Blood of Cain

89

I spent three days at the home of Cormac and Becky Moore, resting, recuperating, and planning my next move. On the fourth morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window, two sheep staring back at me. The pistol I took from Father Garvey was on the nightstand. There was a knock at the door. I turned as Rebecca Moore entered. She smiled and said, “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I have to hit the road today.”

“I hope it’s not too soon. I have another fresh shirt for you, one of Cormac’s. Might fit you. But you’ll probably had to turn the sleeves up a bit. You’ve got longer arms. I’ve set out fresh towels for you. Please join us for breakfast. I made biscuits this morning. Cormac likes to brag about my biscuits.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and turned to leave. “Rebecca.”

“Yes?”

“The hospitality you and your husband have shown me, what you did for me … I’m a stranger and you took me in. It’s rare, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Sean. I believe you’d do the same for us. As matter of fact, I know you would. I can tell.” She smiled and left the room.

I finished one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in my life, pushed back from the table and said, “I want to thank you both. Can I pay you for all you’ve done for me?”

Cormac Moore looked at me curiously. “For what? Doin’ what needed to be done? I think not.”

“Just when I start to wonder if we’re doomed as a species, people like you come along. Thank you.”

Cormac nodded. “Say nothing more.” He slid a full bottle of Jameson across the table, followed by a bottle of aspirin. “Wherever your journey takes you in Ireland, here’s a little something for the road. I’m no doc, but a shot of whiskey and two extra-strength aspirins will ease that pain in your shoulder.”

“Sounds like a good prescription.” I smiled.

“Where will your journey take you?” Rebecca asked.

“That’s a great question. Immediately, I’m looking for some acreage in County Kerry.”

“What kind of land?”

“The old place was known as the Wind in the Willows. I hear it’s abandoned. Near the coast.”

Cormac’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Wind ‘n the Willows, you say, lad? That’s not near the coast — that’s the coast. Maybe a half kilometer of coastline. We’re familiar with it because one of those international hotel chains was trying to muscle its way in, buy the land for below market price, and build a mammoth time-share resort, and a casino with all the garish trimmings.”

“What happened?”

“The woman who owned it refused to sell. It was in her family for more than three hundred years. A classic Irish estate was built there by the seventh earl of the Flanagan family. It burned to the ground in a horrific fire. Just an old caretaker’s cottage on it today, but the ownership of the land predates Cromwell’s invasion.”

“Can you give me directions to the place?”

“Of course. Follow N22 through Killarney to N70. Turn right or east on R565 and head toward the coast, on Skellig Road. The property overlooks Puffin Island.”

I said nothing. My thoughts racing.

Rebecca asked, “Are you in pain, Sean.”

“I’m okay.”

She smiled. “That part of Ireland is remote and so beautiful. Care for some more coffee?”

“No thank you. Cormac, I wanted to leave the pistol on the nightstand in the bedroom with you. I can’t take it on the plane, the guy I took it from won’t be needing it anymore, but I still might need it before I leave Ireland.”

He smiled. “I can only bloody assume that you’re being chased, hunted. You don’t have to tell us why if you don’t want to. You’re obviously American. I’d wager your appearance here it has something to do with your wound, and maybe your surname, too. Sometimes people run from something, sometimes they run to something. Which is if for you, Sean?”

“I’m not sure any more. I’m trying to locate a man in America, and the only person who knows, or knew where he is, lived here in Ireland.”

“And he’s dead, correct?”

“He committed suicide.”

Rebecca sipped a hot tea and asked, “Did he tell you what you came for before he took his life?”

“Not directly. Do you have a computer with Internet access?”

Cormac said, “Yes. Laptop. I’ll get it for you.”

Rebecca cleared the table as he brought in a laptop computer. He turned it on and handed it to me. I searched online for key words to what Father Gravel had said before he jumped. ‘A place you’ll never find him. Maybe the distant Aideen … you need balm for the wound and your soul, lad, for your feelings of grief. Dillon found it, but you, I think not. You wretched soul … you enter my confessional, my private chamber opening my door, but there’s darkness there, nothing more and nevermore. Are you surprised?’

“You bastard,” I mumbled.

“What is it, Sean?” Cormac asked.

“The guy who jumped to his death was baiting me, cat and mouse like. He wasn’t about to tell me directly what I wanted. But he did utter a clue before he died. And made a very subtle reference, an alliteration, to the words and cadence from Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, The Raven. From the house of God to the House of Usher.”

“How’s that?” Rebecca asked.

“He mentioned Aideen. That’s a poetic allusion to the Garden of Eden.”

“It’s believed the Garden of Eden was somewhere near the Euphrates River in what today is Iraq.”

“I have a feeling the reference the priest left is somewhere in America. And I have to find it.”