The Eden Tree (10 page)

She drifted off to sleep with the book still in her hand.

* * * *

On Sunday Linn decided on a more aggressive approach. She got dressed early and took a walk, skirting the gatehouse carefully, making sure that she wasn’t seen.

She had a perfect right to stroll around her own property, didn’t she? Of course she did.

The trip was wasted. The gatehouse looked deserted and the Bentley was gone from the barn which Con used as a garage. He wasn’t home.

He didn’t come home for the rest of the day.

Bridie returned on Monday but Linn didn’t mention Con’s absence until Wednesday, when two more days had passed without a glimpse of him.

“I haven’t seen Con around, have you?” she asked, in what she hoped was a casual manner.

“I have not.”

“His car is gone too,” Linn persisted.

“Is it?”

Bridie’s stilted responses were significant. Her customary manner was more voluble.

“Do you know where he is?” Linn asked directly.

Bridie surprised her by fidgeting with her dishtowel nervously. Linn paused with the teapot in her hand, really alarmed now.

“Answer me,” Linn demanded. “Do you know where he is?”

“I’d only be guessing,” Bridie hedged.

“Guess, then,” Linn said impatiently. “Where?”

“In the past when he disappeared of a sudden like this it was because he was called north.”

Linn set the pot on the stove, afraid that she would drop it. “He told me he wouldn’t go back there,” she whispered. “He said he was through with all of that.”

Bridie shrugged. “The boy doesn’t lie. If that’s what he said he meant it at the time. Something must have happened to change his mind.”

Linn swayed unsteadily, gripping the edge of the sink for support. “He was shot once before,” she said fearfully. “He could be hurt.”

“He could,” Bridie agreed.

“I’ve got to do something,” Linn said wildly.

Bridie turned to her, astonished. “And what do you propose to do, my lass? Tear off after him up to Belfast and get killed yourself? They don’t ask for citizenship papers before they throw the bombs.”

“But we can’t just sit here and wait to see if he comes back in one piece,” Linn wailed.

“We can do no other,” Bridie said quietly. “Now you know what it feels like to be one of us, waiting for the phone call, the knock on the door. Waiting to see if the loved one will come back maimed…or come back at all.”

“Maybe he just took a vacation or something,” Linn said, grasping desperately at straws.

“Maybe,” Bridie said. She didn’t sound convinced.

Linn picked up her sweater from the kitchen chair. “I’m going to walk over to the gatehouse and see if he’s there.”
 

“Go on if you like.”

Linn paused in the hall. “I don’t suppose there’d be any way to trace him if he did cross the border.”

Bridie shook her head. “They vanish into the hills like the mist. You’ll just have to learn patience.”

“I’ve never been very good at patience,” Linn muttered, heading for the door.

The gatehouse was still empty and the barn housed nothing but stale air. Dust motes danced before her eyes in a shaft of sunlight as she closed the wooden door.

Linn kept up her vigil for the next couple of days, checking the cottage frequently, but it remained deserted. Her anxiety increased with each passing hour. By Friday night she was frantic. She was certain that Con lay dead somewhere, unidentified, his body burned beyond recognition. Just after sundown she walked out to the gatehouse for the third time that day, practicing a ritual which she no longer expected to yield a result.

The car was still gone. Forlorn, she was walking past the door of the cottage when she noticed that it was ajar. While this was not unusual in itself (“What is there to steal?” Bridie said), Linn was certain that it had been closed earlier in the day.

Her heart pounding, she edged up to the door and pushed it inward. She gasped at the sight that met her eyes.

Con was sprawled across the single bed, unconscious. His leg from crotch to knee was covered with blood.

Chapter 4

Linn rushed into the room and fell to her knees beside the bed. Con was sprawled on his back with the uninjured leg bent at the knee, one hand trailing to the floor. He was waxen, his forehead beaded with sweat, his lips dry and chapped. His face was covered with coarse black stubble and his eyelashes were matted with rime like a child’s. He looked as if he’d been tossed on the bed like a discarded handkerchief, crumpled and very still.

Linn touched his clammy forehead with a trembling hand. Con stirred, mumbling, his lashes fluttering. Linn sobbed aloud with relief.

“Con, it’s Linn. It’s Aislinn. You’re hurt; what happened to you?”

He continued to ramble, slurring his words so badly she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She stroked his cheek gently and his eyes opened, then widened in recognition.

“Aislinn,” he whispered.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said softly. “Oh, Con, how did you get hurt like this?”

“Leg opened up,” he answered hoarsely.

“You mean where you were shot? It’s bleeding badly. You need a doctor.”

“I’m all right,” he rasped. “Be all right.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Linn snapped. She was frightened for him and in no mood for macho theatrics. “I’m going to get help.”

His fingers curled around her hand. “Bind it,” he said.

“You need a doctor!”

“Cut the pants,” he gasped, “and bind it. Aislinn, do as I say. Get the scissors from the drawer there.” His head fell back in exhaustion from the effort of speaking. When she remained unmoving he added, “Please.”

“Please,” from him, she couldn’t refuse. Linn got up and rummaged through the dresser. She came back with the scissors and knelt again next to the bed.

She was afraid to touch his wound. Avoiding the injured area she cut the jeans away from his ankle and worked her way upward to his knee. From there on the cloth was soaked with blood and fluid, the skin below it parched and hot.

Con was watching her through slitted eyes. Linn’s fingers pressed onward to his thigh and he gripped the sheets, twisting them, his knuckles white. He didn’t make a sound but his mouth was contorted with pain. Linn hesitated, close to tears, unwilling to hurt him.

He saw her reluctance. “Go on,” he directed, his teeth clenched around the words.

Linn took the severed material in her hands and ripped it apart. When she saw the wound she made an involuntary sound, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Bad?” Con asked.

Linn couldn’t speak. His thigh was a gaping hole filled with pus and blood and surrounded by the ragged edges of torn flesh. Linn could see the glint of a metal fragment embedded in the lumpy scar tissue.

“Talk to me, girl,” Con said weakly, with a trace of amusement in his tone. “I’ve not known you to be at a loss for words.”

Linn found her voice. “Con, I can’t handle this,” she said, striving to sound calmer than she felt. “You must let me call a doctor.”

He sighed. “Book next to the phone,” he said. “Neil McCarthy. The number’s there.”

Linn went to the phone, which was on his desk next to the typewriter. She pushed aside several stacks of papers and found a leather bound notebook underneath them. Dr. McCarthy’s number was scrawled in Con’s bold, angular hand.

She glanced over at Con while she got the operator to ring the number. Bally was still on the antiquated system which made every phone call an involved project. Con was peering down at his leg, trying to see what it looked like without moving.

McCarthy’s wife answered and then put him on the phone.

“Dr. McCarthy, this is Aislinn Pierce.”

Uncomprehending silence.

“Dermot Pierce’s granddaughter. I’m at Ildathach for the summer, straightening out his estate.”

“Yes, Miss Pierce?” His voice indicated that her identity had registered.

“I wonder if you could come over to the gatehouse on the property. Connor Clay is…injured.”

“Connor, eh?” the doctor answered. “Well, I’m not surprised. What is it this time?”

Linn tried to think of a way to explain and then just plunged into it. “He was shot in the leg a while back, and somehow he managed to reopen the wound. It looks like there’s a piece of metal emerging from the skin or something. I’m afraid I really don’t know what the problem is, but it looks…I really wish you would come,” she finished lamely.

“That will be the piece of bullet casing left in when they sewed him up. A botched job but it was an emergency. Tell me, is he conscious?”

“Yes, but feverish.”

“Best not to move him. Keep him warm and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, doctor. Thank you very much.” Linn hung up and turned to face Con, who was resting back on the pillows, watching her.

“He’s on his way,” Linn said. She folded her arms and surveyed him critically. “Are you going to tell me how this happened?”

“Do I have to go into it now?” he asked wearily.

He looked so beaten that Linn relented. “All right. You can tell me the details later but you went north again, didn’t you?”

“I did. And don’t look at me as if I were demented. I had to go. You know nothing about it.”

Linn felt a surge of anger so intense it almost made her ill. “Fine, Mr. Independence, just great. I think I’ll leave you here to bleed to death; how would that be?’‘ she flared at him.

Con’s eyes closed. “You won’t leave me, Aislinn,” he said. His voice was quiet but full of certainty.

He was right, of course. “I should,” she said. “You take off without a word to anybody and show up again in this condition. I never heard of anything so inconsiderate.”

His lips twitched. “Why, lass, I think you were worried about me,” he said without opening his eyes.

“Bridie and I were both worried. And with good reason. Look at you. You have to be insane to keep going back up there for more of this.”

Con’s eyes flashed open. “They were putting my friend in a camp,” he said heatedly. “No hearing, no trial, just off to the camp, which is a jail if you don’t know.”

“Well maybe he belongs in a jail,” Linn fired back. “Those people are terrorists.”

“Christy Dugan is not a terrorist. He doesn’t hold with the violence and neither do I. But his brother is a different sort and Christy got hauled in along with him. Could I sit back and do nothing?”

Linn could see that she was getting nowhere; he was only becoming more incensed and even weaker. This was an argument she would never win. He had been shaped by different forces and was pulled by different tides. She went over to him and pushed him back on the pillows. He had risen to his elbows in agitation and he subsided reluctantly, wincing as the movement disturbed his leg.

“You’re ill, and I’m not going to fight with you,” Linn said. “It’s no concern of mine if you want to trifle with your life.”

“I’m not trifling with my life,” he answered, his voice low and losing volume. “I’m here, as you see. I got out.”

“This time.”

“Every time. I’m lucky. I’ve always been lucky.”

“Oh, I can tell that just by looking at your leg,” Linn said sarcastically. “You were lucky when you took that bullet, I suppose?”

“Certainly. Anyone else would now be guarding the entrance to a harem.” He smiled slightly and closed his eyes, drifting off into a doze.

Linn smiled too, in spite of herself. She discovered again that she couldn’t remain angry with him. She unfolded the blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it over him, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his forehead with the back of her hand. His eyes opened.

“I’m glad you’re here, Aislinn,” he whispered. He reached up and took her hand, drawing her to the edge of the bed. “Sit with me,” he added.

Linn sat gingerly, careful not to jostle him. He closed his eyes again, still holding her hand. She was in the same position, watching the rise and fall of his chest, when McCarthy came to the door.

Linn got up and let him in. He was a tall, heavyset man in his fifties with graying blond hair and a small moustache. His direct gaze swept quickly over Linn and then took in the patient, prone on the bed.

He brushed past Linn and pulled over a chair, depositing his bag on the seat of it. He examined Con’s leg and shook his head.

“Will you look at this, now?” he said to Linn. “Do you think the wild man here will ever learn? Six months ago he stops a bullet that nicks the femoral artery, and he damn near bleeds out before they slap a tourniquet on him and rush him to hospital. Once there it takes enough blood to float the Armada to get him back on his feet and yet here he is, up to his old tricks again. He will mix it up with those hooligans in Ulster and this is what it gets him.”

Con’s lashes lifted. “Will you skip the oratory and patch me up, Neil?” he asked faintly. “She doesn’t need to hear the sordid history of my life.”