A/N: Thank you all for being so patient while you waited for this next chapter of Be Brave Little Angel. Christmas, punishing work schedules & a case of writer's block have all conspired to get in the way of our story telling.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirty Two
In the early hours of Tuesday morning, Liam Glenanne stood in the Coleraine's kitchen wondering not for the first time if his family were conspiring to drive him into an early grave. First Fiona losing her mind and running off with a foreign spy and now his mother and aunt had taken it upon themselves to declare war on the CIA. Tha wa' medium sized conflicts takin' place around tha world thot had lower body counts than whot was takin' place in one small corner o' Ireland.
"What can I say, brudder, ya know whot she's like. Ya know whot thar both like. We should count ourselves lucky Granma Fionulla dinnae get an invite ta tha party taa. 'Sides tha bastid wa' planning on blackmailing Fiona an' mabbe turnin' tha lot o' us inta feckin' touts. Am beginnin' ta think both o' tham bastids deserved whot they got."
Liam threw his head back and stared up at the Coleraine's kitchen ceiling, searching for the strength to deal with the geriatric members of the family and idiot brothers who condoned their actions.
"I told ya ta keep everyone inside tha house," he said as calmly as he could manage while silently kicking himself for dismissing all of his cousin Ryan's calls while he'd been hunting down the men who had assaulted Robin and murdered her father.
"Ya also told me ta do nuttin' ta draw attention an' ta keep things lookin' as normal as possible," Seamus reminded him, the younger man's temper also beginning to rise. "So I sent tha kids off ta school an' after Ma insisted on goin' off ta one o' har feckin' women's meetin's, I sent yar man O'Connor off ta babysit har... How tha hell wa' I supposed ta know she wa' lying through har teeth? Am nae a feckin' mind reader, am I?"
He could hear the stress in his younger sibling's voice and a very small part of him felt a tiny slither of sympathy. But that part was quickly quashed as the head of the family thought about the likely fallout from a CIA officer on his way to Dublin squashed by a lorry and an English spy spread all over a farmer's field.
"Are ya sure they left nae evidence behind? Naebody saw them? Whot about Ryan? Ya know thar gonna drag his arse back in fer questionin' an' he's nae faced -"
"Auntie Claire had already thought o' thot... An bhean crafty aois had called Rye an' told ham ta get himself an' his family outta tha country an' in ta hidin' 'til things settle down... Apparently he wa' spittin' bricks o'er it. Sommit about all tha jobs he had planned an' tha money he wa' gonna lose."
Sighing heavily, the clan leader added smoothing things over with one of the leading lights of the Dublin underworld to his ever growing 'to do' list.
"I'll be home as soon as I've got things straight har. Until then, Am gonna make things real simple fer ya, Shay... Lock tha house down... Yar kids can go ta school, but everyone else, especially our mam, stays... inside... Is thot clear enough fer ya?"
"Mabbe ya should tell har thot yarself. She's hare now an' wants a word."
Liam pursed his lips. As much as he loved his mother, right now he wasn't prepared to listen to her excuses for taking it upon herself to go off on a killing spree with her old partner in crime... Dinnae he have enough feckin' problems to deal wit' nar wit'out those two out raisin' merry hell?
"Tell har I'll talk ta har when I get back. See ya soon." Then before Seamus could reply, he ended the call, turning to face the five men sitting at the kitchen table waiting to hear his instructions.
It had been a tough afternoon and evening. After sending Gerry back into the house, Liam had set about removing all the evidence of the bloody battle which had taken place at Coleraine farm. It had taken him several hours to totally clear the various scenes and even now he wasn't positive that if some sharp eyed crime scene investigators came calling they wouldn't find something he had missed. It had been awhile since he'd had to cover that much ground without some backup.
He'd started by wrapping up and dumping the bodies of Thomas O'Neill and Martin McCullough into the trunk of his car. Then with only a flashlight at his disposal, the PIRA's premiere interrogator had scoured the ground around both scenes for bullet casings and disrupted the earth to disguise the blood covered grass and dirt.
Afterwards, as the head of the family had entered the barn, Liam had expected to just be picking up the casings from his sibling's sniper perch on the second floor. Instead what he had found had caused him to suck in a deep breath and then let it out along with a stream of expletives. It had also been a long time since he had seen a work top covered by so many different containers, all rigged with detonators connected to home-made explosives; it had given him a flashback to his father's work shop back at their farm when he had been a teenager.
He hadn't handled such deadly devices for nearly twenty years and he hadn't been about to start by messing with the notoriously unstable mix concocted by his sister and her spy boyfriend. So having moved away, Liam had added another name to the list of people he had coming to the farm already.
"Marty, have ya cleared away all Fiona's little experiments?"
Marty Logan was a close friend of Sean's, the two young men sharing a love for all things that went boom ever since they had worked together for the first time back in the late 80's as part of the West Belfast division of the PIRA. "Aye, tha old fella's barn tis safe. I've removed tha detonators an' stored tha explosive... I thought ya might wanta keep it. Ya know, if ya ever want ta make it look like Fiona is somewhare she isnae."
"Nar, thot's a right smart idea, Marty," the older man grinned, happy to get some good news after his conversation with Seamus. "Let me have a think about it an' I'll give ya a target. After all this, I think sendin' all tham bastids lookin' in tha wrong direction will give us tha breathin' space we need."
"I'll make a start on loadin' tha boxes. Am gonna wanta make an early start. I donnae fancy gettin' caught in traffic wit' thot little lot in me car. One sudden jolt an' I'll be flattenin' tha Wicklow Mountains, so I will."
Once the leanly built, dark haired explosive specialist was on his way out to the barn to finish his preparations, Liam turned to the remaining four men, his pale blue eyes settling on the plump elderly man sitting next to the youngest of quartet. This was Thomas Brody, a retired veterinary assistant who supplemented his income by patching up any members of the Dublin criminal fraternity who could afford to pay him.
"Tommy, ya got everythin' ya need ta look after tha boy?"
"No problems," the older man replied. "I've got ham on an antibiotic drip, along wit' saline an' some pain meds. Ya can trust me."
"He should be getting' some blood taa..." Liam sighed, but knew stealing blood was not something that could be done on the fly. "How long 'til he can be moved back home?" He was pretty sure he knew the answer to that question, but the former medical student asked anyway.
"How long is a piece o' string….? A week...? Mabbe a few days more, depends on how tha boy heals…" Brody shrugged. "If tham stitches ya put in give or tha antibiotics donnae clear away tha infection, we might be out hare a month or more..."
"Okay then, ye look close after tha boy. Jimmy, ya know whot yer hare fer?" The head of the clan turned his attention to Jimmy Doyle, the youngest of the group, as well being the youngest of his personal bodyguard's siblings.
"Yes sur," the brown haired youth answered, sitting up a little straighter. "Am har ta keep an eye on tha place while Joey heals up."
"Thot's right, lad. Tha girl, Robin, she'll help ya out wit' thot. She'll keep tha old wans in line. All ya have ta do is watch out fer anybody who comes callin'. It shouldnae be taa much o' a hardship. Thar's nae one who counts left who cares about O'Neill, tha McCulloughs are nobodies and thot Gard who wa' har befer ya lot arrived went away happy enough. I cannae see ham comin' back."
He had been on his way from the barn to the farmhouse when he had heard a car pull up on the lane. Drawing his gun, he had rushed to the shelter of the side of the house and then crept around to take a look at who was calling on the Coleraines so late in the evening.
The sight of a Nissan Terrano with the yellow and blue livery of the Gardai Siochana parked next to the side gate and a single officer walking up the path had sent his blood racing and his feet speeding towards the kitchen door.
His fears had been unfounded. Gerry, with Robin lurking in the background hiding behind the door, had kept the officer on the doorstep and sent him away none the wiser to what was really going on.
"Nae, Am sorry but I cannae let yar inside. Me wife is already in bed an' I wa' on me way up... Whot's happened ta have ya callin' at this hour o' tha night?"
"It would be easier ta talk inside," the officer had complained, but he hadn't pushed the matter. "But Am har ta ask ya, have ya had any trouble out har today, any strangers hanging around?"
Liam had taken a breath and crept a little closer, his right hand tightening on the grip of his handgun as he'd awaited the old farmer's reply.
"Nae, not a thing... Whot is this about?"
He'd been pleased see the way Gerry blocked the door with one of his crutches, keeping the policeman from seeing further into the house.
"Mr. Coleraine, Am har about yar cousin, Mrs. Sara Moran. I understand she wa' out har earlier today... Well, Am sorry ta be tha one tellin' ya, she wa' attacked on har way ta har next call... Oh she's fine nar, well nae fine exactly. She's in hospital in tha critical care unit. She's got a touch o' hypothermia, a concussion, a coupla broken bones. Oh, nothin' she'll nae recover fram, ya can rest easy about thot... But she wa' most concerned about yarself. All we've got outta o' har is thot har attacker wanted ta know about ya an' tha young couple ya have stayin' wit' ya."
"Tha Creegans? They left har just after Sara drove away. Tha young lass wanted ta get home... Whot happened ta Sara? Do ya know who attacked har?"
"Wa're makin' inquiries. All she could tell us wa' it wa' a young fella... Are ya sure ya've nae seen anybody hangin' about? Nobody suspicious in tha district?"
"Nobody, officer… Tis been as quiet as tha grave."
"Well, I'll be on me way then, sur. If ya have any worries, ya can call any time an' somebody will be straight out har, I promise. G'night, sur."
"G'night, an' thank ya."
It had been a close call, but the elderly farmer had shown at that moment he could be trusted and Liam was all about repaying his debts. That thought had him turn to the last of his men, both distant cousins and completely loyal to the Glenanne family, but both just like his youngest brother tended to be a little hot headed.
"Jamesy, Donald, we'll be leavin' soon. Las' time Davy called he said he wa' an hour outside o' Clonmel. I donnae want ta leave ham hangin'." The two large men nodded silently and got to their feet, exiting through the kitchen door to make sure everything was ready when their boss was ready to leave.
"We'll take all tha rest o' tha cars. Jimmy, if ya need ta go anywhere, ya'll have ta take Brody's ride," Liam instructed young Mr. Doyle. But he had one more subject he wanted to discuss before bidding their host goodbye. "Thare is one more thing, an' tis tha reason Am leavin' ye har Jimmy lad an' nae Jamesy or Donald..." The head of the clan made sure he had the strict attention of both of the men being left behind in the little country farmhouse before continuing.
"Ya have both seen tha photos, tha old fella fought wit' tha Brits... I willnae hear one word against ham fer it. He helped me sister, gave har shelter when he coulda turned har away an' a short while ago, he put his own neck on tha line, lying ta tha Gard. Same goes fer tha girl. I know whot she is, but she's under me protection, so ya'll both keep a civil tongue in yar heads... Is thot understood?"
"Aye…" and "Yes, sur," came from the pair immediately.
"Good, nar Am gonna have a few words wit' tha ol' fella, then Am off... An' fer feck sakes, call me if thar's a problem. I've had it wit' people tryin' ta fix thar mistakes by thamselves."
()()()
Under a dramatic rose and orange hued sky, two figures moved swiftly a silently along the edge of a deserted country lane, each one ready to dive for cover at the sound of an approaching vehicle, until finally after a two mile jog, they reached their destination: a small stone built church set back from the road.
In gathering intel, little things can tell you a lot: well-placed cameras without blind spots and flood lights fitted with sensors guarding the perimeter mean a security conscious target and even if you do manage to sneak past them you're still left with having to deal with a mortice dead lock securing a thick wooden door which looked like it was built to withstand a siege and a top flight alarm system to disarm once you get inside means your target has taken things to a whole new level.
Michael sucked in a breath and tried to remain positive as he surveyed the church grounds and buildings. This was not going to be the easy break in and hostage taking job his beloved had lead him to believe, far from it in fact.
"Fi-ona, is there something you've neglected to mention – about this priest?" Placing the binoculars he had been using to check out the church and the adjoining rectory down on to the chest height stone wall which marked the edge of St. Augustine's graveyard, the former spy turned to face the petite red head at his side.
"Not thot I can think of," she replied in that tone which he recognized from previous occasions when she had played down or downright lied to him about her part in a robbery or an illicit arms sale. Did she really expect him to believe she had forgotten about the array of cameras attached to the side of the gothic stone built church? Or that the good Father's home was protected by an alarm system usually only found in embassies or high profile government buildings?
"Fi... Fiona," he hissed, as he took a hold of her arm and dragged her around to face him. "You said sneaking inside the rectory wouldn't be a problem... But that's not what I'm seeing... Cameras…. Flood lights... A state of the art alarm system going by that box attached to the wall and a mortice lock on a door which from here looks-"
"Michael, I dinnae forget...But this is tha best way ta make contact wit' me mam an' ya know it..." Pulling her arm out of his grip, she stared back at him, the wide eyed guileless look on her face not fooling him for one minute. "An' I know ya…"
Her small hand stroked down the front of his jacket. "And I know a few cameras an' an alarm system is nae gonna be a problem fer a man o' yar talents, especially when ya have tha best safe cracker in tha whole o' Ireland at yar side."
Her eyes widened a fraction more and her lips parted enticing him to lean forward for a kiss, but he was too angry to give in this time to her attempts to massage his ego.
Yes, he was more than a little annoyed and frustrated by this delay in his plans to get them safely out of Ireland, but staring into those moisture filled blue-green eyes reminded him how much the woman he loved was prepared to give up for him and how important it was to her that she at least tried to reconcile with her family, though it was difficult to concede under the circumstances.
"It's nearly light," the ex-spy observed, swallowing down his irritation and trying to stay positive. "So you're right about the flood lights; they aren't going be a problem," he agreed reluctantly.
"An' tha cameras, once wer inside, we can delete tha footage. It'll be as if we war never hare." Fiona moved closer, slipping one slender arm around his waist. "See, we've already resolved two o' yar worries." She smiled brightly amidst the approaching dawn, hoping to mollify his mood.
"That still leaves the dead lock, which will take hours to pick, or are we going to wake up Father Conlon by shooting the lock off the door?" But there was only so much he was willing to overlook.
"I wa' thinkin' we could use tha duct tape an' tha glass cutter I added ta tha bag at yar feet ta make a hole I could fit through in tha parlor window." She glanced down at the bag containing their emergency supplies resting on the grass before returning her gaze to his scowling features. "I know whare tha control box is an' thot tha alarm is set wit' a two minute delay. Thot's plenty o' time fer me ta let ya inside an' ya ta disarm it. Or are ya sayin' yar losing yar touch wit' electronics, Michael?"
She pressed a kiss to his ear, her warm breath momentarily distracting him from his thoughts; however. it was only for a moment. Because after this latest admission, her lover was beginning to wonder what else she had left out in order to convince him to agree to this hare brained scheme.
Dealing with a trained operative is like playing chess with a master. Dealing with criminals, on the other hand, is like playing checkers with a three year-old: they like to change the rules.
His training officer and present thorn in his side, Tom Card, had used those cautionary words more than once when running training missions, as had his one-time partner and mentor Larry Sizemore.
Fiona Glenanne was a criminal, there was no denying that. But over the last eighteen months, she had become so much more: A trusted ally in a war zone, a lover, and now the mother to his child.
"Fine, I can see you have thought this through." He ground the words out from behind clenched teeth. "But before we go any further, I want to know if there any more surprises waiting for me. There's a reason this place is outfitted like a fortress, Fiona, and I want to know what it is."
"Thar ar' nae more surprises, Michael... Cross me heart," she added when his blue eyes narrowed and then as the dark haired man continued to stare, the redhead revealed the rest of the story.
"It's nothin' really. It wa' about ten years ago. I wa' still in university at tha time, but I gotta hear all about it when I came home. Tha wa' a bit o' a vandal problem in tha area, all down tae one family, outsiders who'd moved out fram tha city. It started wit' graves getting' trampled over, headstones knocked over, thot sorta thing. Tha gardai wa' nae interested. They said they'd increase patrols in tha area an' thot wa' it. Then, one night all tha lead o' tha church roof disappeared..."
"And…" he prompted, knowing he was still getting the run around from the reticent Irishwoman.
"And thot wa' when me mam sent Colin over ta take care o' security an' Sean off ta have a few words wit' tha bastids causin' most o' tha damage... An' over tha years Colin has kept updatin' everythin'... It makes me mammy happy ta know Father Conlon is safe."
"And that's all? No land mines or trip wires along the path we need to dodge?"
"Thot's all. I promise... Honestly, Michael, yer lettin' thot suspicious mind o' yars run away wit' ya."
The ex-operative stared into her eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to read her mind, and then nodded his head. "Okay then, let's get going."
"After ya…" Fiona beamed as she grasped the handles of the bag.
Of course, there was more to her story than she was telling him, but he no longer he needed an explanation. It was easy to read between the lines now with the details she'd finally given him.
Successful criminals just like spies value their privacy, so in general they make great neighbors. They're polite, they keep the lawn trimmed, they never crank the music at night, and they make damn sure other criminals know to give their neighborhood a wide berth.
It took very little for the former spy's imagination to guess how things went down once the gardai had started sending extra patrols into the area. One word from Maeve or possibly Liam and the troublemakers would have been encouraged in one way or another to find a new town to call home. Then playing the benevolent parishioner, it would have been easy for Maeve to have her middle child research and then install all the security measures he had seen put in place.
Glancing up at the cameras attached to the walls of the bell tower as they ran along the gravel path bisecting the neatly trimmed lawns of the graveyard, Michael smiled grimly. It must have been a great comfort to the present head of the family to know he now had a way of keeping tabs on everyone paying a visit to the man who listened to his mother's confession each week.
Running a few steps behind her man, Fiona couldn't help but notice how the former covert operative had chosen a route which would as far as possible keep them out of the view of the cameras covering the graveyard. Once against the side of the church, he hugged the wall until it was time to make a final dash through the wood gate and along the short paved path which lead to the heavy oak door of the rectory.
"Fi…?" He spoke her name softly, half turning to catch her eye.
"Tha parlor is ta tha left o' tha door...Tha control box fer tha alarm is just outside in the hall." She knew what he was asking without him needing to say any more. It was one of the many things that had drawn her to the dark haired stranger. Right from the very beginning, whenever they worked together, it was as if they could read each other's minds.
Snatching the bag from her hand, he quickly unzipped the top and pulled out the items he would need. "Keep watch, this won't take long." He flashed her a quick grin and then set to work, his previous bad mood completely dissipated as he focused on the task at hand.
For several seconds, the only sound was that of the sticky tape being pulled off the roll before being cut and stuck to the glass of Father Conlon's living room window.
Watching him cover one of Father Conlon's window frames in tape, Fiona couldn't help but think of some of the other things she admired about the man before her, at that moment particularly his ability to commit completely to a job even if he didn't wholly agree with the objective.
"Will ya get a move on, Michael? Morning prayers start at ten ya know," she teased, pleased that they had been able to get past his objections as easily as they were now eluding the security.
"I'm going as fast as I can. You don't want to be picking shards out of your behind when you climb through do you?" he hissed back, the twinkle in his eyes removing any sting from his words or tone.
This was a game they liked to play, comparing and criticising each other's skills at larceny as a way of breaking the tension.
"I'm just sayin' it'll be embarrassing if Father Conlon walks in ta find me climbin' through his window."
"Aren't you supposed to be keeping watch?" He glared in her direction, before turning back to the task of cutting through the taped up section of glass.
Without conscious thought, her mind had drifted to all the things to the games they loved to play to relieve the tension after a successful mission. Her eyes lingering on the muscular thighs and taut buttocks covered in denim as the man she loved leaned forward to carefully place the cut out piece of glass beneath the window sill.
"Oh Am keeping watch," she smirked.
"Ready?" He held out a hand, intending on helping her through the gap. "Fi…?"
She shook herself as a warm tremor coursed through her petite frame. Ducking her face down in an attempt to hide the sudden blush suffusing her cheeks, the fiery redhead stepped forward and lifted her foot onto his hand as he aided her on her way.
"Don't hang around in there, Fi."
The Irishwoman rolled her eyes as she pushed aside the heavy curtains and dropped silently into the darkened room. Crossing over the rich wool woven carpet, she slowly opened the door into the hall, her eyes darting to the alarm control panel which was lit up due to a flashing warning light and a digital timer counting down from one hundred and twenty.
It took the slender part time thief several seconds to find where the priest left his keys and another few to open the door.
Ninety two seconds showed on the board as Michael set to work, easing off the cover and in the semi darkness trying to work out which wires were the ones to cut...
The lights stopped flashing as the timer slipped over to fifty five seconds.
()()()()
While Michael and Fiona were waiting for Father Conlon to wake up, just over a hundred miles to south of the small village of Manor Kilbride, a large explosion originating in a disused quarry outside Clonmel was causing problems for not only the early morning commuters, but also causing a headache for the local Gardai.
Three bodies, which for two of them were going to need dental records to identify, were discovered inside what had at one time been the building which held the company explosives. One poor soul, Martin McCullough, had already been identified by fingerprints from a hand which had been found amongst the wreckage.
As more law enforcement vehicles streamed into the area to assist with the crime scene, a black Mercedes S-class saloon with a brand new windscreen was travelling north. Inside Liam Glenanne lounged on the back seat with his eyes closed. Reunited with his most trusted bodyguard, the head of the Glenanne family was taking the opportunity to rest before he had to face his mother and deal with the fallout from the eldest members of the clan day trip to Naas.
()()()()
I never run around in the bushes in a ski mask when I'm breaking in someplace. Somebody catches you, what are you gonna say? You want to look like a legitimate visitor until the very last minute. If you can't look legit, confused works almost as well… Maybe you get a soda from the fridge, or a yogurt. If you get caught, you just look confused and apologize like crazy for taking the yogurt - nothing could be more innocent... Or if you really want to confuse the hell out of the home-owner and diffuse a potentially disastrous situation, you could cook them up a hearty Irish breakfast.
The first hint Father Conlon received that this particular day was not going to go the way his diary said it should was when he stepped out of his bathroom and caught the delicious scent of bacon, sausages and eggs cooking wafting up the stairs.
Pausing on the landing, the white haired man of God pursed his lips. Had he got his days mixed up? He wa' sure it wa' Tuesday. Mrs. O'Brien, his housekeeper came on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and she also arrived after eight o'clock in the morning...
Listening intently, he thought he caught the sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen and then the clatter of what he suspected was cutlery. Whot sorta a thief stops ta make his self some breakfast?
More curious than afraid, the older man detoured to his bedroom to finish getting dressed before going downstairs to find out who had decided to invite themselves in for a meal. It was then as he reached the bottom of the stairs he noted that the fancy alarm Colin Glenanne had spent a whole day wiring into his home had been vandalized, the cover over the control panel broken and several wires pulled from the mother board.
Who would do such a thing? His blue eyes flickered to the sturdy front door which appeared undamaged and then to the open door leading into his front parlor. The cold draft seeping out of the usually cozy room caused the first glimmer of doubt to the identity of his unexpected guest.
With his heart beating a little faster than it should he cleared his throat and called out softly.
"Mrs. O'Brien?"
For what felt like several minutes, but in truth was only a second or two at most, there was a deathly silence. Then the kitchen door swung open and the slight figure of a young woman stepped into view.
"Father Conlon, Am sorry fer tha intrusion but I, – we, er, wer in need o' yar help an' it couldnae wait."
He barely registered the words being spoken as he took in the sight of little Fiona Glenanne.
O' course she wa' a woman full grown now fer sure. But he always thought of all the Glenanne children as they had been when his good friend Patrick had been alive. The three oldest boys Pat Jr, Liam and Seamus had regularly attended the services at the Belfast church where he had been serving as a curate before Patrick had moved the whole family out of the city to the safety of a remote smallholding. As such, he knew the middle and younger ones less well than the older three.
But even after they had moved so far away, his boyhood friend had made him most welcome when he had the free time to visit. When Patrick might have turned away from the priesthood to raise a family, Liam Conlon never questioned his seminary roommate's decision to leave the religious life.
Had he been pursued by a woman like Maeve O'Keefe, he might have done the same….
And he had rushed there to comfort Maeve on the day she had been told of her Patrick's death, grieving together for their terrible loss, and again on that black day that Pat Jr had gone down fighting the good fight in the bloody streets of Belfast outside his own home, he had been the first person a traumatized Colin had called to come to their side.
"Father…?"
He shook off the myriad of memories running through his mind to return to the present and the slightly trembling young woman standing before him.
"Fiona? Fiona Glenanne? Whot are ya doin' hare an' at this time o' day?" All his concerns about the broken alarm and what he suspected was a broken window in his parlor fled at the bedraggled condition of his favorite parishioner's youngest surviving child.
"Have ya called yar mother? She wa' beside harself when ya disappeared." Reaching out, he dropped his hands onto her shoulders and looked deeply into her troubled blue-green eyes.
Right then, he was struck by a feeling of deja vu: a young Maeve Glenanne turning up at the back door of his residence in Belfast on the day her husband had been arrested for the very first time, three days after Patrick's brother Milo had been killed during a protest march in Derry. Decades apart, both mother and daughter shared that same look of defiance mixed with desperation.
"Let's sit down an' ya can tell me yar troubles." His hands slipped from the dishevelled young woman's shoulders as Maeve's daughter linked her arm through his to escort him into his own kitchen and that was when he realized she wasn't alone. There, standing in front of the stove, was Michael McBride, the man who according to Maeve was, if not the devil himself, at least one of his favorite cohorts.
"Father, ya remember me – – fiancé, Michael McBride... Michael, Father Liam Conlon, he wa' the one officiatin' at Peter's christening… I've known him all me life an' Am sure he will be able ta help us."
He hadn't missed the way Fiona hesitated over what to call the dark haired man who was smiling broadly, his hand already held out in welcome.
A charming snake in the grass was one of the more charitable descriptions given by Maeve during one of their quiet talks after Sunday Mass.
"Father Conlon, tis good ta see ya again." McBride shook his hand and then pulled out a chair for him to sit down. "Fiona has been tellin' me all about ya."
"Aye an' I've been hearin' quite a bit about ya these days ta, lad," the priest agreed as the younger man turned his attention back to the stove and the food preparation. "Nae much o' it good, Am afraid," he continued, turning to face the redhead sitting nervously on the edge of her chair on the opposite corner of the small oak table.
Fiona reached across the wooden surface to lay her hand over Conlon's folded ones.
"Thot's why we've come, Father." The youngest Glenanne girl swallowed thickly, dropping her gaze to their joined hands before continuing. "Tis a horrible mess wa're in and it will nae end well fer anyone if ya cannae help us."
His blue sharp eyes not dimmed by age looked from Maeve's daughter to the suddenly straightened back of the man who had just finished spooning heaps of delicious smelling eggs into a large bowl. The good father was certain the cause of all this trouble knew he was being watched closely.
"Why dontcha refresh tha pot, when ya're done cookin'," the older man instructed. "It'll take more than one cuppa tea to sort out whot ya've gotten yarselves inta, but tis a grand place ta start."
"Thank ya, Father," Fiona said quietly, moisture and gratitude gathering in her eyes.
"Donnae thank me yet, lass," Father Conlon countered. "Thar's quite a ways yet ta go befer I can stop yar family fram murderin' tha father o' yar babby."