Rock Point (Sharpe & Donovan) (4 page)

Chapter 6

It took most of the day to find a proper car to lease and fill out the paperwork, but Finian finally had a black BMW in his possession. He hadn’t taken a vow of poverty, but he wasn’t one to flaunt his wealth. Nevertheless, he’d driven a BMW in Ireland and appreciated its familiarity. The traffic even in Maine was daunting. He’d had a taste of Boston traffic when he’d arrived yesterday. A BMW seemed less of an indulgence under the circumstances.

He took it for a drive around southern Maine, checking out places like Orchard Beach, Wells, Kennebunkport and York before parking in front of a marina in Heron’s Cove, an attractive classic Maine village just down the coast from Rock Point. He got out, welcomed the cool breeze blowing off the water with the rising tide. There were more pleasure boats here. He remembered a time when he’d been fascinated by yachts.

No more.

He walked up a street lined with pretty shops and large residences, most with front porches that looked out on the Atlantic. He saw porch swings, hammocks, wicker chairs, most empty despite the perfect June afternoon. Heron’s Cove reminded him of reruns of
Murder
,
She Wrote
, but he supposed Jessica Fletcher’s Cabot Cove was actually in California.

He sat on a bench on a narrow strip of grass between street and ocean, the tide crashing on rocks below him. Cormorants dove. Seagulls wheeled. Off in the distance, he heard the laughter of children.

He dug out his phone and called Declan. “I had a lobster roll for lunch and the sun is shining. How is Ireland?”

“Raining,” Declan said.

Finian knew it wasn’t true. He had a weather app with Killarney listed among his “favorites.” He stretched out his legs, barely aware he was in a black suit while passersby were in shorts and T-shirts. “I miss Ireland. It’s funny how life pieces itself together, isn’t it? The threads all connecting as they should.”

“Or not, as the case may be. Sean Murphy rang me.”

“Ah.”

“He asked if I could help him find a contract worker, probably a painter or a carpenter. I couldn’t think of anyone off the top of my head. I’m checking the records, but it’s a needle in a haystack. I don’t even have a name for him.”

“Maybe you’re not the one who dealt with him.”

“It’s unlikely I would have. Sean is your friend. Do you know what’s going on, Fin?”

“Just do as Sean says and not one thing more.”

“Fin? Is this contract worker dangerous?”

“Sean Murphy’s looking for him, isn’t he?”

After he and Declan disconnected, Finian phoned Sean but his friend didn’t pick up. Finian left a message for him to call as soon as he could.

Humidity had built up through the day, but Finian welcomed it as he took a scenic coastal road back to Rock Point. It was rougher than Heron’s Cove. He parked in front of the rectory and got out into the shade of what he’d already learned was a sugar maple.

He tried to reach Sean once again but got his voice mail. He left a message. “I’ve missed something, Sean. Call me.”

* * *

Finian was back at Hurley’s that evening. Colin Donovan was at the back table with a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “A fine Kentucky bourbon,” Finian said. “It’s not on the menu. You brought it?”

“Worked it out with Hurley’s. I thought you might turn up tonight.”

“Thank you,” Finian said.

“We’ll have to try Bracken 15 year old some time. We have a peated and a non-peated version.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Colin winked. “Always like to know who I’m drinking with.” He had a plastic pitcher of water—no ice—and two glasses. He poured a bit of the bourbon into each glass and then handed one to Finian. “Two of my brothers are joining us. Kevin and Andy. There’s a fourth brother. Mike. He’s farther up the coast.”

“Four Donovans.”

“That’s right.” He grinned. “You’ll get used to us.”

In a short while, Kevin and Andy Donovan joined them at their table. They wore jeans and T-shirts. Kevin, the youngest brother, was a Maine state marine patrol officer. Andy, the third-born Donovan, was a lobsterman who also restored boats. All three brothers were gray-eyed and strongly built.

Colin fetched two more glasses and poured bourbon for his brothers. After just a few minutes, Finian was convinced the younger Donovans didn’t believe their FBI-agent brother worked at a desk in Washington, either. Kevin and Andy left early, wishing Finian well. Andy apparently was quite the ladies’ man.

Finian settled comfortably at the table and ordered a bowl of clam chowder. Colin said he wasn’t hungry but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. “Is there a woman in your life?” Finian asked him.

“That would be complicated.”

“Because of the nature of your work,” Finian said. “You’ll be leaving again soon?”

The FBI mask dropped in place. Colin ran a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “If anything happens to me, Fin, take care of my folks. My father’s a retired town police officer. He’ll understand. My mother won’t.”

“I will, of course, Colin.”

He looked up then and grinned. “But nothing will happen. I’ll be back in Rock Point in no time.”

Finian saw it then, why this man was here—why he kept coming back. “You need Rock Point to remind you that you still have a life.”

The comment seemed to catch Colin off guard. “Funny, that’s what I tell myself, too.” He raised his glass again. “You’re a wise man, Father Fin.”

Father Fin.
He would have to put a stop to that before it took hold.

His chowder arrived, steaming, thick with clams and potatoes. He tasted it. It was truly excellent. A good bourbon. Good chowder. New friends. Life in Rock Point was getting better.

“How do you navigate between what you can do and what you shouldn’t do but know would help?” Finian asked.

Colin shrugged. “There’s always a way.”

His matter-of-fact response didn’t match the serious look in his eyes. He stood apart from his friends and his hometown, Finian thought, but Colin Donovan needed Rock Point.

As I do
.

As he’d said to Garda Detective Murphy, he now said to Special Agent Donovan. “Be careful, my friend.”

Colin grinned at him. “Careful is for accountants, Fin. I just get the job done.”

* * *

Alone, back at the rectory, Finian sat with a stack of files Father Callaghan had left for him in the living room to help him understand his small parish. Finian remembered the older priest that March evening at the O’Byrne House Hotel in Declan’s Cross.

“
Sometimes you’re the first one to know something.
Sometimes you’re the last one to know.
Sometimes you’re the only one to know.
”

He’d been thinking he was the only one who knew Becan Kennedy had talked to him about his misgivings about what he was involved with.

What if he was wrong?

What if Becan’s criminal associates—these smugglers—also knew? What if they’d been watching Becan, waiting to see if he’d betrayed their trust?

Finian leaped to his feet, his heart racing. The smugglers could easily figure out he and Sean Murphy were friends, although they wouldn’t necessarily know Sean was investigating
them
...

“Now they do,” Finian said aloud, his jaw clenched with tension.

He could see it all. Becan meeting him at the old distillery shed. Finian giving Becan the card with Sean’s number.

Becan’s associates finding out he and Finian had met.

Then following Finian to see what he would do. Those had been the men at the airport in Shannon. Smugglers.

Becan Kennedy was in extreme danger, and so was Sean Murphy.

“They’re walking into a trap.”

Finian raked a hand through this hair and forced himself to settle down. Becan knew what sort he was dealing with. So did Sean, who was an experienced detective with a capable team behind him.

What had can-do Colin Donovan said?

“
There’s always a way.
”

Still on his feet, Finian phoned Sean, but again got his voice mail. He left a message: “The men who followed me in Shannon know our friend contacted you. They’re after him—and they’re after you, Sean. Be careful.”

Chapter 7

Finian was still awake at eleven when Becan Kennedy called. It was four in the morning in Ireland. Becan’s voice was ragged, hoarse. “They’re going to kill me, Father. They know I’ve talked to the guards.”

Finian switched on a side-table lamp. “Where are you now, Becan?”

“The shed behind Bracken Distillers. Where we met the other day. It’s dark. We were supposed to meet for a drop, but there’s not a soul here but me. They’re coming to kill me. I know they are.”

“Get out of there, Becan. Now. At once. There’s a Garda station—”

Becan cut him off. “I’m scared to death, Father. I’m caught in the middle. The guards will arrest me, and my friends will be mad at me.”

“Your friends won’t just be mad at you, lad. You said it yourself—they’ll kill you.” Finian got out of bed, standing on a threadbare rug in the milky light of the simple bedroom. “I can’t help you from Maine.”

“They’re here,” Becan said, his voice lowered, hushed with terror. “Father...”

Finian could hear cursing in the background, but Becan disconnected without another word.

Wide awake, Finian rang Sean, who picked up immediately. “Fin, I’m at the distillery. I know your friend is Becan Kennedy. Where is he?”

“He’s there, in the back field, by an old shed. His smuggling friends set him up. You, too. Sean, I don’t know what to believe—”

“You don’t have to know. Go back to bed, Fin. Don’t call your brother or anyone else in Ireland. I’ll be in touch.”

“Are you alone? God in heaven, Sean—”

The connection was lost, or Sean had disconnected. Finian tossed his phone aside. He put on jeans and a sweatshirt and went downstairs.

He made coffee in his strange American kitchen. He knew he wouldn’t sleep until he knew Becan’s fate. Becan was a dead man if the smugglers got to him before Sean could. Finian had no question in his mind.

And if Sean did reach Becan first? Did he have backup?

What if the criminals he was after had outwitted him?

“Not possible,” Finian said aloud, smelling the coffee as it brewed. “Just not possible.”

* * *

It was hours before he heard.

Kitty O’Byrne Doyle rang him from Declan’s Cross and gave him the news. “Sean’s alive, thank God,” she said, her voice hollow, her strain evident. “But he’s in bits, Fin. Broken ribs, punctured lung, torn shoulder, cuts, bruises. They say it was an ambush.”

“Any other deaths or injuries?”

“Not that I’ve heard. It’s still an active investigation. They’ve broken up a smuggling ring. A nasty lot. A dozen arrested already.” Her voice steadied. “The reports don’t mention Sean by name, of course, but I know he was involved—I know that’s how he was hurt.”

“Will you go to see him?”

“No. I won’t. I can’t. Fin...”

“How did you find out?”

“His uncle—Paddy told me. I doubt he has the whole story, either.”

Kitty wouldn’t say it, but Fin knew: given the nature of Sean’s work, it was unlikely any of them would ever know the whole story.

She added, “Paddy didn’t want to be the one to phone you, but he said Sean told him to make sure you knew.”

“I’ll say a prayer for him, Kitty.”

“You do that. Say one for his body to heal and another for him to get some blasted sense.”

“You think this was his doing, then?”

“One way or the other, it was. I know it, Fin, and so do you. Sean’s always thought he was invincible.” Kitty sighed. “Maybe so did the rest of us.”

Finian attempted words of comfort, but Kitty bounced back, suggested the best source for further updates would be Paddy or Sean himself.

He walked down to Hurley’s, bustling although the sun wasn’t yet up. He ran into lobstermen and fishermen carrying out coffees and doughnuts fresh from the kitchen, getting up from plates of eggs and bacon. One of them muttered he was having an egg-white omelet next time, and his friends roared with laughter.

Finian was suddenly starving. He sat alone at the back table in front of the harbor windows. He’d brought one of the folders of parish background materials that Father Callaghan had left behind in the rectory. It felt secret. Finian would have to make sure no one looked over his shoulder when he opened it.

Worried, impatient, he ordered coffee and a cider doughnut. Just as they arrived, Sean phoned him from his hospital bed. “I’m in bits, Fin.”

“That’s what Kitty said.”

“Kitty...ah, Kitty. Did she sound scared?”

“Annoyed. She says it’s your fault you’re hurt.”

“That’s my Kitty. Did I say ‘my’ Kitty? Blast, Fin. It’s the drugs. I’m on morphine. I haven’t gone completely mad.” Sean paused, whether to picture pretty Kitty O’Byrne Doyle or merely to take a moment to cope with his pain, Fin didn’t know. “Things didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped, but all’s well that ends well, right, Fin?”

“Becan Kennedy?”

“It is his real name, in fact. He didn’t handle his end well, but he’d been on a razor wire for weeks—since he’d sought you out in March. He got cold feet when he talked to me. He thought he could extricate himself without our help.”

“Had you been investigating these smugglers?”

“For a while, but we had nothing. What Becan told me in March pointed us in the right direction.”

“Sean...the distillery...Declan...”

“In the clear. Not involved with the smuggling network. It was Becan’s idea to use the back field a couple times in February and early March, but they moved on to other sites. It had nothing to do with Bracken Distillers.”

“Thank God for that. The drop the other night—that was a ruse?”

“Yeah, Fin. A ruse. More like an ambush. They wanted Becan, and they wanted me.”

“How did you get hurt?”

“The bastards grabbed Becan, and I got good thrashing saving him, but the worst, Fin—the worst of it came when I ducked a gunshot and fell in your blasted health club.”

His health club. Finian could almost see Sean’s devil-may-care smile, but he heard a grown of pain and suspected his friend’s attempt at humor—this call—had cost him.

“I’ll let you get some rest,” Finian said. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“It’ll take another day or two before I’m glad of it.”

A long recovery lay ahead. “Will you go to Declan’s Cross to recuperate?”

“It would be a chance to further annoy Kitty,” Sean said, but his voice was weak, then the connection was lost.

Finian didn’t know if someone else clicked off the phone for his garda friend. He settled back in his chair and watched the sun come up over Rock Point harbor, the sky glowing with pinks and purples, a glorious June day ahead. He wondered where Colin Donovan was right now.

Not at a desk in Washington, for certain.

Finian opened the folder Father Callaghan had left him. Inside, right on top, was a newspaper clipping from the first week in June—just before Finian’s arrival in Rock Point. He scanned the article, which featured the arrest of a notorious arms trafficker, a wealthy Russian, Viktor Bulgov, at the auction of a Picasso painting in Los Angeles.

“Sources say Bulgov leaves behind a trail of bodies...”

Finian flipped to the next page in the folder. This time it was a printout of a news article on the internet, with a photograph of Viktor Bulgov at a hotel in Los Angeles. He was a handsome middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit. The report hinted that an intensive federal undercover operation had led to Bulgov’s arrest at the art auction. He was now in FBI custody.

Finian closed the folder and ordered another doughnut.

So this was what his new American friend’s work was.

Colin Donovan was an undercover FBI agent.

Undoubtedly he’d dived back into his undercover role to tie up loose ends with the Russian’s colleagues.

Despite his lack of sleep and his night of waiting and pacing, he felt surprisingly energized. Colin Donovan and Sean Murphy were very different men but both had tough, dangerous jobs—and Finian could see that part of his role as a priest was to be their spiritual advisor, but, most of all, he was their friend.

His doughnut arrived warm from the oven, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Pure heaven, he thought with a smile, ready to begin his first full day serving the people of Rock Point, Maine.

He looked out at the harbor, as lobster boats puttered out into the sunrise, and he knew that whatever trials and doubts lay ahead, he was where he was meant to be.

* * * * *

Keep reading for a sneak peek of Carla’s newest Sharpe
&
Donovan novel
,
DECLAN’S CROSS!