Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (22 page)

“No. I’ve a better idea. Someone owes me a favor.”

The guard knocked, then opened the door, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Miss Ryan, but I’ve already given you extra time. I need to escort you out now.”

Nora stayed where she was. What if this really
was
good-bye? What if he was wrong? The guard cleared his throat. “If you want to, ah, say a final farewell, I’ll be just outside the door.”

Thomas stood and held out his arms. “Good-bye, darling. Be brave for me.”

“I’ll see you soon,” she whispered as he wrapped her in his arms. “Kiss me.”

“What?” he whispered back.

“The guard is watching through the spy hole. I’m your fiancée. Kiss me.”

He ran his thumb over her lips, then bent and brushed them with his own. His hand lingered on the nape of her neck where the scarf was knotted. Her pulse quickened and her heart fluttered in her throat. How long had it been since she’d kissed a man? Relationships among humanitarian aid workers were fleeting, to say the least. And she was a pro at keeping people at a distance. But Thomas . . .

“Now act distraught,” he said softly into her ear, interrupting her dangerous thoughts. “I’ll tell Bran to find you. She might be able to help.”

She nodded and touched his cheek lightly with her fingers, still aware of his hands on her waist. The guard cleared his throat again from outside the door.

“Good-bye,” she whispered.

She kept her head down as she left the cell, but a glimpse of red hair caught her eye. Roger.

“I can make my own way out,” she said to the guard outside Thomas’s cell.

“I’m afraid I have to—” he began, but a voice behind them cut him off.

“I’m going down, Billy; I can escort her,” Roger O’Reilly said, giving Nora a cursory glance.

“You’re a brick, Rog, really,” the other guard said. “I’m due for my break.”

“Follow me,” Roger said curtly to Nora as the other guard sauntered off in the other direction. Once they were alone, he whispered, “What are you doing here?”

Nora spoke fast as they descended the stairs. “I need a favor. But I can’t talk about it here. When’s your shift over?”

He frowned. “I can’t—”

“You owe me, Roger. I saved your life.”

He looked away. “Grand. I’ll meet you at seven at the bar at the Shelbourne. But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone. It’s my job on the line, so it is.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as they reached the entrance. She cast one last look up at Thomas’s cell before she was escorted out into the cold Dublin sun.

By the time seven o’clock arrived, Nora had developed a plan and paid a trip to a hardware store. All she needed now was a massive amount of luck—and Roger’s cooperation. She hoped she was doing the right thing. If he was caught helping her, he’d likely be arrested and imprisoned himself. But if they could change history, it would be worth the risk . . . wouldn’t it?

The Shelbourne wasn’t far from her hotel. She hurried along the cobblestones under the dim light of the streetlamps, her pearled handbag and a brown paper package clutched under her arm. As she passed a laneway, a dog barked. She hesitated. “Bran?” she called out softly. The wolfhound trotted out of the laneway and nuzzled her leg. She scratched Bran behind the ears. “So, you’re a ‘special’ dog, are you? As long as you can lead us to Lynch, I don’t care what you are. Wait for me?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m off to meet Roger. We’re going to bust your master out of jail.”

She grinned at the ridiculousness of talking to a dog, but Bran almost seemed to understand. The wolfhound padded along beside her until she reached the Shelbourne, then slunk into the shadows of the lane next to the entrance. She could still see Bran’s eyes watching her as she entered the brightly lit lobby. A polished mahogany desk wrapped around half the entryway. Fresh, fragrant flowers graced small tables beside enormous wingback chairs. She nodded to the doorman as though she’d been here a thousand times and made her way through the lobby to the lounge, an expansive, airy room with a high arched ceiling and immense windows. She scanned the room. He wasn’t there.

He’ll come.
Unless this was a setup. No, she’d said nothing incriminating. All she’d done was ask for a favor. He had no idea what she wanted. She took a seat at a small table near the back of the lounge, as far away from the clusters of other patrons as possible.

She kept her eyes on the door. She almost didn’t recognize him at first. He was dressed in a three-piece suit and top hat. She stood and smiled, hoping to put him at ease. To her surprise, he bent and kissed her hand in greeting.

“You look wonderful,” he said.

“As do you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, one can’t wear a uniform all the time.”

“Indeed not.”

A tuxedoed waiter appeared, and they ordered drinks. She allowed Roger to order for her in the hopes it would put him in an agreeable mood.

“So you were visiting Thomas Heaney, today,” he said, his eyes fixed on the waiter’s back.

“I was.”

“Which can only mean one thing: you’re his fiancée.”

“Oh . . . aye. I am.”

“I don’t see a ring.”

“It’s been a little difficult for him to procure one from prison.”

“So it’s a recent engagement. I should offer my congratulations.”

“Ta.”

“And he’s meant to be executed tomorrow.”

“Aye.”

Their drinks arrived. Nora took a sip of her sherry, eyeing Roger’s whiskey with envy. He leaned forward. “Did you really have a vision from God that told you I was going to die?”

She kept her gaze steady. “Aye.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t just a message from your fiancé? Or one of your other Irregular pals?”

“Does it matter? I saved your life. Do you wish I hadn’t?”

He took a swig of whiskey. “O’course not.”

“Then I need your help.” He didn’t reply, just regarded her coolly over the rim of his glass. “I want you to help Thomas escape.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s
not
impossible. I’ve thought it through. There’s
very
little risk to you.”

“I doubt that. But just out of curiosity, what’s your plan?”

“The gate is locked at night, when there’s no sentry on duty.”

“I don’t have the key for that.”

“I didn’t think you would. But you do have a key to Thomas’s cell, right?”

He swallowed. “Maybe.”

“All I need you to do is leave his cell unlocked tomorrow night. And give him something he can use to cut the lock at the gate.”

“You want me to give something to a prisoner? There’s no way. There’s always at least two of us to a floor—the other guard would notice if I went into his cell.”

“Then leave it somewhere he can find it,” Nora insisted.

“And what do you suggest I leave him? Assuming I’m fool enough to agree to this plan?”

“Something strong enough to break the lock. Like a bolt cutter.”

Roger took a deep breath. “I suppose that would work. But how am I supposed to smuggle something like that in?”

“I’ve already taken care of it.” She pushed the parcel at her feet over to him. “I had the man at the shop take it apart at the hinge. He took off the handles as well, so it should be easy enough to fit it inside your jacket now. Just leave him the tools to reassemble it—they’re all there.”

Roger stared at the package on the floor but didn’t pick it up. “They told me Cumann na mBan had talents. But I thought it was more in the”—he reddened—“gathering-of-information department, if you’ll pardon me. But this—” He nudged the package with a polished shoe. “How does a lady such as yourself know these things?”

Nora’s jaw tightened. “It’s easy. I’m no lady.”

Smoke. Screams. Shots being fired, but by whom? Mick had broken the lock on the police station door, told her to grab the bolt cutters and run. But she hadn’t wanted to leave him. The explosion had left her ears ringing for days. And the screams . . .

“Miss O’Reilly,” Roger was saying. The waiter had reappeared and was regarding her impatiently. “Would you like another?”

“Oh. No, thank you.” She turned back to Roger. “Will you help me?”

He stared into his glass for a long time. “After this, we call it even? A life for a life?”

She leaned over the table and covered his hand with her own. “A life for a life.”

Chapter Twenty

Bran was still waiting for her when she left the Shelbourne. Roger insisted on walking her back to her hotel. “Is that your dog?” he asked in alarm when Bran followed at their heels.

“She’s Thomas’s, aren’t you, girl?” Nora scratched Bran behind the ears. “But she’s staying with me for now.”

The clerk at the hotel desk wrinkled his nose at Bran but didn’t try to stop her. The countess’s name had to count for a great deal.

“Thank you grandly, Roger,” Nora said, holding out a hand.

He took it and bent low, brushing his lips over her knuckles. When he stood, he didn’t let go. “Are you really engaged, Miss O’Reilly? Or is that just another part of your plan?” His eyes were far too hopeful.

Nora hesitated. Would he be more apt to help them if he thought he had a chance with her? She’d done worse things for the cause. But of all the Free Staters she’d encountered, Roger had been the kindest. And he was risking his life to help her. She couldn’t lead him on. Besides, he was her great-uncle. Ew.

“I am,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

His face tightened. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”
Not unless you live to be a hundred . . .

He removed his hat. “Then allow me to thank you, once again, for saving my life.”

“O’course. And Roger?”

“Aye?”

“Good luck tomorrow.”

He patted the inside of his jacket, then nodded at her and walked back into the night. She stared after him, hoping she’d done the right thing. Would he be caught? Would Free State soldiers break down her door in the middle of the night? Would they shoot Thomas on the spot if they found him trying to escape?

“C’mon, Bran,” she whispered. She climbed the stairs to her room, took off her hat and shoes, and then collapsed on the bed. Bran curled up beside her. She wrapped one arm around the dog’s shaggy back. And waited for morning.

“Were there any executions last night at Kilmainham?” She had hurried down to the front desk first thing, still dressed in her clothes from the night before.

The clerk looked at her in alarm. She’d forgotten her head scarf. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Our bellboy lives in one of the tenements across from the jail. He says he’s heard every one, always in the middle of the night. But all was quiet last night, so he says.”

Nora let out a breath. “Thank you.” Thomas had one more day . . . time enough to put her plan into action. She turned to go back upstairs.

“Shall I send up some breakfast?” the clerk called after her.

“That would be grand.”

Bran pouted at her when she reentered the room. “Don’t give me those eyes,” she told her. “It’s going to be a long day.”

She ran a bath, soaking her sore head under the water. There was a knock at the door just as she was getting out.

“Your breakfast, Miss O’Reilly.”

“Just leave it outside the door, please,” she called, grabbing for a towel.

“What do you think? Is it really breakfast? Or soldiers?” she whispered to Bran, who sniffed at the door and then panted, her tongue hanging out.

Nora opened the door and wheeled in a silver cart. Eggs, sausages, and thick slices of buttered bread. She poured tea from the silver urn, then gave Bran her sausages.

After breakfast, she and Bran headed out onto the street and hailed a taxi. “North Dublin Union,” she told the driver.

“They’re not accepting visitors,” he told her.

“Go anyway.”

The driver was right. The sentry at the gate refused to even let her inside to speak with the wardress. Nora walked around the entire former workhouse, looking for a window that opened onto the street, or some way to communicate with the women inside. But there was nothing.

“Will you take a letter, at least?” she asked the sentry at the gate, handing him several pound notes. He nodded stiffly.

She’d brought along some of the hotel stationery, worried this might happen. So she sat on the low stone wall that bordered the gate and wrote her letter.

Dear Pidge,

I hope you are well. I know you are angry with me right now, but trust me when I say I’m doing the right thing for Ireland.

She paused and nibbled on the end of the pen.

I hope I will soon be going back home. You’re very brave, my dear Pidge. Never change. Ireland needs more women like you.

I will never forget our friendship or the adventures we shared.

With love,

Nora

She folded the paper and gave it to the sentry. She only hoped Pidge would read it.

When darkness fell, Nora returned to Kilmainham. Three women sat on a bench outside the gate, praying. They nodded to Nora, who was carrying her rosary. She sat next to them and moved her fingers around the beads, a better alternative than letting them quake in her lap. Bran lay still at her feet. What had she been thinking? This kind of operation took weeks to plan. It needed to be rehearsed; the equipment needed to be tested. They needed maps and code words and exit strategies. And here she’d planned it all in an afternoon, with the help of a Free State soldier. Thomas didn’t even know what he was supposed to do.

But it was the best plan she had. She’d considered improvising a bomb to blast the door open, but she was no explosives expert. That had been Paddy Sullivan’s job. And she would have needed either shaped charges or a large quantity of gunpowder—two things she couldn’t obtain in an afternoon. Besides, setting off an explosion in a town crawling with soldiers was the perfect way to get rearrested.

The hours slid past. One by one, the praying women left. Nora saw the sentry close up his station and walk down the road, whistling off tune. She stood slowly, her legs stiff. Without a sound, Bran lifted herself up and followed Nora as she walked around the wall, the rosary still clutched in her hand.
If any of my prayers have meant anything, let them work now.

The side gate was locked from the inside with a heavy chain and a padlock. She’d observed it several times while in the exercise yard. This is where Thomas would bring the bolt cutter. Then it would just be a simple matter of assembling it, cutting the lock, and opening the door.

“Excuse me, miss? Are you all right?”

Nora tensed and swung around. Four Free State soldiers sauntered toward her. Their jackets were unbuttoned, and cigarettes hung from their lips and fingers. One of them held a half-full pint glass in his hand. “What are you doing, skulking about here? It’s past closing time.”

“I’m not drinking; I’m praying,” Nora said, holding out her rosary beads. “For the poor souls inside Kilmainham.”

“Did you hear that, lads? The ‘poor souls inside Kilmainham.’ They weren’t so poor when they were shooting our men, were they?”

“Come on, Pete. Let’s move along.” One of the men gave his friend a good-natured shove, but he stumbled, sloshing beer into the street.

“Look what you’ve done!” He staggered over to Nora. “Now you’ll need to buy me a drink.”

Bran tensed beside her, and Nora put a steadying hand on the dog’s head.

“Leave her alone, Pete. She said she’s praying.
You
wouldn’t want to be locked up in there, I reckon.”

“Maybe she’s planning a breakout,” Pete slurred. “We should search her.”

Nora’s hands tightened on her bag. Inside was the handgun she’d acquired in a small shop in north Dublin—the result of a few discreet inquiries. She couldn’t possibly take out all four of them, even in their inebriated state. And the shots would ruin Thomas’s chances at escape.

She drew herself up. “I think you should listen to your friend. I’m doing no harm here, and I’ve my dog to protect me.” As if on cue, Bran growled long and low. “Besides, I would hate to have to report to your superior how you harassed a pious woman while under the influence of that vile drink.”

Pete looked like he wanted to argue, but his friends had better sense—or perhaps it was the size of Bran’s teeth that put them off. “We’ll leave you, miss,” one of them said. “But it’s not safe for a woman to be out this time of night. Praying or no.”

“I can take care of myself.
You
take care of
him
.” They caroused around the corner. Nora leaned against the door in the prison wall with relief.

“Nicely played,” a voice whispered through the door. She spun around.

“Thomas!”

“I thought they’d never leave. Hang on while I put this damn thing together.”

She kept her eyes on the road, listening to the clanking of metal and Thomas’s occasional grunts.

“Keep it down,” she whispered.

“You couldn’t have sent me something quieter?”

“Just hurry.”

There was a crunching, grinding sound. Then a snap.

“Gods be damned!” Thomas hissed. “It broke.”

“What? The padlock?”

“The bolt cutter. Handles snapped clean off. I can’t get enough leverage. I’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“You can’t! They’re going to execute you in less than two hours!”

“I told you: it won’t happen. I’ll be grand.”

“
I
won’t be grand! We have to get you out of here and find Lynch! He’ll be dead in two days!”

“Well, I can’t very well climb the bloody wall, can I?”

“Jesus. How have you managed to stay alive for hundreds of years?”

“I told you: it’s—”

“Aye, the curse, I know. Now stand back.”

She knelt down and opened her bag. Underneath the gun was the only backup plan she’d been able to come up with at the last minute—besides shooting her way into the jail, of course. A tight coil of rope. She only hoped it was long enough. She tied one end to a rock the size of a rounders ball. Then, after casting a glance about for any straggling revelers, she took several steps back and threw it as hard as she could over the wall.

She cleared it—just. The absence of a thud against the other side of the wall hopefully meant Thomas had caught it. She kept hold of her end and hurried back to the door. “Did you catch it?”

“Yes. Can you tie it to something on your side?”

Nothing was within reach. “It’s not long enough. Just climb already! I’ll hold it.” She quickly tied a loop in her end and then stepped into it. She sat back on the rope and braced her feet against the prison wall, hoping her weight would be enough.

His first pull nearly tore the rope out from under her, but she tightened her grip and leaned back, praying the knot would hold. Bran wove around her legs, whimpering. “Come on . . . ,” she muttered. Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging. She craned her neck upward. Finally, there was a flash of white hand; then Thomas’s face appeared. He slung his body on top of the wall, panting. Then he hauled up the rope and wedged it into a crack at the top of the wall, the rock holding it firm.

“You can let go now,” he whispered down. She lifted the rope over her head and stepped back. Thomas rappelled down the side of the wall, jumping the last few feet to land beside her. Bran ran up to him, tail wagging.

“Hey, girl,” he whispered, giving her a pat. “Let’s get out of here.”

They set off down a nearby lane, staying clear of the flickering streetlights. After they’d crossed a couple of streets, Nora stopped. “Keep dickie for me, will ye?” The street was mostly deserted, except for a couple of rickety topless cars parked outside a pub that still had its lights on. The sound of voices and a lone fiddle trickled out under the door. She tried the door of one of the cars, which looked like a Model T. It was unlocked.

“Get in!” she whispered, slipping into the driver’s seat. Instead, Thomas leaned against the side of the car, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Ever driven an automobile before?”

“O’course I have! Jesus! Just not . . .” She stared blankly at the dash, then bent over to look for the starting wires. Hot-wiring a car in the nineteen nineties had been easy. But this contraption . . . Did it even have wires? Where was the ignition?

“I think this is what you’re looking for,” Thomas said, lifting the hinged cover off the engine at the front of the car. Nora jumped out and peered around him.

“Those wires,” she said, pointing. “We need to connect them.”