Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (36 page)

“Yes, it is. His name was Peter Flanagan. You were born Sean Flanagan. My married name was Kate Flanagan. What seems impossible is that I have found you after all of these years. I had to give you up when you were a baby. And I’ve regretted it every day of my life. Please, come, sit beside me.”

I moved to the couch and sat next to her. She lifted up another picture, the one of the two babies. She handed it to me and said, “This is you, Sean … the baby on the right. You were less than a year old. I’d left Ireland soon after your father died. The Catholic Church paid for my transportation. I came to South Boston because I had an aunt there. I had three little children at the time, you, your younger sister and your older brother. We lived from hand-to-mouth … poverty. It was only a matter of time before the county would take my babies from me and place them in foster homes. I couldn’t afford to raise you by myself.” She paused, her eyes welling with tears, voice cracking.

“It’s okay. Take your time. I need to hear this.”

She nodded. “You were the child I chose to be raised outside of there and here, Murphy Village. I felt in my heart you had such promise, and that’s why I gave you up for adoption when you were a baby. I came to South Carolina with my aunt and her husband. Her husband was born an Irish traveler. Later on, he taught your brother, Dillon, the ways of the travelers. Taught him no good, evil ways. I eventually remarried to a man named James O’Sullivan. He was part of the clan here—it’s something you marry into if you’re not from here. One summer my husband, James, left with rest of them, but he never came home. That’s been more than twenty years. He was shot by police in a robbery.”

“What happened to Dillon?”

“He left home, the first time when he was seventeen. Then he’d come back, looking for money. He’d work a summer on the road with the other men, and he’d drift away again. He worked carnivals and county fairs, always conning people. He got into drugs, pills and alcohol. One summer he came back. The drugs brought out the core of evil in him. On a Sunday night, during an awful thunderstorm, he strangled your sister and stabbed her husband with an ice pick. Police say Sarah had been raped. Poor little Courtney had seen it all, but she’d been too traumatized to tell anyone, even me, until a few years later. Dillon was long gone.”

“Why did the Catholic Church pay your way over here?”

“Because I was raped by one of their priests.” She lifted the photograph of the other baby boy. “This is your brother, Dillon. I became pregnant with him after the rape. I’d kept if from your father until after your sister was born. All three of you were a year apart between your births.”

“How did the man in the picture die?”

She was silent for a few seconds, staring at the smiling and strong image of her husband. “He was shot in the back. He’d gone to confront the priest. I’d begged him not to go.”

“How’d he find out the baby wasn’t his?”

“Dillon was so different in appearance and personality—very moody and prone to viciousness. And he had a striking resemblance to the priest. I finally told your father. I had to. I loved him too much to continue hiding it from him. Your father was a quiet man until someone threatened his family.”

“Did this priest kill him?”

“Police couldn’t prove it. Father Garvey was an important figure in the County Kerry. He was very charismatic, had lots of friends, and the church was very powerful at the time. When I told the bishop what had happened to me, he tried to make it seem like I was at fault and it may have happened at a weak time in Father Garvey’s life. All they did was transfer him to another parish.” She coughed into a napkin, a wet, rasping hack coming from her lungs.

“Are you sick?”

She managed a slight smile. “I’m okay. Right now, I’m better than I’ve been in years. I’ve found my son. You’re so handsome. Please, tell me about your life. Are you married? Do I have other grandchildren?” She smiled and brushed a strand of white hair behind her ear.

“I was married. Almost thirteen years. Sherri, my wife, died three years ago from ovarian cancer. When she became ill, we didn’t talk about having children anymore. And that hurt her maybe more than the cancer. She really wanted kids. I have a dog.”

“I am so very sorry to hear about your wife’s death.” She paused and asked, “What kind of dog do you have?”

“A little dachshund. Her name’s Maxine. Max for short.”

“I bet she’s precious. Courtney said you stay on an old boat sometimes. Is that your home?”

“I have a cabin on the St. Johns River in Florida. I used to be a police detective. I did that after I left the military. Now I teach some criminology courses at a local college and do an occasional charter fishing job.”

“Are you happy, Sean?”

“I’m content.”

She nodded and lowered her eyes. I could tell she was in pain. She touched my hand. “I want you to know you were never not loved, Sean. It was because of my love, a mother’s love so deep, so unconditional, that I did what I thought was best for you. I knew you’d receive a good education, have a good upbringing, and be loved in Celeste and Michael’s home. And you were. I’m so grateful and blessed that they lived long enough to see what a fine young man you turned out to be under their loving guidance.”

“They were good parents … but I wish they’d told me about you. All the missing birthdays, Mother’s Days, the times we never had together.”

“I believe in my heart-of-hearts it was better for you to have one set of parents. And this Irish traveler’s life is no place to raise a child. Look what happened to your sister, to your niece Courtney … and to your brother.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I’d heard he left the carnival work and formed some kind of cult following, acting like he was a prophet. There are some people here in the village who know where he is. They follow him. They talk with him. But they don’t give details. Even before you knocked on my door, I know one of them let Dillon know I had a visitor. Through the years, I discovered he stays in touch with only one person.”

“Who?”

“His father, the man who raped me … Father Thomas Garvey.”

There was a knock at the trailer door. Three seconds later a man with a baritone voice and an Irish accent asked, “Mrs. O’Sullivan, is everything all right in there?”

She stepped to the door and opened it slightly. A slender man, long neck, ruddy face, had his nose close to the door. He said, “Just checkin’ to see if you needed anything from the store.” He tried peering in through the reflection on the glass.

She said, “I’m fine, John. I have plenty of groceries. Everything’s okay. Thank you for asking, though.” She coughed and braced her hand against the doorframe, her balance off.

He stood there for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say. He ran his tongue inside his left cheek and licked his dry, thin lips before turning to walk to his blue pickup truck.

Katherine returned to the couch. “Living in this village has its good and bad points. Sometimes the word clannish really means nosey when it comes to minding everyone else’s business. But, for the most part, they mean well. John McCourt’s a sweet man.”

“You said that this priest, Father Thomas Garvey, the man who raped you is Dillon’s father, and the person most likely to know where to find Dillon.”

“He’d be the one person who’d know Dillon’s whereabouts, but he’d never disclose it. To openly disclose it is to publically admit to being his father … and the rape.”

“Courtney is trying to find him, isn’t she?”

“There’s no stopping her. God knows I’ve tried. Although she won’t admit it, I know she’s searching for him to avenge the deaths of her parents and to return something Dillon stole from me.”

“What was it?”

“Are you wearing the triquetre?”

“Yes.” I pulled the silver chain from under my T-shirt, the pendent hanging from it.

She slowly reached out and touched it, her lined face filled with awe. She raised her eyes up, meeting mine, and she smiled. “Sean, this is very old. It’s believed to be the first metal works of the Celtic Trinity Knot. It was estimated that metal workers fashioned it two thousand years ago. Your father found it and an ancient Irish torc in a bog. He was using a metal detector, and he found it under a foot of muck. The torc is a holy bracelet, maybe worn by a prophet not long after the death of Christ. And the triquetre is one of the earliest artifacts in history unearthed that gives historians a physical indication of how long ago the Holy Trinity was part of the Celtic culture—part of its Christian religion.”

“And Dillon, your son … my brother … stole the torc from you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he sold it?”

“No, he knows of its symbolism and its connection to the time of Christ. He’d rather possess it than sell it because …”

“Why?”

“Some believe the torc, like the triquetre you wear, is made by man from a mold made by God. It’s said to be a physical instrument from a higher power. Man was the blacksmith. God the designer. But it’s a power that really begins in the heart of its owner … an unselfish heart. Dillon may own it, but he’ll never be part of what it means. Sean, maybe you can get to Courtney before she comes close to Dillon. She’s blinded by her darkened heart for blood. She needs to come home, bring her back to me.” She paused, her face occupied with thoughts from an earlier time. “I used to take her to elementary school, and pick her up, too. The John Calhoun School.”

“I’ll do my best to find Courtney.”

“She’s been through so much. She kept cutting herself … self-mutilation. It got so bad I had her with at least three therapists, and she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for two months. I was terrified she’d kill herself. And now she has turned all that anger into hunting down Dillon.”

She glanced down at the image of her and the man she said was my father. “This photograph was taken on a bluff in County Kerry overlooking Puffin Island.” She touched the glass with two fingers. “I so loved being there. The little puffins put on such a magnificent show, riding the air currents. They’re superb fliers, it’s as if they can perform ballet in the air.”

I gestured to the art on the walls, paintings of the coasts of Ireland, castles, wildlife, grazing sheep in the foreground, the sea as a backdrop. “Did you paint all of these?”

“Most of them. I don’t paint much anymore. Between the arthritis and my failing eyesight, I’m afraid I’m not very good. If I can’t do it to the best of my abilities, I won’t do it.”

I pointed to a medium-sized painting of a young woman standing in a lush field of clover, pink and white heather at her feet, the blue ocean behind her, gulls and puffins in the air. She wore a wide brim hat and a sundress. “Did you paint that?”

“No, your father did. He was very gifted—a good artist and a writer, too. And sometimes a drinker. He enjoyed his Irish whiskey, but he never abused it. He painted that canvas one Sunday by the sea. He wouldn’t let me see it until he was finished. Then he gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Is that you in the picture?”

“Yes, so many years ago. Would you like to have it?”

“I couldn’t take it.”

“If you’d like to have it, the painting is yours. It’s the only thing in this house I can give you that is part of your father and me.”

“Where’s his grave?”

“He’s buried in the Old Abbey Cemetery in County Kerry. I put flowers on his grave before I left for America. I always wanted to return to place flowers on his grave, but—”

“What?”

“Too much time has slipped by, and now my health isn’t what it once was. Makes travel difficult.”

“What if I paid for it?”

She smiled. “My health might be failing, but I still have my Irish pride.” She looked at my shoulder and asked, “May I see your birthmark? I haven’t seen it since I put my last diaper on you.”

I pulled up the sleeve on my T-shirt, drew it beyond the birthmark. She slowly reached out, her hand trembling, the tips of her fingers touching my skin, gently caressing the birthmark no larger than a quarter. She looked up at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Sean, I am so sorry for what I did … so very sorry.” Tears spilled down her lined face.

“It’s all right. You did the best you could—did what you felt was the best thing for me. I don’t want you to feel bad for what happened. I had a good life as a kid, just like you’d hoped. You succeeded. I’m fine. And better now that I’ve found you.” I reached over and hugged her, she sobbed—deep long sobs, her warm tears spilling onto my arm.

“It’s okay, Mom … it’s okay now.”

Mambo Eve wrapped Courtney’s head. Courtney sat on a stool in the voodoo shop as the old woman slowly wrapped her head in a royal blue and canary yellow African head scarf. When she finished, Mambo Eve handed her a hand mirror and said, “You look lovely, child. You have the face of an Egyptian queen.” She smiled.

Courtney looked into the mirror and said, “The headdress is beautiful. Thank you. Do you have any hoop earrings?”

Mariah Danford looked up from using Windex to clean the glass case and said, “We do. I have just the pair for you. You could pass a silver dollar through the hoops.” She went behind the counter and removed two earrings. “Let me put them on for you.” In less than a half minute, she’d attached the earrings to Courtney’s ears. “What do you think?”

“Courtney held the mirror up, capturing more light entering the shop. “They’re beautiful. How much are they?”

Maria glanced at Mambo Eve who closed her eyes and nodded. Mariah said, “It’s my treat. I’ll buy them for you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can pay for—”

“Shhh … I insist. It’s the least I can do for you … for someone who’s got the heart to do what you’re trying to do.”

***

Courtney stood in the shade of a Southern live oak and looked up and down Dumaine Street. She wore dark glasses and the African headdress. A black mixed breed dog sauntered across the street, head low, rib bones visible under the mangy fur. There was very little traffic. She walked a half block down from where the red Toyota truck was parked, discreetly glancing at parked cars, looking for occupants. Looking for anyone who might be looking for her.