Going Gone, Book 2 of the Irish End Games (2 page)

F
rom the pieces
of knapsack and useless bits of metal trinkets found embedded in the surrounding oak trees, they guessed he had been a peddler.

The sound of the explosion had sent half the camp running toward the south entrance. Mothers ran screaming the names of their children, the unbearable sounds of terror ratcheting higher with every step.

Mike reached the area with the first wave of the panicked. He stepped carefully into the brand new clearing, which was smoking and foul smelling. “Head count!” he shouted, looking around with a pounding heart. It wasn't one of their watch sites—in fact, everyone knew it was strictly off-limits—but that didn't mean it wasn't a place a bored child wouldn't wander off to. He listened to the voices, some tremulous and tearful, others angry, as they reeled off their names in the order that had been decided. Each head of household called out his surname and the phrase “all accounted for” to indicate the whereabouts of each member of his family was known.

When Donovan announced his own name, with only Gavin to account for, the thought came to him, like a deadly asp slithering into his sleeping bag, that he did not know where his son was.

The Woodsons were at his elbow within minutes. Not formally a part of the group, they remained silent as they surveyed the damage. “Who set it off?” Sarah asked.

Donovan held up a hand to her, demanding silence as he listened to the members of his group call out their names to assure him that their community remained intact.

As he listened, his eyes scanned the trees and the smoking hole before him where the landmine had been triggered, and he registered that the birds had stopped singing, the camp dogs had stopped barking.

Death has a habit of stalling everything about normal daily life
, he thought bitterly.

“Da? You okay over there?”

He gave a shuddering sigh at the sound of his son's voice, calling to him from across the camp. He glanced up and nodded at Gavin.

By this time, the crowd had stopped calling out their names and were, instead, jostling babies, pulling children back from the lip of the smoking pit, and kicking at the rim and surrounding area with boot toes and sticks.

One woman's shrill voice pierced the din of noise above the others. “God have mercy, Mike, are there any more here?”

Donovan turned to look at David, who stood grimly by his side. David shook his head, refusing to look at him.

“No, Maeve,” Mike called to the woman. “Just the usual areas. You all know them.”

“Well, what made it go off, then?” another man called out. “Were we being attacked, or should we be looking to pick pieces of raw mutton off the trees?”

Mike noted the angry voice, soon joined by others, and he resisted the urge to look at David—the man responsible for the smoking hole and the slowly building hysteria in his community.

“Go back to camp,” he said tiredly, trying to sound commanding. “I'll investigate and make a full report at dinner.” He turned to David who, maddeningly, didn't seem to feel any responsibility for what had happened. If anything, he looked as if he had a mind to resume the fight with Mike over John's whipping. Steeling himself to stay calm, Mike glanced at Sarah. “Take John back to camp,” he said. When she hesitated, looking instead to David, Mike added an edge to his voice. “
Now
,” he said. Without a word, she grabbed her son's hand and tugged him away from the two men.

Mike stood with his hands on his hips looking at the destruction. “I want the rest of the landmines dismantled,” he said icily. “If you want to bury them in front of your own cottage, you're welcome to.”

“That's not what your group said three months ago when I found these mines stacked in an abandoned army depot in Glyncannon. Three months ago, your people begged me to plant them on your perimeter.”

“Three months ago we were bulldozed by your paranoia.”

“I'm not sure anyone would believe
you
were bulldozed, Donovan. Fact is, you were outvoted. Your group wanted the security. Just because some wandering tinker crept up on the camp and got himself blown up doesn't mean the mines aren't still a good idea.”

“Just get rid of them.”

“We haven't had an incident in three months and now you think you're living in Brigadoon?” David looked at him with disgust. “How do you know this guy wasn't the advance guard of an attack? How do you know the landmine didn't send the message to his gang that we aren't ripe for the picking?”

Donovan strode over to a nearby ash tree and pried out a metal button with flowers stamped on it. He came back to Woodson and threw it at him, watching it ping off the man's chest. “This guy was a peddler,” he said heatedly. “He wasn't the
advance man
on anything except maybe in his plan to trade a few buttons for a hot meal tonight.”

David shrugged. “For all you know.”

“Yeah, for all I know. But I'm in charge so get rid of them.” He turned to look at the smoking hole again. “It makes me sick to think I let you talk me into them in the first place.”

“Maybe you were more concerned about protection a few months back.”

“We have security measures.”

“A few pits with sharpened stakes in them? A couple of tree snares? Three teenage boys rotating watch on the perimeter?” David jabbed a finger in the direction of the hole. “
This
is the only thing that protects you at the end of the day. Telling everyone under no uncertain terms that you'll kill first and ask questions later.
This
is what keeps the murdering thieves and opportunists moving past your place to the next poor sod.”

“Maybe,” Donovan muttered. “But right now we just killed the next poor sod and I'm not convinced the price was worth it. Dig up the other two.
Today
.” He turned on his heel and left Woodson standing alone in the glade, the chirping of the birds in the trees once more resuming.

J
ohn and Sarah
trudged away from the explosion site. They felt the hostile stares and grumblings as they walked. It was clear whom the camp was blaming for the disturbance.

“Mr. Donovan's gonna make Dad dismantle the other bombs,” John said, swinging up to sit in the driver's seat. “He thinks they're dangerous.”

“They
are
dangerous,” Sarah said, watching the opening to the grove where Mike and her husband still conferred, hidden from view. “But necessary. Like having a loaded weapon. Very dangerous, but thank God for it when you need it.”

“Yeah. Dad says you can always accomplish more with a kind word and a rifle than you can with just a kind word.”

“How very Irish-sounding of him.” Sarah smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“Who do you think got blown up?” John asked, looking at his hands.

Sarah felt her heart clutch. Lately the child was always so sure of himself, it surprised her when he reverted back to being the young boy he really was. “I don't know, angel,” she said. “Some poor soul, I suppose.” She reached out to take his hand. “This world we live in isn't like Jacksonville during a hurricane warning or something. There are treacherous people out there…” She turned to wave to the countryside beyond the borders of the little camp. “It's a lawless time right now. Until we can get everything back up.”

“I know, Mom, but doesn't that make us lawless too? I mean, hiding bombs for innocent people to walk on?”

“John, I know this sounds harsh, and I don't want to scare you, but you don't know when the bad people will come. You have to be ready.”

“Fiona says we're like isolationists or something,” John mumbled.

Sarah realized that the time John spent in the community away from his family was having an effect on him. He was pulling away from her and David.

“Fiona said that?”

“Don't be mad at her, Mom. She's just saying what a lot of people are saying, only nicer.”

“I see.” Sarah turned away from him as she caught a glimpse of Mike striding back into the camp without David. “People blame us for what happened.”

“Well, it
is
our fault. Being Americans and all.”

“Maybe.” Sarah patted his knee. “Chill here for a bit, John? I need to go have a word with Mr. Donovan.”

M
ike saw
her heading his way and knew he should've expected it. She wasn't used to being ordered about, least ways by him. Come to that, he wasn't used to doing it. It surprised him how easy it came and, truth be told, that he'd enjoyed doing it. No, safety in numbers or not, he had to admit there was some benefit to having her live out of reach.

“Mike, hold up, please,” she said as she ran to catch up with him.

“Sarah,” he said, not breaking his stride.

“Are you having David dig up the other landmines?”

“I am.”

“Do you think that's wise?”

“Why else would I be doing it?”

She grabbed him by the sleeve and forced him to stop. “There are threats everywhere, Mike.”

“So you say.”

“How can you possibly doubt it? After what happened last year? After what nearly happened to Gavin? To…to me?”

Mike looked down into her face and remembered the fear and desperation of those bad days. He remembered her agony when she thought she had lost her son and her husband, and he knew why she couldn't feel safe. He lifted a hand and touched her shoulder.

“We can't live in anticipation of the worst happening,” he said gently.

She watched his eyes, as if he would say more. As if that argument wasn't just too obviously weak to stand on its own.

“That's exactly what we have to live in anticipation of,” she said finally. “All the time. Or risk being caught off guard. That's what these new times require, Mike.”

He dropped his hand, like it had become too heavy for him to lift. “Not here, they don't,” he said, and left her where she stood by the center cook fire.

C
aitlin stood
in the veiled opening of her tent and watched as Mike put his hand on the American's shoulder. She saw his glance, just for the barest of moments, leave the woman's eyes as she spoke and drop to her mouth. Fury pulsed through her like a tidal wave surging over a seawall.

Caitlin knew he fancied the Yank. Everyone in camp who wasn't either blind or half-witted knew it. That he could be so bold with her—and her with her own husband not twenty yards away!—made Caitlin want to rip his ruddy, handsome face with her fingernails. Though she'd yet to catch them, she was sure the two were already rutting:
they must be! And catch them I will, of that you can be certain
, she thought, squatting and stabbing the ground with the broken fork she'd been holding in her hands.

She definitely bloody
would
.

I
n the months
and years to come, Sarah would always remember that crisp, bright fall day as one of the prettiest she'd ever experienced since coming to Ireland. The memory would do little to console her during the terrible days ahead.

She and David and John had left the camp as dusk fell. David refused to stay—and no one begged them to change their minds. In the back of the little pony cart sat the two rusting landmines David had removed from the perimeter of the camp. He'd intended to replant them around their own cottage, but had to admit they didn't look functional anymore—if they ever had been. Mike insisted he take them away, and so they rattled and jostled in the back of the pony trap until he could dump them at the edge of the little pond on the outskirts of Deirdre and Seamus's property. In the morning, he would row out to the middle of the pond and drop them in.

John had been silent on the ride back to their cottage. Sarah knew he wanted to be with his parents, but that he was torn. She made it easy on him by insisting he come home with them. She offered an early release to him by allowing him to return the next day after breakfast if his chores were done.

After leaving the undetonated bombs by the pond, they'd trudged home, tired and hungry in the dark. Sarah knew they had been viewed as bad mannered and foolish to leave after dark, but there wasn't anything for it.

They were no longer welcome in Donovan's Lot.

David drove the cart to the front of the cottage, where Sarah and John hopped out. Someone had tossed the dead rabbit into the back of the cart—dramatic proof in these hungry times of how reviled they had become. She ushered her tired boy into the house while David led the ponies to the barn, where he would untack and feed them.

After a quick swipe with a soapy washcloth, she bundled John off to bed. There was enough light by the full moon, so she didn't bother wasting precious oil by lighting the lamps. She lit one candle and set it by the bedside and waited for David. She heard him come in and wash up briefly before coming into the bedroom and sagging onto the bed. It had been a demoralizing, sapping day for all of them. As bold and sure as David sounded when arguing with Mike—or even the whole camp, as it had felt when so many people approached them later with recriminations for their part in the peddler's death, indeed the origin of The Crisis, itself—Sarah knew he had doubts.

It's true
, she thought, tiredly.
If they want to lay the blame for this at the Americans' feet, they're probably right.
While the few facts they had about why all the electronics failed and all the cars refused to move seem to point in the direction of a retaliation attempt against the Americans for something that happened in the Middle East, it was still hard for a middle class family of three to carry the can for a whole nation in the face of such righteous anger.

When you're the head dog, the other dogs in the harness—so-called friends or not—are not going to soon forget the poor scenery they suffered through along the way.
It didn't matter that Ireland and the US were friends (or at least they used to be.) It didn't matter how many people in the US were Irish-descendants. In the end, it only mattered that the US had been the target that allowed its closest friends (at least those friends standing too close) to take the hit for them.

And David and Sarah were the face of that now-hated target.

“Pretty crappy day,” David said, as he sought a comfortable position in the bed. “John okay?”

“He's fine,” Sarah said, feeling the weariness of the day sink into her bones with the realization that she never got her dinner. “Did you eat?”

David gave a half-laugh that relayed no mirth.

“Oh!” she said, suddenly. “I forgot all about the cart tracks you found. In all the excitement, they never had the council meeting. Did you get a chance to tell Mike what you saw?”

David snorted with disgust. “He was too focused on me getting the mines dug up. I'm sure he'd just tell me a few cart tracks and cigarette butts were nothing to worry about. The man's living in a dream world.”

Sarah put a hand on his shoulder. “We need to mend our fences with the community, David. They're all we have. We can't cut ties with them. We need them.”

“For what? In what possible way do we need them?” David wrenched the covers over his shoulders and turned from her. She knew the questions weren't an invitation to conversation. It was just as well. She was so tired as it was she could have wept.

The next morning crept up on them. Accustomed to the mornings being cold and wet during this time of year, David and Sarah had gotten in the habit of rising late and allowing the fog and mist to burn off before starting their chores. Sarah would get the cook stove going for their morning tea, and if there was any food in the house she would cobble together a kind of breakfast.

Most mornings she would make dough in hopes that she'd have bread to serve for dinner. Her inexperience combined with the continual dampness in the air usually prevented the dough from rising, resulting in an unsatisfyingly unleavened and very dense bread that nobody enjoyed, but all ate.

John's chores involved keeping the firewood box in the kitchen full of kindling—for which he didn't have to use a hatchet or an axe to Sarah's relief—and to feed the animals—the two ponies, the dog, the lone goat and the flock of chickens that essentially sustained them when the summer garden's harvest ran out.

Sarah noticed that the box was full of kindling but they were running low on firewood. She stood in the kitchen door that opened up to the back pasture, where she saw David already chopping wood. He looked intense, single-minded and determined. A wave of sadness passed through her as she watched him. He'd had such a different life “back home” as senior partner at a mid-size accounting firm.

She watched him attack the wood stump, his arms rippling with the muscles he'd created through their new life, and wondered what he thought of these days. Did he still worry out knotty accounting problems as he toiled and physically labored? Did he miss beyond endurance his corporate world? No wonder he let Mike get to him. Sarah couldn't help glancing in the direction of the community. Mike's plantation was real, his rule unassailable and tangible. His authority unimpeachable.

No wonder David flinched under his influence. Back in his world, Mike Donovan would be cutting David's lawn for him.

Sarah squinted against the horizon to catch a glimpse of John. She could tell by where the sun was that it wasn't early, though still well before eight in the morning. She glanced again at the box full of kindling. It was very possible the boy had rushed through his chores before his parents were even out of bed, saddled his pony and left for Donovan's camp. He was drawn to the man—and his tented kingdom—like a boy was drawn to adventure.

She withdrew into the kitchen and began pounding the dough that, hopefully, would transform into a loaf of bread in eight short hours. As she was covering the bowl of dough with one of Deirdre's kitchen towels, she turned to see her husband standing in the doorway, his arms full of cut firewood. He was staring at her with an expression of unutterable sadness.

“David? You okay?”

He grunted and dumped the wood into the flat basket next to the cook stove. “I think John's already gone off.”

“I was wondering about that. You didn't see him before he left?”

David didn't answer, and when Sarah looked up from tucking the bowl of dough against the wall on the kitchen counter she saw that he appeared to be examining her thoughtfully.

“What is it?”

“You know he's in love with you,” David said flatly.

Her face must have relayed her thoughts, because he spoke before she could. “And do us both a favor and don't say
who
?”

“Well, I think you're imagining that,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and breaking eye contact with him.

“Yeah, right. How can I blame him? I just don't need to see it on a daily basis.”

She faced him. “Look, David, I can't say what is or isn't going on in Mike Donovan's head, but as long as it isn't in mine, what difference does it make?”

“Yeah, right,” he said again. “He's already taken my son.”

“Don't even say that! If you're talking about the…about Mike spanking John, I hate it too, but I understand it. These are different times, hard times.”

“It takes a village?” David said sarcastically, and Sarah suddenly realized it wasn't a part of him she had ever seen much. Except lately.

“The concept of everyone having your back in a community is as old as time,” Sarah said, wondering why he was putting her in the position of defending the community. “Mike didn't invent it.” She turned to pour his tea into a large earthenware mug.

“Are you making an appeal to move in with them?”

“You know I'm not.”

She set his tea out on the table in front of him, but he turned after a moment and walked out of the kitchen.

The rest of the day was a quiet one between them, and Sarah would have cause to remember that, too. The fog had burned off and revealed a beautiful fall day, crisp and clear, the sky a blue so vivid she wished she had watercolors to capture it. Even the sun struggled out for several hours in the afternoon and Sarah wondered what John was doing with the fine day.
Was he swimming with Gavin in the pond? Was he fishing? Was Mike showing him how to use the new hand-carved tools some of the men were making?
She thought of Fiona and was grateful for the affection and warmth she knew she directed at John.

It was just as she was pulling the pan of baked bread from the oven and feeling the thrill of a job well done—it had risen beautifully! —that she heard the noise from the road that zigzagged covertly up the hill above their cottage. She set the bread on the rack on the counter and went to the kitchen window, turning back a corner of the curtain she often thought of poor Deirdre hand-sewing as a young bride. The forecourt was empty and she tried to recreate in her mind the sound she thought she had heard.

Situated as it was down a twisting hill covered and camouflaged by rampant ivy and scrub brush that prevented an easy view of the little cottage tucked away at the bottom like a jewel, the idea that casual travelers or wayfarers would happen upon the cottage was not readily believable. It was half the reason she and David decided to move into it.

Had she imagined the noise?

Having learned the hard way on more than one occasion the merit in taking action based on the safest course rather than a philosophy of
what were the odds?
Sarah stepped out of view from the window and dug out the loaded Glock pistol from a kitchen drawer. She had been standing in this very cottage the day three murdering gypsy ruffians had attacked her, though then she'd been armed with only a rolling pin.

She held her breath and waited. Complete silence answered her. A stab of growing unease punctured her chest and begin to creep its way toward her throat. David had been working on the fence in the south pasture—the one closest to the house. The faraway ringing sound of his hammer against the metal studs of the wooden fence could be heard from the kitchen…or should be.

There shouldn't be complete silence.

It had been many months since she had handled the gun, and she felt her nerves jump as she quickly checked the clip to make sure it was loaded. Her hands were moist and she took a moment to wipe them, one by one, on her apron. She edged over to the back door and peered out, taking care not to show herself in the window in the door.

There were four of them. Three men were standing by David at the furthest corner of the pasture fence line, his tools lying discarded at his feet. He had his hands up as if to disarm them with his vulnerability. Sarah's heart jumped when she saw him, saw them. From this distance, it was no wonder she hadn't heard them, although she could see they were conversing. When one of the men raised the butt of his rifle to David's face, he almost looked like he was pantomiming until he brought it crashing down, causing David's head to snap back before he fell against the fence.

Sucking in a horrified breath, Sarah flung open the kitchen door and was down the back steps and into the pasture, door banging shut behind her. She wasn't the only one who heard it. As she ran, the gun she held in both hands pointing at the group of men in front of her, the tip of it bouncing up and down, she heard only her breath coming in jagged rasps and pants. She could see David on the ground.

He wasn't moving.

She saw them turn—all three of them—to face her. The closer she got, she could see by their clothing that they were not Irish. They were not starving either. The man with the rifle pointed it at her and she slowed her steps to allow a steadier aim. Seamus had killed three men the last time they'd been attacked at this cottage because the blackguards hadn't thought him capable of it. She wasn't sure she was fostering the same assumption of incompetence this time.

She moved nearer to them, and caught glimpses of her husband on the ground. He was moving and groaning, thank God. She forced herself not to look at him and aimed the barrel of her Glock at the man with the rifle. She was surprised to see how normal he looked. He wore jeans and a tee shirt with running shoes. He looked like he had somehow avoided the last hard year of no food, no petrol, and fear. Unlike almost everybody else she had seen since The Crisis, he didn't look uncomfortable or needy.

He smiled at her in what looked, perversely, likely a genuinely warm greeting. “Well, hello, hello,” he said, his voice smooth and controlled.

He was English.

“This little plum was worth stopping for, eh, boys? Fine round arse on her. Won't Denny love trying
her
on for size? Are you American, then, too, luv?” he asked as he casually swept the barrel of his rifle so that it pointed at David on the ground.