A reason to kill, p.37
A Reason To Kill, page 37
“What’s your name, lass?” Jack Walsh had just finished introducing himself and the others as casually as if they were out for a pleasure drive.
“Megan O’Donnell,” she stammered between gulps of air.
“Damn!” Walsh cursed. “That lad never could keep his britches buttoned. You be begging my pardon, lass. But him bringing his worthless self, back a Yankee bride and us none the wiser.” Megan neglected to correct this cover story he had so conveniently given her.
“Wrong timing.” The driver, Megan now knew to be a David Martin, was apparently angry about something. “Mor’n likely brought himself back a widow.”
“Shut yourself up, Davy,” Walsh ordered. “Don’t be frightening the girl. Don’t you worry none, Megan, Seamus will be fine. Ain’t likely they’ll hold him more’n a few hours.”
The air in the dark enclosure was just becoming uncomfortable when the van deposited them at a truck terminal. Megan looked out over the city spread before them and instantly recognized Belfast. How, she wondered, it had been years and she’d been only a little girl. Perhaps it was some kind of racial memory or rebirth. Had she traipsed along this way or rode in a horse-drawn cart in another lifetime?
She hadn’t conversed much with her companions although Walsh assured her she was headed for a safe house and didn’t need to worry. They’d see to her until Seamus was released. Since she didn’t have much choice, she went along.
At the terminal they picked up an ancient Volvo and headed again for a highway. At a point about three miles outside the city, they pulled over to trade the Volvo for a BMW and exchanged one companion for another.
~~~
Mr. Monaghan’s clothing, like his car, was expensive and well-kept and Megan instantly felt more respectable in his presence. Though she wasn’t too thrilled by the information he was passing on to Walsh. They spoke quietly in the front but she overheard enough to realize something dreadful had happened to Seamus’ nephews.
Colin! My God, she thought, he’s still a child. Beside her in the rear seat, David Martin patted her hand and assured, “Lads are safe back home in Bray. I personally saw to them.” As the car headed up twenty five towards Killyleagh, Megan lay her head back and prayed.
~~~
Several of Megan O’Donnell’s prayers were answered for an hour later she was still alive and basically uninjured. Oddly enough, she wasn’t really frightened of these unsavory men the respectable Mr. Monaghan again abandoned her with. The room could definitely do with some cleaning up—but at least it was stationary.
Twisting off the cap, Jack Walsh sucked thirstily on stout while Megan toyed with her ale. “You’ll be wantin’ that film developed?” he said. And suddenly it occurred to her she had ditched the camera in her bag before she left the plane.
Suspicion tightened her features, as she demanded, “How did you know about the camera?”
“Hate to be telling you this, Megan,” Walsh said as if apologizing. “I was on the plane, in coach. It was sure me those blokes wanted not Seamus O’Donnell.”
“You?” Megan’s tone lifted with the accusations. “You mean they were after you. You let them take Seamus? You didn’t try to help him?”
“Saints be praised! You think my mother raised an idiot son. What could I do?” Seeing the tears rapidly filling the young woman’s eyes, Jack Walsh’s upset gave way to compassion. “Sorry, lass, wish I could have helped the lad. Got word in New York there might be trouble. Figured they’d make some kind of move on him. Tried to reach him. Damn youngun, begging your pardon lass, you being his bride, where in hell was he for two nights?”
“How should I know I wasn’t with him?”
“What, you just after being married? Him off?”
“You don’t understand. I’m not Seamus’ wife.” His jaw fell open so she quickly added. “It’s not like that. My name is O’Donnell by benefit of my father. I was born to the name. And just happen to be a reporter on a story who was sitting next to Seamus on the plane.” She decided it might still be better to maintain some secrecy.
“Damn!” Walsh took a deep pull on his Stout. “You sure got into a mess of sorts. How can we fix this up?”
But their conversation came to an abrupt end as the door burst its lock and hinges. Megan screamed while Walsh leaped at the first invader only more followed. One of the men grabbed her. A shove sent Megan spinning out of the demolished door to land on her knees in the dirt. Attempting to stand, a boot caught her on the right ankle and before she could finish the yelp of pain hands had latched on to her left arm and were dragging her to her feet.
“Cut it out!” she yelled. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s her all right.” Her assailant growled. “A fuckin’ Yank, she is.”
Megan kicked backwards and was instantly pleased by the answering squeal of pain. She threw her head sideways to roll with a blow that broke against her cheek. Snapping her head back she sunk her teeth into the man’s shoulder and though he yanked on her hair she held on.
Several guns barked. A man fell over in front of Megan. Then suddenly her bruised arms were free as her abductor also pitched foreword and she saw the back of his head turning a shiny red.
“Should of used handguns,” Walsh was bellowing. “Look at all the friggin’ blood. Some of you lads best get ta digging gotta turn all this bitching dirt for dawn.”
They killed them! The realization began to invade Megan’s brain. Just plain killed them! She was trembling as David Martin wrapped his jacket around her. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just a bit banged up.” He touched a hanky to her bloody lip.
She heard a rough voice say, “Walsh, this fucker’s still breathing.” And she stood in frozen fascination watching as Jack Walsh dropped to knees beside the injured man.
Grabbing the hair he used it to raise the man’s head. When the prisoner begged, “Get me ta hos—” it vanished into Walsh’s open palmed slap.
“How did ya bastards find this place?” Walsh punctuated his question with several more slaps.
“Hospital…”
And Walsh’s words, “Forget it,” held no hope. “You’ve bought it; you’re already dead. It’s the easy way out, or hard? Bobbie, open me one o’ them shells.” As it was handed to him, he motioned and two other men drop down to yank the captive’s hands away from his stomach. The guts swelled out from the uncovered wound as Walsh demanded, “How did ya find this place? What branch are ya with?”
Suddenly coming out of her shock, Megan attempted to pull away from Martin’s hold. “You can’t do this?” She struggled helplessly against his strength.
A hideous howl of raw agony accompanied the stench of burning gunpowder. And Megan’s scream mimicked the victim’s. Then there was sobbing and mumbled words and a single shot.
And still Martin restrained Megan with her face pressed into his chest. “It’s over,” he said. “No one else knows you’re here. They were just running a check on the area. Stumbled on this place and heard you talking—accent gave you away. You’ll be safe up at Monaghan’s shortly; he just wanted to prepare his wife.”
If this was intended to make her feel better, it fell short. Freed, she spun in mounting hysteria on Jack Walsh. “You—Murdered him! Tortured—” Casually Walsh’s hand cracked across her mouth and she crumbled against him. Her legs trembled in weakness as he held her from falling.
“With a hole that size in his belly he’d not last till morning. So hush now, girl.” Walsh handed her back to Martin and turned to help lift the still body.
“UDA,” he said as if that vindicated his actions and Megan pushed her palms against her lips as the vomit gushed forth.
Chapter 68
Northern Ireland, 1984
Megan O’Donnell was ushered into the Monaghan’s comfortable parlor to be confronted by another shock.
“Christ, Scribe, you look awful.” Megan’s hands automatically flew to her disheveled hair, as Deirdre’s arm protectively encircled her.
“Davy,” Deirdre yelped, “why didn’t you tell me it was her?”
“And who’s her, that I should know to be telling you?”
“She’s Megan O’Donnell.”
“Sure, that I know,” he grinned. “What makes her special?”
“We’re friends,” the girl said. And the men shook their heads in surprise.
Megan, deciding it was time to stand alone, disentangled herself from Deirdre’s hold.
Monaghan said, “Don’t be telling us, she’s one of your crowd?”
“I’m not part of anybody’s crowd,” Megan protested.
“But she’s safe,” Deirdre declared and grabbing Megan’s arm tugged. “Come on Scribe let’s make you human—you stink.” She led the way to a large bathroom.
First thing Megan washed was her hair, and then gratefully eased her aching bones into the warmth of the bath Deirdre drew for her. As the older girl soaked, the teenager parked her bottom on the edge of the tub and chatted away.
“How did this happen?” Deirdre ran a finger around a purple mark adorning Megan’s shoulder. “And this?” Deirdre marveled at each bruise as if they were badges of honor. “You flew over with Seamus?” Her interest changed, “Lucky you?”
“Lucky?”
“Well, it could have been worse. You could have landed in Long Kesh with him. Funny, the Army and the RUC turning rocks looking for you? I never figured it. The names—should have guessed? Wish my papa wasn’t in London. He’d have Seamus out already.” Deirdre verbally allowed her grandfather more power than he possessed.
Megan rolled over so the hot water could better ease the pain in her spine. “Dee? Why in God’s name is the law after me?”
“Big bucks,” Deirdre giggled. “They think Seamus was ferrying a bankroll. Since he doesn’t have it on him, and believe me he’s been searched,” she snickered. “Who safer to stash it with then his beloved bride.”
“Bankroll?”
“American, Canadian, Australian; dollars brought into Dublin can be converted to pounds then filtered across the border as needed.”
“To buy weapons?”
“For other things too.” She shrugged. “Payrolls—keeps the lads off the English dole.”
“Seamus wouldn’t be a party to that—” Then remembering how he’d fled the plane wondered aloud. “Would he?” which brought a nasty grin to Deirdre’s attractive young face causing the older female to demand. “If he didn’t have anything on him what are they charging him with?”
“This is Ulster.” Deirdre fell into her ‘Stage Irish’ voice. “A wee bit of the rebel stink himself has about him, sure’n that makes his ass free meat.” Leaping up she began sorting the clothing she’d brought. She hummed a bit then broke into words:
Time goes by and years roll on
But yet in memory fresh I keep
Of a night in Belfast Prison
Unshamefully I saw men weep.
Megan laughed out loud as she stepped from the tub and began rubbing toweling over her pleasantly pink hide. “Dee, girl, when were you ever in Belfast Prison?”
“Lots of times.” The disbelief shadowed Megan’s face. “And Long Kesh, Crumlin Road, Castlereagh, you name one I haven’t been in.”
“You’re lying.” Megan decided as she shimmied into the too long jeans. She stooped to turn a triple cuff. “You’ve never been in an Irish prison.” She pulled on a top that was far too large and traced the ends almost to her knees.
Deirdre grimaced. “Tomorrow,” she promised, “Amy will be here. I’ll rob you some of her clothes; she’s a squirt like you.”
“Don’t change the subject, little one.” They both burst into laughter.
Then Deirdre admitted, “Never been officially locked in a jail cell either side of the Atlantic. Leaving that pleasure till I grow up. But, Meg, my papa, grandfather that is, why he’s a solicitor who fights for the poor wretches who are always getting themselves lifted. Think my papa spends as much time in the jails as the courtrooms. Use to take little miss wet pants all over with him—”
A sharp rap interrupted. “You lasses going stay in there ‘til morning?” was a woman’s harsh demand. “I’ve already fed the men. Like to be finishing up.”
“Sorry Maggie,” Deirdre’s tone was honestly contrite. “Be right there.” She turned to Megan. “Eat something. Don’t offend her. Irish cooking is lousy—but editable.”
“Dee, baby.” Megan snickered. “There is something about Ireland you don’t like?”
~~~
Megan made it through supper with no difficulty. Then sometime during her exhausted sleep Deirdre O’Neill and David Martin deserted her. She woke to a sorry breakfast with only the older men, Walsh and Monaghan, to share her misfortune, and the none-too-pleasant service of the gruff Mrs. Monaghan.
Lukewarm tea and piles of food were deposited before Megan, without so much as a good morning. While her system screamed for coffee, she sipped at the tea. Her fork tormented the sausages and they sailed through grease like logs into the golden mountain of overcooked eggs.
“You sleep all right, lass?” Monaghan asked between large bites.
She nodded yes but only mumbled, “Where did Dede take off too?”
“Be around soon enough. Lives up on the hill. Wife’s been tended the little business since she was a wean. More tea?” he offered.
Suddenly Megan found her courage and smiled with the request, “You wouldn’t have coffee?”
“Sure, now. Maggie!” he yelled.
“Sssh,” Megan whispered and the men laughed as her cheeks flushed.
“Pay no mind to Maggie’s attitude,” Walsh offered. “She’s a wee bit upset with the likes of us—got nothing to do with you, lass.”
Coming at her husband’s beckoning, the woman grunted, “Why didn’t she say so?”
Returning with a pot of coffee, she questioned, “You live in the same town as Dede?”
That the woman was actually addressing her made Megan feel honored. “Not quite. My dad owns a bar not half the State. Now, I have my own apartment in New York City.”
“You live alone? Tiny thing like you?”
Then Deirdre O’Neill came noisily through the hall and the full attention of Maggie Monaghan focused on the girl. Disgust drained from the woman’s features, softened by Deirdre’s perfect smile, and she fussed over the teenager as if she were her own daughter.
Megan turned her attention on Jack Walsh. By rights, she thought, I should be terrified of this killer and wondered why she was not. “I need equipment,” she said continuing their discussion on how they might aid Seamus O’Donnell. Since for some unknown reason the law was still holding him. “I can do the work myself. But I need dyes, tanks, Dee’s enlarger might work—”
“Hold on! Just how do you think I’m gonna come by this stuff?”
Since the answer seemed simple enough for an American she shrugged. “Buy it.”
“Suppose we could,” Monaghan offered. “I could send a lad to Kelly’s in Belfast. Likely he’d have the stuff.”
“You daft as she is, man?” Walsh said. “We start buying up printing and developing stuff, sure, the laws gonna be looking our way. They must know about the film by now. Enough people on that plane saw her with that camera.”
“So we steal what she wants,” Deirdre offered.
And Megan groaned. “No way, I’ve enough problems.”
“Listen Scribe, it’s the only safe way. They’ll guess who did it; but not who you’re with. This isn’t New York, you know. You can bet your butt, you start spending that kinda cash on photography equipment them bad guys are going to be looking at ya.”
“Lass is right,” Walsh agreed. “I’ll have Martin bring a couple lads tonight. We’ll break into Kelly’s.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Megan’s declaration drew a round of laughter as Walsh asked, “Yah done a bit o’ burglary before?” and Megan colored.
“No, damn it. But it would be too hard to explain what I need. It’s better if I go. Dede! Stop your damn giggling. That film might help Seamus.”
Chapter 69
Northern Ireland, 1984
The first time the object of Megan’s concern regained full consciousness, he was being dragged into a windowless room. Shortly, the removal of his handcuffs proved to be a mistake. As three smaller men converged on the single big man, one immediately landed on his backside and another ended in a crucified position against the opposite wall. The third had the fingers of O’Donnell’s hand still encircling his neck when Colonel Oliver Reed decided to even the match. He rapped his baton along the side of Seamus O’Donnell’s already bleeding head.
His earlier abuse had left O’Donnell’s brain foggy and his anger raging. Seamus’ fist brought a startled Reed a split lip. The colonel put all his strength behind the baton as he brought in down on Seamus’ head a second time adding several more blows even as the captive crumbled.
Soon the body of The O’Donnell lay naked on the floor. His ivory completion was rapidly discoloring from ugly bruising; thin lines of blood trailed over his flesh and the wounds on his head were flowing richly. Reed watched the dissection of the clothing and the complete violation of the prisoner’s body, to assure himself that not even the private recesses held anything incriminating. The disappointment of discovering nothing of value angered the Colonel more than if they’d located a bomb.
A sergeant rubbed his own aching jaw and remarked, “Think we’ve a suit big enough?”
And Reed barked, “Leave the bastard naked.”
With the Colonel’s exit, they dragged the prisoner into a cell and dump him on a cot. “Big son of a bitch!” complained the soldier with the bruising around his throat. “Must go better’n twenty stone.”
“Na,” disagreed the other who’d nearly cut a new door in that room with his own body. “No fat on him. He’s hard all over.” And then he snickered, “Hung like a bull,” he rapped the butt of his rifle between the unconscious prisoner’s legs. With a sharp gasp Seamus rolled over on his belly. The sergeant pressed the muzzle of his rifle into Seamus’ spine as if almost hoping for another reaction. “I’ll be sore for a week.” He pressed harder. The desire to pull the trigger was plain on his face.
