A reason to kill, p.33
A Reason To Kill, page 33
With ale and stout flowing continuously it was not surprising when the owner announced he was going to the cellar. Had anyone paid attention, they would have thought, as he later claimed, he’d simply gone to tap another keg.
The toast was offered, “To the bridegroom.”
Glasses were raised as ear rupturing thunder filled the room. As the first bomb imploded, windows shattered into a hail of sharp glass particles that embedded themselves in wood and flesh alike. The back bar exploded, along with it went the bartender who might have remembered the phone call.
“THE BACK DOOR TH—” blown into eternity, the soldier was twenty one.
Lieutenant Matt Howard screamed in pain then gagged as he saw his left leg shatter while blood and meat burst through the skin like a hatchet had whacked at it. Numbed by shock he staggered forward; a beam, hurled by the blast, ruptured his spine.
Screeching humans were lifted and smashed into walls. Fire created its own havoc as the orange-red tongues leaped about to torture the injured while flesh and bone cracked and blackened.
~~~
Several blocks away at a dinner party, the man with the proud stance and firmly squared off chin felt an uncommon emotion—fear—at the sound of the explosions. Commandeering an auto he drove like a man possessed. He knew where he was headed. Aware of Howard’s farewell party, he had planned on making a short appearance later in the evening so as not to put a damper on the younger officers’ fun.
Out of the car before the motor died, screaming in fury at the frozen bystanders, Reed threw his raincoat over a human torch that ran from the building and beat out the flames. Tossing the man over his shoulder, he reached down and grasped the collar of another who was crawling away from the inferno. Ignoring the howling agony he dragged him to safety.
The Englishman’s violent curses set others in motion. “Faster!” he yelled. “Move! Damn it!” The injured were crawling through the shattered windows or hanging on the frames like broken dolls. A man staggered through the burning doorway, his uniform in flames and Reed rushed to aid him.
“The roofs going!”
Reed was dangerously close when it fell. He was nearly sucked in by the pressure as the wretched building finished crumbling in on itself. Having flung his own body over the injured man, he now cursed in frustration—it was a faceless corpse he’d wasted effort on. Still he leaped back to his feet and turned only to realize the rescue was over; nothing alive could remain in the rubble.
In the noisy confusion, Reed picked up on muddled conversations and unthinking declarations.
“Merciful God, must ‘ave been a dozen bombs.”
“Couldn’t do a sight more. Mother Mary, there was no time.”
“A lass came running out, she did, lucky her, just before it went.”
“Sure? But I saw her; nearly run the wife and me over. Ginger haired she was? Moving fast.”
“Aye, like the Devil, himself, be chasing her.”
Swamped with aid now, Colonel Reed was forced to shove his way through all the experienced cleanup artists. Many times he went to his knees in the mud, to hold a weak hand while a needle punctured flesh to bring the temporary relief of drugs. Each suffering young officer he spoke to by name. And finally, when the injured had all been transported to hospital, he stood in a down pouring rain and watched as they dug out, wrapped, and tagged the dead bodies. I’ll find the bastards, he promised himself, if I have to skin the hide off every Irishman over ten. If English justice doesn’t execute them—I will. He swore the oath while he watched a twenty-five-year old Matthew Howard being stuffed into a body bag.
Nearly as tired and disheveled as the colonel, the physician stepped beside him. “They still can’t locate my father,” Roger Monaghan said.
Lost in his own agony, Oliver Reed couldn’t be bothered with the death of any Irishman. He only said, “Nineteen dead out of thirty—more than half. Those that manage to survive,” was followed by a negative shake of his head. Then he was hit by another thought. “People saw a girl running away before the first bomb exploded. Seems she was in a hell of a hurry. Red-haired bitch!” His voice became an angry growl. “The constables tell me those witnesses have conveniently disappeared—always they have second thoughts.”
“They have no choice. They have to live here.” Roger Monaghan shrugged. “Besides, it’s doubtful one lass could have done all this damage?”
“Not likely,” Reed agreed. “The explosives had to be put in place when the pub was closed for the afternoon break. With all the security Monaghan’s has it couldn’t have been done once it reopened. But the location wasn’t chosen until this morning? The girl exiting in such a rush raises the question was she warned to get out and by whom? If we could find her? Open her up.”
“I take it you mean that literally.”
“It wouldn’t bother me at all but I meant her mouth.” The colonel didn’t elaborate only questioned, “How do you feel? Them murdering your father?”
“Haven’t let myself think on it. Suppose when it hits me I’ll cry badly maybe even get very drunk? If they’re discovered, I may try to kill them or they me?” And he gave a wan smile before he added, “I’m Irish.”
The colonel snorted in disgust then turned and stalked to a waiting lorry.
~~~
As Roger Monaghan watched it pull away, a shout reached him, “Over here quick! Someone was trapped in the cellar! He’s alive!”
Ten minutes later they succeeded in digging out a dirty, and violently angry senior Monaghan. His eyes scanned the wretched sight of his destroyed establishment. Some fool heads were gonna roll for this, he promised himself.
With Jack Walsh in New York, who could have been brash enough to order this? Set the action up and wait ‘til his own hide was nearly minced before they warned him. He spared no concern for the young bodies strewn about in body bags as he wiped black soot from his face.
~~~
Three blocks away, a youth stepped into an alley. Cautiously he moved in on the small green Ford. Reaching through the open window he gently shook the girl’s shoulder. The rain had drenched the interior of the auto and its driver. Revived, her hands flew to her bedraggled hair in an attempt to smooth it and a grin surfaced on the young male lips as he watched the action.
Tears brimmed the purple eyes and she hugged herself as the trembling invaded her body. Trying to speak, she discovered a voice that refused to cooperate.
“Have a sip of this lass.” Sean O’Donnell put the flask of whiskey against her lips. “You the one at Monaghan’s?” He remarked in answer to his own thoughts as Deirdre gulped at the whiskey. “Have to get you out of here.” He opened the car door and pushed her into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. He set the car in motion before he realized he had not been instructed as to where he was to deliver the girl. They had only said, ‘A small green Ford, lass has red hair. The O’Neill girl has to be in that area, find her and get her butt out of there.
“Take it easy. You’re okay now. Where were you headed?”
“Ho-ho-me.”
Careful not to openly grin, Sean said, “And where would that be?”
“Kill-ill-Killyleagh.” Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief.
As Sean maneuvered the small car through side streets and alleys were he’d spent his early childhood, he had no difficulty staying away from the noise and lights of the bombed area. He easily skirted the search pattern being put in place. Still he warned the girl, “You’d best be staying clear of this city for a bit. The law will be liftin’ any lass with ginger hair.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Deirdre protested. “I only got to Belfast a few minutes before the explosion.”
“Won’t matter to them fuckers.”
“But I’m an American. They wouldn’t dare touch me.”
“Surely, you don’t believe that?” he said.
Safely on the road headed for Killyleagh, Sean offered, “You want I should drive you home?”
“I’ll be all right.” He could see she was still trembling, although she hid it well. She asked, “But how will you get back?”
“Hitch! But I’m not about to head back yet. Army will be tearing the place apart. Most likely they’re hitting the Falls now,” he said then warned, “But they’ll be spreading soon. You best get moving.” He slipped from the car.
Deirdre moved rapidly down the familiar road but her voice didn’t rise in song.
Chapter 61
Northern Ireland, 1984
It had been an exhausting night without sleep and it showed in the doctor’s face. Roger Monaghan was several inches over medium height; his natural mixture of ash-blond and chestnut hair created a frosted look. Deep-set brown eyes, like the rest of him, were a gift of his mother’s people. Only in his facial features, chiseled to sharper perfection, did he resemble the man who had fathered him. A pampered only child with a mother determined not to allow his corruption at the hands of her husband, Roger willingly shied away from his male parent. An adult now, he still found himself uncomfortable in the man’s presence.
Brendan Monaghan lost his delicate young bride forever the night his only child was born and it wasn’t by death. ‘No more children,’ that doctor said to him like he’d committed some foul abuse of the woman. ‘No more children or you’ll kill the poor lass.’
‘And what would you have me say, lad.’ The priest near-whispered as if ashamed to be discussing the problem. ‘There’s a mite more to life than sex. God has seen fit to give you a fine son be thankful for that.’
Somehow the twenty-three-year-old male could not feel tremendously blessed as he lay beside an attractive young wife and listened to her coo at the babe who wiggled between them. Nor did he feel overly grateful to his Creator when she would shrink from his touch. “You’re not to be doing that,” she would sob, “You’d have me dead?”
Soon Maggie Monaghan learned to howl her accusations. “Me dead! Who’d tend my wean! Surely not his pa! You’ve no love for the babe at all. You’d see its ma dead.” And he was forced to flee the sound of her righteous wrath.
The fact now that his son was seated across from him was more surprising to the man than the tale the doctor was relating. “Why are you coming to me with this?” Brendan Monaghan said in a voice thick with sarcasm.
“This was a grudge thing. The poor bastard. I don’t think they cared if he gave them any information or not and he knew it. Screamed any fool idea that came into his head. Ridiculous names he gave them. Even Reed was forced to laugh when he gave up Seamus O’Donnell.”
“The O’Donnell?” Monaghan repeated. He noticed the quivering of his son’s mouth and how, though he clutched them, his hands shook. He poured out two whiskeys and though he knew Roger didn’t drink offered him one. How proud Maggie was when she told everyone, my boy took the pledge—not a lush like his pa.
Roger downed the drink in one gulp and held the glass out for a refill.
“Seamus O’Donnell,” Monaghan said with a snicker. “What every puffed up Irish daddy thinks ‘is baby boy will look like. What’s himself accused of?”
“Money? A large amount of dollars coming in from the States—claimed O’Donnell is the courier. Damn fool, they laughed at him. He’s had it made. Most of what Packy Hanlon gave them held up but resulted in few arrests. Of course they figure a lot of it was cons. So now? They won’t accept he didn’t pick up any information on this latest outrage.” He shook his head in disgust. “Reed brought in Kelsey—you know that bastard is a masked Ulster Defence.
“Jesus, but didn’t he do a job on him.” Roger felt the sweat soaking his armpits, rolling down his spine; even between his legs he felt wet. Interrogations were not new to him. It was his job to set broken bones, repair legally damaged flesh, and sign phony statements. It bothered him but it was what he was paid to do and he made a very good living. And always before he held the power when he said enough it was over. Not this time.
~~~
Packy Hanlon resembled a slab of raw meat when Roger was ordered again to bring him around. Though he obeyed he had attempted once more to halt the abuse with a warning, “I’ll not condone murder. If Kelsey kills him; I’ll not help cover it up.” But Colonel Reed had simply ignored him.
Now Roger reached for the bottle of Paddy’s and poured his own drink. He begged his father, “You have to get him out.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you—them?” Roger for the first time in his life yelled at the man. “What the hell’s the difference? I’m not stupid, Pa. I can’t get a hold of Walsh and you know who runs things if you’re not up there yourself.”
Brendan Monaghan reached for the bottle, as he said, “Ain’t likely they’ll do Old Packy in. Not the law leastwise. Course, not saying others might not be bound to finish him. Being free could cause the final disaster to his hide. Best you leave him where he’s at. Reed may be sucking up to his ass again soon seeing what he gave him.”
“O’Donnell?”
“Seamus? That’s a sorry joke. But the money’s real enough and it’s probably too late to stop the courier. Might be stupid if we do? With the Brits sniffing at O’Donnell’s tail our man can walk in clean.”
“Pa,” Roger said. “I’m getting out of this. No more favors for either side.”
“Ain’t so simple lad.” The tone was sarcastic. “When you decided to step over that line.”
~~~
The parent hesitated as he watched the fear stiffen his son’s features. He remembered the night less than a year ago when Jacky Walsh told him they were planning to use his son. He had honestly admitted the lad hadn’t the guts for it.
“Won’t require many,” Walsh had said. “Just keep doing what he’s been doing and a bit more. Looks like a lad’s gonna spillover he can prevent it.”
“Like how?”
“Drugs. A glass of water with somethin’ slipped in—he’s the doc.”
“Ain’t got the guts,” Monaghan had repeated.
“He’s taken our money, he better find ‘em.”
Brendan Monaghan possessed a great capacity for ridiculing fear in other men. Now, as he witnessed the pathetic creature with slumped shoulders and a face filled with that emotion, he felt a sense of responsibility. This was his son. Quickly he rose and pulled Roger from his chair. “You listen up, lad.” His arm went protectively around Roger’s shoulders as he promised. “You’ll not be hurt. You keep going on a while. You get nervous? They start even acting a wee bit suspicious, I’ll have you gone before them fuckers can spit.”
“Pa.”
“Don’t you go to worrying.” For the first time either could remember Brendan Monaghan roughly hugged his son.
Chapter 62
Northern Ireland, 1984
It was late afternoon on Sunday when Sean O’Donnell returned to Belfast. The British Army was very much in evidence on the streets of the city but Sean, being a Protestant kid from the South of Ireland, felt safe enough. He immediately headed for the Walsh’s home in the Short Strand, a small Catholic area in East Belfast.
The youth’s thoughts were taken up with the problem of his kid brother. Their uncle off to New York, Colin had taken it upon himself to visit the Walsh’s in hopes of seeing Sean. The last thing the older boy felt he needed right now was the brat interfering with his important business. He parked the borrowed ten-year-old car several blocks away from Walsh’s so Collin wouldn’t see it. He’d been forced to leave his own new car in the city when he was sent to rescue the O’Neill girl and he sorely missed it.
To the group of prowling Protestant youths out looking for trouble, it was simply inconceivable that anyone but a filthy taig could be roaming the streets of the Short Strand alone. They spotted each other at the same instant.
With a howl of pleasure the Protestant gang gave chase and Sean fled. Then from the hand of one, an illegal little black gun spoke twice. Sean stumbled briefly from the pressure of twin bullets puncturing his back but fear kept him on his feet and he continued to run.
By some justice, perhaps astonishment at what one of their number had done, the Protestant youths broke off the chase. Sean, with only several houses to go, made it as his legs grew rubbery and the burning in his chest was robbing his ability to draw in air. Then a fierce cold invaded his body and he was falling—
Colin was standing over him screaming.
“Run!” Sean gagged through the blood filling his mouth.”Go home!”
He wasn’t certain his voice was working or even if Colin was really there.
Then a number of English accents assaulted his aching head, “Who shot you?”
“Who were you with?”
“You’re Sean O’Donnell?”
Who was he? He wasn’t sure anymore. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see. If only they’d let him be. He was so cold—
“Damn! He’s going into shock.”
“Get the IV started—internal hemorrhage—we’re losing him…”
The voices were a jumble in his mind.
Mary Walsh screamed, “Leave the lad be.” Someone else yelled, “Run! Colin! Run!”
The pain! Hands were everywhere; grabbing, tearing away at his agony. Struggling to breath—something was blocking his air. A horrible pain—they were pounding over and over on his chest. “Leave me be,” he screamed, or so he thought, but only a weak gurgle, muffled by blood, had rolled from his lips.
~~~
In a moment of earlier clarity Sean’s younger brother had cradled his head and listened to his instructions. “Coli, call this number,” he forced the digits. “Give the correct time—tell them about me…”
Mary Walsh’s face paled as she pulled the youngster to his feet. “Do like he says Coli,” she shoved him. “Run!”
And the child ran. He didn’t know why he ran. He didn’t want to leave his brother. Tears blurred his vision and he stumbled as the words came back to him. “Tell them about me.”
