Man in the Shadows (30 page)

A
t dawn, the blizzard started. By nine o’clock, snow had gathered around the scaffold. It swirled into the faces of the first people to assemble for the spectacle. By ten o’clock, men and women were jostling for the front row, ignoring the snow. Many chose to stay back and nestle comfortably in fur-lined sleighs. People chatted among themselves; children threw snowballs at each other; some paced, either nervously or for warmth. Two children were trying to build a snowman. They laughed and pretended to choke it—and each other. There was an almost-festive mood on the winter morning.

Conor O’Dea decided to go to the hanging so that Jim Whelan might see a friendly face before facing eternity. Many of the people in the crowd were familiar. He wondered if the gang who had attacked Meg and him at Hog’s Back were here. Probably. They were likely looking at him and smirking.

Polly Ryan waved hesitantly at him. He pretended not to see her. Was this woman everywhere?

At eleven o’clock, the ghoulish procession began: a jailer, two soldiers and James Whelan, followed by a priest. The priest and the condemned man murmured prayers together; both seemed to be in a trance. Throughout the trial, Whelan had been meticulously dressed,
but he walked his final steps in creased pants and scuffed boots. His hair and beard were a tangle of curls, uncombed and uncared for. The procession stopped in front of the scaffold. The crowd quietened in anticipation. The people wanted a speech, a confession, a performance of some sort, but they were disappointed. James Whelan moved his head side to side as if nervously testing his neck muscles. In a high-pitched but feeble voice, he said simply, “God save Ireland and God bless my soul.”

He nodded to the hangman.

People in the crowd craned their necks to get a good view. The good citizens of Ottawa leaned forward. It was their last chance to see the mortal face of the killer, to look into his eyes. But his face was as white as the falling snow, and his eyes were closed in dread and agony. No one made a sound as the hooded hangman slipped the noose around Whelan’s neck and placed a white hood over his face.

The hangman pulled the bolt; the trap door opened. The crowd gasped. With a thud, Patrick James Whelan’s body fell nine feet and his vertebrae snapped.

The crowd quickly dispersed to enjoy a snowy Ottawa day in peace.

CONOR
O’Dea wiped a flake of snow from his eye. What had he done to help Jim Whelan? He had spoken to Sir John A. Macdonald, but so what? He should have found the real killer—he had seen him—but he had failed. Meg had moved, probably back to Toronto, but he didn’t know where. What had he done to help her? Nothing but watch them insult her, violate her and cut her hair, her dazzling black hair. He walked along Sparks Street toward the Desbarats Block, passing the doorway of what had been the Toronto House, where
Meg had lived, where McGee had died. Offord’s House was boarded up. Over by the liquor store, all was quiet. There were no boxes out today. No one was hiding. There was no one to hide from. Ottawa had its killer, and he was dead.

The storm was gaining power and intensity. Conor enjoyed the heaviness of the new snow on his shoulders. He leaned against the force of the wind, trudging on. He turned toward Parliament Hill and headed along Wellington Street. Across Sappers Bridge. Back to Lowertown. Back home. Where he belonged.

It felt curiously comforting to approach his father’s door. The gaslight was flickering weakly, so Thomas must be home. Conor peeked inside, through the dirty basement window, and saw two shapes shifting. That’s odd, he thought. Thomas rarely had visitors. The window was caked with gas residue, so he couldn’t see clearly, but he caught the impression, a familiar form that made his heart almost stop. It was the man he had seen in Montreal, the man in the shadows, the man who killed D’Arcy McGee. He was sure of it.

Conor curled himself into a ball and cowered by the window, desperately trying to listen but terrified of what he might hear.

THOMAS
O’Dea was listening, too. “I am ordering you to come with me,” the assassin commanded.

Thomas looked into his cold eyes, searching for some emotion, some humanity. He found nothing, just a hardened look of resolve. Well, he was just as resolved. “What happened to Whelan?” Thomas asked. “Did you order him, too?”

The assassin put his right hand in his new coat pocket without taking his eyes off Thomas. He missed his old grey coat with its deep pockets, but it had served him well, and he always knew when to discard things. This man, Thomas O’Dea, was confusing,
and he hated being confused. Why these questions about Whelan? Didn’t he understand that Whelan was expendable, while he, O’Dea, was more useful alive? It was important that Whelan be caught and hanged, but this time no one would be caught. After the next murder, everyone would think Whelan was innocent, hanged by an incompetent justice system. There would be panic in the streets. If an assassin could kill politicians at random, no one would feel safe.

“I expect some answers before I do anything,” Thomas insisted. “First, I want to know about James Whelan.”

“Whelan is dead,” the assassin answered with a sigh, “because of his own stupidity. You are smarter and much more valuable to our cause.”

Thomas wondered, Had he used Whelan and cast him aside?

“It’s not Whelan who’s important now—” the assassin began, but Thomas interrupted.

“That’s right. What’s important is you. I want to know who you are. What’s your name—your real name?”

The assassin was being tested, and he didn’t like that.
He
did the testing, not some simple barman.

Thomas was stalling for time. He was desperately thinking, harnessing courage, but first, he wanted to get a confession out of this murderer.

“Who I am is not the issue,” the assassin said impatiently. “I know who you are, Thomas O’Dea. Thrown off your land by the English, dumped like a dog on an evacuation ship. You had a wife, I’ve heard.” He watched the hint of a tear build in Thomas’s eyes, and pressed on. “Yes, I know who you are, and you’re one of us.”

Thomas felt his resolve slipping. He asked, “What is your plan?”

The assassin hesitated. He never told anyone his plans in advance. Still, it could be useful to have at his side a man smart enough to ask a few questions. Only an idiot would follow him as blindly as
Whelan had. And this was not a plan for idiots. Anyway, why not tell O’Dea? If he refused to follow him, he’d kill him.

“The plan is a quick strike against the Orangeman.”

“Which one? For God’s sake, they are everywhere.”

A grin unfurled on the assassin’s face as he mouthed the name: “John Macdonald.”

Thomas’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Assassinate the prime minister?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“On the weekend.” He was actually enjoying this. He could already see the shock and disbelief throughout the country when people heard the news: Sir John A. Macdonald dead, struck down by an assassin’s bullet.

“Think what a victory it will be for Ireland,” he said. “Days after Whelan hangs, the Protestant prime minister is assassinated. They’ll pay attention to us then.”

Thomas turned away from him, his mind spinning wildly. “Did you kill D’Arcy McGee?”

The assassin ignored the question. He was now caught up in the perfection of his plan. “With McGee and Macdonald gone, Canada will fall to pieces.” Thomas turned and looked at him again. The assassin’s eyes were no longer cold; they were burning with intensity. “McGee was a traitor to Ireland. That can’t be allowed. And Macdonald has to be taught a lesson.”

Can’t be allowed … Taught a lesson …
He talked like a schoolteacher, but he was describing murder. Thomas was now convinced he was insane.

“Listen, Thomas O’Dea, you will be a hero. You have an obligation to your country.”

My country, thought Thomas. Is this what my country represents?
Madmen going around, using fellow Irishmen like James Whelan, gunning down politicians, plotting revolution. He wanted no part of it.

The assassin could read the hesitancy in Thomas’s expression. “You’ve changed,” he muttered. “You’re not with us anymore.”

“I’m with those who support a free Ireland,” Thomas answered proudly. “I might fight for Irish freedom. But I will not be involved in murder.” He glared at the assassin. “And I won’t be used by you.” That is too bad, the assassin thought. I have wasted my breath, and my time. Thomas O’Dea has spoken his last.

OUTSIDE
, anxiously watching through the filthy window, Conor was shivering, not just from cold but from fright. What were they saying? What was his father up to? His heart raced, his whole body ached in frustration as he crouched, trying to read their lips.
Don’t just observe, Conor, study and interpret. Probe, damn it. Probe.
McGee’s orders came back to him as he watched the pantomime through the window. There was a curious look on Thomas’s face, as if a cloud of anger had lifted.

Then he saw the knife. A flash of light from the gas lamp caught the blade. The other man had pulled it from his coat pocket. He held the weapon behind his back, concealed from Thomas.

There was no time to think. Conor turned the doorknob and lunged through the door, screaming madly, “Da! He has a knife!”

The assassin spun around to see where the shout came from. Conor saw the madness in his eyes and shuddered. It was just a second, but it gave Thomas an opening. He sprang forward and jumped the assassin from behind. But he wasn’t fast enough. With the instincts of a panther, the assassin anticipated the move and smashed his elbow into Thomas O’Dea’s face. Blood spurted from
Thomas’s nose, and as he tumbled to the floor, the assassin slashed at him with the knife, slicing his shoulder.

As the assassin viciously kicked him, Thomas screamed, “Conor, my gun!”

Conor knew where his father kept his gun. He grabbed it from beneath the cloth on the shelf and, without thinking or properly aiming, fired it wildly. It was far too high. His hands were shaking. A second shot was even farther off the mark. The assassin laughed at him. “I thought you said you’d get me,” he snarled. But he dared not risk Conor taking a third shot, and he ran out of the room into the snowy, deserted street.

Thomas O’Dea lay slumped on the floor. Conor dropped the gun and reached for him. Thomas opened his eyes and smiled. “I’m fine, son,” he said. “A bloody mess, but perfectly fine.”

Blood was still pouring from his broken nose; his shoulder was carved and his ribs were bruised. “It’s just torn flesh,” he insisted as Conor inspected his shoulder. “I don’t move as fast as the old days. You won’t be telling Gerry O’Beirne back in Galway that I lost a fight, will you? He’d never believe it.”

Conor was barely listening to his father’s brave front. He mumbled, “I didn’t help.”

“What do you mean? You saved my life.”

“I didn’t stop him.”

“You missed, that’s all. He left me for dead and he was too frightened to tangle with you.”

Conor knew no one was frightened of him; not in the least.

Thomas grunted in pain. “And don’t be pathetic, son. There are more important matters. Go and get me an old shirt. I need a sling.”

Conor knew how to wrap a sling from his days in the lumber camps. While he stopped the bleeding and tended to his father’s
shoulder, Thomas applied pressure to his broken nose to staunch the bleeding.

“Where are you staying?

“On Rideau Street.”

“We’ll go there. It’s not safe here anymore.”

They had been avoiding eye contact until Conor looked straight at Thomas and said, “Da, I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. But we can talk of all that later. For now, we have a life to save.”

“What?”

“This man … he plans to kill Macdonald.”

“When?”

“This weekend.”

Conor was bewildered. “And you’re prepared to help Macdonald?”

After a lifetime of misfortune and tragedy, days of bitterness and jealousy, hours of resentment and hatred, Thomas O’Dea looked at his son with determination and resolve. “Yes, I am. We both are. You and I are going to stop him.” He reached out with his good arm. “We are going to end this once and for all.”

The fate of our land

God hath placed in your hand;

He hath made you to know

The heart of your foe,

And the schemes he hath plann’d;

Think well who you are,

Know your soul and your star;

Persevere—dare—

He walked up the hill, shivering. Would it ever stop snowing in this blessed country? He kept repeating to himself: “I am not defeated. Nobody can stop me.” The mess with the O’Dea family was unfortunate. A snag, that’s all. But he should have seen the gun. Was the opium making him lose focus? He went back to finish them off that night, but they were gone. Anyway, even if they tried to warn the enemy, no one would believe them.

“No one can stop me. No one ever has.”

A reign of terror. He had to give the colonel credit, for it was a smart plan: Attack Britain from its weakest side. Don’t rush. Disrupt the election, then kill McGee. Let Macdonald and his henchmen hang a Catholic, then kill the Orangeman. Brilliant.

“I am not defeated. I will prevail.”

He sometimes wished he could get credit for the work he did. If he were in any other field of work, he would be recognized as the best in the business, a master of his craft. But he had to stay unknown and unheralded. No perks in this job. Just lots of money and, occasionally, great satisfaction. Anyway, the right people knew who he was and what he was doing.

Maybe he should have killed Macdonald right after McGee, get it over with, but he wanted the hanging to add to the confusion. To make them afraid. But this had taken longer than he liked. For his next job, he wanted something fast. A quick shot, and a prince falls.

Christ, it was cold! He longed for a draft of laudanum or the sweet, harsh taste of opium. Comfort and bliss. He would indulge as soon as this job was finished.