit the metal bowl.

“Looks like a heavier caliber,” he said. “No splintering. All’s intact. Very little damage done, Sean. You’re a very lucky man.”

His wife said, “Maybe that’s why you have that unique birthmark on your shoulder. It’s a perfect shamrock, and four leaves to boot. Most people have to get a tattoo to have that. You’re the lucky one. You wear the mark of St. Patrick himself.”

Cormac poured himself a shot of Jameson’s and said, “Becky will close you up. She’s better with a needle and thread. Besides, I’ve misplaced my glasses.” He winked at me and touched me gently on the arm. “After she sews you up, you should have another whiskey. Looks like you could use it.”

As his wife closed the wound, she said, “He’s teasing you, Sean. You look fine. Please stay and get some rest, give the wound proper time to set.”

“Thank you.”

After she placed a sterile bandage on my shoulder, Cormac poured two fingers worth of Jameson’s. I propped a little higher on the pillows, took the whiskey and swallowed it. Then I looked out the window for a second. Something caught my eye. Something black. I watched a raven fly from an elm tree to a clothesline just outside the window, the white sheep in the background. The bird turned its face to the sun, one yellow eye visible.

It was then I knew where I’d heard what Father Garvey had said. And if I could make the connection, it might lead me to my brother Dillon.