Passport to Peril

Eleven

Out of breath, exhausted, she sagged against the side of a building and listened to the leaden pounding of her heart. She did not know how long she had been running or precisely where she had run to. Hers had been a mad dash for freedom, turning corners at random, dashing across streets just inches ahead of passing cars and cycles, racing blindly on with the conviction that nothing ahead of her could be half so horrible as the menace behind her.

And now she had lost him. She was free now, free and clear. He had been unable to follow her, and she was free.

But not safe.

She found a cigarette in her purse, a Woodbine, and she scratched a match and lit it. Not safe at all, she thought. Because the bus station still provided the only way out of town, and she didn’t dare go to it. He knew now, knew for certain that the game was over once and for all. He would not have to bother with deception any longer. Instead he would be desperate. He would have to get the scrap of microfilm from her, and he would have to make sure that she never told anyone what she had learned about him.

And what did that mean? A gun? A knife? A pair of strong, huge hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing?...

She closed her eyes, shuddered, then opened them again and took another urgent drag on the cigarette. Whatever part of town she was in, it was probable that she was within half a dozen blocks of the bus station. Dingle was a small town, small enough so that she could be sure of reaching the bus terminal within a few minutes, walking. But now she didn’t dare go there. He would be having the place watched, either by himself or someone else. The moment she turned up there, someone would come after her. And she would never be able to run away again. She could barely stay on her feet, let alone walk anywhere. Running was out of the question for the time being.

She wondered, now that it was forever too late, if she could have bluffed David. She could have avoided seeing him as much as possible, could have pleaded a headache and spent as much time as possible in her room. And the alleged headache might have helped cover her change in mood. If she acted differently with him, she could have blamed it on the way she felt. Perhaps she could have carried it off, perhaps she could have kept him from ever suspecting that she knew the truth.

Could she have done it? Perhaps — she didn’t know. But now it was pointless to think about it, because now he could not help being aware of her knowledge. She had run away. It had saved her for the time being, but at the same time it had let David know exactly where she stood, exactly how much she knew.

Where could she go? The bus station was not safe. Neither was her room. The cafés and pubs of Dingle seemed equally unsafe. If she stayed where she was, sooner or later David or one of his agents would see her. Surely someone had a car, and they could cruise up and down the few streets of Dingle until they saw her. And then...

A church, she thought. She could wander into one of the churches and hide there. She wondered if you could still claim sanctuary, as criminals had in medieval times. Perhaps not, but would they dare to come after her in a church?

She began walking. Strand Street and the downtown section of Dingle were to her left, she was fairly sure, so she turned to the right and started slowly up the street. Perhaps there would be a church nearby. But she couldn’t stay huddled in a church forever. Sooner or later she would have to come out. Sooner or later she would have to take a chance and find some way to get out of Dingle.

A gust of wind blew up, driving sheets of rain into her. Already the sky was growing dark. In an hour or so it would be nightfall, and the protective cloak of darkness would be at once a hazard and a blessing. It would be harder for them to find her in the dark, but it would also be more difficult for her to find her way around. And where was she going to spend the night? She would grow hungry and thirsty and tired, and there was no place she could go for food or drink or rest.

A car approached, and she instinctively turned her face away from the street to avoid being recognized. The car slowed. David, she thought, and her heart sank. She couldn’t run any more. She just couldn’t run any more.

The car stopped. She turned in spite of herself and saw a priest climb out of the front seat of a small red Triumph sedan. Relief flooded over her in a wave. It was not David, it was a priest, and he could even help her find the church. And he would be someone to talk to, someone who would know what to do, how to help her.

“Miss? I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. Could you direct me to Saint Michael’s Church?”

She wanted to laugh — it was he who wanted directions. And then she looked at him again, a tall man with a broad forehead and strong features, and her jaw dropped in recognition.

The same spark of recognition illuminated his eyes. “Why, don’t I know you? Let me see — why, on the plane from London, wasn’t that it? Now you’d be the folk singer who nearly lost her guitar. You’re Ellen Cameron, aren’t you?”

“Father Farrell!”

“Yes, I thought I recognized you.” He smiled. “The girl who laughed so politely at my little stories. Why, this is a coincidence, isn’t it? Or did you say you were coming to Dingle? I seem to remember that you did, now that I think of it. And how have you enjoyed your trip to Ireland? I’ve had a grand time myself. All my family at home, and now I’ve come visiting relatives here in Dingle whom I haven’t seen in years.” He saw her face, then, and his eyes changed expression. “Why, you’re all upset, child. Is something the matter?”

“Oh, Father,” she said. She was panting for breath now, unable to speak. “Oh...”

“Why, you poor child, you’re in a state of sheer terror! Now nothing can possibly be that bad. I know you’re not a Catholic, but perhaps you’d care to talk about it anyway. It so often helps to discuss one’s problems with another, and we priests have had worlds of practice listening.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Start anywhere you wish. But let’s not stand out in the rain while we talk. My brother made me the loan of his car. Rather a flashy thing for a man of the cloth, wouldn’t you say? But come, get in and we’ll talk about it. Come, Ellen.”

He led her around to the right-hand side, held the door for her, then walked around the little car and got behind the wheel. He turned the key in the ignition and began driving. For several moments she did not trust herself to speak.

“You can tell me,” he said.

And then the words poured out of her.