BlackWind (26 page)

“Does it hurt?” Alistair asked, his hawk-like eyes fastened on Sean's shoulder.

“Aye,” Sean said absently. “Now and again.”

“Mine never has. I wonder why—”

“Is that him?” Sean asked, blocking out his fellow Reaper's words. He nodded toward the chubby man who had stepped from the pub.

Alistair nodded. “That's our bloke.” He straightened and dragged his red ski mask into place. “Let's do it.”

Not giving himself time to think, Sean pulled down his own ski mask and opened his door. He stepped out the curb and rushed with Alistair toward the Englishman, who turned at the last minute to see them coming.

There was no fight in the portly man. He didn't make a sound as they grabbed his arms and ushered him into the sedan. Sean pushed him into the backseat and slid in beside him. Alistair got behind the wheel and drove them away, yanking off the mask as he turned a corner and increased speed.

“Don't kill me,” the man pleaded, his rheumy eyes filling with tears. “I've got a wife and—”

“Shut up.” Alistair looked at the Englishman through the rearview mirror. “Do as ye are told and no harm will befall ye.”

The man looked at Sean as he removed his mask. “Oh, Lord,” Sir Toliver Appleton whimpered, viewing his own death—and likely the unspoken apology—in Sean's eyes.

“We'll make it quick,” Sean said, caressing the machine pistol.

“Not in the face,” Appleton asked, trembling so badly his teeth clacked together.

Sean nodded as the fat man collapsed and began to pray in the corner of the backseat. He met Alistair's smirk in the reflection of the mirror and looked away.

She strained, pushing with all her strength, then fell back against Sister Mary Pat's shoulder. She was panting, sweat oozing. Sister Henry Louise blotted her face with a cool towel.

“Again,” Dr. Darby positioned himself between Bronwyn's thighs. “Push, Bronnie. Push!”

She felt she was being torn apart. For the last twenty-odd hours she had lain in bed, the contractions coming harder and harder until she could no longer keep the screams at bay.

“Damn it, girl, push!” the physician shouted.

Sister Mary Pat braced Bronwyn, lifting her as she bore down, trying to push out the baby. “Just a little more,” Sister said.

“I can see the head,” Dr. Darby announced. “A couple of more good pushes and you'll be done. Now, push!”

Bearing down with all her waning strength, Bronwyn felt something let loose inside her. Her scream reverberated through the room. She could not stop from pushing again, and when she did, she felt the baby slide out.

“Glory be to God!” Mother Superior said.

“It's a boy,” Dr. Darby pronounced. He held up the babe by its heels and whacked its bottom. The instant wail brought a sigh to every lip, including Darby's.

Sister Henry Louise chuckled. “Got a set of lungs on him, don't he?”

“Aye, he does,” Dr. Darby grunted as he laid the newborn on his mother's belly.

Weakly, Bronwyn pushed herself up as far as she could, grateful for Sister Mary Pat's help. The sight of her squalling son, the smear of the birth liquids covering his howling face and trembling lower lip, brought it home to her that this was real, that she had actually delivered this child—Sean's son—and was now a mother.

“Let me hold him,” she said, reaching down to touch his slimy cheek.

“Not now,” Dr. Darby said. He had finished cutting the cord and lifted the babe for Sister Henry Louise to wrap him in a blanket.

“Why?” Bronwyn asked.

“We must see to him, Bronnie,” the Reverend Mother said.

“He has to be weighed and footprinted,” Sister Mary Pat said, locking gazes with the Mother Superior.

“Aye, and bathed, as well!” Sister Henry Louise put in.

Bronwyn had only a fleeting glimpse of her child as he was taken away. She had rejoiced that his hair was blond like his fathers, and though his face had been screwed into a mask of protest, his eyes squeezed shut, she was positive those orbs would be cornflower blue like Sean's.

“You need to rest now,” Dr. Darby said, drawing her attention. In his hand, he held a hypodermic syringe.

Alarm sped through Bronwyn.

And the first faint stirrings of understanding.

She tried to get up, reaching for Sister Henry Louise, who was taking the baby from the room. She shouted and begged and pleaded and threatened and cursed, clawed and scratched and spit.

But it was all in vain.

When Bronwyn awoke many hours later from the drug-enforced sleep, she discovered her baby had been given up for adoption.

“That was your parents’ decision,” Mother Mary Joseph informed her. “We had no choice but to comply.”

Turning her face to the wall, Bronwyn swore she would find her child if it was the last thing she ever did. Cursing her mother and father, she pulled the pillow over her head and wept bitter tears, wondering why Sean had not come to take her from this hell on earth.

“What did you learn?” Sheila asked.

Destiny swept her little bundle of trash into the dustpan. “They took him to Belfast, but I ain't been able to find out who the people are what adopted him.” She emptied the contents of the dustpan into the bag Sheila held open. “I'll keep at it.”

Sheila shook her head. “She's lost nigh on fifteen pounds. Much more of this and we'll be laying her to rest up by old Mauveen.”

“Don't say that!” Destiny gasped.

“Well, it's true. The poor thing just mopes about, barely eating. Sleeping more and more every day. She's making herself sick.”

“I heard Mother Mary Joseph say they've called her parents to come over to see her,” Destiny confided in a low voice. “Don't tell Bronnie, though. She might have another one of her conniption fits.”

“It ain't right what they done to her,” Sheila grated. “Damned interfering penguins!”

“Wish we could find himself,” Destiny sighed. “He'd take her from here in a heartbeat.”

Sheila clucked her tongue. “I don't see how he could, but you're right. I wish we knew where he was.”

Destiny leaned on her broom. “My brother, Liam, is one of the lads. You reckon if I write him he might be able to find himself where Bronnie's Da's men ain't been able to?”

“Worth a try,” Sheila said, spying one of the nun's heading their way. She rolled her eyes. “Never a minute's peace.” She plastered a fake smile on her face. “Good morning, Sister.”

Sister Eugene nodded primly as she passed. She cast Destiny an annoyed look, but said nothing.

“Old biddy knows what we think of them,” Destiny quipped. “Knows every girl in here don't trust them no more than we can throw ‘em.”

“Write your brother,” Sheila said. “Can't do no harm and it might even help poor Bronnie.”

Since the birth of her son, Bronwyn had not spoken. She ignored the admonishments, the threats, and the cajolery of the nuns as well as the pleadings of her fellow students. She refused to do schoolwork, chores, and instead stayed locked in her room, sitting at the window, staring out. She ate one meal a day—at noon—and did not touch the other trays brought to her. She did not leave her room to go to the social hall, nor could she be forced to go to chapel. Since she was not allowed visitors, she rarely saw the other girls except in passing as she walked to the shower. Even then, she passed them without a look or any sign that she knew they were there.

Many trips were made to both Dr. Darby's office as well as Mother Mary Joseph's and Father O'Malley's. Nothing the adults said swayed Bronwyn McGregor, and her silence had began to concern them.

A call to America was placed six weeks after the call announcing the birth of the child and the placement of him for adoption in Belfast.

On the fourteenth day of November, 1985, Dermot and Deirdre McGregor arrived at Galrath's front gate. Haggard from the long flight across the Atlantic and concerned for their child, they were taken to Mother Mary Joseph's office straightaway.

“How is she?” was the first thing Dermot asked.

“She's lost more than twenty pounds and is down to ninety-four pounds,” the Reverend Mother reported.

“Oh, my God!” Deirdre gasped, her hand to her mouth.

“Is she refusing to eat?” Dermot demanded.

“She eats the noon meal and nothing more.”

“And she's still refusing to speak?”

Mother Mary Joseph nodded. “Or socialize. The few times we tried to force her to Mass, she kicked and screamed and carried on like a person possessed. Dr. Darby had to sedate her.”

“Oh, Dermot,” Deirdre groaned, tears gathering in her eyes. “What have we done to our baby?”

“What we felt was right for her!” Dermot stood. “I want to see her now!”

The Mother Superior held out her hand for the McGregor's to precede her into the hall. She then led the way to Bronwyn's room.

“How is the baby?” Deirdre asked, eyeing a thin, gangly girl walking quietly behind them but obviously paying little attention to her.

“Healthy and quite happy with his new family, the McDougals,” Mother Mary Joseph reported. “He's...” She noticed Destiny behind them and stopped. “Young lady, where are you supposed to be?”

Destiny ducked her head. “I was on my way to the library.”

“Then pray be about it!” the Reverend Mother snapped.

Destiny bobbed a curtsy and padded quickly away.

“These young hellions will be the death of me yet,” Mother Mary Joseph sighed. “You must be on your toes at all times. That one is a blabbermouth and she's a friend of your daughter's.”

“You think she overheard us?” Dermot asked, looking at the retreating girl.

“I'm sure not,” Mother Mary Joseph replied, indicating an archway. “Through here.”

The first thing Deirdre noticed about her daughter was the gaunt look on her face, the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the burning hatred shooting from her gaze. When she tried to embrace Bronwyn, the girl stepped back, putting distance between them. Her angry glower went to her father and held.

“We did what was best for you,” Dermot defended.

“Go to hell!” Bronwyn said, her voice rusty and grating.

“Bronwyn, do not speak to your father—” Mother Mary Joseph began, but the girl's fevered stare leapt to her.

“And you can join him, you conniving, vicious old liar!”

Deirdre gasped, turning for help to her husband.

Dermot, accustomed to working with unruly and angry patients at Wynth, knew how to deal with such behavior. “I know you're angry and you have every right to be, but you are a child and—”

“I am the
mother
of a child,” Bronwyn hissed. “A child you stole. Don't think for one moment I will ever forgive you. When I can, I will go after him and get him back. God help you if you get in my way!”

There was such fire in his daughter's eyes, such strong intent, that it obviously shocked Dermot. He was used to the malleable, gentle-spirited girl he had left at Galrath, not this wild-eyed termagant with the blazing temper. He tried to reason with her, but her shout of fury outwardly took him aback.

“I want my baby! I want mine and Sean's baby!”

“Now, listen here, young lady,” Dermot said. “You are underage and haven't even graduated. You will attend college and—”

“The hell, I won't!” Bronwyn insisted. She took a step closer to her father. “You thought I was obstinate before you did this horrible thing to me? You haven't seen stubborn yet, Doctor McGregor. You can keep me here until I'm of age, but after that, this place, and you, will have seen the last of me!”

“You don't know what you're saying,” Deirdre said, wringing her hands. “We are your family.”

“No,” Bronwyn flung at her. “Sean and Tiernan are my family. You are nothing to me!”

“Who is Tiernan?” Dermot questioned.

“My son!” Bronwyn shouted. “The son you stole!”

Deirdre clutched her husband's arm. “We have to get the boy back for her, Dermot.”

He shrugged away her hold. “Absolutely not.”

“He's our grandchild,” Deirdre reminded him. “Flesh of our flesh.”

“And blood of that pervert who raped our daughter!” Dermot bellowed.

“Sean Cullen didn't rape me,” Bronwyn said, her attention fastened on her father's furious face. “I went willingly to him and I
will
go willingly to him again when I find him.”

Dermot's lip curled. “Into the arms of an IRA assassin? Some husband he'd make!”

Deirdre looked at her husband. “That's what Rory Brell found out and you wouldn't tell me?”

Dermot waved a dismissive hand at her question. “Answer me, Bronwyn! Is that the kind of man you want to spend your life with? A murderer for hire?”

“If that's what he is, then, aye!” Bronwyn answered, as if not believing her father for one moment.

“I'll see him hanged first!”

Bronwyn met her father eye-to-eye. “Hurt one hair on Sean Cullen's head, Daddy, and I swear before God and man I will make you regret it for as long as you draw breath!”

“The man is a killer!”

“If he is, he is what you and Tym Cullen have made him!”

Dermot opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. His face was livid with rage, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He stared at Bronwyn for a long time, then threw up his hands. “Fine! You want Cullen? You can have him! I won't stand in your way, but you'll stay here until you're of age to ruin your life!”

With that, he stormed from the room.

Deirdre was torn. She knew she should follow him, but she wanted desperately to have things back to normal with Bronwyn. She reached out to her, but once more, her child stepped back.

“It was not my idea to put the boy up for adoption,” Deirdre said. “I wanted to bring him to Iowa and raise him until you graduated.”

“The boy,” Bronwyn said, “has a name—Tiernan!”

“I believe his adoptive parents named him Cormac,” Mother Mary Joseph said.

“They can un-name him!” Bronwyn sneered. “His name is Teirnan Cullen.”

“Tell me what you want, Bronnie,” Deirdre said, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. “I can't stand this estrangement.”

“I want my child and I want out of this hellhole! I want to find Sean and I want us to be married as we planned!”