Blood From A Shadow (2012) Read online

  Artie prayed, we huddled around him, until Gallogly said we must get Rose and young Con to safety. The spell was broken, we helped each other back to the automobiles. Gallogly’s 8 seater was behind the CR-V. We lifted Con and Rose into the back seats, Artie pulled Ferdy in, then held his old red hand out to me. I felt like punching him again, but he started to laugh at me. I looked down, I had pissed my pants again.

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  Thursday, December 13, 2012

  Gallogly was late. He was supposed to pick me up at 5am, it was already 5.30. I paced up and down the apartment, juggled the cell phone, five more minutes, then I would tell him to forget it, the trip was off. Should take about five or six hours to drive down to Fredericksburg, Gallogly said he would do it in four. Five thirty-five, I called him, he answered straight away, sitting outside, waiting on me.

  “Ferdy, he’s here! Let’s go!” I called in to the bathroom.

  Gallogly revved the Merc SUV, the one he had used to collect me at Gaelic Park. Ferdy got in first, young Con already in front beside Gallogly. No eye contact, muted greetings. I hadn’t seen Gallogly since we returned from Ulster County, just spoke on the phone, but we were ok. And Rose and young Con seemed to recover from Sarah’s tranquilizer pretty quickly, although Rose said she was still a little punch-drunk on Tuesday, when I spoke to her. She was resting up with Gallogly, over in Hampton Bays, we would talk later, when she was ready. This was awkward for Gallogly, but we were ok, and I wasn’t in the mood for any more trouble.

  “Thanks for coming, Con,” I said to my son, reaching forward to squeeze his shoulder.

  “No problem, Dad,” he said, and that was fine, too. I had expected him to blame me for the whole sorry mess, that had always been his default mode, but he had surprised me, seemed more mature now, ready to give me a chance, made the effort because he knew this meant something to me. I would really try to stop calling him “young” Con, break that habit.

  We were on the New Jersey Turnpike before Ferdy started to stoke up the craic. Just like old times, like the last months had never happened. And that’s what they had decided, Cora’s people, or Duffin’s, or whoever they were. None of it happened. It was not in the interests of the people of the United States to have our story told. Not now, not ever. Artie McCooey would be sent back to Rome, when they had finished with him, would never see the US again. The Iranian Quds Force, the Israelis and the Brit were to be agents of an al Qaeda off shoot, they said. That minor threat had been neutralised and homeland security was intact. Dialogue and progress with Iran would not be compromised. End of story. Conroy and Lutterall weren’t our problem, we had never heard of them, would never speak of them again, to anyone. The Turkish authorities had no outstanding interest in either of us. But Ireland and the UK were to be off limits to Ferdy and I, for ever. It had all been decided, they had every confidence that we would be co-operative. This was the easy way, they told us.

  My son was laughing now, at stories from the old days that Ferdy delighted in rehearsing. Funny stuff, from a different world, when we were different people. Gallogly started to unwind, topped Ferdy’s tales, mimicked the cast of players. Young Con pumped them for more, I settled back, and savored his laughing voice.

  * * *

  I had been at Fredericksburg National Cemetery once before, when Conroy had me in therapy, but today was different, I could feel it in my bones. One hundred and fifty years ago, on this day, this soil had been a red sponge of blood and tears. The Irish Brigade had already been decimated by the Peninsula Campaign, Antietam and all the rest, but mustered twelve hundred men for Fredericksburg on December 13, 1862. The 69th, 63rd and 88th New York, 28th Massachusetts, 116th Pennsylvania. Two hundred and sixty three still standing on December 14. The 69th itself had three officers alive to lead their fifty surviving men off the field. Left 176 comrades behind them here, hundreds more on the earlier battlefields. Robert E. Lee observed from the Confederate lines, “The Fighting Sixty Ninth”, he christened them.

  This was the battlefield of my nightmares, the ranks of blue following the gold harp on the green flag. But I had read about it, knew only the Fighting Irish from Boston had their flag that day, the flags of the New Yorkers had been shot to ribbons in earlier battles and had been sent off to be replaced by Tiffany’s, so they wore sprigs of green boxwood in their caps instead. We kept that tradition, and I had worn it myself, in my time. Funny that wasn’t in my dreams.

  We followed their steps up Marye’s Heights, more people milling around the headstones, some in period costume, blues and grays. A couple of old guys saw my Silver Star on young Con’s chest and started a conversation. Old soldiers, proudly wearing their own chest candy. Others started to gather, some of our own guys, Ferdy hailed them, I retreated, too embarrassed, too guilty. A group of re-enactors were having a smoke break. Blue woollen “New York State Coats”, Springfield Smoothbore Muskets, forage caps with the green leafed garnish, these guys were dressed as the Irish Brigade of 1862. I told them I had served in the 69th myself, one of them handed his musket over, I was fooling around with it, Ferdy appeared at my side, with half a dozen of our guys. Before the actors knew it, Ferdy and the boys had their muskets and green sprigged caps and were charging up the hill towards a group of Reb actors. Ferdy was in front, waving the green flag with the gold harp, young Con at his side. That scene that had tortured me so many times, now made me laugh, I clapped Gallogly around his shoulders, things were going to be just fine, I told him, tears in my eyes, from laughter and pride.

  Then I saw her, meandering through the headstones, casually, as if it was a coincidence. Over 15,000 Union soldiers buried here, mostly unidentified, in mass graves. She drifted over towards me, Gallogly followed Ferdy up the hill.

  “Hi, Cora. I didn’t think I would be seeing you again,” I said.

  “I’m here for my grandfather,” Cora said. “He would have been here if he was still alive. My mom is here, she’s staying with me right now, I don’t live so far away from here.”

  So, maybe the grandfather did exist, after all.

  “How’s Conroy?” I asked.

  A short shake of the head, no answer, off limits.

  “I came here with Conroy once, you know,” I said. “She is from Gainesville, that’s where the 24th Georgia Infantry came from. A lot of them were Irish as well, up there behind that wall, cutting our guys to pieces.”

  She had that mask in place again, but I guessed she must have had some sympathy for Conroy, she couldn’t have been that cold.

  “I only thought about the sacrifice on our side, angry but proud too,” I said. “Conroy encouraged me to have pity for the Georgians. Said I should put myself in their boots. I guess I understand her now. It doesn’t always feel good to win, if you have witnessed terrible things on the way, maybe did terrible things yourself, right?”

  Cora shrugged, dipped her hand into her overcoat pocket and pulled out her cigarette lighter, played with it, rotated it through her fingers.

  “I guess we can all let ourselves off the hook, if we feel sorry for ourselves,” she said. “But we know Inspector Mehmet Kaffa never had the opportunity to feel sorry for himself. That stuff, that we won’t mention, wasn’t what it was supposed to be. The people, that we won’t mention either, knew Inspector Kaffa wasn’t playing straight with them, that’s why they terminated their arrangement with him.”

  Kaffa had switched the abrin, that’s why Ferdy was still alive.

  “You think it was really Conroy that murdered Kaffa?” I said.

  No answer, Cora watched Ferdy and the green flag come back down the hill behind a fife and drum corps playing Garryowen. I didn’t much care anymore, but I suspected that Cora and Duffin and Kaffa had the whole scheme tagged, right from the start. So why did they allow it to get dangerous, and why use me? She hesitated, the mask softened for a second.

  “Sometimes you know something is going to happen,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you can prevent it. Certain people
were considered to be a risk, so appropriate controls were in place. But a friend of yours was beyond our control. We needed you, and other people were allowed to lead us to the ringleaders. That really is the end of this story, Con. You need to let it go, for good, ok?”

  “And did she?” I asked. “Lead you to the ringleaders?”

  “She led us to your priest, nobody ever saw that one coming, not even Duffin,” she said. “Your Monsignor Artie will take us to the next stage, that room you imagined, strong men sitting around a nice walnut table? The Vatican are involved now, they will ensure he co-operates.”

  That was about as far as she was going, the mask hardened again.

  “Ok Cora, I told them I wouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “But I have my own problem, nothing to do with this thing. It turns out I did something terrible myself, when I was in Iraq. I let my comrades down, let the United Stated down. Say I want to go back there now, and ask for justice for the people I wronged. How would that fit with this thing? How would I go about it without your people getting anxious?”

  She shook her head, her blond locks swished across the beautiful mask.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “That is not something we would encourage, not a course of action we would permit. It won’t happen, Con. Forget it, get on with your life.”

  I guessed that was just something I would have to decide for myself, when I was ready.

  “And how is Ferdia McErlane?” Cora asked. “He looks a little excited here today. That business with his mother, it must have disturbed him? Can we rely on his state of mind?”

  “Yeah, it disturbed him, Cora,” I said. “He couldn’t save both of them, he chose to save my son. He is hurting right now, we all are, but we will get through it together. He knows he did the right thing, Cora, so you can tell your people they don’t have to worry about him.”

  She was watching Ferdy as I spoke, he was fooling around with young Con, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Somebody fifed up “The Rakes of Mallow”. I could see she was composing her report as we stood there.

  “And the funeral service?” she probed. “You understand you can’t go to Ireland for that, don’t you?”

  “Sarah left that world behind her,” I said. “When her body is released to us, she will be buried here. Then she will be at peace. Life goes on, we will all start again.”

  She was grinding it through all the scenarios they had gambled on, like a bookie before the big race.

  “So is that it?” I said. “Is that what you came here to do? Check up on us? Are you satisfied now?”

  Her eyes frosted a little.

  “I came here with my mother to celebrate the life of my grandfather,” she said. “He was proud of the 69th Regiment, he would have wanted us to attend on this special day.”

  Yeah, Cora, but I waited for more.

  “And Mr Duffin is out of danger now,” she said. “He sends his regards, and suggested that you should have this.”

  Her open hand offered the cigarette lighter to me, polished silver, with “Berlin 1989” engraved above a broken wall.

  “That gentleman that we left in the stairwell of the hotel parking lot? He had it,” she said.

  “Conroy’s?” I asked.

  She shook her locks again.

  “I believe it belonged to your friend, Inspector Kaffa,” she said.

  Cora placed the lighter in my palm, then delivered a firm, formal handshake, turned and walked off, linked arms with an older woman, looked like her, polished medals beaming from her chest. They walked off slowly, browsing through the headstones.

  Gallogly was waiting, called me to pose for a photograph with the rest of the crew. No, I would wait in the car, got the keys off him, headed back down. We were parked over on Sunken Road, I was walking back, alone with my thoughts, until I got a hard slap on the back of my head. I spun around.

  “I told you I don’t forget easily, didn’t I?” Detective Ed Dart, NYPD.

  “I guess you have been told to forget, just like I have,” I said.

  He laughed, yeah, he had been told. Never heard anything like it, but he had been told.

  “Good advice, man, forget about it and move on,” Dart said. “You will never know the whole story, none of us will, we don’t need to.”

  “You tailed me all the way down here to tell me that?” I said.

  “I’m not here now because of you, Maknazpy. That’s your problem, you think everything is always about you, right?”

  He thought he knew me, but he was wrong.

  “I gave my partner a ride down, that’s all,” he said. “His great-great something grand daddy laid his life down on this ground, McAnespie’s here with his kid, passing on the family history, you know how it is.”

  Detective McAnespie had family killed here?

  “Yeah, a sorry tale,” Dart said. “His whatever grand daddy had a young brother here with him. The kid got hit and McAnespie’s grand whatever went to the rescue. Got nailed himself. They’re here somewhere, beneath our feet in an unmarked grave, you’re probably standing on them right now. But we all have sorry tales from those days in this country, no NYPD to protect and serve, Fidelis ad Mortem, right?”

  I saw the red one coming down from the last original section of the stone wall on Sunken Road. Confederate rifles were three and four deep behind that wall, thousands of Union infantry heaped dead below it. He had a kid with him, maybe ten years old, looked like his father, but happier, full of life. McAnespie saw me, held the kid’s hand tightly, said nothing, not the usual abuse he would spit at me. McAnespie couldn’t hide that he had been crying.

  “Chokes you up, doesn’t it?” I said.

  McAnespie just nodded, didn’t speak. I ruffled the kid’s hair, he looked a bit like young Con did at that age, wearing an Ireland soccer top. I palmed him $10.

  “So, Detective Michael McAnespie, looks like you are Irish after all,” I said.

  “Fuck that shit!” McAnespie barked. “I’m from Brooklyn! I’m an American!”