BlackWind (27 page)

“If he is with the IRA—”

“He isn't!” Bronwyn stated. “Sean isn't like that. Daddy's lying. I know it! Sean is one of the most devout people I know. He'd never join an organization like the IRA. He doesn't believe in what they stand for, and he'd never kill anything!”

Deirdre's shoulders slumped. “All right. We'll find Sean. I suspect your father's known where he was all along. We'll bring him to Derry Byrne and talk. We're staying at the Flying Wench Inn. Tomorrow we can—”

“You
will
take me out of here tonight!” Bronwyn demanded.

Deirdre exchanged a look with the Reverend Mother. “Let me have a chance to talk to your father, Bronnie. This hasn't been easy for him and—”

“And you think it's been easy for me? How would
you
have felt if someone had snatched me out of your arms when I was born?”

Deirdre's face turned hot, and her shoulders slumped. “Let me talk to your father. I'll make him see reason.”

Dermot stubbornly shook his head. “No! I will not contact that bastard and I will
not
remove Bronwyn from Galrath! The child stays with the McDougals. That is my final decision and nothing you can say will change my mind!”

“Do you want our daughter to hate us for the rest of our lives?” Deirdre asked. “The baby is your—my grandchild! You know how I felt when you made the arrangements for his adoption. It wasn't right—it wasn't moral!”

“Was it moral for our daughter to get herself pregnant out of wedlock?” he thundered.

“Was it moral when you got
me
pregnant out of wedlock?” she flung at him.

Dermot went perfectly still. His face crinkled as though he were in pain. “We vowed never to mention that, DeeDee.”

“Had he lived, our son would have been illegitimate. The stigma you've attached to our grandchild would've been attached to him. Would you have loved him any the less?” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think Bronnie loves her child any the less?”

Turning away, Dermot raked his hands through his hair. “You don't play fair.” His shoulders slumped. “You never have.”

“I want you to call the McDougals and tell them we'll pick up our grandchild tomorrow!”

Dermot looked around. “Then what? I told you, Bronwyn stays where she is. What—”

“We
will
take Tiernan back to America. We
will
raise him until our daughter has finished her schooling. After that, we
will
bring her home and hopefully she'll see the need to go on to college. I'll watch our grandchild for her while she does.”

“What about the Cullen boy?” Dermot snapped. “Don't you think he won't try to intrude?”

Deirdre raised her chin. “I don't care what happens to him. I told our daughter we would contact him—”

“Hell, no, we won't!”

“Will you let me finish?”

“Go on, then.”

“Contact Cullen and have him come to Derry Byrne. Once he's here, let Rory and his men take care of the situation. Get him out of our lives forever.”

Dermot's mouth dropped open as he stared at Deirdre. “Killed?”

“Of course, not! I was talking about turning him over to the authorities.”

Dermot sat on the settee, pondering the matter, as Deirdre had expected. Her husband would likely see the merit of what she had suggested. The Brits would be overjoyed at getting an IRA hitman handed over to them, and there would likely be a speedy trial with Cullen, no doubt, hanged for his crimes.

“As far as Rory can tell, there's no evidence against Cullen, but an informant swore to Rory the boy has killed six men.”

“You don't think evidence will be found?” she asked.

He looked up. “The Brits have been known to manufacture what they need to convict a man.”

“Call Rory. Have him set the wheels of justice into motion,” Deirdre said, turning her back on him. She went to the window of their suite and looked out over the streets of Derry Byrne. “Let those wheels roll over Sean Cullen—and crush him.”

Bronwyn opened her door, surprised to see Sheila standing there. “Don't let them catch you here. I'm more persona non grata than ever.”

“Don't worry none about me,” Sheila said. “Destiny knows who adopted the boy.”

Bronwyn pulled Sheila into the room, shut the door, and blocked it with her body, since there was no inside lock. “Who?”

“Cormac McDougal. We have his address.” Sheila pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside of her uniform blouse. “Here.”

Bronwyn took the paper, unfolded it, and read the Belfast address. “How did you get this?”

“Destiny overhead Mother Mary Joseph use the name ‘McDougal.’ She snuck into the office and called her brother, Patrick. He called Gerry and Gerry called Liam. Liam called his contacts from the lads in Belfast and, within twenty minutes, had the names of any family named McDougal what had an infant living with them. Only one that fit your Teirnan's age was Cormac McDougal.”

“They named Tiernan after Cormac,” Bronwyn sneered. “Son of a bitch!”

“I also got a way for you to get out of here.”

Bronwyn, sure her mother would not extract her from Galrath, had every intention of getting out if she had to run through the corridors, meat cleaver in hand. “Tell me.”

“Well here's the way of it...”

When Bronwyn came up missing later that evening, the entire building was thoroughly searched. Wolfhounds were brought in from a neighboring farm, and when they picked up Bronwyn's scent from a piece of her clothing, they followed it to the wall beside the cemetery and to a long rope that had been tied to an upper branch of the oak standing sentinel beyond the wall. The rope dangled down the stonewall.

“She's out there,” Sister Henry Louise said, looking at the rope. “Scaled like a spider, she did.”

“She's not the only one out there,” one of the older nuns said. “He's out there, too.”

The nuns hastily crossed themselves.

“Who?” Martha Walsh, one of the new students, inquired.

“The Nightwind,” a long-time student replied. “The Nightwind's out there.”

She knew someone was trailing her, but she dared not slow down. She increased her walking to a slow trot, then went a bit faster until she panted with the effort. At one point, she stopped by a stream to rest, hid behind a spreading oak and listened. Around her, the hillside lay quiet, but she knew she was not alone. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and a cold chill enveloped her.

“Leave me alone,” she said, her hand trembling on the bark of the oak tree.

“I am only protecting you, Beloved.”

Her eyes wide, her mouth a perfect “O” of fear, Bronwyn pushed away from the tree and ran as fast as she could. Yet she fancied she felt his hot breath on her neck. Too afraid to look back, terrified of what she would see, she ran until the pain in her side was so great she fell, crashing to her knees in the dew-laden heather. Struggling to get up, she felt a hand on her upper arm—

And screamed.

When she came to, Bronwyn found herself surrounded by hay and lying in the back of a wooden cart. The steady clop-clop of horse's hooves let her know the conveyance was moving, and she sat up so quickly, her head swam.

“Easy does it, lass,” an amused voice spoke from the high seat of the cart.

She scrambled to her knees to see who had spoken. The bright full moon shone as clearly as a spotlight, allowing her to get a good look at her benefactor.

He was at least eighty, with kindly eyes looking back at her from a weather-beaten face. The corncob pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth was unlit, but he chewed on it around a crooked grin. His gnarled hands gripping the reins shook, while his thin shoulders bowed with a slight hump.

“I'm Cedric,” he told her with a Scottish burr. “I live over to Muckamore. Lost me lady of sixty-five years about two years back. I sorely miss her.”

“I'm sorry,” Bronwyn mumbled.

“As am I,” Cedric sighed and gently flicked the reins. “Old Bert, here, can go faster when he's of a mind to. I suppose he's tired this evening.”

“You were following me?”

“Not me, lass,” Cedric said, shaking his head. “I went down to the Six Mile Water to give Old Bert a drink and found you lying on the ground. I picked you up and put you in my cart. I'm on my way into Ballyclare.”

“Ballyclare?” Bronwyn gasped. “That's heading back toward Derry Byrne! I can't go there! They'll be looking for me there!”

Cedric hauled on the reins. He twisted in the seat, an expression of pain of his wrinkled face. “Are ye running away from that damned Galrath, lass?”

Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her teeth and nodded, sensing the old man wasn't a promoter of the school.

“Papist prison!” he said with a scowl. “I used to be an Anglican and never
did
take to that Papist mumbo-jumbo.”

“Please, I have a son in Belfast. They took him away from me and—”

“Enough said.” Cedric turned around, sharply snapped the reins. “Get your ass to moving, Bert!”

Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief as Cedric turned about the cart and headed back the way they'd came. “Thank you...”

“Don't mention it. Anything I can do to derail the Papists at Galrath is a privilege!”

Bronwyn relaxed against the side of the cart and closed her eyes. Soon, she nodded off, the steady sway of the conveyance and the gentle humming of its driver helping to ease her mind.

Cedric craned his neck to see about his passenger. When he found her asleep, he smiled, his red-glowing eyes lighting a path on the roadway.

“His name is Rory Brell,” Alistair reported to Dr. Dunne. “Works for Wynth Industries. He be in charge of their security.”

“I'm familiar with the man,” Dr. Dunne said. He looked at Sean. “You've been careless, my boy, in letting a spy follow you. Didn't you feel you were being watched?”

Sean shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

“The difference is
you
can be identified and
you
were instructed to see that did
not
happen!” Dunne snarled. “You more than likely led him right to Fuilghaoth!”

“So?” Sean drawled. “He can't get in and, even if he did, he wouldn't survive the getting out.”

Dunne ground his teeth. “I will not sanction insubordination. Do you remember what I told you would happen if you do not behave?”

Knowing he was treading on thin ice, Sean remained silent. He did not lower his eyes to Dunne, but his body posture made it obviously clear to the older man that he was sufficiently reprimanded.

“Wynth Industries is a thorn in my side,” Dunne snapped.

“I don't know anything about Wynth Industries,” Sean lied.

“We will correct that oversight immediately,” Dunne growled, casting Alistair a hard look.

Alistair ran a finger under his collar. “Ye want me to—”

“Find out where Rory Brell is right this minute and report back to me. I want to know whom he is working under, why he is watching Cullen in particular, and—”

“I think I can answer the who and why, doctor,” Brian said from his place at the far end of the room. “Bronwyn McGregor's father works for Wynth at Baybridge. He's in charge of the behavior modification unit in Iowa. He's also in Ireland, staying at Derry Byrne, near the Galrath School.” He cast his son a warning look that Sean seemed ignored.

Dunne's lips peeled back from his teeth. “I knew that slut would come back to haunt us!”

Sean stood, his hands curled into fists. “Call me whatever you like, do whatever you want to me, but leave Bronwyn out of it.” He took a step closer to Dunne's desk. “But don't you
ever
call her that again.”

Brian winced. He sped across the room. “Sean, think before you speak.”

“Let him speak. Every word he says is duly noted and remembered. The consequences of his temper and his tongue will be on his head.”

“Sit down,” Brian hissed, pushing Sean into his chair. “And pray, watch what you say!”

Dunne shot Alistair an infuriated look. “Why are you still here? Find Brell!”

Alistair spun on his heel and exited the room.

Sean shifted on the seat, his hot glare locked on Dunne.

“If you didn't show promise, I'd terminate you,” Dunne said.

“I'll have a talk with him,” Brian promised, shooting Sean a warning glance.

“Explain to our hotheaded young fool who and what Wynth Industries is. Perhaps he'll be less apt to allow himself to be trailed by one of their operatives if he understands just how dangerous they are!”

Brian up drew a chair beside Sean's. “Wynth Industries is run by Brighton Wynth. Headquarters is in Des Moines, Iowa. Don't you remember that lady cop in Albany telling you that was where Dermot McGregor went after he left Georgia? Part of their operation is a prison for the criminally insane.”

Sean nodded. “I vaguely recall her saying something.”

“Another part of their operation,” Dunne put in, “is a private research facility funded primarily by the American government. W. I. has developed several protocols that have benefited the psychiatric community, but they are a danger to our operation here.”

“Why?” Sean asked.

“W. I. has developed a program in which they can alter the psychotic tendencies of their research subject and turn him or her into a docile human being,” Brian explained. “'Docile’ if somewhat catatonic.” He shrugged. “A worthy endeavor, but should one of our Stalcaires fall into their hands, there would be one
hell
of an explosion. We can't risk having them know Reapers exist. Sure as hell, Wynth would send some of its operatives after us to shut us down.”

“We can't allow that to happen!” Dunne stated.

“They believe we are an arm of the IRA,” Brian put in, “and that we're a training ground for hitmen.”

“And should Brell capture you—as is, no doubt, his intention,” Dunne grated, “and they take you back to W. I., you could compromise our entire operation. And that, we will
not
allow to happen.”

“Capture me for what purpose?” Sean asked. “As far as McGregor is concerned, if he's behind Brell watching me, he'd want to make sure I stay as far away from Bronwyn. Brell would turn me over to the Brits.”