Linda Foley looked down at Fitzduane. Desecrated though his body was, he was a striking-looking man. He did not look like someone who would surrender life so easily, and yet the fighting spirit was missing. "Fuck it," she said. "We're missing something here. I'm going to find out more about this guy."
She turned on her heel, walked out of ICU, and pulled her mask down. She wanted a cigarette but had quit while an intern. A good stiff drink would do fine. In the corridor outside were two men in combat uniform carrying automatic weapons. "I want to talk to someone," she said. "Someone who knows my patient — and quickly."
A pair of legs also wearing combat fatigues swung off a couch, and a figure emerged. He was in his early fifties, bearded, hollow-eyed from fatigue, but a commanding presence.
"Talk to me," he said. "My name is Shane Kilmara."
* * * * *
Fitzduane was beginning to remember.
He could hear the sound of running water and feel Boots against him. Then came flares in the sky and a sense of unease and a line of blood across the back of his son's head.
He sobbed. Bullets splashed around the unconscious boy. He could not move. He wanted to help — was desperate to help, to do something — but he could not move.
He felt weak and confused, and his throat hurt. He opened his eyes, but the light was too bright.
"Daddy!" said a voice. "Daddy! Daddy!"
Fitzduane started and cried out. "I'm coming..." and fell silent.
Linda Foley looked at the monitors with concern. This might not be the best idea. She and Kathleen exchanged worried glances.
Fitzduane could feel a small hand in his.
He felt small lips against his cheek and he smelled chocolate. He opened his eyes.
A small, rather grubby face looked down at him. "Want some, Daddy?" said Boots's voice. He thrust the remains of his bar into his father's mouth. Fitzduane could taste it — really taste it.
"Boots is fine," said a familiar voice. "He was grazed by one round, but he's fine. Now it's your turn to get better. He's wearing me out."
The monitors went crazy — and then stabilized strongly.
Fitzduane smiled and, using all his strength, put his left arm around Boots. The little boy lay beside his father in the narrow bed for a short while and hugged him, then was removed by Kilmara.
Fitzduane was already asleep. He was still smiling.
Kilmara looked at Foley and then at Kathleen. "You're a hell of a pair," he said. "You don't know when to quit. Good people." He smiled. "You can join the Rangers anytime."
Linda Foley and Kathleen Burke smiled back tiredly. They had now done just about as much as they could for the time being, they considered. Linda's beeper went off and she shrugged in resignation and went to answer the call. As she was leaving, she turned around and made a gesture of success.
Kathleen was played out. She looked at Fitzduane and not at the monitors. It was unscientific rubbish, she knew, but she could just see the difference. The man now had an aura. He was fighting back.
"How long is it going to take to get him fully back into action?" said Kilmara.
"That's an impossible question," said Kathleen, taken aback. "And premature. He's still critical."
"Only his body," said Kilmara.
Kathleen looked at him. "Four months, six months, a year," she said. "He's been badly hurt. It depends a great deal on the individual. Who is he, anyway? Apart from the odd farmer who trips over his shotgun, gunshot victims are an uncommon occurrence in this part of the world. And then there are you people." She gestured at Kilmara and the armed Rangers on security duty. "Men with weapons in my hospital. I don't like it. I would like to believe it is necessary. I would like to know why."
Kilmara gave a slight smile. "I'll tell you over a cup of tea," he said, "or maybe something stronger. You've earned it."
They found a small office beside the nurses' station. A nurse brought in two mugs of tea and Kilmara produced his hip flask. Kathleen would have killed for a shot, but she was still on call. Kilmara topped up his tea, and the aroma of Irish whiskey filled the air. He really did not know why anyone drank Scotch.
"Your patient, Hugo Fitzduane, is an anachronism," he said. "The first Fitzduane to come to Ireland was a Norman knight seven hundred years ago. I sometimes think Hugo has more in common with him than with the twentieth century. Hugo still lives in the family castle and retains values like honor and duty and putting his life on the line for causes he believes in and people he cares about."
Kathleen leaned across and read Kilmara's name tag. "And what's your connection with him, Colonel Kilmara?"
"He served under me in the Congo," said Kilmara. "You fight beside somebody and you get to know what they are like. We became friends. Hugo left the army and became a combat photographer and went from one hot spot to another, but we stayed in touch. A few years ago, he decided he had had enough, but then he ran into something pretty nasty on his own island. It was a terrorist thing and he put an end to it with a little help from my people. There was a lot of killing. After it, he just wanted to settle down in his castle and raise a family. He is quite a gentle man at heart."
Kathleen nodded, her mind going back to Fitzduane's desperation, then his transformation when he realized his son was alive. She knew she was calloused by the day-to-day realities of her job, but she had been touched by what she had seen.
"So he has a wife?" she said.
Kilmara shook his head. "That didn't work out," he said. "Hugo looks after Boots."
"And now we come to the matter of why this gentle knight living in isolation off the west coast of Ireland should be struck down by assassin's bullets," said Kathleen. "This was no training accident."
"It was no accident," agreed Kilmara. "And I suspect it is no deep mystery, either. The counterterrorist world is characterized by action and reaction. If you get involved, you are always at risk. I think this is a simple revenge shooting for what happened three years ago. These people thrive on vengeance."
Kathleen shuddered. "Warped minds. It's sick. But it's been three years. Why wait so long?"
Kilmara shrugged. "That we don't know as yet. But delayed revenge is more common than not. The target starts off taking extensive precautions and being alert to every nuance. And then time passes and he starts thinking the threat is less likely and he lets his guard down a bit. And so it goes. And there is also the saying..."
"‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold,’" completed Kathleen.
"Just so," said Kilmara.
Kathleen studied Kilmara. Here was a man who had seen and tasted much of what life had to offer, she thought, and had come to terms with it. Here was a man whose daily currency was lethal force and who hunted other men. And who was a target himself. What a terrible existence.
"How do you live with all this," she asked, "the fear and the violence and the knowledge that any day some stranger might strike you down?" She regretted her words as soon as they were uttered. It was a remarkably tactless question and a clear manifestation of her fatigue.
Kilmara laughed. "I don't accept sweets from strangers," he said, "and I play the percentages. And I'm very good at what I do."
"But so was Mr. Fitzduane, you have implied," said Kathleen.
"Kathleen," said Kilmara, "when you have got his attention, Hugo is the most dangerous man you are ever likely to encounter. But he can be a little slow to start. His values get in the way of some of the more direct requirements of this business. But when he is motivated, he makes me look like a wimp."