The police and medical team arrived within minutes, although it seemed like hours. Patrick and Brennan, doctor and priest, went with their father in the ambulance. Teresa and the rest of the family followed by car. I do not know what became of poor little Katie’s reception after that, because Maura and I took our stricken son and daughter back to the hotel. On the way to Manhattan in the cab, Maura was virtually catatonic. She had her arm around our daughter as if she would never let her go. She had been brushed by the wing of that swift dark presence every parent fears: the darkness that will part us from our children forever. Normie looked around her at all the blazing lights of New York City, but was uncharacteristically silent. She didn’t stir from her mother’s side. Tom was simply dazed; he asked if he could phone his girlfriend, Lexie, from the hotel room.
“Sure, Tommy,” I said. “Plan to sleep on the pull-out couch. That way you can stay up and talk as long as you like. Remember it’s an hour later in Halifax; she’ll be fast asleep. But I doubt she’ll complain.”
†
It was not until I was lying in bed alone, and had time to relive the whole scene, that I wondered how Brennan was able to pinpoint Maura’s location so accurately. I had been watching everyone idly from my perch on the table, and I had not seen him even glance in her direction. When the shots were fired, Declan was beyond Brennan’s reach. In a fraction of a second he had Maura down on the floor beneath him. Viewing the scene in slow motion, I could see him calling her name before he had even turned around. The incident left me too wired up to sleep. I experienced a rush of guilt for bringing my family into such a perilous situation. But I remembered why it had not crossed my mind to worry: I had dismissed out of hand the notion that there was anything ominous in that obituary.
It was just after two-thirty in the morning when I felt a soft little body snuggle up to me. “Are you all right, Normie?” I whispered.
“I woke up. I had shivers, and ladies were crying.”
“It’s all right. Go back to sleep, little one.”
“Father Burke is sad.”
“Of course he is. He’s worried about his dad. Why don’t you lie here for two minutes and think about the sights you want to see in New York. Then drift off to sleep. I’ll tell Father Burke you were worried about him.” She fretted for a few more minutes, tossing and turning, then slipped away into sleep. I carried her back to her own bed and tucked her in. And finally, I slept.
†
The phone rang beside my bed at eight-thirty. No need to wonder who it was. “Did he make it?” I asked by way of greeting.
“He made it. We nearly lost him. They had to resuscitate him in the middle of the night; his heart stopped. But they think he’s going to be all right.
Deo gratias.
I’ll be filling you in later. The police are here. Could you do something for me?”
“Of course.”
“Could you go to my room? It’s two doors down from yours. Well, I suppose they’ll have to let you in. Bring me a change of clothes, shaving kit? Somehow I’m not in the mood for a shopping
spree. I’ll tell you how to get here by subway. You take the —”
“I’ll cab it. The hospital or your house?”
“Elmhurst Hospital.”
“No problem. Sit tight.”
Maura shuffled into the room at that point; she looked as if she hadn’t closed her eyes. She put her hand out for the phone. “Brennan. It’s not often I have to search for the right words.” Her voice was shaky. “But about last night, what you did — oh, I see.” She looked at me and said: “He had to save my life because he hasn’t been able to save my soul yet. Didn’t want me to die in a state of mortal sin. Here, you talk to him.” She passed me the receiver, just in time for Normie to make a grab for it. I hadn’t even seen her slip into the room.
“Daddy.”
“Not now, sweetheart.”
“Please? Let me talk to him.”
“I’m sorry, Brennan. Normie’s been upset. She’s asking —”
“Go ahead. Put her on.”
“Father? Did your daddy’s spirit get back into him last night? Father, can you hear me? I was worried because you were so sad. But he’s back together, right? I’m really glad. Bye.” She passed me the phone.
“All right, see you shortly. Brennan?”
“Mmmm?”
“What time did your father have to be resuscitated?”
“Ask the little Druid.” Click.
†
I was let into Brennan’s new room, and packed up a few of his belongings, then flagged down a cab. When I arrived at Elmhurst, I was told that Declan was still in the Intensive Care Unit so I headed there. Patrick Burke was coming down the corridor in my direction, unshaven and still in his wedding finery. He had both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. We said hello and he began to fill me in but we were interrupted.
“Dr. Burke!” A nurse beckoned from a doorway, where a police
officer sat observing me with a practised eye. “Your father is asking for you.”
“We’ll have to catch up later, Monty.” Patrick hurried to the room. When he went in, Brennan and Brigid came out. She had not been home either. Tears that had been held in were now spilling from her eyes. Her brother put both arms around her and held her close. He looked over and saw me carrying his overnight bag.
“Ah. Monty. Good.” He turned his sister around by the shoulders and gave her a little shove. “Bridey, go! There’s nothing you can do here.”
“I wish there was something I could do somewhere! I don’t like being this useless.”
“Call a taxi and go to Terry’s. Get some rest.”
She saw me and wiped her eyes. “Hi, Monty. I, well, I’d better get going.” She walked slowly down the hallway, dabbing at her face with a tissue.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Getting crankier by the minute. Making progress, in other words. Would you like to pay him a visit?” I shook my head. Last thing I wanted. “Hold on while I go have a wash and change my clothes.” I entered a small waiting room, sat, and flipped the pages of a magazine without taking in any of the images. Brennan joined me a few minutes later, still with a day’s growth of beard but pink from a scrubbing. His hair was wet and he was in civilian clothes. He sat down next to me and stretched out his legs.
“Well, at least one of us feels better. Jesus, what a hellish night. Nearly losing him like that. And then when he was conscious again, to have to sit there while the old bugger kept his gob shut about who shot him. His first concern was for Katie and Nick, and Nick’s family. We were instructed to issue apologies to them all. Well, I can understand it. We had to strong-arm Declan into attending the wedding in the first place. But whatever one might make of that death notice, who would have believed they — whoever they are — would try to hit him in such a public gathering? Poor Patrick is devastated that he’d begun laughing the whole thing off. But who can blame him really?” He looked at me. “Monty, I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry about?”
“Bringing you and Maura and the children into this. I —”
“Brennan. You didn’t know. As you said yourself, nobody could have foreseen what happened in that gym.”
“The old fellow foresaw the possibility, though, didn’t he? He wanted to forgo the wedding and when he couldn’t do that, he tried to stay as far away from the rest of us as he could.”
“But shooting someone at a public event with three hundred witnesses? Nobody’s at fault but the gunman. And whatever he represents.”
“What did you do for excitement before you met me, Collins?”
“It’s been an eventful year.”
“And we still have our mission to complete.”
“But the police are on it now. Surely they are better placed than a couple of amateur gumshoes to —”
“They’ll try to solve the crime that was committed last night. I don’t expect them to get to the root of it all. Whatever it is.”
“And that job falls to us.”
“What did we come to New York for? To drink and get laid?”
I decided it might be wise not to answer that directly. “It’s a reasonable alternative to playing detective alongside the mighty
NYPD
.”
“They’re not going to get all the answers. Declan will tell them only what he has to tell them, so he won’t be seen as obstructing their investigation into the attempt on his life. Beyond that, he’ll maintain the silence of the dead. Believe me. I know the man. And this won’t end until we get to the bottom of it. So, back to that obit.”
“I take it you’ve given the police a copy of the obituary.” Silence. “Well?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Until we suss out what it means, and how it might implicate my father, I’m not giving them so much as a peep at it.”
“I see. Did you come up with any new insights sitting in this place all night?”
He shook his head. “My brain isn’t working. I said Mass for the family in the chapel here and I even screwed up the
Pater Noster
. I still can’t decipher the part about Cathal — or Declan — sharing the song and drink. And I have no idea who the brother and the stepson are, Benedict and Stephen. If we just go by the names we get
Benedict, which means ‘Blessed.’ Saint Benedict was the founder of western monasticism. My father was predeceased by a monk? And Saint Stephen. The first Christian martyr. Somehow I suspect that line of thinking will get us nowhere.”
“Martyred how?”
“Stoned to death.”
“Sounds unlikely in this day and age. At least in the western world.”
“I should hope so.”
“Unless it was a drug-related death.” He looked up sharply. “You know, died stoned. An overdose.”
“We just don’t know,” he said helplessly.
“As for Benedict, maybe you’re too much the Mick here, Brennan.”
“How’s that?”
“Think American, not Irish Catholic. What do Americans think of when they hear the name Benedict?”
“Benedict Arnold. The traitor.”
“Right. Could Declan have been predeceased by a traitor of some sort? And the obit calls Benedict a brother.”
Burke avoided my eyes. He got up and walked over to a nearby water fountain. Took a long drink. When he sat down again he didn’t speak.
Who were Benedict and Stephen? The traitor and the martyr. “Do you have the clipping?” He pulled out his wallet, produced the paper and handed it to me. I skimmed it again. One word in particular struck me as being central to the entire indictment. “Brennan, what significance do you attach to the word ‘predeceased’?”
He rested his head in his left hand and massaged his temples. “When we read it, Pat and I both had the impression that this person was accusing our father of murder. Or at least implying that he was responsible for the deaths of these two people. We didn’t want to believe it. But now?” He lapsed into a brooding silence.
“Let’s look at it that way then. Somebody tried to kill your father over this — whatever
this
is — so we have to face the fact that whatever happened was something very serious. We don’t know who Benedict or Stephen were, so we’ll go at it from another direction. Why do people kill?” Silence. “Very well. Why would
someone
suppose
your father had killed —”
“Perhaps that should be: why would someone
claim
he had committed murder?”
“Whatever the case, let’s get down to the basics of murder. What are the classic motivations?” I began to enumerate them. “Money.”
“Nobody would ever think my father would kill for money. Money is not a motivating factor in his life.”
“I agree he doesn’t seem the type to be moved by greed. At least he doesn’t seem that way to us. But we don’t know how he might be perceived by someone else. Say this happened during the early years here in New York; wouldn’t money have been a problem? Declan left Ireland under cover of darkness, on the lam from something, the way I heard it. So here he was, newly arrived in the United States with a wife and a young family to support.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s likely that he knifed somebody for his wallet, or robbed a bank.”
“No, but those aren’t the only possibilities. Where did the money come from when your family got off the boat in 1950, to pay for a place to live, and all the other necessities of life? What did Sandra say the other night?”
“‘Fuck off, Brennan’?”
“She didn’t say that. She was telling us about her early encounters with your dad. Back in the fifties. She witnessed some kind of confrontation between your father and another guy. Didn’t she say something about a big stack of dollars? What was it?”
“It was something like that.”
“How did Declan come up with the money for a house in Sunny-side? After just getting off the boat from Ireland. What was going on back then?”
“I don’t know,” he answered in a quiet voice.
“We won’t cross money off our list just yet. Other common motivations. Lust.”
“Lust,” he repeated.
“Right. Lust, love, jealousy. Right up there at the top of the list of reasons people do away with each other.”
“It would help if we knew who is supposed to have been killed, I’m thinking.”
“It would help enormously. Do you see your father as someone who would commit a crime of passion?”
“I don’t see him that way. But I wouldn’t; I’m his son. I was a child if we’re talking ancient history here.”
“The scene at the Met, the woman who accused your father of destroying her family. You say nobody ever told you what that was all about?”
“No.”
“And that was when? In 1956?”
“Right.”
“Well, I think we’d better proceed on the assumption that it’s connected somehow.”
“Bren.” We looked up to see Patrick coming towards us.
“What did he want you for?”
Patrick waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t even ask.”
“I’m asking.”
“He wanted to consult me for my arcane medical knowledge. That is, do I know if he can call long distance from the hospital phone without all the nosy old gossips on the switchboard listening to his every word. I broke the news to him that everyone in the whole communications system in this hospital has been waiting for the day Declan Burke would be admitted with gunshot wounds so they could hang on his every word. He told me to feck off so I was able to make a graceful exit. In front of a very attractive cardio resident who was just coming in the door.”