Shadow of Death

IRELAND

By prearrangement, Koesler and Koznicki met at 3:00 p.m. in the lobby of their hotel, the Royal Dublin on O’Connell Street.

“How is your room, Inspector?”

“Fine; first-rate. And yours?”

“The best so far on this trip.”

“Now, where was it you said we were going first?”

“Trinity College.”

“Ah, yes: the Book of Kells.”

“Exactly.”

They took a few steps through the lobby. It was a relatively small, functional area with a convenient registration desk at the rear and just enough room for a small crowd to gather.

Seated at the left on banquettes against the wall were several nuns in the modified blue habit of the Religious Sisters of Mercy. And appropriately so, thought Koesler, since the order had been founded in Ireland, and the foundress, Mother McAuley, was buried here at the Mother House in Dublin.

The nuns were alike in their uniforms, their milk-white, rosy-cheeked complexions, and in the beatific smiles that appeared when they spotted Koesler’s clerical collar. Like a row of sailors sounding off, each sister in turn nodded happily in Koesler’s direction while mouthing, “Good afternoon. Father.”

Koesler smiled and nodded back.

Koznicki stopped just short of the revolving doors and looked about. “Father,” he said to Koesler, who had halted beside him, “since we arrived in Dublin—I know it has been only a short while—but have you had the impression of being watched . . . or followed?”

Koesler thought for a moment, but was unaware of any such perception. “I can’t say that I have.”

Koznicki glanced about again, then shrugged. “It is probably nothing. Perhaps I have been overly apprehensive lately.”

“That’s probably it, Inspector. You need to relax.”

They exited the hotel through the revolving doors, then stopped in the middle of a busy sidewalk on the very wide, historically significant, and statue-punctuated O’Connell Street.

“I know it’s within easy walking distance,” said Koesler, “but I’m not certain which way.”

A gentle—or soft—rain was falling steadily. If one stood in it long enough one would be soaked. But for the moment, the drops splattered off their hats and raincoats.

Koesler approached a passerby, a medium-sized man perhaps in his mid-forties. “I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell us the way to Trinity College?”

The man squinted up at him through the rain. Spying the clerical collar, he whipped off his cap and stood at a sort of awkward attention.

“Well, Father, is it Trinity College you’re wanting? Actually, it’s not a hundred miles from here!”

“We suspected it was nearby.” Koesler, as he noted that the man rolled his r’s, wished he wouldn’t stand at attention bareheaded in the rain. “But we wondered in which direction. Could you tell us?”

“I could.”

There was a pause. Then, “Yes?”

“Well, now, Father, you’d be going down O’Connell Street here, the very street we’re on. Is that clear so far?”

“As a bell.”

“Well, then, Father, you’d be crossing the Liffey at the O’Connell Bridge. Are you acquainted with the Liffey then, Father?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are. What could I be thinking of? Well, then, Father, you’ll be crossing the Liffey, as I’ve said, by the O’Connell Street Bridge. You’ll keep on going—a slight jog to your right it is, on Westmoreland Street. And then, Father, ahead on your right you’ll be seeing Dame Street. And right on the corner, on your abrupt right, you’ll see a large, white building.” He paused.

“And that’s Trinity College?”

“It is not.”

Throughout this one-sided colloquy Koznicki’s smile continued to widen.

“That would be the Bank of Ireland. Actually, directly across the street—there’s some vicious traffic and many’s the crash on that very corner—as I was saying, directly across the street would be Trinity College itself. Is that clear now, Father?”

“Crystal.”

His face radiated triumph. “Is it books you’d be looking for?”

“That’s right.”

The triumph glowed more brightly. “It’s the Book of Kells, then?”

“You’re very perceptive, sir.”

Raindrops trickled into the upraised corners of the man’s mouth.

Koesler hesitated, but finally decided, against his better judgment, to essay one more step. “Now, from Trinity, could you tell me how we get to the Dublin Gate Theatre?”

“I can. But you’ll never make it. Begging your pardon, Father, but follow me.”

He pulled on his cap and led Father Koesler and Inspector Koznicki down O’Connell Street. Starting with the General Post Office Building, which was bombarded half to shreds during the Easter Uprising of 1916, their self-appointed guide gave them a running commentary on the historicity of nearly every building they passed . . . including the McDonald’s hamburger emporium.

2.

“Joe!” Pat Lennon admonished, “if we’re going to spend our declining years together in Sun City, you’re just going to have to remember to drive on the left side of the road.”

“Oh, yeah.” Cox eased the rented Toyota from the right to the left side of the road. “It’s hard enough getting used to a manual gearshift again—plus, it’s on the wrong side of the steering wheel—without having to remember to drive on the wrong side of the road. But you’re right: going over one of these hills on the right side of the road could lead to the closest encounter of the worst kind.”

“I love it!” Pat shrieked. “Because we in the States drive on the right side of the road, everybody who drives on the left drives on the ‘wrong’ side. Boy! Talk about your ugly American!”

They drove on in silence for a brief time, while Cox concentrated on a reversed style of driving.

“I can certainly see why they call this the Emerald Isle,” said Cox, glancing at the verdant fields and green shadings of the bogs.

“Wait till you get a look at the Burren to the south—or worse, at Connaught, up a bit north of here. It was Cromwell, that clone of Attila, who vowed to drive the Irish to hell or Connaught.”

Cox shook his head. “You are a source of constant amazement. How do you know so much about this place?”

“Well, for one thing, for such a small island, it has a fascinating history. It was known as the Land of Saints and Scholars and— watch it, Joe! We’re getting into Claregalway; there’s a thirty-mile speed limit up ahead.”

Cox touched the brake and slowed the car. They glided easily through the quiet streets, encountering hardly any traffic.

As they left Claregalway behind, they saw on the road ahead an elderly woman laboriously pedaling her bicycle uphill.

“Joe, pull over. Maybe she could use a lift.”

“But she’s got a bike.”

“Joe, there’s a rack on the roof. You can put the bike up there.”

“But—”

“Joe, she’s an old lady.”

“Right.”

They slowed to a stop several yards ahead of the cyclist. Lennon got out and turned to face the woman, who had slowed to a stop. “May we give you a lift?”

After some protestations that the trip had been made many times before and would be again, the woman finally allowed Cox to heft her light, well-worn bicycle atop the car. Then she climbed into the back and settled in as the journey resumed.

Pat turned to smile at the woman gently fanning herself in the back seat. “My name is Pat Lennon.”

“Oh, then, and mine would be Conlon, Mrs. Mary Ellen Conlon.” Eyes crinkling and face creasing into well-worn laugh lines, she returned Lennon’s smile. There was indeed, thought Pat, a world of truth in the old song about when Irish eyes are smiling. Mary Ellen Conlon must have been a real beauty as a young woman.

“And this,” Lennon indicated her companion, “is Joseph Cox. We’re newspaper reporters from Detroit, Michigan.”

“Ah, and that would be where they make all those automobiles, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Among a few other things, yes,” said Cox, keeping his eyes on the road.

Suddenly, doubt touched Mrs. Conlon’s face. “Lennon and Cox,” she repeated. “And were your people from England, then?”

Lennon chuckled. She wondered whether Mrs. Conlon had visions of being kidnapped by the English. “I’m afraid Joe has English ancestory, but Lennon is my married name. My maiden name was Cahill.”

Mrs. Conlon’s furrowed brow smoothed. The score read Irish-2, English-1.

It was Cox’s turn to chuckle. “Of course; why didn’t I think of it? No wonder you know so much about Irish history.”

“It’s a proud history, Mr. Cox.” Their passenger’s tone was at once defensive and assertive.

“I’m sure it is, Mrs. Conlon,” Cox replied. “We were just talking about Connaught and Cromwell.”

“Ah, the divil himself. He wanted to rid the world of the Irish, but we outlasted him, we did.”

“Not only him,” Lennon agreed, “but everyone and everything that, barring near miracles, should have destroyed the Irish.”

“You mean the Famine?” Cox asked.

“Oh, much more than the Famine—though that alone could have done it,” Lennon replied. “The first Celtic tribes came here a few centuries before Christ, and their battles among themselves might have become a sort of suicidal genocide. But, regardless, they enjoyed a golden age of their culture until the late eighth century. Despite all the wars and fighting, poetry and art flourished. And each of the Celtic kings kept a bard, a poet-in-residence, and of course each village had its seanachie, the storyteller who passed on the oral traditions of the people.

“Then came St. Patrick and Christianity, which produced a lot of scholars, saints, and missionaries.”

“And the Book of Kells,” Cox supplied.

“The Book of Kells,” Lennon agreed, “the illuminated manuscripts of the Gospels. But then the country was invaded by the Norsemen who, again, might have destroyed everything if it hadn’t been for the great king, Brian Boru.

“Boru broke the strength of the invaders at the Battle of Clontarf and established a peace that lasted 150 years, during which Ireland was free of all foreign influences.

“And then, along came Adrian IV.”

“The English Pope you mentioned on the plane?”

“The same: Nicholas Breakspear. He gave overlordship of Ireland to Henry II of England. After that, things went steadily downhill and continued in that direction for roughly 800 years.

“Gradually, the English took possession of the land and the Irish were lucky to have enough room for a hovel and a little earth in which to grow their precious potatoes.

“Then, when Henry VIII broke with the Church, he feared a Catholic invasion. So he stepped even harder on Catholic Ireland and established as his own the ‘Church of Ireland.’ Which didn’t daunt the Irish Catholics; it just drove the wedge between Ireland and England deeper.

“The Irish rebellion in the mid-seventeenth century was the one crushed by our genocidal friend Cromwell. It cost hundreds of thousands of Irish lives and, once again, nearly destroyed the race.”

At this point, Mrs. Conlon began to hum softly. Cox wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a tune that sounded like “Wearin’ of the Green.”

“And on and on it went from uprising to uprising, until 1846 and 1847, when the potato crops failed. For the majority of the Irish, the potato was their sole source of nourishment. And, while the English did little to help, and even continued to export Irish produce to England, two million Irish men, women, and children starved to death over a two-year period, or died of disease brought on by starvation.

“Add to that all the Irish who fled on what came to be called ‘coffin ships’ to North America, and you’ve got to wonder how the Irish race survived!”

“But for the Grace of God!” Mrs. Conlon said, almost as a prayer.

“That’s about as complete a thumbnail sketch of a nation’s history as I’ve ever heard,” Cox commended.

“Once I get started on Ireland, it’s hard to stop.”

“We’re coming into Galway, Mrs. Conlon,” Cox announced needlessly, as signs were everywhere. “Is this as far as you go?”

“It is not,” she said. “But I’ll not be troubling you two young people any further. This is fine, just fine.”

“No, no,” Lennon protested, “we’re in no hurry. Besides, we want to drive out on the peninsula and get a look at the shore and the bay.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” said Mrs. Conlon, “I’ll just stay with you until you get to Barna, if it’s all the same.”

“Sure,” said Cox, “no trouble at all.”

As they left Galway, to the left they could see the bay. A few minutes later, as they neared Barna, far out, they could make out the Aran Islands.

“This will be fine,” said Mrs. Conlon, “just fine.”

“There’s a pub up just a few more feet,” said Cox. “How about joining us for a little drink?”

“Well, if it’s no trouble,” said Mrs. Conlon, “I don’t mind if I do.”

Cox pulled the car off the road into the small parking lot that fronted the pub.

There were a few elderly men and one middle-aged woman inside. After waiting several seconds for their eyes to become accustomed to the dim interior, Cox and Lennon and their passenger took a table near the middle of the rectangular room.

Lennon and Cox each ordered a Guinness. Mrs. Conlon’s order was, “a half one,” which, to Cox and Lennon’s interest, turned out to be a whiskey, neat. Lennon and Cox began sipping their stout while Mrs. Conlon merely contemplated the amber liquid that rested quietly in her glass without benefit of ice or water.

“And where will you two young people be going from here?”

“We’re going to try to make the Connemara circle,” said Lennon.

“Ah, that would be ambitious,” Mrs. Conlon observed. “But you’ll love the Twelve Bens, as well as Killary Harbor. And then of course there’s Croagh Patrick. It’s a grand sight, all in all.”

Cox stared out a side window. Nearly sotto voce, he sang, “And watch the suds flow down by Galway Bay . . .”

“I think you’ll find that’s ‘. . . and watch the sun go down on Galway Bay,’ Mr. Cox,” said Mrs. Conlon.

“Not according to the Clancy Brothers,” said Cox.

“But come now,” he continued raising his glass, “all those things the English—my people—did to the Irish—your people— took place long ago. The Republic of Ireland is free and, I’m told, forgiving. So, how about a farewell, a parting toast? How about it?”

Lennon and Mrs. Conlon obligingly raised their glasses.

“The Queen!” Cox tipped his glass to his lips.

“Up her kilt!” Mrs. Conlon added, and downed her whiskey in a swallow.

As Mrs. Conlon was leaving the pub, she paused to look back. Joe Cox was still choking and Pat Lennon was still pounding him on the back.

3.

“I had intended to tell you before the play began, Father, but, as it turned out, there simply was no time.”

“What is it, Inspector?”

Koznicki and Koesler had met at the Dublin Gate Theatre just as the performance was about to begin. They had had time only to find their places and be seated as the curtain rose on Act One.

Koesler had had in tow one Daren Ahern, the helpful gentleman who earlier in the day had led them to Trinity College and the theater box office. As a reward, over Ahern’s protests, Koesler had bought him a ticket too.

It was now intermission and the three men were standing in a tightly packed crowd on the sidewalk just outside the theater.

“Mr. Ahern,” said Koznicki, “would you mind very much getting the three of us some orange juice at the stand in the lobby?”

“I would not mind at all,” said Ahern, almost snapping to attention. “It would be a privilege and a pleasure.”

As Ahern plowed back through the crowd, Koznicki said, “What I have to say is for your ears alone, Father. Just before leaving for the theater tonight, I phoned Hammersmith Hospital in London.”

“You did?” Koesler asked anxiously. “How is Ramon?”

“In a word, better. The doctors, of course, continue to marvel . . . and to be most guarded in their prognosis. But the Reverend Toussaint has been removed from the intensive care unit.”

“He has? That’s wonderful!”

“I thought so also. But the doctors continue to caution that the possibility of complications from any number of sources is very great. The Reverend remains on the critical list.”

So far so good, thought Koesler. But what was there in what Koznicki had said that couldn’t have been said in front of anyone, including a stranger such as Ahern?

Koznicki was about to address the point. “This is what I wanted to tell you alone: I asked the doctors to release the information that their prognosis of the Reverend Toussaint’s condition is such that they do not expect him to regain consciousness—ever—even if he should happen to recover physically.”

Koesler’s mouth dropped open. “But you just said the doctors believe he is improved and they’ve removed him from intensive care!”

“That is correct. But the people who beat the Reverend wanted not only his suffering but his death. The fact that he is not dead must be a source of frustration—and concern—to them.

“It is the same with Cardinal Boyle: There are those who want him dead. That he has survived two assaults is undoubtedly galling to his would-be assassins. We must assume they will continue to try to achieve their ultimate aim . . . and that is why we continue to guard him.”

“And you feel the same may happen to Ramon.”

“He is still alive and his enemies want him dead, certainly. But, added to that, there is always the possibility that if the Reverend should regain consciousness he might be able to identify his assailants.

“And consider this, Father: Whoever attacked the Reverend seemed determined to exact revenge not only by taking his life but also by brutalizing him in the process. A publicized prognosis of a permanent coma—pray God it does not prove true—should more than satisfy his enemies. If in some way they could have transformed him into a vegetable, they surely would have. With this information released, they should be content that he is condemned to this living death . . . sufficiently content not to again attempt his actual extinction.”

“How shrewd. Inspector. An excellent plan!”

“The Polish mind never rests.” Koznicki could not resist a grin.

Koesler grinned back, but stopped suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot: What about Emerenciana?”

“His wife is at the Reverend’s bedside. She arrived today and will remain with him.”

“I’m glad. I’ll phone her tomorrow.”

“Now then, isn’t it a grand play, though?” Ahem returned, on cue as it were, bearing three paper cups of orange juice. He had all he could do to avoid spilling them as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Yes,” Koesler agreed, “I’m so glad they’re having this revival of Brian Friel’s Translations. I read some reviews of it when it premiered here in 1980 but I never thought I’d get a chance to see it. It is so inventively done, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” said Koznicki. “I admire the device of having everyone in the cast speaking English while the interpreter pretends he is translating for the Irish, who are supposed to be speaking in their native tongue, unable to understand English.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to comprehend the English taking over Irish life to such a degree that they would insist on the Irish abandoning their native tongue, and then go on to change the names of places in Ireland so they would sound more natural to the English ear!”

“Arra, but that was how it was just the same.” Ahem sucked in his breath sharply.

Koesler was jolted. He recalled from his childhood, members of his mother’s family, the Irish side of his ancestry, making the same sound. He hadn’t heard it from the time the last of the elderly Boyle clan had passed away until now.

“The hedge schools they have in this play,” Ahem went on, “used to be the only way the Irish traditions and language could be passed on. Not to mention havin’ to hold the Holy Mass with the English in hot pursuit, and havin’ to hide the holy priest of God from them too. Both priests and schoolmasters were banned and hunted with bloodhounds . . . the English paid a bounty of five pounds for the head of a wolf ... or the head of a priest. Not meanin’ any irreverence, Father, but that’s the way it was.”

“It’s a wonder any of you Irish survived,” Koznicki observed, empathetic from the awareness of centuries of persecution of his own Catholic ancestors in Poland.

“That is so,” said Ahem, “we’re only a tiny island, but look, we’ve populated half the United States.”

Koesler and Koznicki laughed.

“Well, that may be a slight exaggeration,” Ahern admitted, “but only slight.”

The marquee lights flashed on and off several times.

“I think that’s management’s way of telling us it’s time for Act Two,” said Koesler.

At that instant, several things happened almost simultaneously. Someone jogged Ahern’s elbow, causing him to spill some orange juice in Koesler’s direction. Koesler, in turn, in an attempt to avoid the juice, jumped back, bumping forcibly into someone behind him.

“Excu—” Koesler was almost deafened by a loud roar immediately behind him. Instinctively, he threw his arm up protectively, and turned. As he did, he saw Koznicki slump to the pavement.

Koesler was so stunned, as were the other bystanders, that no one got a good look at the gunman, who immediately on firing had turned and run swiftly into the night.

Koesler, whose spirits had been buoyed by the news of Toussaint’s improvement, now felt drained. He did not know who had fired the shot or why. All he knew was that his dear friend, Inspector Koznicki, was lying on the sidewalk, very, very still.

Koesler dropped to his knees beside his friend. He hesitated to touch the Inspector before medical help arrived. Whispering, Koesler gave conditional absolution—conditioned by whether there were any sins to be forgiven; by whether, indeed, there was still life.

Then Koesler noticed, on the sidewalk, at the very spot where the assailant had stood, the imprint of a black hand.

4.

It was not a small room, as hospital rooms go, but it was crowded. Besides the large patient in the bed, the room held a nurse, a doctor, a police officer, and a priest.

“You’re a lucky man, Inspector,” said the doctor, “a very lucky man.”

“And there,” said Inspector Koznicki, indicating Father Koesler, “is my lucky charm.”

Koesler came near to blushing. “I think you’re mistaken Inspector; your lucky charm is a self-effacing Irishman named Daren Ahern. If he hadn’t spilled a cup of orange juice in my direction, I would never have jumped backward into the gunman and diverted his shot.”

“Wherever the bit of luck came from,” said the doctor, “you are the beneficiary, Inspector. There’s no doubt about that at all. The gun was fired at point-blank range. It could easily have killed you on the spot if it had hit you in a vital area. And we must assume whoever fired that shot knew what he was aiming at.

“As it is, the bullet is lying up against your spine in the lumbar region. And there it just might remain for good.”

“You’re not going to remove it then?” asked Garda Superintendent Thomas J. O’Reardon, who was head of the Republic’s Murder Squad.

“’fraid I can’t answer that one just yet, Superintendent. It’s in a surgically hazardous area. We’ve just got to watch it for the next little while. But if the Inspector here experiences no symptoms such as numbness or excessive pain, and if there’s no infection or bleeding, we may just leave bad enough alone.”

“That would suit me fine,” said the Inspector, who was in no hurry for an operation. “There are many, indeed, who, from a war, an assault, or an accident, are walking around healthy with lead still in them.”

The doctor sucked in his breath sharply.

There it is again, thought Koesler, that same sound. It must be endemic to the Irish.

“That’s God’s truth. Inspector,” the doctor said. “There’s many a patient walks out of this hospital carrying inside him the same bullet he came in with. And most of them, over the years, are none the worse for it. We’ll just be keeping compression dressings on the wound, like the one the nurse is putting on just now, and pumping antibiotics into you, against any kind of infection. And now, if the nurse is done . . .”

“Yes, that I am, doctor.”

“. . . then we’ll just be leaving these good men alone to carry on their business.”

The doctor and nurse exited the room.

“I’ve set up two Gardai outside your door, Inspector,” said Superintendent O’Reardon, “there’ll be twenty-four-hour security on this room.”

“I thank you,” said Koznicki.

“Two Gardai!” Koesler marveled.

“Yes, indeed. Father,” said O’Reardon. “Someone out there wants the Inspector here dead and we very much intend that they shall not succeed. We generally have fewer than fifty murders per annum here. And we very much object to the killing of a fellow officer.”

“It is just as in the case of Cardinal Boyle and the Reverend Toussaint, Father,” said Koznicki. “Someone wants them dead, but they are still alive, so we must protect them, just as the Irish police will protect me while we try to apprehend those involved in this whole plot.”

“But why shoot you?” Koesler asked.

“If we were back in Detroit, Father,” Koznicki replied, “I am sure I could find many criminals with whom I have dealt who could find reasons for bearing a grudge against me. But,” he exchanged glances with O’Reardon, “I fear I was asleep at the switch here. It seems quite clear that those who wish to get at Cardinal Boyle have now retrenched and are determined to eliminate any and all obstacles. That would explain why they attempted to kill the Reverend Toussaint as well as why they attempted to kill me.

“The Reverend foiled their attempt on the life of the Cardinal once, as have I. With the two of us out of the way, I assume they feel they will have easier access to the Cardinal. But they have failed to take into account the Gardai of Ireland.”

“Indeed!” said O’Reardon. “We plan to be more than ready for them. We have both the Crime Task Force and the Security Task Force with His Eminence now as he tours the country. And even Sir Robert Peel himself would be amazed at the number of Gardai we’ll have in St. Patrick’s Cathedral Saturday evening.

“But now, Inspector,” O’Reardon turned toward the patient, “you shouldn’t be blaming yourself so much for being caught off guard last night. We had as much information about these crimes as you. We should have anticipated this. And on top of it all, we’re the very ones whose job it is to protect our good visitors as well as our citizens. We should have had some plainclothes with you. But you can bet your bottom dollar that we’ll be taking better care of you from now on.”

“All is well that ends well.” Koznicki smiled wanly. “And let us hope this will end well.”

“We’ll not only hope, we’ll pray,” Koesler affirmed.

“I’ll be leaving you two now,” said O’Reardon, retrieving his hat. “I’ll just give you my card.”

The card carried his name, rank, and the address: Garda Siochana, Phoenix Park, Dublin 8, and the phone: 771156.

“And let me just scribble on here my home phone number.” He laid the card on the bedside stand. “Please, Inspector, feel free to ring me up anytime, should you have any need or wish to communicate with me.”

With that and parting handshakes for Koznicki and Koesler, O’Reardon left the room.

“Are you comfortable, Inspector?” Koesler seated himself in the room’s single chair. “I mean, you don’t appear to be in pain.”

“How does the expression go: But for the honor of it, I would just as soon be in Philadelphia. This is the first time I have been shot, and it is damned uncomfortable, not to mention painful. But,” Koznicki shrugged, “there is nothing for it. In my profession, one learns to live with the knowledge that you can be hurt or even killed. It is a dangerous and violent world, as I have said . . . and the police officer lives at the very focal point of this violence.”

“Why do I feel so guilty?” Koesler looked up with a half grin, half grimace. “It’s as if somehow I were responsible. If I hadn’t invited you and gotten tickets to the theater, you wouldn’t have been there and, perhaps, wouldn’t have been shot.”

Koznicki started to chuckle, then stopped, wincing. “Oh! Now I know what people mean when they say it only hurts when they laugh.

“But please, Father, do not think those thoughts. Whoever did this to me would have done it whether I had gone to the theater or not. He probably had been keeping me under surveillance ever since we arrived in Ireland, waiting for his opportunity. And when he saw us purchasing tickets, his plan took shape.

“But the same thing would have happened had I gone to a pub or a restaurant or even merely for a walk. Actually, despite what the Superintendent said, I was the one who was negligent. I should have perceived that with the Reverend Toussaint out of the way I was the one remaining obstacle who had a track record of thwarting their plans. I should have been more vigilant.

“As for your feeling guilty—not a moment of it! No, on the contrary, Father, being with you in those circumstances was undoubtedly what saved my life. If you hadn’t jarred the gunman’s arm, he would have accomplished what he set out to do, and you would now be busy arranging to ship my body back to Detroit for burial.” Koznicki shuddered as he verbalized, for the first time in his life, a scenario that might follow his death.

“But,” he said more brightly, “now for your tour, Father. Where are you going and when do you begin?”

“Oh, I’m canceling that. I’m going to stay here and keep you company.”

“Nonsense! There is nothing you can do for me here. I will be well taken care of by the medical staff and I have every confidence in the Gardai. Besides, short of killing me, the Rastafarians have accomplished their immediate purpose: to prevent me from attending Saturday’s service at St. Patrick’s. So, perhaps they will not bother with me again.

“You see, there is a difference between my situation and that of the Reverend Toussaint. They not only determined to kill him; obviously, they wished to inflict agony on him as well. There was none of that in their plans for me. They meant to dispatch me quickly with a single fatal bullet. And the Reverend remains in peril since, if he recovers sufficiently, he may be able to identify one or more of his assailants. Not only did I not see my attacker, none of the eyewitnesses was able to give a description of him. So, I should be safe for now.

“But yes, Father, there is one thing you can do for me before you go off on your tour. I have already spoken to Wanda by phone. But if you would just call and reassure her that I am all right. I told her I was, but,” he smiled, “she may believe it better coming from you.”

Koesler smiled back. “Of course. I’ll be glad to call Wanda and tell her that you are doing very well in an Irish hospital surrounded by Sisters of Mercy who are tending to all your needs and fulfilling your every whim. And then I’ll just start on my tour.”

“Good. And when you return from the hinterlands, you can tell me all about the bogs.”

“You really think I should go?”

“Absolutely. No question about it.”

Koesler brightened. “Well, if you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.”

“Then I guess I will—though I do wish you were coming.”

“Well, as I’ve said, you can tell me stories. When do you leave?”

Koesler glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going soon. I’ll drive into Boyle this afternoon and look around for my roots, as it were, and then drive on to Gurteen. It’s just a few miles beyond. Then I’ll stay there one or two nights. Tomorrow, I’d like to just do a little sightseeing. Maybe drive down through Connaught to the Burren.”

“That sounds like a most relaxing trip. And you still intend to stay at that pub in Gurteen?” The Inspector was smiling.

Koesler nodded.

“A priest in a pub!” He wouldn’t laugh outright; he didn’t want to hurt himself again. “That should shake the faith of the Irish.”

“Perhaps. But my friend in Detroit insisted. On the one hand, I wouldn’t want to offend him by not accepting his hospitality. And, on the other, it will be very convenient.

“Here . . . ” Koesler searched his pockets until he found a small box of matches, “there’s a picture of the pub on this matchbox.”

Koznicki examined the box. The picture showed a large, two-story brick and wood building with the words, “Teach Murray” across its front.

“‘Teach Murray’? What in the world does that mean?”

“The very question I asked Chris Murray back in Detroit. It’s Irish and it’s pronounced ‘Chalk Murray.’ Chris explained ‘Teach’ as the equivalent of ‘Chez’ in French. I guess the closest we can come to it in English is ‘Murray’s Place.’ Doesn’t it look interesting?”

“Yes. So you will be staying there . . . oh, yes,” he smiled again, “by all means do tell me all about it when you come back.

“But for now,” his face took on a serious aspect, “will you give me your blessing, Father, please.”

Koesler traced the sign of the cross over Koznicki. “May the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit descend upon you and remain with you. Amen.”

The two shook hands and Koesler left the hospital.

As he walked toward his rented car, a bright yellow late-model Ford Escort, he thought he heard someone call his name. Turning, he saw a well-dressed black man walking rapidly toward him. A gold watch chain was stretched across the vest of his gray, pin-striped suit. His hair was closely cropped. Koesler took him to be a professional man.

“It is Father Koesler, is it not?”

“Yes. And you are . . .?”

“My name does not matter. I am a friend of Ramon Toussaint.”

Even if he had not said this, Koesler would have guessed there might be some connection. The man spoke with the Haitian accent that characterized Ramon’s speech.

“He sent a message,” the man said, without further preamble, “asking us to look into a matter. We know of his condition. We know also of his friendship with you. Since we cannot give the information to him, we give it to you: The Rastafarians are not in Ireland so they will make no attempt here on the life of Cardinal Boyle.”

He turned and walked quickly away.

“Wait!” Koesler called. “Who are you? How do I know—” He stopped, sensing it would be futile to try to catch up with the man or to expect any further discourse from him.

The priest stood motionless for some time, pondering the stranger’s message.

5.

Talk about serpentine! Father Koesler thought as he left Dublin and drove toward Boyle; the roads of Ireland seemed to weave in and out and up and down more than any other place he could recall. In addition, it had been many years since he had driven a stick-shift automobile. Also, the gearshift was to the left of the steering wheel instead of to the right.

And, to cap the climax, he had to remember to drive on the left side of the road. It seemed that no sooner did he allow himself the luxury of thinking things over than his car would begin to slow down going up a hill and he would be forced to shift down into third. He wondered how long it would be before he would become accustomed to this car and the driving procedures of this country. Ah, there seemed to be a fairly long stretch of unswerving, flat road coming up. He leaned back in the bucket seat and aimed the car down the straight and narrow.

What a strange message! And delivered by a stranger! After he had recovered from his surprise, he had returned to Koznicki’s room and related his strange meeting to the Inspector.

Koznicki’s initial reaction had been to doubt the authenticity of the message. They had no idea of the identity of the messenger nor any way of verifying the message. Just as easily as being true, it might as well have been a ploy to lull them into lowering their guard. After all, somebody had shot Koznicki.

Still, Koesler leaned toward belief. He was not a particularly intuitive person, but he had a strong feeling the message had been genuine.

He also had been perturbed since leaving the outskirts of Dublin by a strange but definite feeling that he was being followed. As often as he was able, what with all the uncommon distractions of driving this strange car in this foreign land, he glanced into the rearview mirror. But he saw nothing that he could in any way describe as unusual or untoward. Finally, he dismissed the possibility of being followed, and ascribed the sensation to tension or stress.

He returned to his consideration of the stranger and his message. If it was the truth—and Koesler strongly believed it was—the Detroit contingent could relax . . .at least during their Ireland stay.

Which was precisely what he intended to do. He deserved three days of rest and relaxation, he assured himself; he had paid his dues.

And, regardless of whether the message had been calculated to put them off their guard, he was positive the Irish police would be out in full complement and with intense vigilance at the single public ceremony on Cardinal Boyle’s schedule. Sufficient unto that day was the possible evil thereof. Now, for some relaxation.

He had no sooner determined to relax when he spied coming toward him, over the crest of a hill not less than fifty yards ahead, a compact car about the same size as his Escort, but a foreign model. The oncoming vehicle was traveling at high speed on a collision course with Koesler’s car.

The adrenalin began pumping. Did the Irish enjoy playing chicken? What should he do? Pull off the road to the left into a bog? Pull over to the right and chance a collision with some other driver who might come over the hill in the correct lane?

In the seconds that had passed since the car had appeared, typically, Koesler had come to no decision.

Suddenly, the other vehicle swerved to Koesler’s right and, to his great relief, continued past him on the other side of the road. As it whizzed by, Koesler took considerable interest in the driver and passenger. Unless he was badly mistaken, the driver was Joe Cox and the passenger Patricia Lennon—who appeared to be giving Cox what-for. If Koesler was correct in his identification, they must be returning to Dublin after learning of the attempt on Inspector Koznicki’s life.

He chuckled. Their excursion had been ended abruptly by a news story that needed reporting. While, with everything in as good order as possible in Dublin, and with the promise of no further trouble during their stay, his excursion was just beginning.

The engine seemed to be laboring. He looked down at the gearshift. It was still in third, where he had shoved it after slowing for Cox’s near-miss. Koesler depressed the clutch and shifted into overdrive.

There appeared to be another fairly straight, flat stretch ahead. Gazing down the asphalt highway of indifference, Koesler mused, his mind turning to reminiscences with Irish overtones.

He recalled, and laughed aloud at the memory, the time in the seminary when some patriots, to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, had painted all the toilet seats green. In apparent response then, some others, to commemorate the Feast of the Circumcision, had painted them red.

His mind wandered on to Irish jokes. The one about Mrs. McGillicuddy, whose thirteen children all were in a peck of trouble in various precincts throughout greater New York. She was being consoled as well as admonished by her friendly parish priest.

“Ah, now, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Father Murphy, “you must look for your inspiration, as well as your consolation, to the Holy Family. And particularly the Blessed Mother: think of her trials and tribulations, her sorrows, her afflictions—”

“Oh, yes,” says Mrs. McGillicuddy bitterly. “Her and her One!”

He shifted as he drove through Carrick-on-Shannon, which he knew was the home of Nelson Kane’s mother, one of Ireland’s grandest and most delightful gifts to the City of Detroit.

Koesler smiled, depressed the clutch, and shifted to third for a brief but steep hill. Then, back in overdrive, he relaxed again and returned his thoughts to Irish humor.

He remembered the one Arthur Godfrey liked to tell about the small-town girl who became a dancer in New York City. Back home on a visit, she went to confession one Saturday at the parish church.

As luck would have it, she was the last one in line. So, after she had gone to confession, the priest left his confessional, and the two of them began to talk about her life as a dancer. “Now, isn’t that wonderful,” said the priest, “and why don’t you just show me a bit of your routine?” So the girl did a couple of time steps and turned a cartwheel.

Just at that moment, Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. O’Toole entered the church to go to confession. Taking a look at what was going on outside Father McKiernan’s confessional, Mrs. Murphy nudged Mrs. O’Toole: “Glory be to God, would you look at what Father is givin’ out for penance, and me with me patched-up bloomers on!”

Koesler smiled again, as he shifted for another hill. He momentarily considered building up speed as he approached each hill so he wouldn’t have to shift, but in, for him, a rare moment of prescience he also considered the odds of traveling up the hill at considerable velocity only to reach the crest and encounter another Joe Cox coming at him on the wrong side of the road. All things considered, he decided it would be less risky to continue shifting.

Then, he recalled, letting his mind shift back into neutral, there was the time one of his classmates was being measured for a pair of trousers by an Irish tailor, who announced quite loudly, “He’s farty in the seat.”

But, Koesler reflected, that was missing the point. Those were not genuine Irish jokes, not authentic Irish humor. They were the transplanted Irish-American, Pat-and-Mike humor. He recalled hearing Liam Clancy offer a taste of genuine Irish humor. Now, how had it gone?

Oh, yes; it was coming back.

It had happened in a small Irish village, where, one rainy day, the parish priest came to the Maloney house to anoint the ailing grandmother. Over his head, he held an open umbrella. Now, it was the only, and, in fact, the first umbrella the villagers had ever seen. They couldn’t get over it: a man carrying his own cloud over his head.

The priest entered the house and laid the big black umbrella, still open, on the hearth to dry.

All during the ceremony of the anointing, there were sidelong glances cast, as the eyes of all present kept wandering back to the Thing. None had seen such a sight ever.

By the time the anointing was over, the rain had stopped, and the old pastor forgot about his umbrella, leaving it on the hearth, and returning to the parish house without it.

Then, the woman of the house said to her husband, “I’ll not have that Thing,” jerking her head sidewise at it, “in my house.” And she kept it up and wouldn’t let the matter rest.

Well, they couldn’t get the umbrella out of the door no matter which way they turned or twisted it. So the husband gathered the men of the village in for a consultation. They put their heads together and tried to figure out how to make the door wider without ruining the foundation, so they could get rid of the Thing.

Meanwhile, it began to rain again. The priest, recalling his umbrella, returned to the house, was admitted, picked up the umbrella, and walked to the door, the eyes of all upon him. He stopped, closed the umbrella, exited, and opened it, lifting it protectively over his head as he strode off.

Silence. Finally, the woman turned to her husband, nudged him, and said solemnly, “There’s no doubt about it: they’ve got the power!”

Koesler laughed aloud, resolving to tell that to Inspector Koznicki when next they met.

His attention to the present returned as he entered a small town. So preoccupied had he been with his Irish humor that he had forgotten to look for a sign. But it was about the right distance from Dublin and there were some railroad tracks nearby.

He stopped, rolled down his window, and called to a passerby, “I beg your pardon, but could you tell me, is this Boyle?”

“It is that,” said the man, who then noticed Koesler’s clerical collar. Promptly, he whipped off his cap and stood bareheaded. “Is it the parish house you’d be wantin’, Father?”

Most of the Irish, Koesler was learning, pronounced ‘Father’ as if it rhymed with ‘lather.’ He was also being made ever more aware that the Irish never used a simple yes or no in answer to a question.

“No, not really. I just sort of wanted to look around. My maternal grandfather came from this town.” Koesler surprised himself by laying such ancestral claim with a touch of pride.

“Did he now? And would he have been a Boyle, by any chance?”

“Yes. Kevin Boyle.”

“Ah, well, then, Father, have ya given any thought that some of yer relatives might still be here?”

“No, I haven’t,” Koesler admitted.

“Well, it’s just possible, definitely possible, you know. The place is crawlin’ with Boyles,” the man exaggerated. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Father, and meanin’ no irreverence, but ya might just want to reconsider yer decision not to visit the parish house. Father’d know which among them might be yer kin. And he’d be pleased to be tellin’ ya.”

“Well, maybe,” Koesler responded hesitantly.

“The parish house would be right down at the end of the street, Father. Ya can’t miss it.”

Koesler thanked him and drove on. He had no intention of calling at the local rectory or searching out any possible relatives. He wanted only to absorb some of the atmosphere and see for himself some of the things that his Irish ancestors had grown up and lived among.

He turned off before he reached the end of the street and drove through what seemed to be the center of town. Almost every parking space on the main thoroughfare was taken. That surprised him. Without quite knowing why, he had assumed that not many in a small Irish town would have cars. But there they were in a variety of vintages and makes, all compact or subcompact.

Eventually, he found a space at what seemed to be about midway down the main street. He pulled in, set the brake, and got out of the car. It was good to stretch his legs after a long drive. He began walking at a leisurely pace.

The people he encountered seemed genuinely pleased to see him. They were accustomed to seeing no priest but their own. So a stranger in clerical garb was a pleasant surprise, and there weren’t that many surprises in Boyle. Since he was a priest, it was a pleasure for the deeply reverent Irish to greet him. All along his walk, men tipped their hats and women performed an abbreviated curtsy. All wore ear-to-ear grins, and the greeting, “Good afternoon to you, Father,” was heard in the land.

He certainly hadn’t received this sort of heartfelt welcome in Rome, London, or, for that matter, anywhere else—other than from the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin.

Ordinarily, Koesler yearned to be greeted in a neutral, matter-of-fact manner. His complaint was that people met him as a priest prejudiced either for or against him. And he considered either premature judgment unfair. But he had never been greeted with such evident warmth and almost childlike openness. And, he had to admit, he liked it. He remembered overhearing two Irishmen talking. “They don’t apologize for bein’ priests in this country!” one had said with vigor. Now, he understood.

Turning left at the corner, he found himself walking toward a bridge over what had to be the Boyle River. He reached the bridge and stood looking around at the town.

For its size, it held quite a few stores and shops. He wondered how many, if any, had been standing when his grandfather had left for the States little more than a century before.

More probably, this had been farm country owned by absentee landlords in England. The native Irish would have been fortunate indeed if they had been allowed to work the fields. And, in those years, they would have been lucky to harvest enough from the tortured land of that time for them to survive.

But the Boyle River, now boiling away in a swift current beneath him, would have been flowing. His grandfather had possibly fished the river from this very spot. In his imagination, he began to anthropomorphize the river as Hammerstein had done with the Mississippi.

He walked back to the main street and set off for the other end of town. It was there he came upon Boyle Abbey, or more properly, the ruins. The outer and some of the inner walls were standing, but that was about all that was left of it. That and the memories that were inseparable from it. It would have been no more than a remnant even in his grandfather’s day. Cromwell or someone of his ilk undoubtedly would have made sure that no more prayers were offered within it.

But, as Koesler stood at the outer wall looking in, he could easily picture the monks walking reflectively through its corridors while meditating. He could almost hear the swells and diminuendos of Gregorian Chant. The people who lived in this area centuries ago must have heard those chants and felt comforted that while they were toiling for their very existence, there were dedicated men interceding with God on everyone’s behalf.

Years before, Koesler had visited the Trappist Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, where silence enjoyed a sacredness that may never be recaptured. He remembered being deeply impressed, especially by the silence. All those men going about performing their chores and duties and no one saying a word. One could almost slice the silence with a knife.

It must have been like that here . . .

Now that he had recalled Gethsemani’s monastery, Koesler recalled also his first evening there. He had been ordained a priest only a few weeks earlier. One of the monks asked if he wished to say Mass. When Koesler answered in the affirmative, the monk asked what size alb he needed. Already aware that most albs were too small for him and further that there was no way of adjusting a vestment that was not large enough, Koesler had confidently said, “The biggest one you’ve got.”

Next morning, he would have sworn the monks had spent most of the night making that alb. It had been at least a foot too long for him and he had spent several minutes rolling up the sleeves. The monks must have decided to fix that wise guy. After all, there was such a thing as silent laughter.

All in all, this was becoming a most satisfying trip down Nostalgia Lane. Koesler decided he just might follow the advice of his nameless tour director and call on the local parish priest sometime before returning to Dublin.

But not now. He wanted to get settled in at Teach Murray and begin to start experiencing what it was like to live in an Irish pub.

6.

If Koesler thought Boyle was a small town—and he did—he was quite unprepared for Gurteen. The name, his friend had informed him, meant “small, tilled field.” And that pretty well described Gurteen.

First there was a cemetery—a rather imposing one if he could trust the glance he was able to steal as he drove by. Then a string of small homes and a few shops on either side of the only street in sight—a little less than a mile in length. Aside from that street with its modest houses, shops, and establishments, all else, as far as Koesler could see, consisted of little plowed fields. Whoever had named Gurteen had been proven inspired.

He drove as slowly as possible, looking attentively at each edifice on the north side of the street, for that was the side on which Chris Murray had told him the pub was located.

Approximately halfway through the village, he came upon Teach Murray. The large letters identifying the pub extended across the front of the building, which looked exactly as it had in the picture—neat and well-kept. There was something to be said for truth in advertising, even if one rarely encountered it.

Koesler stopped the car in front of the pub and looked about for a parking place. Only then did he notice the lot on the pub’s east side. He depressed the gearshift, enabling him to put the car in reverse, as he breathed a prayer of thanks that the young lady who had delivered this rental car had informed him of this operational necessity. Otherwise, he would have made innumerable U-turns.

He parked, took his suitcase from the trunk, and entered the pub through the front door. Once inside, he stood motionless, trying to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. The only light in the pub came through several side windows, but the day had turned overcast, and it was no longer all that bright outside—which meant it was even less bright inside.

“Father Koesler?”

“Yes?” He peered through the gloom. “Tom?”

“That’s right.”

Koesler had been informed by Chris Murray that his son Tom would be caring for the pub, taking time off from his spring term at Henry Ford Community College to do so.

“Right this way,” Tom invited.

“Right which way?” People whose eyes were accustomed to the dark seldom empathized with those who were going through the adjustment process. Koesler instantly recalled the occasion when he had gone into a darkened church to lock it for the night. He had lingered in the sanctuary, praying. Meanwhile, the pastor, not realizing his assistant was locking up, sent a young man over to do so. When the man entered the rear of the church, he could not see well in the dark, so he groped his way toward the front. As he reached the communion railing, Koesler, who could see quite well, reached out to grasp his hand in guidance—and scared him half out of his wits.

The recollection took only a split second to pass through Koesler’s mind. The next, related memory was that of an old joke. A priest, figuring he has finished hearing confessions of a Saturday evening, turns out most of the lights and returns to the confessional to complete his prayers. At which point, a teaching nun enters the near-dark church, kicks aside a misplaced priedieu, then stumbles over several kneelers, all of which makes quite a racket.

Finally making her way to the confessional, she begins by saying, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two weeks since my last confession and I have been angry with my children several times—”

“How many children do you have?” the priest interrupts.

“Sixty-two,” she answers.

“Get the hell out of here,” says he, “I knew you were drunk the minute you came in!”

“Oh, all right; I can see you now,” said Koesler, as Tom materialized before him.

“Sorry, Father; I keep forgetting: My eyes are accustomed to this place and yours aren’t. I was just stocking the bar. Would you like something to drink, or would you like me to show you to your room?”

“Well, I would like to get settled in.”

Tom nodded, and gestured toward an open door behind the bar. “Follow me.” He led Koesler through the door and up a flight of stairs.

“This is the bathroom.” Tom indicated a room to the left of the landing at the top of the stairs.

Koesler looked in. A rather large room, painted blue, with a washstand, toilet, and tub. No shower, Koesler noted.

“And this is your room down at the other end of the hall, Father.”

Koesler stepped into an adequately furnished room. A chest of drawers and mirror, a large closet, and what appeared to be a queen-sized bed. He set down his suitcase, then pulled the light curtain aside from the room’s only window. “What’s that?”

Tom stepped to the window and followed Koesler’s finger.

“That’s the church . . . St. Patrick’s, what else?” Tom said, smiling. “Or, at least it’s the bell tower.”

“Kind of close, isn’t it?”

“Four or five buildings away . . . but they’re all jammed together.”

Koesler nodded. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll just get cleaned up and be down in a little while.”

Tom left, closing the door behind him. Koesler seated himself on the bed and began to wonder if this had been such a hot idea after all. This place seemed to be further out than the proverbial boondocks. And, from experience, he knew himself to be urban . . . very urban.

But, he reassured himself, he did have wheels. So, in case he started feeling too isolated from civilization, he could always move on.

Besides, this had been such an unexpectedly hectic trip, he thought he might be in actual need of some measure of tranquility. And this certainly looked like the place to get it.

After freshening up, Koesler returned to the bar, where Tom was still occupied in setting up shop for the expected late afternoon and evening business. Tom was looking at Koesler while arranging bottles of Guinness. He was smiling. “Sorry to be grinning at you, Father, but it does seem funny to have a priest in the pub.”

“Doesn’t the parish priest come in?”

Tom shook his head vigorously. “Not that he doesn’t have his private stock, but, no, he doesn’t come in here . . . or in any pub for that matter.”

Koesler suddenly felt self-conscious. “I suppose I shouldn’t be wearing my roman collar.”

“Why not?” Tom continued to smile. “It gives the place some added class.”

For the first time, Koesler’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness and he was able to more carefully inspect the pub.

The section in which he was standing was long and narrow and dark. The traditional bar with stools on the patrons’ side ran the length of this section where there were also tables and chairs available. In one corner, on a wall-hung platform, was a TV set—not operating at the moment. This section opened upon a much larger area with a small stage and a huge fireplace, also not operating.

Then, Koesler saw him. A small man at one of the tables near the wall in the semidarkness. He sat motionless, a cap on his head, a pipe in his mouth, and one hand wrapped around a shooper of Guinness. But for the wisp of smoke drifting upward from the bowl of his pipe, he might have been a statue.

“Who’s that?”

Tom followed his glance. “Oh, that’s Paddy O’Flynn. He’s usually here as soon as we open. Then he stays with us much of the day and is usually with us when we close.”

Koesler decided to go over and introduce himself.

“Excuse me,” he said as he neared the man, “I’m Father Koesler, Father Robert Koesler. And you, I’m told, are Mr. O’Flynn.”

“I am.” Patrick Joseph O’Flynn snapped to his feet and whipped off his cap, but did not release his grip on either pipe or shooper.

He could have been a clone of Barry Fitzgerald. The contrast between his five-foot-five and Koesler’s six-foot-three was pronounced.

“Please sit down, Mr. O’Flynn. I just came over to visit, if you don’t mind.”

“It’ll be Paddy to you, Father.”

Somehow, Koesler knew better than to invite O’Flynn to get reciprocal and call him Bob.

“Very well, Paddy.” Koesler sat down at O’Flynn’s table. Sitting did not prove much of a help. There was still a significant difference in size between the two men.

“Would ya be givin’ me the honor as well as the pleasure of buying yer Reverence a pint, perhaps?”

“Thank you.”

With a large smile, O’Flynn rapped the table a couple of times. Then, having gained Tom’s attention, he pointed to his glass and held up two fingers.

“Have you been here long, Paddy?”

O’Flynn consulted the clock. “Oh, I’d say since about noon.”

“No, I meant in Gurteen.”

“All my life.”

“You’re a native then.”

“I am.”

Koesler wondered again that no one had ever introduced the Irish to a simple yes or no.

“Then maybe you’d know how big the town is? How many inhabitants?”

“One hundred sixty-seven souls.”

“One hundred sixty-seven? That’s a pretty exact figure.”

“It is. People die; people are born. People marry. Some move away. It’s not all that much trouble to mind who’s doin’ what. The 167 souls would include five Protestant families, poor dears! They had a church for themselves, but sometime back in the fifties it fell into disuse. Now, it’s just a ruins out in the cemetery. An appropriate place for it, all things considered.” O’Flynn sucked in his breath sharply.

Tom delivered the Guinness and departed wordlessly.

“One hundred sixty-seven,” Koesler repeated, and thoughtfully sipped his Guinness. “That would make a pretty respectable clientele for this pub, I take it.”

“It would, but it’s not.”

“Not what?”

“The only pub.”

“It’s not?”

“It’s not! There are seven pubs in Gurteen.”

“Seven pubs in this little town?”

“Seven pubs. That would make it, in case yer doin’ yer arithmetic, 23.85 souls per pub.” O’Flynn paused a moment. “But it doesn’t work out that way.” He paused again. “This one’s the most popular. Because of the stage up there, more than likely. People like their music these days, ah, yes, they do.”

Koesler gestured toward the mute TV mounted high up on the wall. “Back in the States,” he said, “it’s hard to get people to go out at night for live entertainment. They all seem to want to stay home and watch the tube.”

“Ah, yes, Father. But then y’ve got all those channels, haven’t ya?”

“Well, yes, quite a few, especially with cable TV.”

“We’ve got two.”

“Just two?”

“On one of ’em,” O’Flynn glanced at the clock, “in just an hour and a half, they’ll be havin’ the Angelus.”

“No!”

“They will!”

“Well,” Koesler was impressed, “what do people do besides come to one of the pubs?”

“There’s the parish mission.”

“What?”

“The parish mission is goin’ on all this week. Mornin’ Mass at seven; evenin’ services at half seven.”

Koesler thought about that. “That’s interesting. I think I’ll go visit the cemetery for a while to get ready for the mission.”

“Ah, now wouldn’t that be right grand. Father.” O’Flynn, taking him quite seriously, added a Biblical quote: “‘tis a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.”

They spent a silent moment contemplating their glasses.

“But tell me, Father, if it’s not altogether too impertinent, what’s a fine, upstandin’ priest like yerself doin’ stayin’ in a pub? I assume,” he added in a conspiratorial tone, “that after yer cartin’ yer bag up the stairs and all, that ya are stayin’ here?”

“I’m a friend of Chris Murray’s; he invited me to stay here.”

“You know old Chris!” For the first time since Koesler had encountered this elfish man, O’Flynn removed his left hand from the shooper that held his Guinness. He rubbed both hands together. “A fine man, Chris! A fine man! Comes back regular. Oh, he’s made it in the States, he has. But still, his heart is here.”

“True,” Koesler agreed. “Besides, it’s not all that new an experience for me. I may not know what it’s like to live over an Irish pub, but I certainly know what it’s like living over an American bar.”

“Do ya, now?”

“Indeed. When I was a young lad we lived over a bar, the Tamiami, on the corner of West Vernor and Ferdinand in Detroit. I can remember trying to go to sleep every night with the juke box pounding away under my ear. That’s how I got to know all the words to all the popular music of the time. Like ‘Sentimental Journey’ and ‘Flat Foot Floogie with the Floy Floy’ and ‘Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats’. . .” Koesler allowed the familiar titles to drift away. It was evident from his expression that O’Flynn’s musical appreciation stopped at the Irish harp and the tin whistle.

“But then, Father, if you’ll forgive my pryin’ a tad further, how did it happen that a fine young Catholic boy as you must have been; how did it happen that you were livin’ over an American pub. Was it during your troubles?”

“Troubles?”

“The Great Depression, I mean to say.”

Koesler chuckled. “No, it wasn’t the Depression. Our family owned a grocery store adjacent to the bar, in the same building, you see, and the two families—my parents and my mother’s sisters and their mother—lived in the two flats. One above the store, the other above the bar. Actually, my mother and her sisters owned the store, so it was called Boyle’s Market.”

Again, O’Flynn brightened, almost as much as he had at the mention of Chris Murray. “Boyle, ya say? Boyle! It couldn’t be that yer mother’s people were Boyles, could it now?”

“It could,” said Koesler, attempting a Gaelic-style response, “although originally I believe it was O’Boyle; they lost the ‘O’ somewhere along the way.”

“Boyle! Boyle! Boyle! I knew there was somethin’ I liked about you from the first I set eyes on ya, Father. Apart, that is, from yer bein’ a holy priest of God. And where is it yer folks would be comin’ from?”

“Right down the road, in Boyle.”

“They didn’t!”

“They did!”

“Well, then, Father, let me just tell ya a little bit about the village of Boyle and the Boyles who lived there.”

O’Flynn rapped on the table again until he attracted Tom’s attention. Again he pointed to the Guinness and held up two fingers.

He turned back to Koesler with a sprightly look. “Then, Father, after I tell ya all about Boyle, we can skedaddle over to St. Pat’s and catch the parish mission before tonight’s music at Teach Murray.”

“I don’t know about the parish mission, Paddy. That would sort of be a busman’s holiday. What’s on TV tonight?”

“Well, there’s always the Angelus at six.”

7.

What with one thing and another, an evening of dreary TV programming, together with cold and rainy weather, 7:30 found Father Koesler at St. Patrick’s Church for the parish mission.

Following Paddy O’Flynn’s advice, Koesler did not wear his clerical collar. “There’d be altogether too much adulation over it. Father. Sure, they’d be pullin’ ya up to the altar to preside. Best go as an ordinary human.”

Koesler was astonished at the size of the crowd. This was a good-sized church. Still, it was SRO—standing room only—this evening. Koesler had gotten one of the last seats available—and he was surprised that they were in the rear of the church.

The whole thing was foreign to his experience. In the States, parishes were lucky to get a crowd like this on any of the big three: Christmas, Easter, or Palm Sunday. And this was not a large community such as you’d find in the States. This was a small, a very small, village.

In addition, people filling the church from the rear forward was a clichéd event in the States. So much so that Koesler could recall a Detroit bus driver admonishing the passengers crowding about him in the front of the bus, “Pretend you’re in church, folks, and move to the rear of the bus.” Here, however, people evidently sought the front of the church first.

Koesler looked around. No one seemed to be talking. All were either sitting or standing against one of the walls in silence. Gradually it came to him that although he was undoubtedly the sole stranger in this tight-knit community, no one was gawking— or even looking in his direction. Incredibly polite and gracious people, these Irish.

In the front of the church, in the sanctuary at the left, or pulpit side, the visiting priest, who was conducting this week-long mission, was handing out hymn cards to the ushers, who were, in turn, distributing them to the congregation. On the other side of the sanctuary were the two men—one young, one middle-aged— who would lead a cappella singing.

The priest was vested in cassock, surplice, and stole. From the style of his clerical collar, Koesler recognized him as belonging to the Redemptorists, the religious order founded by St. Alphonsus. Koesler recalled the analysis of a Detroit seminary professor, one Father Sklarski: “Alphonsus,” he had said, “yes, Alphonsus, boys; great man, great man. But if you read him too long, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn!”

Koesler tried not to laugh. The citizens of Gurteen obviously took their parish mission seriously.

There was no sign of the pastor, whoever he was. Koesler assumed that at least the tradition of the missing pastor was common to both the States and Ireland. Most parishes seemed to schedule a mission every other year or so, concomitant with which the pastor almost invariably went off on a “well-deserved vacation.”

Things gave every sign of getting underway. The Redemptorist was needlessly tapping the microphone to make sure it was on. People winced at the machine-gun-like clatter. On the other side of the sanctuary, the two singers were pulling at their ties preparatory to warbling.

“O.K. now, folks,” the priest announced, “we’ll just begin with our opening hymn.” Everyone fiddled with the hymn cards. “We’ll start by singin’ ‘Holy God,’ cause everyone knows ‘Holy God.’”

People were still juggling their hymn cards while, on the other side of the sanctuary, the two hymn leaders were alternately looking from the priest to each other to their hymn cards. But nothing was happening.

After a few moments, the priest quite patiently announced, “Now, we’re goin’ to start with number one on our hymn cards— ‘Holy God’ —’cause everybody knows ‘Holy God.’”

Again, the two singers frantically looked from the priest to their hymn cards to each other. Again, nothing happened.

Ever so patiently, the priest announced in his broad brogue, “We’re goin’ to begin with hymn number one, ‘Holy God’ — ‘cause everybody knows ‘Holy God.”‘

It was obvious, at least to Koesler, that the song leaders did not have the same hymn card as everyone else had. On Koesler’s card, “Holy God” was, indeed, hymn number one.

This time, the two singers consulted with each other, turned to their microphone, and began loudly and confidently to sing: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound./That saved a wretch like me . . .”

And everyone joined in—’cause everyone knew “Amazing Grace.”

The hymn was followed by a lengthy sermon, during which Koesler suffered one of his patented distractions. He couldn’t recall whether the account was fact or fiction. But one Detroit parish was reported to have held a mission during which, on the final day, the visiting priest preached on Mary, the mother of Jesus. Reportedly, the priest got carried away and told the congregation that Mary was so powerful with God that at the end of the world, she would swoop even into hell and rescue the souls there.

Understandably, this caused considerable consternation among the parishioners. When the pastor returned from his well-deserved vacation, and was told what the missionary had supposedly said, he determined to clear up the matter.

So, the following Sunday, the pastor told his flock that the visiting missionary had been zealously carried away . . . that he had not intended to imply that at the end of the world Mary would rescue all the souls in hell . . . but only those who had been unjustly condemned.

Once again, Koesler barely succeeded in not smiling. St. Patrick’s people gave every evidence of taking seriously whatever their missionary was saying.

After the homily, a family group was called to the sanctuary, where they gave a demonstration of how to recite the family rosary. A simple maneuver that required minimal instruction. This was followed by a benediction and that evening’s mission celebration was concluded.

There followed a virtual stampede to Teach Murray, where the Wolfe Tones, an internationally famous and extremely popular group of Irish male singers and musicians, were scheduled to perform. Citizens of many neighboring towns had joined those of Gurteen for this concert.

When Koesler reached the pub, he could scarcely shoulder his way in. In fact, he would have been discouraged from trying to enter, except that, for the nonce, he lived there. Once inside, he found that Paddy O’Flynn had miraculously managed to save a seat for him in the rear near the stage.

“You’ll like ’em,” O’Flynn said. “The boys are among Ireland’s finest, especially when it comes to the rebel songs!”

Ordinarily, the Irish were so polite that even with a crowd this large, one still could converse in a normal tone. However, repeated testing proved the amplification system to be at peak decibel emission. As a result, people had to raise their voices to order drinks. O’Flynn, however, already had a Guinness on the table for himself and one for Koesler.

Most enthusiastic applause greeted the Tones, who plunged immediately into their first offering:

There was a wild colonial boy;

Jack Duggan was his name.

He was born and bred in Ireland,

In a place called Castlemain.

He was his father’s only son;

His mother’s pride and joy.

And dearly did his parents love

The Wild Colonial Boy.

“Is that a rebel song?” asked Koesler.

O’Flynn shook his head and grinned. “Ya haven’t heard anything yet.”

And he had not.

Next came the rakish “Rockon Rockall.” Everyone was invited to—and everyone did—join in the chorus, which concluded, “The natural gas will burn your ass, and blow you all to hell.” Then followed, in rapid succession, “The Boys of the Old Brigade,” “My Highland Paddy,” “Bold Robert Emmet,” “We’re on the One Road,” “James Connolly,” “God Save Ireland,” and on and on.

Three Guinnesses later, Koesler turned to his companion. “Paddy,” he said, “it’s been a long day for me. And I hope for some sightseeing tomorrow. So, I think I’ll just call it a night. But I thank you for making this day so memorable.”

O’Flynn raised his glass in salute. “God rest ya, Father. May ya be asleep half an hour before the divil knows y’er in bed.”

Koesler squeezed through the crowd to the stairs and went up to his room.

He couldn’t get over how cold it was. It had been cold ever since he had arrived in Gurteen, a damp cold. Was it the Irish weather in general—or a geographic peculiarity of this village in particular? Whatever, he was cold.

He had brought two pairs of pajamas . . . and decided to wear them both to bed. Even so, he shivered under the covers. And in his head beat the inexorable rhythms from the pub below. He tried to recall how it had been when he had been a young lad going to sleep upstairs over the juke box in the Tamiami, with the Baker streetcar clanging and heavy trucks rumbling up and down Vernor. He had been able to sleep then; why not now?

He tried very hard. But, even so, shortly after the 11:00 p.m. closing time, he could hear young Tom Murray alternately shouting and pleading into the microphone downstairs: “Time, now lads! Are you right there now, lads? It’s way past the time! Time, please! We gotta go now, lads! You, there, Paddy; are you right there, now? It’s way past time!”

And on and on.

Finally, Koesler did fall asleep. But before he did, he concluded that his ease in sleeping through the din of Vernor had been attributable to young ears.

It made as much sense as anything.

8.

His eyes snapped open as if waking from a nightmare. Astonishment fought with drowsiness for dominance.

The heavy bell sounded as if it were in his room. It almost was.

Koesler looked at his watch. 6:30. The bell kept ringing. Although he had no hangover, he knew he was about to get a headache. He caught up with the clangs at five, and then continued to count. The bell tolled an incredible twenty-four times, his head reverberating at each ding and dong. He was willing to bet the parish mission would have a grand attendance for morning Mass. If nothing else, the entire village of Gurteen was either wide awake or deaf.

Gradually, he tried to organize his thoughts.

Thursday.

Three days till his return to Dublin and the ecumenical service and the subsequent return to Detroit.

Three days of relaxation.

Last night, he had planned not to rise before nine. However, St. Patrick’s bell had proven to be modified rapture. The rapture was that he now had more of the day to enjoy. The modification was provided by that infernal noise. His ears were still ringing from the din.

As he began to shiver his way out of bed—what made Gurteen so blasted cold!—the clanging put him in mind of an incident many years before, when he had been assigned to an inner-city parish.

It was Holy Saturday, the day before Easter. The pastor had excused him from the vigil service scheduled to begin at 11:00 p.m. He was grateful. He was tired from hearing all the confessions, and wanted to turn in early. He read till nearly eleven.

The ushers at this parish had been instructed to ring the church bell at the moment Mass began on Sundays and Holy days. No one had ever informed them that if Mass began at midnight—as it would in the Easter Vigil—they should not ring the bell. One would have assumed that to be common sense.

However, one would have been wrong. At midnight that Saturday night, or Sunday morning, the vigil service ended and the first Mass of Easter began. And some usher laid on the bell.

Koesler had awakened in much the same emotionally shattered state as he had this morning. And then the phone had begun to ring. The first caller had given Koesler the unexpected opportunity of using a minstrel joke he had almost forgotten.

“Why is the bell ringing?”

“Because someone is pulling on the rope.”

“Oh.”

She had seemed satisfied.

Perhaps Gurteen lay in some geological fault. There must be some reason why it was so bone-numbingly cold in early May.

By this time, Koesler had shaved and was looking with misgivings at the bathtub. No shower. And this had to be the coldest bathroom in Western civilization. He filled the tub with the hottest water he could tolerate, shed his two pairs of pajamas, and hopped into and under the water.

The problem was that he had to lift parts of himself out of the water in order to wash. The hot water evaporating from his body simply made him colder. Now he understood why the bathroom was painted blue: It matched the color of any naked body trapped within its confines.

Coffee and toast and aspirin in the pub’s ample kitchen got things off on a more equable footing. Tom Murray was not yet up and about. So Koesler leisurely and quietly pondered the day. He was getting an earlier start than he had originally intended. Why not, then, take a slightly longer trip?

He consulted his map and traced the route that led south of Galway Bay to the Burren, to where, as well as to barren Connemara, the English had herded huge clusters of the Irish to survive if they could, but more likely to die.

Koesler had long wished to see for himself this starcrossed region. And, since St. Patrick’s bell had gifted him with an unexpectedly elongated day, and since the sun was warming this into a more conventional spring morning, he decided to do it. Figuring the distance between Gurteen and the Burren, he concluded the trip would require no more than two-and-a-half hours. Which should bring him to the Burren before noon.

Driving was simpler today. There was very little traffic, especially on these back roads. There was little need to shift gears except between third and fourth on the hills, and Koesler was beginning to get accustomed to driving on the left. He thought he might even have some initial difficulty making the switch back to the right when he returned to the States. Nevertheless, he hoped he would not get caught in any heavy or problematic traffic today. After only a couple of days of Irish-style driving, he did not feel all that comfortable with it.

Still slightly ill-at-ease with his turned-about Escort, his mind wandered back to auto problems he had experienced in the distant past.

He winced as he recalled the time he had hit a parked car—the stupidest thing, he thought, a driver could do. That he could remember it so clearly made it the more painful. There had been nothing wrong with the weather; it had been a bright, clear summer day. The culprit, he defensively rationalized, had been his breviary, which he had that morning placed on the passenger side of the front seat. The breviary was, as usual, packed with notes, phone messages, and clippings—his office away from home. As he made a left turn, the prayer book began to slide off the seat. Horrified to think of the mess of papers that would litter the floor if the breviary fell, he reached for it.

When he was able to look up, the parked car was only a few feet away, too close to stop in time.

Nobody had been injured, but the front of his car looked like a pug dog, while the rear of the other car resembled an accordion. And he had spent the next several weeks getting the mess straightened out.

Ballyhaunis. A jog to Highway N83, a trunk road, better than the one that had led here from Gurteen.

Then there was the time he had attended an evening movie, leaving his car parked on Michigan Avenue in Dearborn. When he came out of the movie house, his car was nowhere in sight. The Dearborn police, however, knew where it was. They took him to visit his car as it lay dormant in the fenced-in lot of a service station.

This time it was his fate to be the victim of a driver who had run into a parked car. And this time it was the rear of his car that was accordion-pleated.

The irony was that the lady who had driven her car into his had done so deliberately—in an attempt to commit suicide. She had done a very good job of wrecking both cars, but a very poor job of suicide. A few bandages had repaired her. His car had been laid up for months.

Claregalway. He had to be careful now to leave N17 and move to N18.

Koesler, by long-established habit, kept his head in constant if imperceptible movement. Years ago, he had read that such motion, in addition to providing a more panoramic view of the terrain, helped the driver’s concentration.

He was reminded of Johnny Cash’s song about Ireland, “The Forty Shades of Green.” Koesler had not been keeping count, but there surely were more than a few verdant nuances to this land. And yet, considering the incredible number of violent deaths in Ireland’s history, and the amount of blood this ground had absorbed from the wars among the ancient kings to the battles with the Viking invaders to the seemingly endless British occupation, it was somehow odd that the land had not turned red.

Kilcolgan. It was time to turn down a secondary road that would lead along the circle of Galway Bay to the Burren.

He was now approaching an area of Ireland about which he had heard a great deal, but had never seen, not even on a picture postcard.

He had found it difficult to believe some of the descriptions he had heard. The Burren, after all, was a part of this lush, fertile island. And, of course, the Irish were known to exaggerate now and again.

He came to the crest of the hill he’d been climbing for the past several miles. And there it was. There had been no exaggeration in its description. It was awesome.

Layer after layer of limestone, stacked like shelves, going down one hill and rising in the next. He had never seen, much less imagined, anything like this. This, then, was the Burren.

He would not describe the scene as desolate. No; a moonscape would be his idea of desolation. At least in the Burren there were tufts of grass growing between the limestone slabs. And he had heard that cattle could and did feed on this grass and, indeed, that they gave good milk.

No water to drown a man. No tree to hang him from. And no earth to bury him in. So said one of Cromwell’s men. It was both an accurate delineation as well as an exact description of the fate Cromwell intended for the Irish. Koesler was beginning to understand why, to the Irish, compared with Cromwell, Hitler had many redeeming features.

As he drove slowly down a hill, he tried to comprehend what it must have been like to be forced to try to eke out a bare existence from this land. To be forced to live here with the responsibility of nurturing a family. Again, it was a wonder there were any Irish left in Ireland, let alone on earth.

It happened suddenly, without warning. The shock of the impact made it seem unreal. Something had slammed into his car from the rear. The jolt snapped his head backward, then forward, then back hard against the headrest. His car shot forward as he fought to regain control of it.

In panic, he glanced for a fraction of a second in the rearview mirror. He saw a car, a large black sedan—he did not know what kind, perhaps a Mercury. He had not seen it before. He had been unaware of its presence. But it was behind him now. And it was bearing down on him again.

There was no place for him to go, no place for him to move. The road was so narrow, there was barely room for two cars to pass each other. And on either side was the Burren.

He tried to speed up. But his compact was no match for the larger vehicle.

He was hit again. Harder. Again his car shot forward. Again he fought for control. As he wondered vaguely what in hell was going on, he could focus on nothing but trying to survive.

It couldn’t be—but it was: gunshots! Three of them. My God, now they were shooting at him!

He tried to swerve from one side of the road to the other in evasive action. It only made it more difficult to keep the car under control.

Suddenly, he was conscious of something pulling alongside him. He could afford only a brief glance to his right. The black car had moved even with him.

The crash was cataclysmic. The huge sedan hit his car alongside, knocking it from the road.

With his vehicle now totally out of control, Koesler could do nothing but hang on as the small Escort bounced and careened from one limestone shelf to another.

As it neared the bottom of the hillside, the car was virtually catapulted from a slab of limestone. Then, as if in slow motion, it nosed over. As Koesler saw the ground coming to meet him, his only thought was to wonder if, when next he opened his eyes, he would see his parents, departed friends, Jesus, or what . . .

9.

“What’s your name?”

A pause.

“Koesler. Robert Koesler.”

“What do you do?”

Another pause.

“I’m a priest.”

“That’s a good sign.”

A lot of Koesler’s general education had come through the school of hard knocks. He’d been through this one before. Once, in the recovery room, he had just come to after an operation. A nurse’s head had appeared over the side of his bed. “What is your name?” she had asked. Recalling a comedy routine of Bill Dana’s, Koesler had replied, “My name José Jimenez.” The nurse walked away, saying to another nurse, “He doesn’t know who he is yet.”

Koesler, too weak and groggy to summon her back, had been forced to lie there another half-hour until she returned to again check on his condition. Thus, he had learned the consequences of recovery room humor. He had resolved at the time never to try it again. And he had just kept that resolution.

“Does it hurt here?” asked the man in the white coat.

“No.”

“Here?”

“No.”

“How about there?”

“No.”

“Would you sit up for us now, please, Father?”

It wasn’t a recovery room. It was some sort of medical office. At least there were medical instruments all around. The white-coated man poking and prodding and asking if it hurt appeared to be a doctor. There was another man in the room. Koesler had met him, knew who he was, but could not recall his name. If he had thought the clanging bell of St. Patrick’s had given him a headache, he had not been prepared for this. This was Big Ben, the granddaddy of all headaches.

“Remarkable . . . truly remarkable.” The doctor sucked in his breath sharply. “I’d almost say it was a bit of miraculous.”

“That may be,” said the other man, “and the luck of the Irish rubbin’ off on him, as well as a nice solid buckled seat belt.”

“Just the remote possibility of a very mild concussion,” said the doctor, “and of course the external abrasions, contusions, and hematomas.”

“The goods are all right, only the package is damaged?” the other man asked.

“Quite.”

“What day is this?” Koesler decided to ask a few questions of his own.

“Thursday,” said the doctor.

Ah, yes. Koesler nodded. Thursday. But what week? What month? “What’s the date?”

The doctor, who had seemed affable, appeared to grow concerned. “What date do you remember?”

Koesler thought for some moments. “The eighth of May.”

Satisfied, the doctor glanced at the other man, then nodded. “He’s all right.”

Thank God. At least it was still the same day. “Where am I?”

“Regional Hospital in Galway.”

“How did I get here?”

“Superintendent O’Reardon here,” the doctor indicated the other man, “had us send an ambulance for you.”

That’s who he was. Koesler had met him in Inspector Koznicki’s hospital room. Superintendent O’Reardon must be spending a lot of time in hospital rooms lately.

“Do you know what happened to you, Father?” asked O’Reardon.

“The Burren . . . the car . . . out of control . . .” Koesler shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “But . . . how did you happen along?”

“Oh, Inspector Koznicki asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Koesler’s brow furrowed. “You mean you followed me all the way to Gurteen . . . and to the Burren?”

“I did.”

“But you’re the Superintendent. Why wouldn’t you just send one of your men?”

“I felt I owed it to the Inspector. We didn’t do much of a job making him secure now, did we? I sort of did it as a penance.” It was said with a twinkle.

“And you followed me all the way from Dublin? I didn’t see you.”

“Well, now, that’s the idea, isn’t it? If I’m going to keep an eye on you, you shouldn’t see me doing it, should you now? Otherwise, I might just as well ride in your car with you and save the petrol. It’s a knack. But if I haven’t learned it after all these years I would be a sad excuse for a saint now, wouldn’t I?”

Koesler thought about this. There really was something to the feeling that one was being followed. It had happened to Toussaint and Koznicki and now to him. At least from now on, if someone asked what it felt like to be followed, he would be able to tell them. Suddenly, another thought occurred.

“Wait a minute: If you’ve been following me all this time, where were you when I was getting shot at?”

O’Reardon shook his head. “It was I was doing the shooting. Even on the road at that speed, I put a bullet or two in their car. If I hadn’t been there, saints preserve us, after they forced you off the road, you can be sure they would have inspected their job and when they found you alive, they would have finished you off, there can be no doubt.

“But don’t worry, we’ll get ’em. And we’ll get ’em soon.”

“Well,” Koesler extended his hand, “thanks is a poor word. I owe my life to you.”

“Think nothing of it, Father.” They shook hands. “But for the rest of the time you’re in the Republic, there’ll be a Garda nearby. I don’t expect any more shenanigans, but we can’t be too careful.” O’Reardon rose. “I’ll be leaving now, Father. Take care. And keep us in your good prayers.”

Koesler turned to the doctor. “How about it? Can I—may I— leave now?”

“Whoa now. Father. You seem to be all right internally. But especially in view of your head injury, we’ll be wanting to detain you at least overnight for observation. It’s the very least, you know. Then we’ll just see how you are tomorrow.”

“O.K.” He wasn’t going to argue.

“Here, let me help you, Father. Can you just step down from the examination table and sit in this wheelchair?”

“I think so.”

Koesler stood gingerly and felt pain in muscles he hadn’t known he had. “Oh, yes; I think a little rest might do me a lot of good.”

The doctor was alert. “And we’ll give you something for that pain, too.”

As Koesler took the couple of steps to the wheelchair, he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Then he knew the ugly reality of those euphemisms: abrasions, contusions, and hematomas. He looked as if he had been the big loser in a very tough fight.

“Oh, yes,” he eased himself carefully into the wheelchair, “a little rest is definitely called for.”

10.

Patrick Joseph O’Flynn tipped his head to one side. He gave every indication of seeing something he found difficult to believe. He watched wordlessly as a uniformed Garda assisted an obviously battered Father Koesler into Teach Murray.

Until the arrival of the walking wounded, O’Flynn had had the pub to himself. Tom Murray was out back hanging up some bar cloths. O’Flynn was patiently awaiting the hour of ten, when he would start nursing his first pint of the day.

On catching sight of Koesler, O’Flynn had respectfully snapped to his feet, meanwhile snatching his cap from his head, leaving his fine brown hair pointing in every direction.

Then he noticed Koesler’s obvious distress and was unsure whether to go to the priest’s aid or await developments. He decided to remain at the table, especially since Koesler and his human crutch seemed headed in O’Flynn’s direction.

Koesler lowered himself gingerly, wincing as his back met the unpadded chair. The Garda tipped his cap, excused himself, and retreated to the rear of the pub whence, on earlier orders from Superintendent O’Reardon, he continued to watch over Koesler. O’Flynn sat down opposite the priest.

“I suppose you’re wondering what happened,” said Koesler, after a brief but pregnant silence.

“Well, now, the thought did occur.” O’Flynn jammed the cap back on his head. “Y’ve been gone only a day! Meanin’ no irreverence.”

“My car . . . that is, the car I was driving, was forced off the road. In the Burren. I crashed. The car’s a total wreck.”

Pause.

“Well,” said O’Flynn, “ya might try lookin’ at the bright side of it.”

“The bright side of it?” Koesler fixed O’Flynn with a quizzical gaze. “What could possibly be the bright side of this?”

“Arra,” O’Flynn stuck pipe in mouth, “it could have happened to ya in England.” It was said with great conviction.

Koesler made no reply. His mind, recovering from a goodly amount of pain-killing drugs administered yesterday and this morning, attempted to compare the benefit of being nearly killed in Ireland with suffering the same fate in England. He was not doing well.

“Wait now!” O’Flynn almost shouted. “Was it forced off the road ya were?”

“That’s right.”

“Now who would do a shameful thing like that? To a priest! In Ireland!”

“I don’t know. But it’s the same one who shot a policeman from Detroit and one of the ones who will try to murder the Archbishop of Detroit this Saturday in St. Patrick’s in Dublin.”

Normally, though gregarious, Koesler was not garrulous. However, the combination of the events of the preceding week and the cumulative affect of the drugs caused him to be more talkative than usual.

O’Flynn sucked in his breath sharply. “Ya don’t say! Arra, the wonder of it! Why, nothin’ in Ireland’s happened the likes of that since . . . well, since the days of the Tans.”

“The Tans?”

“Surely, y’ve heard of the Black and Tans, Father.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t know much about them.”

“Much about them, is it? My, oh my, oh my!” O’Flynn had worked a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and began the ritual of lighting it. Between efforts to draw the flame into the tobacco, O’Flynn reminisced about the Black and Tans. For he had lived through those days, though he had been a young boy at the time.

“It was back in ’20 and ’21 when the Brits tried one more time to wipe from the face of the map the IRA—that’d be the Irish Republican Army.”

“I know.”

“Well, the Tans were recruited from many of the British troops as had just finished combat in World War One, and then, later, from among the dregs of England—criminals, thugs, and hoodlums. They were called Black and Tans because they were such a ragtag bunch they had to wear makeshift uniforms of khaki tunics and trousers of the military, with the black-green caps and belts of the police.” O’Flynn paused to puff on his pipe in an attempt to waken the embers.

“Black and Tan,” Koesler mused. “Speaking of black and tan, that black man was lying after all. I wonder what he hoped to gain? He couldn’t have thought we would drop all security just on his word that there were no Rastafarians in Ireland so there’d be no attack on the Cardinal. And if they weren’t going to make an attempt on the Cardinal’s life, then why bother taking Inspector Koznicki off the board? Strange . . .”

Koesler drifted off into his own reverie which would continue undisturbed by O’Flynn’s continued commentary.

“They were sent here in ’20 with orders to ‘make Ireland hell for the rebels.’ Well, what with one thing and another, they did their damndest—if you’ll pardon the irreverence. Father—to make Ireland hell for all the Irish.

“Arra,” O’Flynn sucked in his breath, “those were the days, and especially the nights, of terror. Ye’d hear the rumble of the lorry, racin’ as fast as the horses could carry it. Then when the lorry stopped, ye’d hold yer breath. Especially if it stopped near yer own house. Then there’d be the bangin’ on the door. And the Tans’d go runnin’ through the house lookin’ for a rebel but mad enough so’s they wouldn’t leave empty-handed. There was times a man’d be shot dead before the eyes of his missus and the little ones.”

He puffed again on his pipe. “One night, they made a surprise attack: surrounded the barracks just up the street there.” He tilted his head toward the east. “Well, the lads weren’t goin’ to take that lyin’ down, so a shootin’ match started.” He looked at Koesler. “It isn’t a barracks now; it’s the doctor’s house . . . but you can still see the bullet marks.”

“There’s something wrong,” said Koesler, continuing his soliloquy, now more audibly.

“Wrong?” O’Flynn, concerned, looked at the priest intently. “What’s wrong, Father? Are ya not feelin’ all that well? Would ya like to lie down or somethin’? Is there anything I can get fer ya?”

O’Flynn started to stand, but Koesler almost absentmindedly waved him back in his chair.

“. . . something wrong with the scenario. It doesn’t fit assumption is it’s a Rastafarian plot to eliminate the papabili . . . discourage them all from becoming Pope . . . and thus do away with the Papacy itself.

“All well and good, as bizarre as the scheme is, when they actually attack prominent Cardinals. But then they attack Ramon and then the Inspector.

“Still all well and good . . . since those two have proven themselves effective guardians of Cardinal Boyle.

“But why me? How do I possibly fit into this scenario? Can they possibly believe I could be a hindrance? If so, then how? And then there were the black fists that changed to black hands . . .”

Koesler returned to his mulling. O’Flynn had listened politely to the priest’s ramblings, while understanding none of them.

After what he felt was an appropriate period of silence, O’Flynn resumed. “Arra, it was the Tans all right! They’re the ones who shot prisoners, destroyed property, burned creameries. A bad lot altogether. Young Kevin Barry, saints preserve us, they tortured the lad and then hanged him—and he no more than eighteen years!” O’Flynn sucked in his breath sharply.

“And who could forget Terence MacSwiney? Died after seventy-four days on hunger strike in an English prison, he did. ‘It’s not those who can inflict the most, but those who can suffer the most who will conquer,’ he said. Brings to mind Jaysus’ sermons: ‘The meek shall inherit the earth,’ doesn’t it? Arra, but then,” he looked at Koesler with sly eyes, “Jaysus didn’t have to contend with the Black and Tans, did he?”

Seemingly satisfied that his rhetorical question neither called for nor was about to receive a reply from his preoccupied table-mate, Patrick Joseph O’Flynn went on. “Then there was the time they caught the six Volunteers near Cork and when the bodies were found, the heart had been cut from one, the tongue from another, the nose from another, the skull of another had been battered in, and the bodies of the other two were identifiable only by their clothing. And in the west,” O’Flynn jabbed the air with his pipe stem, as he gathered verbal momentum, “the bodies of two brothers were found in a bog, tied together and their legs partially roasted away.” And thus O’Flynn continued his gory litany as he had so many times in the past. It was not often these days that he found fresh ears for his resolute recital.

“So, is it yer opinion, Father, that it was the Tans come back? Who else, I ask ya, would do such a thing to a holy priest of God?” He looked at Koesler quizzically.

“But what if it’s the wrong grouping?” Koesler’s question was right in line with his thoughts, though a non sequitur to O’Flynn’s. “I certainly don’t fit in with the Cardinals—for any reason.” His voice rose and fell in correspondence with the strength of his conclusions. “But then, the link between the Cardinals and Toussaint isn’t that strong either. And what connection could Ramon and the Inspector possibly have with me? That doesn’t seem to make much sense either.”

O’Flynn decided to go with the flow. If Koesler would not participate in O’Flynn’s monologue, then courtesy demanded that the little Irishman join Koesler’s stream of consciousness.

“Well, now,” said O’Flynn, “not knowin’ the other two gentlemen y’ve mentioned, I must admit I’m hard put to draw a connection between them and yerself.”

“But then” —Koesler obviously needed to develop his hypothesis aloud— “it may be, as my dentist once put it, that we have more than one thing going on here. Of course he was referring to an abscess along with a root canal. Here we would have two things going on that would be related in only one direction. Is that possible?”

“Oh, indeed it is,” O’Flynn responded. “I well remember old Tillie O’Flynn, my sainted aunt, a maiden lady her whole life long. How she suffered the heart palpitations in her later years from the stress of bein’ impoverished. Bad off, she was! Worried constantly about endin’ up in the poorhouse. Which, as it turns out, was a worthy worry, for it was just there that she did indeed end. But, in any case, that is what the doctor said took her—the stress of worryin’ about bein’ poor. And bein’ poor caused the dear woman’s stress. So, ya see, it was all connected up.”

“Of course!” Koesler slapped the tabletop. “That would explain the sequence of events! It would explain the illusive symbolism. It would explain the whole thing!

“Paddy!” For the first time, he focused on O’Flynn. “I’ve got to get home!”

“Home, is it?”

“To Detroit!”

“Ya can’t get there from here.”

“Can you help me get back to Dublin?” Koesler started to rise from his chair. He was joined in this maneuver by O’Flynn, as well as the Garda who had accompanied Koesler on his return to Gurteen.

“Sure and it’ll be a pleasure, Father. Meself and, I expect, this fine young Garda here, ’ll get ya back to Dublin’s fair city, alive alive-o.” And, offering some measure of support to the battered priest, escort Patrick Joseph O’Flynn convoyed Koesler off to the strains of “Molly Malone.”