The Alpine Nemesis (36 page)

His name was wrenched out of me as if by physical force. I was frantic, panicked, half crazed.

Somebody, several somebodies were on the flatbed, moving Tom away from me. I rolled over on my side, just
in time to see where the crimson of his cashmere sweater had turned dark. And wet.

“Oh, God!” I screamed. “God, God, God!”

“Get her out of here.” It was Jack Mullins's voice, shaken but in command. “Move!”

“No!” I cried, fighting off the arms that took charge of my helpless body. “No!”

“Emma, please.” It was Kip MacDuff, his face drained of all color.

“Kip,” I said stupidly, then gripped his upper arms. “Tom—is he … ?” I couldn't say the words.

Neither could he. I saw Kip swallow hard, his expression anguished. My head turned in the direction of Tom and the men who had moved him off to one side. The ambulance siren suddenly wailed from close by. I reached out toward Tom, but he was too far away.

And then the blue sky with its drifting white clouds turned black. It was as if Emma Lord had ceased to exist.

And in a way, she had.

I woke up on a gurney in the hospital with Spencer Fleetwood standing over me. He was the last person I wanted to see. Maybe I'd died and gone to hell.

“Emma?” His radio voice was soothing, though it gave no comfort.

“Tom,” I said in a voice that sounded very queer to me. “Please tell me …”

Spence took my hand. “I'm sorry, Emma. He died instantly.”

I should have become hysterical. But I just lay there, staring at the ceiling of the emergency room. Later I would learn that the IV in my left hand was delivering Valium.

Doc Dewey came in, sympathetic and kind, as his father had been before him. “Dear Emma,” he murmured
as Spence stepped aside. “No words can express how sorry I feel for you.”

“No,” I said in that same queer voice. “What happened?”

“Milo can tell you,” Doc replied, gently squeezing my shoulder. “You'll be going to sleep very soon. It's the best thing right now.”

There was nothing that was “best” right now. Or maybe ever again. But Doc was right about one thing: I was losing focus. And then I thought of Adam.

“My son,” I whispered to Doc. “I must call… to tell him … his father is…” The rest of the words wouldn't come out. I felt dull-witted, depleted, helpless.

Doc looked around the examining room, but Spence had tiptoed away. “I'll speak to Vida. She's in the waiting room.”

That was the last thing I remembered until I woke up in a private room on the second floor. The Venetian blinds were drawn, but I could tell it was still broad daylight. Vida was sitting by the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was haggard. The stalwart shoulders drooped and her impressive bosom sagged, making her look like an imitation of herself.

“Emma,” she whispered. “You poor, poor darling. I'm sick at heart.”

The IV was still running, which must have explained my lassitude. “What happened?” I asked in a lifeless voice.

Vida glanced up at the ceiling. Maybe she saw something there that was invisible to me. Maybe it was strength.

“Tom was shot from a second-story window in the Alpine Building. Two shots, actually. One hit him in the back and the other went into the monotype machine.” Her voice had none of its usual zest. Vida sounded like a faltering newscaster who was reading from cue cards.

“Milo was two places behind our float with the sheriff's posse. He immediately figured where the shots had come from and, along with the other deputies, dismounted in pursuit of the shooter.” She paused, removed a crumpled handkerchief from her sleeve, and blew her nose.

“Milo and Dustin cornered the culprit a block away, behind the Baptist church. He opened fire on them, and one of the bullets grazed Dustin's thigh. Fortunately, Milo managed to shoot the killer in the shoulder before he could do further damage. He's in the recovery room with Dwight Gould and Sam Heppner guarding him.”

I felt as if I were listening to an account of an event that had nothing to do with me. Vida could have been reading news out of Seattle over KSKY. But in a dull voice I said, “I see.” I saw nothing, except my empty future.

“I spoke with Adam,” Vida said, her voice regaining some of its usual briskness. “He's flying from the Twin Cities tonight. He should get into Alpine very early in the morning.”

“Oh.” My son's name made some kind of dent in my stupor. “Thank you, Vida.”

“I also called Ben,” Vida went on. “Ben can't get here until late tomorrow night.”

Of course not. He had to say Mass for his flock this evening and Sunday morning. He'd remember Tom in his prayers. And me.

“I don't have any numbers of who to call in San Francisco,” Vida went on, “but Tom's children must be notified as soon as possible. Do you know where they can be reached?”

I didn't. “Call his office. The number's in my purse, in my little address book. Even on Saturday, someone should be there. They always keep some staff on hand in case one of his dailies runs into a problem.”

“I'll do that,” Vida promised. She looked at me closely,
her eyes very grave. “Emma, don't you want to know who did this horrible thing?”

I blinked at Vida. “Do I? What does it matter? Knowing won't bring Tom back.”

Vida reached for the hand that didn't have the IV attached. She gave my fingers a firm squeeze. “But you must know who—and why. It matters. If not now, it will later.”

I sighed. “Okay, tell me.”

“The man who shot Tom was the same one who stabbed Brian Conley,” Vida said. “Milo's certain of it. You see, after the culprit was wounded, he became … not precisely demented, but irrational. He kept shouting ‘Erin Go Bragh.’ Milo told me he wanted to … brag.” She flinched at the word. “A fanatic, you see.”

Vida had finally captured my attention. Maybe the Valium was wearing off. “Who was it?”

“Nolan Curry,” Vida said. “Brian's best friend and coworker at the Irish consulate.”

Leo Walsh was the one who told me the details. He came to see me in the hospital that evening right after Father Kelly had stopped by. Doc Dewey had checked on me earlier, insisting that I spend the night. I'd told him I couldn't possibly do that; Adam was arriving in the wee small hours. Doc, who is wise beyond the practice of medicine, told me that it might be better if I came home to Adam—instead of to an empty house.

And then Leo showed up, looking tired and sad. “You never guessed about Tom, I take it,” he said. “You never knew he was involved with the Irish cause.”

“No.”

“I thought not,” Leo said. “I found out by accident when I worked for Tom on one of his papers in Orange County.”

I stared at my ad manager. “You knew all these years and never told me?”

Leo let out a little grunt that might have been part laugh. “I couldn't. I wasn't supposed to know. Too dangerous.” He gave me one of his quirky little smiles. “Seven, eight years ago when I found out, I confronted Tom. He tried to make me understand his motives. I suppose I did, in a way. But I had to swear to secrecy.”

“Why did he get involved?” I asked, surprised at the anger in my voice.

“You knew his father had an artificial leg?”

I nodded. “Tom mentioned it.”

“That was courtesy of a British soldier,” Leo explained. “His dad was born just before the turn of the last century in Ireland. Do you know about the Easter Rebellion in 1914?”

“Sort of,” I said. “I know it was triggered by the outbreak of the First World War. Didn't Britain put the independence movement on hold? The Irish—mainly the Catholics—rebelled and tried to take over Dublin.”

“You're close enough,” Leo said with a pat on my arm. “Anyway, Aidan Cavanaugh was a teenage hothead. He wanted a piece of the action, and unfortunately he got it after the Brits sent reinforcements. Fighting in the streets broke out all over Dublin. Aidan was behind a barricade not far from the post office that the rebels had seized. The British soldiers overran the barricade, and Aidan was severely wounded and left for dead. Eventually he crawled away and got medical help, but the leg had to be amputated. The uprising was over, and the insurgents were being arrested. Aidan managed to hide out until—I think it was almost six months later—he took ship to America. He was only fifteen.”

I was silent for some time. “It's ironic,” I murmured. “I always blamed Sandra for holding Tom hostage with
her inherited wealth. I never dreamed that Tom's own father had passed on an equally fatal legacy.” Again, I was quiet for a few moments. Then I looked at Leo. “But why did Nolan Curry shoot him?” There. I'd said it out loud.

Leo grimaced. “Remember last Saturday?”

I did. Tom had been working in the yard, hauling debris to the dump. I'd been so happy. I thought he was, too.

“Tom stopped by my apartment to see me for a few minutes,” Leo went on. “He wanted to explain himself to me. Tom was very perceptive about people. He always sensed that because I knew he was involved in helping the Irish, I not only didn't approve, but I wouldn't want to see you get mixed up in it in any way. To my surprise, he agreed. He confided that he'd been trying to make a clean break. But since he was the money man, it would be difficult. It's rare that anybody abandons the cause, at least if his associates are zealots. Tom had been a major West Coast financial supporter. Nolan Curry and Brian Conley were both involved, mainly through their work at the Irish consulate. Not that the consul or any of the others knew—but Nolan and Brian had gotten caught up in the thing as teenagers. It was romantic, it was an adventure, they felt like heroes.”

“Gangsters,” I muttered. “No different from other gangs, really. A sense of belonging, empowerment—and needless violence.”

“My feelings exactly,” Leo said, “at least for the younger generation, both in Ireland and North America. Ironically, Brian Conley wanted to get out, too. Unlike Nolan, Brian believed that the recent truce in Northern Ireland should be given a chance. I gather that's why he wanted to go to Ireland, to see for himself what was happening. Last March, Brian used snowboarding as an excuse to come to Alpine. He knew Tom was in town visiting you and he wanted to see him, get his take on what was happening overseas.”

I gaped at Leo. “Tom knew Brian Conley?”

Leo nodded once. “Tom was known to the other Irish sympathizers as T C.”

T. C. Nolan Curry had mentioned the name—the initials—in reference to somebody or something. My fuzzy brain couldn't quite recall. I closed my eyes and tried to think.

“My house,” I said slowly. “Nolan and Gina Ancich stopped by. They mentioned a man called T C. who'd taught somebody—maybe Brian—how to snowboard at Lake Tahoe.”

“Is that right?” Leo gave a shake of his head. “Tom told me he'd known Brian, but he couldn't imagine who'd killed him.”

“He didn't suspect Nolan?” I responded in a flabbergasted voice.

“No,” Leo said. “He thought Brian and Nolan were best friends. Face it, Tom's connection with what I'd call the foot soldiers was remote. Remember all those dinner engagements Tom had in Seattle on his way up here? Maybe they were with the middlemen. Anyway, I think he was ignorant of the Alpine connection until the O'Neills' arms cache was found. Brian never came down from Tonga Ridge that Sunday. Tom told me he never heard from him. If anything, Tom may have believed that the O'Neills killed Brian.”

“So,” I said after another pause, “Tom was going to end his association. I suppose he wanted to see how the truce worked out, too.”

“That was part of it,” Leo agreed, then put his hand back on my arm. “But not the main reason. He was getting out because of you.”

“Me?” I stared again at Leo.

He nodded. “I've always felt that was one of the reasons he put off marrying you after Sandra died. Tom was rethinking his support for the cause. But even if he still
believed in it at some level, he couldn't put you in danger. In marrying you, he wanted a fresh start, a clean slate. Unfortunately, one of the extremists didn't see things that way.”

“Nolan Curry,” I said, barely able to speak his name. “You mean it wasn't all political?”

“Not from what Nolan told Milo in his ranting and raving,” Leo replied. “Brian didn't tell Nolan about his decision to quit until they were up on the Ridge. Still, Milo thinks Nolan had an inkling of what was to come. Maybe that's why only Brian signed in at the ranger station. I gather Nolan went off his nut when Brian said he was finished with the cause. That was his death warrant. But it was different with Tom.”

It was hard to bear, but I had to hear why Tom—and my dreams—had died. “How so?”

Leo gave me a grim little smile. “What did you think of Nolan Curry when you met him?”

I thought back to the get-together in my living room. “He seemed like a dork. Vague, not too bright, nobody you'd pay much attention to.”

Leo nodded. “That, according to Milo, is how Gina Ancich felt about him. But Nolan wanted attention. Being an Irish sympathizer gave him an identity, like being in any gang. A successful, sophisticated financial backer like Tom who never got involved in the dirty work angered Nolan. He saw Tom as having it easy, sliding through life on his money and prestige. Tom got in, Tom could get out. That was anathema to Nolan. He considered Tom not just a traitor, but a personal affront.”

“My God.” I held my head. “Jealousy? I can't believe it.”

Leo gave me another pat. “It wouldn't be the first time. Hey, for all I know, maybe he was jealous of Brian and Gina, too. Nolan Curry is probably mental.”

I knew there were sparks in my eyes. “He won't get off on an insanity plea.”

“No,” Leo agreed. “He won't. Milo will see to that.”

Ben and Father Kelly offered a memorial Mass for Tom Monday morning. Adam assisted, and, somewhat to my surprise, Leo gave the eulogy. St. Mildred's was almost full, though due to the lack of prior publicity, the Wailers were mercifully absent.

I managed to get through it with the help of my menfolk and two Valium. The following day, Ben, Adam, and I flew to San Francisco with Tom's body. Al Driggers, on his feet again, but still extremely upset, had offered to take care of everything for free. I appreciated the gesture, and promised I would make sure that Scott Chamoud's articles absolved him of any blame. The burden of reporting on Tom's death would fall mostly on Scott. I couldn't have written a single word without falling apart.