Night Of The Blackbird (40 page)

T
here had been so many surprises that night. As she had guessed, Michael McLean wasn't really Michael McLean. The real Michael McLean, a quiet man long estranged from his family, a solitary man with film as his only love, had been murdered shortly after his arrival in New York City the previous December, shortly after meeting up in a bar with the terrorist Robert McMally, who had been on the lookout for just such a man. Kyle Browne was not a cop, nor was Kyle Browne his name. There was a real Kyle Browne who was an FBI agent, and the name had been chosen with the expectation that someone would verify his identity with the government agency.

Moira gained a greater understanding of the intricacies of what had been going on in her own home through one of the greatest surprises of the evening—the fact that Jacob Brolin was aboard the Coast Guard cutter that came to rescue them from the
Siobhan.
That he hugged her warmly was certainly pleasant and rewarding, but the way he greeted Danny was astonishing. Danny might have been his long-lost son. With a cup of steaming cocoa in her hand and more warm blankets around her, Moira stared at the two men.

“All right, what is going on?” she demanded. “If you're not a cop,” she accused Danny, “you must be something with the…Irish government? Northern Ireland government?”

He shook his head. “I'm a writer and a lecturer, Moira, just as I have always been.”

“And a very good friend,” Brolin said.

“Actually, we met because of your mother.”

“My mother?” Moira asked blankly.

Danny shrugged. “I want to see peace in Northern Ireland more than anything, and my way to work for that is writing about the lives that have been destroyed through the violence. But there was a time when my uncle's way—talking—didn't seem to do anything, and since I'm not a perfect human being, there were years when I was very bitter, something of a hothead and nearly convinced that a promise I had made to myself might be nothing more than the idealistic dream of an idiot. I might have gone a different way. Your mother gave Jacob Brolin's name to my uncle, and I spent a summer with him.” He hesitated. “What you know now is true, my father and sister were gunned down. I watched them die. I swore on that day that I would do anything in my power never to let another child like my sister die for the hatreds of her elders.”

“I'd made a few of the mistakes Danny was in danger of making,” Jacob told her. “I come from a long line of Protestant Orangemen. I fell in love with a Catholic. My family's refusal to accept her sent me to the other side…where I learned harsher lessons. That's another story. Danny is writing it now.”

Moira stared at Danny. “Why didn't you tell me what was going on?”

“I couldn't let him tell you anything,” Brolin said. “Michael McLean looked like a golden boy on paper. We were afraid the contact man might be Andrew McGahey, making contact through your brother. And Jeff Dolan…he's clean now, but with his past, we couldn't take any chances. McLean and your brother had your love and your trust. Who knew what you might say to them. We had our suspicions about Kyle Browne, but we didn't want to move against him, because we still didn't know who he was meeting.”

“And they set Danny up. They put that gun under his bed.”

“Yes. Remember the night your purse disappeared?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” she murmured.

“I believe they stole your purse to get your key copied, and then all they needed was the appropriate moment to get the gun into my room. They not only meant to assassinate Jacob but to see the murder pinned on me.”

“But the whole thing is…so complex,” Moira breathed. “How—”

“They were both part of a splinter group calling themselves the Irish American Liberation People. They collect money from Americans who think they're giving to children maimed in the violence, but it really goes to arm the IRA. The American government has been trying to close in on them, but there was never enough evidence. They were good, I'll hand them that. They were able to falsify documents, create new identities for themselves and steal the lives of other men.”

“Aren't you worried? There must be others who wish you harm,” Moira murmured to Jacob.

“There will always be someone who disagrees with the peaceful process,” Jacob told her lightly. “But there are so many people who support me, and I like to believe that, having been on both sides and known the tragedy of each, I can make a real difference.”

“So, Danny…you work for Jacob?”

“No.”

“He's my friend,” Jacob said. “And he had an in at Kelly's. When we knew something was brewing at the pub—sorry, no pun intended—I called Danny and set him up with a contact through my office, and he agreed to keep his eyes on the events in the pub.”

Moira found herself shivering again, looking at Danny. “From things he said…I think that Michael…Robert McMalley was the one murdering prostitutes.”

Danny's eyes met hers. He knew what she was feeling. She had trusted a man, slept with a man, who had come to take human life so lightly that no one mattered if they threatened his goals in any way.

His eyes held hers. “We'll probably never know exactly what happened.”

“Almost back to shore,” Jacob said lightly, pointing ahead.

There was an emergency vehicle waiting. Moira didn't want to go the hospital and said that she was fine, but Jacob Brolin insisted. Her neck was a definite shade of blue, he said, and Danny had most likely a few broken ribs.

She stared at Danny, dumbfounded. He shrugged. “Yeah, I think he's right. I would be dead if Jacob hadn't warned me it was time to start being careful. Thing is, the vest saves your life, but being shot that close…”

At the hospital, Moira didn't want to leave Danny's side, but she was gently, politely forced into another room for medical care. She was in a cubicle alone, waiting for word about Danny's X rays, when she heard Brolin, who had been doing the talking with the police thus far, suddenly begin talking to someone else.

She heard her father's voice, deep and concerned. Then her brother and her mother.

“I am perfectly calm,” Katy Kelly announced, sounding only a shade shrill. “And I want to see my daughter.”

A moment later Katy came bursting into the cubicle. She stopped at the curtain and looked at Moira in her hospital gown, stretched out on the gurney.

“Eamon!” she cried to her husband, who had come in right behind her. “Look what they've done to me baby.”

Katy promptly passed out.

Luckily Eamon was there to catch her.

Eamon looked at his daughter. “Ah, lass, she's the strongest woman I've ever known—you just don't threaten her children.”

He couldn't drop his wife, so his enveloping hug for his daughter came only after an orderly had appeared, an ammonia vial had been broken, Katy had come to and the hug could be a family affair.

Soon after, Patrick, Colleen and Granny Jon were with her in the small space, as well, and the way she was kissed, hugged and enveloped by her family made her realize that she had to be one of the luckiest people in the world. When Patrick held her in his arms, she was able to whisper, “Patrick, oh, my God, I am so, so sorry. There were times…”

“When you were suspicious of me,” he whispered back. “It's okay. I understand. I love you, and I'm so sorry I didn't see what was going on in time.”

Then the police insisted on speaking to Moira. They ushered her family out, except for her parents, who refused to go.

Katy Kelly gave the police only so much time, then put her foot down and forced them out. Moira would give them any information they needed once she was declared fit and well and had had some rest, Katy informed them in no uncertain terms.

When they were gone, Moira told her mother, “I don't want to rest. I just want to see Danny.”

“We'll see to it,” Eamon said firmly, and she was taken to the cubicle where Danny's ribs had just been wrapped. He was sliding into the clean shirt the Kellys had brought from the house. Moira rushed to him, suddenly bursting into tears.

Danny held her. “Ah, Moira, my love. It's all right now. Truly. Oh, hug me, darlin', just not quite so tightly, please.”

“He should be staying in the hospital,” the stern-looking doctor on duty said.

“For observation,” Danny told him. “Believe me, sir, these good people will observe me.” He looked into Moira's eyes. “No one can watch me better than she,” he added softly.

 

She didn't leave his side. It would have done little good to attempt to go to bed or sleep that night, anyway. None of the Kelly household slept, except for the children. Siobhan would explain things the best she could to them when they awakened in the morning. As for the rest of the family, they hadn't been able to return to the house until nearly four a.m. Seamus's funeral was still planned for nine.

Eamon gave the eulogy, a fine speech. Moira was to have performed another rendition of “Amazing Grace” with Colleen, but since her voice remained a throaty croak, Colleen was on her own. She, too, did beautifully.

Seamus was duly laid to rest. Jacob Brolin had quietly attended the funeral service at the church; at the graveyard, he gave a short speech, honoring Seamus as both a fine Irishman and a fine American.

Moira had spent a few minutes closeted with Josh. Colleen was going to take over her sister's announcing duties for the live feed, because not only was Moira's voice gone, she had been invited to ride with Jacob Brolin on his float.

Moira did, however, do her own interview with Jacob Brolin at the pub that afternoon, surrounded by a full house, with a real Saint Patrick's Day bash in full swing. Jacob was wonderful, talking reasonably about both sides of the conflict. Many people in the North had legitimate complaints, he said, and he meant to see to them. They needed more Catholics on the police force, more good faith among men, and yes, they had a long way to go, but they had also made immense strides in the direction of peace. “Northern Ireland is beautiful,” he said, “and there is one thing that draws all of us together, and that is the desire to let the world know just how beautiful, and to welcome travelers with the hospitality of old. Our future lies in our ability to lay out a level playing field for all men. Oscar Wilde once said, ‘If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society would be quite civilized.' We all need to learn how to talk—and how to listen.”

The pub had been open to the public throughout, and Brolin's speech was heartily applauded by all. Many of the customers were amazed that Eamon had gone ahead with the opening of the pub that afternoon, after everything his family had faced.

Eamon had said, “Why not? Close the pub? I've never had more reason to celebrate in my life. My child was in danger, but she is here with me, and I am a blessed man, with all my family and my friends. Saint Pat was looking out for us from up above, and I'll be thanking God for the rest of my days.”

There had been no way to keep what had happened from the newspapers and the networks, and Kelly's Pub became famous across America that day.

Josh ably handled the media, arranging for questions from four to five, then the absence of cameras in the pub thereafter.

It was busy, and Moira insisted on remaining behind the bar, washing glasses as she listened when it was time for Danny to be quizzed by the reporters.

Being Danny, he managed to explain the truth, tell a story and speak lightly all the while. At the end of the session, a seasoned reporter asked him, “What's next for you, Mr. O'Hara? Will you be going home to enter Irish politics?”

“Oh, no,” Danny replied. “I'm staying in America. I'm getting married, you see.”

Moira was so startled she dropped a glass in the water. Still in shock, she met Danny's eyes.

“If she'll have me,” he said softly.

Belfast, Northern Ireland
The Present

T
he street had changed. There were handsome shops all along it now.

Danny stood on the sidewalk, taking a moment, as he always did in Belfast, to go back in time. Not to dwell on the misery of loss. Just to remember the family that had once been his.

He did love Belfast and all the North. They had been to Armagh just the other day, visited Tara, walked along endless hills of rolling green, felt the expanse, the wildness, the beauty and the magic of ancient times. Then they had returned to Belfast, and joined the hustle and shove of the busy city.

Today it seemed especially important for him to stand here. The last year had been the best of his life.

He would never forget his youth. In a corner of his heart, there would always be the pain of his loss. Yet even though that pain would never go away—
should
never go away—it had changed. The pen really
was
worse than the sword. He had done a great deal to change the world, or, at least, his world. His parents, he thought, would be proud. And Moira…Moira had allowed him to find his own peace, and a man could truly bring it to others only when he had found it in himself.

“Danny!”

He saw her coming down the street. She was in green. Kelly green, at that. A neat little suit that displayed the length of her legs and the indentation of her waist. Her hair, shining in the sunlight, bounced and waved over her shoulders. There was a slight touch of concern in her blue-green eyes as she reached him, taking his hand, placing a light kiss on his lips before studying his eyes again.

“Are you all right?”

He smiled. “Absolutely.”

“I was worried. I didn't know where you had gone.”

Okay, so he had ducked out on the luncheon. Andrew McGahey was being honored in the grand ballroom of the hotel for his efforts on behalf of the children of Ireland. And Andrew wasn't alone. He and Sally Adair had been introduced at the wedding, and they had been together ever since. Of course, Andrew remained a dedicated Catholic. Sally was still a wiccan. Maybe they would make it anyway. Anything was possible in America.

Danny had listened to most of the speeches, had watched his brother-in-law be merciful to the crowd and accept his plaque with a few words only, thanking his family and the Irish in America. Then a rather longwinded professor had taken the dais, and Danny had given in to the overwhelming urge to take a walk. It was important for him to come here. He always did, wherever he came back to this city of his birth.

“This is where it happened?”

“Yes.”

She squeezed his hand. “Danny?”

He arched one brow. It still amazed him that they were man and wife. He had always loved her, but he had known when they were very young that he hadn't been right for her. That he had a few demons to battle himself. And then…

There had been times when she had lain beside him shivering, and he had known that she was still haunted by her memories. A man who had said he loved her while needing other women…and disposing of them as easily as if they were laboratory rats who had fulfilled their purpose and needed to be destroyed.

All in all, though, they had come through quite well. The wedding had been spectacular. Mass at the family church in Boston, Moira in a shimmering long dress and veil, not quite traditionally white, but a combination of white and silver and mauve that seemed to spread magic with every move she made. Naturally the reception had been at Kelly's.

They'd taken two weeks on a remote private island in the Caribbean. There had been times when they had spent hours just talking. Times when they had just made love, a little desperately on some occasions, gently on others. Either way, it had only mattered that they'd had one another, that they were together, a bastion against the past, a team to forge through the future.

Life was good. He had Moira. It was impossible to love anyone more. Humbling to be so loved in return.

Incredible to have such understanding.

His book, written about the events that had formed Jacob Brolin's life and political perspective, was due out in a month. It was sure to cause some controversy.

That was fine. He still liked a certain amount of controversy. There was nothing like a good, hard-fought argument to be waged—and won. And of course, Moira was opinionated, so they had lots of heated discussions, and lots of wonderful moments of passionate apology. He had become a ‘resident alien' in New York City; Moira had already, in the single year of their marriage, taken six trips to Ireland with him. Their first trip, they had come alone, here, to Belfast, then traveled beyond, into the North.

Their second trip, they had taken Granny Jon and the family to Dublin. Everyone had come, including Siobhan and the children. They had made a day out of traveling down to Blarney to show the kids the castle and, of course, kiss the Blarney Stone. Katy Kelly had remarked that it seemed rather unnecessary, since most of the time they were all full of it to begin with.

It had been a great trip. Showing Ireland to children for the first time, showing them the source of so many of the tales they had heard, had been wonderful. Seeing Molly's eyes widen for a ride on a chubby Irish pony through fields of emerald, Brian's fascination with the tales of knights in shining armor, and Shannon's pleasure in the quaint charm of the small towns.

Moira had brought her own brilliance to their travels. She had expanded her show, and they now did segments on American vacationers returning to their roots in foreign countries. Colleen's was still the face on hundreds of magazine covers, but she had also taken to hosting more shows for her sister. That allowed Moira more travel time. For himself, it was easy. Writing was an exercise of the mind. Of course, it helped to see all the places that stirred his imagination and brought back the trials and triumphs of history, near and far.

Life was good. He couldn't imagine that anything could be better.

“Danny,” Moira said again.

He looked at his wife.
Wife.
He smiled. “Sorry, love, I was wandering.”

She shook her head. “I worry about you when I know…you've come here. I think about my family. Patrick, Colleen…my folks. When I see Molly, Brian and Shannon, and I think about what happened…I know I couldn't have come through…as you did.”

“I only come here because I loved them so much. It's a way of saying hello, telling them they'll always be with me.”

She smiled. “You feel that they're here, with you, a little bit?”

“Maybe. But I'm okay, Moira. I have been for years. Never as good, though, as since I've been with you.”

Shoppers passed them by. A pretty woman walking a dog smiled and said hello. A man in a tweed cap tipped it to them.

“Hmm…”

“What?”

“I was actually waiting for us to be alone somewhere incredibly beautiful and romantic….”

“Excuse me, but my city
is
incredibly beautiful and romantic.”

“Oh, I know, I know. I meant like our bedroom in the hotel, the lights all muted, music playing, roses in a vase….”

“Champagne in a bucket? A tub full of suds? You wearing nothing but bubbles here and there, at strategic spots?”

“Something like that.”

“I like it—let's go.”

“Wait, Danny, the point was that I want to tell you something. And I've just decided to tell you here.”

“Great. Get me all hot and bothered, then make me stand on the sidewalk where I can't do a damn thing about it.”

“Danny, we're going to have a baby.”

He couldn't have imagined that anything could be better, but he'd just been proven wrong.

“We're…pregnant?”

“No.
I'm
pregnant, but
we're
having a baby.”

He folded his wife into his arms. Kissed her. Tenderly. On her lips, both cheeks, her forehead, her lips again. “A little Irishman,” he whispered.

“Or an American woman,” she reminded him.

He cradled her face in his hands. Studied her eyes, kissed her lips again. “Whichever, I'm thrilled. I'm…God, I'm thrilled.” He smiled and looked up. “Hear that, Mum? A grandchild.” Suddenly he got a questioning look in his eyes.

“You're certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe we should test again.”

“Why?”

“Because then you can tell me again, in the romantic room, with the music, the champagne….”

“Danny, I won't be drinking champagne any time soon,” she told him.

“I didn't intend for you to drink it. I think it would be better for you to, oh, wear it,” he told her.

“Oh.” She smiled. “Shall we go?”

He put his arm around her, and they started down the street.

“My God, I'm shaking,” he said. “I'm going to be a dad. To a wee bit of an Irishman.”

“Or an American girl.”

“Maybe it will be a lass,” he agreed. “A little Irish lass.”

“Or an American boy.”

“Fine. Have it your way—the first time,” he teased. Then he stopped again in the street, cradled her face once more, kissed her and drew her to him.

“The best of Ireland, and of America, will be in our son or daughter,” he said softly.

“Oh, Danny, that's lovely.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then let's move on. I'm definitely in the mood for champagne.”