“Sean O’Brien.”
“Come on, Sean, let’s get you patched up.”
I lay on a bed in the guest room, the small county house very clean and well-kept. The man’s wife introduced herself as Rebecca and told me she’d retired as an emergency room nurse from a Dublin Hospital. She was in her early sixties, a round face, kind eyes and a calm demeanor. She looked like a woman who’d seen the worst and yet the best in people.
Considering their backgrounds, generosity, and the fact that I might come out of surgery at a large hospital and look into the faces of people wanting to arrest me, this was becoming the best option I had.
Cormac Moore poured three fingers of Jameson’s into a clear glass. “Here, knock this back. Best thing we have here to dull the pain.”
“I usually sip this stuff.”
“We need it to kick in now. No time to sip. Becky’s boiling the tools. We want to keep the possibility of infection to a minimum.”
“Good idea.” I downed the whiskey.
Rebecca Moore brought in a tray, the surgical instruments — whatever they might be, were wrapped in white towels. She set the tray down on a bedside table, cleaned and prepped my wound, her eyes kind and confident. “Cormac, he’s ready.”
He came from an adjacent bathroom, flannel sleeves rolled up, hands and forearms wet from washing. He used a towel to dry them and said, “Sean, you just lie here and stare up at the bloody ceiling. This ought to be quick.”
“Let’s do it.”
He nodded, lifted a long, thin knife up and began. I clenched my teeth and tried to block the pain, wishing I had another Jameson’s. The knife and knitting-needle-like-prod he used felt like both had been heated over a scorching flame until they were glowing. I gripped the mattress, neck muscles tightening, sweat rolling down my face and onto the pillow. The room felt hot, the air thick. I glanced out the bedroom window and could see sheep grazing nearby.
Cormac said to his wife, “Hand me the retractor.”
I could see her move, slightly, feel him scraping my bone, heard the bleat of sheep in the pasture. Fought back the urge to vomit. Then I heard the clank of a bullet hit the metal bowl.
“Looks like a heavier caliber,” he said. “No splintering. All’s intact. Very little damage done, Sean. You’re a very lucky man.”
His wife said, “Maybe that’s why you have that unique birthmark on your shoulder. It’s a perfect shamrock, and four leaves to boot. Most people have to get a tattoo to have that. You’re the lucky one. You wear the mark of St. Patrick himself.”
Cormac poured himself a shot of Jameson’s and said, “Becky will close you up. She’s better with a needle and thread. Besides, I’ve misplaced my glasses.” He winked at me and touched me gently on the arm. “After she sews you up, you should have another whiskey. Looks like you could use it.”
As his wife closed the wound, she said, “He’s teasing you, Sean. You look fine. Please stay and get some rest, give the wound proper time to set.”
“Thank you.”
After she placed a sterile bandage on my shoulder, Cormac poured two fingers worth of Jameson’s. I propped a little higher on the pillows, took the whiskey and swallowed it. Then I looked out the window for a second. Something caught my eye. Something black. I watched a raven fly from an elm tree to a clothesline just outside the window, the white sheep in the background. The bird turned its face to the sun, one yellow eye visible.
It was then I knew where I’d heard what Father Garvey had said. And if I could make the connection, it might lead me to my brother Dillon.
89
I spent three days at the home of Cormac and Becky Moore, resting, recuperating, and planning my next move. On the fourth morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window, two sheep staring back at me. The pistol I took from Father Garvey was on the nightstand. There was a knock at the door. I turned as Rebecca Moore entered. She smiled and said, “Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you. I have to hit the road today.”
“I hope it’s not too soon. I have another fresh shirt for you, one of Cormac’s. Might fit you. But you’ll probably had to turn the sleeves up a bit. You’ve got longer arms. I’ve set out fresh towels for you. Please join us for breakfast. I made biscuits this morning. Cormac likes to brag about my biscuits.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded and turned to leave. “Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“The hospitality you and your husband have shown me, what you did for me … I’m a stranger and you took me in. It’s rare, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Sean. I believe you’d do the same for us. As matter of fact, I know you would. I can tell.” She smiled and left the room.
I finished one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in my life, pushed back from the table and said, “I want to thank you both. Can I pay you for all you’ve done for me?”
Cormac Moore looked at me curiously. “For what? Doin’ what needed to be done? I think not.”
“Just when I start to wonder if we’re doomed as a species, people like you come along. Thank you.”
Cormac nodded. “Say nothing more.” He slid a full bottle of Jameson across the table, followed by a bottle of aspirin. “Wherever your journey takes you in Ireland, here’s a little something for the road. I’m no doc, but a shot of whiskey and two extra-strength aspirins will ease that pain in your shoulder.”
“Sounds like a good prescription.” I smiled.
“Where will your journey take you?” Rebecca asked.
“That’s a great question. Immediately, I’m looking for some acreage in County Kerry.”
“What kind of land?”
“The old place was known as the Wind in the Willows. I hear it’s abandoned. Near the coast.”
Cormac’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Wind ‘n the Willows, you say, lad? That’s not near the coast — that’s the coast. Maybe a half kilometer of coastline. We’re familiar with it because one of those international hotel chains was trying to muscle its way in, buy the land for below market price, and build a mammoth time-share resort, and a casino with all the garish trimmings.”
“What happened?”
“The woman who owned it refused to sell. It was in her family for more than three hundred years. A classic Irish estate was built there by the seventh earl of the Flanagan family. It burned to the ground in a horrific fire. Just an old caretaker’s cottage on it today, but the ownership of the land predates Cromwell’s invasion.”
“Can you give me directions to the place?”
“Of course. Follow N22 through Killarney to N70. Turn right or east on R565 and head toward the coast, on Skellig Road. The property overlooks Puffin Island.”
I said nothing. My thoughts racing.
Rebecca asked, “Are you in pain, Sean.”
“I’m okay.”
She smiled. “That part of Ireland is remote and so beautiful. Care for some more coffee?”
“No thank you. Cormac, I wanted to leave the pistol on the nightstand in the bedroom with you. I can’t take it on the plane, the guy I took it from won’t be needing it anymore, but I still might need it before I leave Ireland.”
He smiled. “I can only bloody assume that you’re being chased, hunted. You don’t have to tell us why if you don’t want to. You’re obviously American. I’d wager your appearance here it has something to do with your wound, and maybe your surname, too. Sometimes people run from something, sometimes they run to something. Which is if for you, Sean?”