Rock Point (Sharpe & Donovan) (3 page)

Chapter 4

Finian had the car stop at Bracken Distillers, located in a restored seventeenth-century distillery just outside Killarney. He asked the driver to wait for him. Instead of going into the main building, Finian walked around to the back, then down a hill to a roofless stone shed he and Declan often talked about turning into a health club for employees. This was where, in March, Finian had walked with Becan Kennedy. Finian had assumed Becan, a carpenter who’d worked on many old buildings, had wanted to give his opinion on the shed’s potential as a health club, but that notion had soon been dismissed.

Becan had requested Finian meet him in the same spot.

The partial walls and foundation of the old shed were covered in vines and moss, shaded by an oak tree. Becan eased out from behind the remains of the stone chimney. He was a thin, nervous man, no more than forty himself, in terrible shape despite his work as a carpenter. He had sagging, pallid skin and watery blue eyes that didn’t connote midnight romances or quiet seas but, rather, a tormented soul. He wore nondescript jeans and a colorless T-shirt, and his trail shoes were crusty with dried mud. Finian hadn’t changed back into his clerical suit—he would in the morning, before his flight—but Becan recognized him from his work at the distillery, before Sean Murphy had invited Finian to Declan’s Cross.

Without Becan Kennedy, Finian thought, he wouldn’t have been at the O’Byrne House Hotel in March and met Father Callaghan, and he wouldn’t be on his way to Maine.

“I was named for a saint,” Becan said, tossing a cigarette into the mud.

Finian nodded. “So was I. There are a number of Irish saints named Finian, but the one I’m named for served here in the southwest. Do you know about Saint Becan?”

“He was a better man than I, no doubt.”

“He founded a monastery in Kilbeggan.”

Becan shifted from one foot to another; he was restless, distracted. “I only know Kilbeggan whiskey,” he said with a snort.

“Saint Becan lived in the sixth century—at least a century after Saint Patrick.” Finian kept his voice steady, hoping to ease the younger man’s nervousness. “He was a religious hermit.”

“Some days I’d like to be a hermit,” Becan said. “Just skip the religious part.”

“Why did you ask me here, Becan?”

He gave a crooked grin. “Not to discuss a lap pool in back of the health club. You know the guards are after me, don’t you?”

The guards. Gardai. The Irish police. A certain detective Finian knew would want to be here now, and wouldn’t be happy that his friend had come to meet Becan Kennedy alone.

Finian made no response. He felt his hike with his brother in the backs of his legs. He was in good shape but nonetheless hoped the exercise would help him sleep on the flight tomorrow.

“I talked to your detective friend in March,” Becan said. “He tried to get you to give him my name, didn’t he? But you didn’t. You’re a priest. You can’t.”

“What I’m wondering, Becan, is why
you
don’t tell the guards who you are. They can help you.”

Becan withdrew a pack of cigarettes from a back pocket. “You were decent to me.” He tapped out a cigarette and pointed it at Finian. “You understand that men make mistakes.”

“Spiritually or—”

“All kinds.” He was nervous, fidgety, his eyes not meeting Finian’s as he spoke. “I’m afraid, Father.”

“Not of the guards,” Finian said.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I told your garda friend some things, about what I’m into. Then I got scared. I don’t know what to do, Father. I don’t trust anyone—except you.”

“Did you come here alone?”

“Yeah, sure. Who’d come with me, you know? To see a priest?”

Finian had no answer for that question. “You didn’t invite anyone else to join us?”

“God, no. Not the lot I’m with.”

“And no one followed you?”

Becan stuck his cigarette on his lip and dug out a lighter. “No one followed me,” he said under his breath, lighting his cigarette. “I didn’t need that thought running in my head, you know, Father?”

“It was already there, though, wasn’t it, Becan?”

He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke off to the side, away from Finian. “I suppose you’re right. I’m glad you’re here, Father. Thanks for coming. I didn’t want to involve you...” He waved his burning cigarette. “But here we are.”

“What can I do for you, Becan?”

“I wish I’d stuck to carpentry work.” He glanced at the shed with an air of regret mixed with resignation. “But I didn’t, did I? I got into things I wish I hadn’t. I was almost hoping the guards followed you here.”

“I understand,” Finian said.

Becan threw down his partially smoked cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “You don’t know we used this back field for one of our operations, do you?”

“What ‘operation,’ Becan?”

“Smuggling.”

“Whiskey smuggling?”

“Whiskey, cigarettes, pills, counterfeit money. Not hard drugs or guns. Your brother doesn’t know. No one here does. We didn’t come onto distillery grounds, because of the security. We used the field.” He nodded down past the shed to a quiet field outside of the grounds but owned by Bracken Distillers. “It’s a good spot. You’d be surprised.”

“I am surprised,” Finian said.

“We distributed goods out across Ireland from here,” Becan said. “I think the guards are onto us. I want out, Father. I want to tell the truth. That’s all.”

Finian reached into the pocket of his hiking pants and withdrew the card that Sean had given him in March. “It’s Sean Murphy’s number. He said to give it to you in case you contacted me. No one else has it. Only he will answer.”

Becan seemed ready to bolt but snatched the card and tucked it into a pocket in his jeans. He sniffled. “The guards are watching us. We’re watching them. It’s a dangerous situation.”

“You can make the call now, Becan. I’ll wait.”

“I need to think. I just don’t know...” He shifted abruptly. “I have to go. You won’t tell anyone about me. The guards. Anyone. Right, Father?”

“That’s right. There’s a time and place for each of us to speak and for each of us to keep silent. You need to speak, my friend. Call the number I gave you.”

Becan said nothing as he shuffled back to the old shed and disappeared.

Finian returned to his waiting car. He’d done what he could. His next stop was his hotel ahead of his flight out of Shannon Airport tomorrow.

He looked out the window as the refurbished distillery—his and Declan’s dream come true—faded from sight. He remembered a warm June day like this one when Sally had greeted him at the gate after a walk out past the fields, sweaty, smiling as she’d leaned into him. “
Let’s go home early
,
Fin.
I
can’t wait another minute to get your clothes off you.
”

He could see her in the milky light of the endless June dusk as they’d made love.

He hadn’t been a different man then. He’d been the same man he was now. To pretend otherwise—to try to make it not so—was to deny this life he’d been given, and the truth of who he was.

Suddenly he couldn’t wait to be in Maine.

* * *

His hotel had dreadful food but a surprisingly decent selection of whiskey. No Bracken Distillers expressions, but Finian ordered an excellent Kilbeggan to take some of the edge off his soggy fish-and-chips. He’d ordered them before he remembered Rock Point was a fishing village and would presumably have restaurants that served proper fish-and-chips when the occasional urge struck.

He followed his bad fish-and-chips with a delicious bread-and-butter pudding. He doubted he’d eat much, if anything, on the plane tomorrow. He could excuse, or at least rationalize, the rich meal and hoped it would help him sleep tonight.

He was savoring the last bite of his pudding when Sean Murphy slid into the booth across from him. Sean had a devil-may-care look about him at the same time as the air of a professional law enforcement officer—an uneasy combination that no doubt he used to great advantage.

Sean leaned back against the cushioned booth. “Your friend called.”

“I have many friends, Sean,” Finian said.

“Did you ask to meet him or did he ask to meet you?”

“Does it matter now?”

Sean’s eyes narrowed. “Either way, Fin, you’re playing with fire.”

“I’m not playing with anything. I’m flying to Boston tomorrow.” He abandoned his pudding and drank some of his whiskey. “Do you and your garda associates have Bracken Distillers under surveillance?”

“For what?”

“That implies you do, and there could be multiple reasons.”

“It doesn’t imply anything. Practically speaking, we’d have to have good reason to put anyone under surveillance. Do we, Fin? Do we have good reason to investigate Bracken Distillers?”

“You’re a suspicious man, Garda Detective Murphy. You’d suspect your own sheep of wrongdoing if you discovered one of your fields was being used behind your back for untoward purposes.”

Sean barely smiled. “No doubt I would. Blasted sheep.”

Finian left it at that and sighed. “You’re in danger, aren’t you, Sean?”

“Comes with the territory.” Sean’s smile was genuine now. “Relax, Fin. Enjoy your flight tomorrow. Come back and see us soon, and stay in touch.”

He didn’t linger, and Finian sensed the seriousness behind his friend’s easy manner.

“Be careful, Sean.”

“No worries, my friend. No worries at all.”

* * *

Finian had time for a breakfast that was worse than his fish-and-chips before he had to be at the airport. It wasn’t really close enough to walk to the terminal, but he walked anyway. His luggage was no trouble at all. He’d always been a light packer, even before he’d become a priest.

“
I
have cousins in America
,
Fin.
We should visit them one day.
”

“
We will
,
Sally.
We will.
”

“
They’re in New York and Savannah.
They say Savannah is beautiful in early spring.
”

Finian shook off the image of his sweet wife lying in bed next to him on a warm summer night as they’d dreamed of their future together, whispering about trips to far-off places. She’d never worried when he traveled, and traveled often herself. They’d staggered their trips after the girls arrived, but had found themselves more and more reluctant to leave home, especially alone.

Finian entered the terminal. He wasn’t a whiskey man now. He was a priest, on his way to serve a small parish in America. He looked up at the board to check the number of the appropriate Aer Lingus counter at which to drop off his luggage and collect his boarding pass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two men standing together in the wide, open doorway of a shop, next to a table piled with books.

Finian thought they were watching him but couldn’t be sure.

He looked straight at them, but they turned away. Middle-aged, average size, dressed in casual clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. No luggage. No air of urgency about catching a flight.

Gardai?

Becan Kennedy’s cronies?

Finian ignored them and wheeled his luggage to the correct line. He was out of his mind, thinking they had anything to do with Sean’s investigation—and if they did, they’d have to be crazy to try anything at a highly secure airport.

Was he half hoping they’d cause a commotion so he’d have an excuse not to board his flight?

After he checked his bag and got his boarding pass, he spotted the two men behind him on the escalator up to the gates. He pretended to check messages on his phone and snapped their photo as he stepped off the escalator.

In two seconds their image was off to Sean Murphy.

As Finian stepped into the security line, he noticed that the two men had disappeared. He’d missed them entirely and had no idea where they’d gone. He stepped into the duty-free shop and had a look at the whiskey offerings, including a nice display of moderately priced Bracken Distillers expressions.

He’d just paid for a bottle of water and was on his way into the lounge when Sean Murphy texted him, typically terse:

“If you see them again, notify security at once. Safe travels.”

So the men weren’t gardai, anyway.

Finian texted Sean an equally terse response, just as an announcement came over the loudspeaker that his flight to Boston would soon be boarding. His heart jumped as he realized he was officially on his way to America.

Chapter 5

Rock Point, Maine, was just as Father Callaghan had described. A bit run-down and struggling but located on a beautiful stretch of the northern New England coast. Finian had a car—not a parishioner or another priest—pick him up at the airport in Boston and then drop him off on the quiet street above the harbor where St. Patrick’s Church and rectory stood side-by-side, sharing a lawn that was freshly cut but appeared to be mostly weeds. Father Callaghan had explained that the rectory was a Greek Revival house “due for a facelift,” and the church was a granite-faced building that had originally been an American Baptist church.

Finian appreciated the mature shade trees as he carried his luggage to the back steps of the rectory. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, late in the day—even later if he considered that Ireland was five hours ahead. He’d slept little on his flight, but he’d be foolish to try to sleep now. Best to get on Maine time as soon as possible.

He left his luggage on the back steps and walked down to the village. He observed a bank, hair salon, pharmacy, liquor store, hardware store, insurance business—if not thriving, Rock Point was holding its own. He crossed the main street to a restaurant, Hurley’s, a rough-wood building set on pilings and jutting out over the horseshoe-shaped harbor. High tide would reach under its floorboards. The harbor itself was crowded with working boats and a handful of pleasure boats, all bobbing in gentle waves.

Only when he walked past Hurley’s down to the waterfront did Finian realize he’d been so caught up in taking in his new home he hadn’t experienced his usual gut-twisting reaction at seeing sailboats.

It was a start, anyway, but as he walked out onto a pier, he felt the rush of excitement at arriving in Rock Point fade and melancholy creep in. He stood next to a stack of rectangular wire cages that smelled of dead things. It was low tide, which brought out more dead smells.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the green of Ireland.

“They’re lobster traps,” a man at the end of the pier said, turning, giving Finian and his priest’s garb a quick scan.

The American was solidly built, with dark hair, small scars on his eye and cheek and perhaps the most penetrating gray eyes Finian had ever seen. He wore a gray sweatshirt, jeans and trail shoes. A local man? Yes and no, perhaps.

“I’m not much of a fisherman,” Finian said.

“Me, either, these days. You’re the new priest at Saint Patrick’s?”

“I am, yes. Finian Bracken.”

“Colin Donovan. I’d heard we were getting an Irishman. My folks are members. I’m not much of a churchgoer.”

“Easter and Christmas?”

“Funerals and weddings. When I can. I’m not in town that often.”

“But you live here?” Finian asked.

He shrugged. “I have a place a few blocks from the church, but I work in Washington.”

“For the government?”

“I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The FBI, then. The words seemed to come with difficulty, as if he wasn’t used to identifying himself to strangers, at least not in his hometown. He was good-looking in a rugged way. Blunt. Physical. A man’s man.

Finian wondered if Colin Donovan wasn’t as removed from the church of his youth as he perhaps thought he was. But it didn’t matter. Finian wasn’t that kind of priest.

“Home for a few days, are you?” he asked the American.

“I am.” Colin looked out at the water and bobbing boats. “It’s good to get away from Washington for a few days.”

Finian suspected the statement was true as far as it went and no farther. “I haven’t settled in yet. Where can I get a bite?”

“There.” Colin nodded to the rustic restaurant on the water. “Hurley’s. It’s a local favorite. The clam chowder is good, but if you want anything fancier, you’ll have to go into Heron’s Cove.”

“Hurley’s sounds perfect. What should I call you?”

“Colin’s fine, Father.”

“Finian, or Fin, if you’d like.”

Colin seemed to relax somewhat, but he struck Finian as raw, hyperaware of his surroundings, reminding him of Sean Murphy. Finian doubted the FBI agent was as convivial as Sean by nature—not that Sean had been particularly convivial last night at the hotel restaurant, or this morning in his texted reply, or, for that matter, in March during Finian’s last visit to Declan’s Cross.

Finian considered getting Colin’s take on Becan Kennedy and the two men at Shannon airport, but it would serve no purpose. He was in a different country now. Sean’s investigation in Ireland, whatever it was, whatever dangers he faced, wasn’t for an Irish priest on a yearlong stay in a small town in southern Maine to sort out.

“Something on your mind, Father?” Colin asked him.

He pulled himself out of his wandering thoughts and smiled. “Whiskey.”

For the first time, Colin offered a glimmer of a smile and warmth in return. “My kind of priest,” he said.

“All things in moderation, even whiskey. Perhaps especially whiskey.”

“Caution duly noted. Hurley’s has a lousy selection, but maybe I’ll see you there later.”

With that, the FBI agent abruptly headed off the pier.

An interesting man, Finian thought, wondering if the good Father Callaghan had left any notes on the Donovans of Rock Point, Maine.

* * *

Finian arrived back at St. Patrick’s to a welcome party in the recreation room. There was pie, coffee and well-wishes. In forty-five minutes everyone was gone, the place tidied and quiet. He wandered into the sanctuary. It had a foreign feel, despite all the requisite Roman Catholic accoutrements. The late-afternoon June sun streamed through a stained-glass window, adding a golden glow on the white walls, dark-wood pews and red carpet.

Father Callaghan had removed his personal items from the office, a small room off the side entrance. He’d left his books and files. A reader of Saint Augustine, the American was.

Finian locked the church behind him and walked over to the rectory. He carried his luggage into the worn kitchen and set it next to the table. Parishioners had left milk, bread, cheese, orange juice, a basket of fruit and a pie—wild blueberry, according to a handwritten note.

Ah, what would Sally think of him now?

He unzipped the outer compartment of his suitcase, an expensive black leather leftover from his days at Bracken Distillers. He withdrew a weathered case that contained a small antique hydrometer—a clever device that measured the alcohol content in spirits—and set it on the table next to the pie.

Then, with a whispered prayer, he withdrew two navy blue velvet pouches containing rosary beads a friend in Sneem had handmade for each of his daughters for their First Communion. He and Sally hadn’t been particularly religious then, but they’d wanted to raise Kathleen and Mary in the church.

“
Daddy
,
will you read me a story when we’re on the boat?
”

“
I
will
,
Kathleen.
”

Mary had piped up. “
Will you sing me a song?
”

He’d kept the rosary beads with him, but in seven years hadn’t yet been able to take them from their velvet pouches.

Kathleen’s were white glass, he remembered, and Mary’s were pink glass.

He took the hydrometer and the pouches into the dining room and placed them in a glass-front cabinet.

The rectory was quiet, filled with late-day shadows and the faint odor of cleaning solution. It had obviously been scrubbed shortly before his arrival.

He bolted out of the dining room and left for Hurley’s again. He walked, but he would have to see about a car. Father Callaghan had suggested leasing. Finian would look into it tomorrow. He was happy to have a restaurant within walking distance of the rectory—he wasn’t a good cook and seldom drank alone anymore.

Hurley’s was as simple and rustic inside as it was outside. He spotted Colin Donovan alone at a table in back, in front of windows overlooking the harbor, and told the waitress he was joining a friend. A stretch, perhaps, but he made his way past tables of locals and tourists—he’d spent enough time in Killarney to spot such a mix—dining on lobster, chowder, coleslaw, fried fish and pie. Rock Point seemed to be a place for pie.

Colin had no lobster, chowder, fish or pie in front of him. He held up his glass and named the American whiskey he was drinking. Finian gave an inward shudder but obviously not inward enough, because the FBI agent smiled and said, “It’s rotgut, I know. You’re welcome to join me.”

Finian sat at the wobbly round table. The long June day was finally giving up its light, the harbor waters glasslike in the red-gold twilight. He examined a printed, plastic-coated menu that listed the establishment’s limited whiskey offerings. He chose an acceptable whiskey from Tennessee.

Colin leaned back in his chair. “A whiskey connoisseur, are you, Fin?”

“My brother and I have a distillery in Ireland.”

“Bracken Distillers,” the FBI agent said, then tilted forward on his chair. “The church ladies didn’t tell me. Father Joseph did. We’ll have to work on John Hurley and get him to improve his whiskey selection while you’re in town.”

Finian’s whiskey arrived, complete with ice and water he hadn’t requested. The waitress must have read his expression because she blushed and said, “I just assumed. I’ll bring you another—”

“No worries. In this case, water and ice are appreciated.”

He thought he saw Colin Donovan smile.

Finian eyed the whiskey’s medium caramel color, then took a tentative sip. It really was quite decent, a smooth, full-bodied, single-barrel sour mash Tennessee whiskey. He regretted leaving in the ice and water. He raised his glass to his new American friend. “
Sláinte
.”

Colin smiled. “
Sláinte.
”

* * *

In the morning, Finian again found himself at Hurley’s. He had today to get himself settled before he started his duties at Saint Patrick’s. He thought nine was a perfectly respectable hour for breakfast but soon learned it was late by Rock Point standards. The lobstermen had long been out. Hurley’s apparently renowned cider doughnuts were depleted. As he sat at his table of last night, Finian swore he could smell chowder. It was early afternoon at home in Ireland, so he was hungry and ordered eggs, toast, ham and grilled tomatoes.

His waitress was a hazel-eyed young woman with a thick dark braid hanging down her back. She frowned at him. “I’ll see if we can grill a tomato, Father, but if I get tossed out of the kitchen, you’ll know that didn’t go over too well. We do tomatoes in omelets, though. No problem with that. They’re not grilled, though. Just cut up.”

“Good to know.”

“No black pudding or white pudding,” she added, then smiled at him. “I can tell you’re Irish. The accent. I’m of Irish descent. I’d love to go to Ireland someday. I’m thinking about doing an internship there. I’m a student—I pick up hours here when I’m in town.” She took a breath. “Anyway, I’ll see what I can do. White or wheat?”

“White or wheat what?”

“Toast.”

Of course.
Finian smiled. “Wheat.”

He ordered coffee. He wasn’t ready to chance Hurley’s idea of tea. His waitress bustled off, and Finian looked out at the glistening harbor. The working boats were mostly out to sea. A small sailboat was moored off to his left.

Why couldn’t Father Callaghan have been from Montana?

Finian tried his coffee when his waitress plunked it in front of him. It was perfect. He relaxed, and in another moment his phone vibrated on the table next to him. Declan calling to see how his first full day in America was going?

Ah
,
no.

He saw it was Garda Detective Murphy. “Sean,” Finian said. “How are you?”

“Your friend and I arranged to meet, but he didn’t show up. Do you know where he is, Fin?”

“I don’t, no.”

“If you did, would you tell me?”

“Depends how I knew, but it’s not worth discussing since I don’t know. Do you think something’s happened to him?”

“If not yet, soon.”

“The number I gave to him—I’m the only one who has it? That’s how you know for sure it was me who gave it to him, isn’t it?”

Finian could almost see Sean’s smile. “You’re catching on, Fin.”

“I shouldn’t try to sort out what’s true and what’s not true, should I?”

“Your friend is playing a dangerous game. Whatever he’s told you, whatever I’ve told you, that much is true.”

Becan Kennedy.
The name was on Finian’s lips, but he didn’t say it. “Have you talked to my brother?” he asked instead.

Sean was silent for two beats. Then he said, “No, I haven’t.”

“I think he’s checking on a painting job at the distillery. We often need this or that done. Short jobs that we hire out. We’ve been thinking about converting an old shed that was part of the original distillery into a health club. Imagine that. A couple of poor Kerry sheep farmers planning saunas and treadmills.”

“I’ll go see Declan, then.” Sean added, “I’ve always liked him.”

“Does that mean he’s not a suspect?”

“A suspect in what, Fin?”

“One never knows.”

“It’s good you’re in this Rock Point. Watch your back nonetheless.”

Finian started to say goodbye when he realized that Sean had already disconnected. He set his phone back on the table.

His breakfast arrived.

No grilled tomatoes.