William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

With that and parting handshakes for Koznicki and Koesler, O’Reardon left the room.

“Are you comfortable, Inspector?” Koesler seated himself in the room’s single chair. “I mean, you don’t appear to be in pain.”

“How does the expression go: But for the honor of it, I would just as soon be in Philadelphia. This is the first time I have been shot, and it is damned uncomfortable, not to mention painful. But,” Koznicki shrugged, “there is nothing for it. In my profession, one learns to live with the knowledge that you can be hurt or even killed. It is a dangerous and violent world, as I have said . . . and the police officer lives at the very focal point of this violence.”

“Why do I feel so guilty?” Koesler looked up with a half grin, half grimace. “It’s as if somehow I were responsible. If I hadn’t invited you and gotten tickets to the theater, you wouldn’t have been there and, perhaps, wouldn’t have been shot.”

Koznicki started to chuckle, then stopped, wincing. “Oh! Now I know what people mean when they say it only hurts when they laugh.

“But please, Father, do not think those thoughts. Whoever did this to me would have done it whether I had gone to the theater or not. He probably had been keeping me under surveillance ever since we arrived in Ireland, waiting for his opportunity. And when he saw us purchasing tickets, his plan took shape.

“But the same thing would have happened had I gone to a pub or a restaurant or even merely for a walk. Actually, despite what the Superintendent said, I was the one who was negligent. I should have perceived that with the Reverend Toussaint out of the way I was the one remaining obstacle who had a track record of thwarting their plans. I should have been more vigilant.

“As for your feeling guilty—not a moment of it! No, on the contrary, Father, being with you in those circumstances was undoubtedly what saved my life. If you hadn’t jarred the gunman’s arm, he would have accomplished what he set out to do, and you would now be busy arranging to ship my body back to Detroit for burial.” Koznicki shuddered as he verbalized, for the first time in his life, a scenario that might follow his death.

“But,” he said more brightly, “now for your tour, Father. Where are you going and when do you begin?”

“Oh, I’m canceling that. I’m going to stay here and keep you company.”

“Nonsense! There is nothing you can do for me here. I will be well taken care of by the medical staff and I have every confidence in the Gardai. Besides, short of killing me, the Rastafarians have accomplished their immediate purpose: to prevent me from attending Saturday’s service at St. Patrick’s. So, perhaps they will not bother with me again.

“You see, there is a difference between my situation and that of the Reverend Toussaint. They not only determined to kill him; obviously, they wished to inflict agony on him as well. There was none of that in their plans for me. They meant to dispatch me quickly with a single fatal bullet. And the Reverend remains in peril since, if he recovers sufficiently, he may be able to identify one or more of his assailants. Not only did I not see my attacker, none of the eyewitnesses was able to give a description of him. So, I should be safe for now.

“But yes, Father, there is one thing you can do for me before you go off on your tour. I have already spoken to Wanda by phone. But if you would just call and reassure her that I am all right. I told her I was, but,” he smiled, “she may believe it better coming from you.”

Koesler smiled back. “Of course. I’ll be glad to call Wanda and tell her that you are doing very well in an Irish hospital surrounded by Sisters of Mercy who are tending to all your needs and fulfilling your every whim. And then I’ll just start on my tour.”

“Good. And when you return from the hinterlands, you can tell me all about the bogs.”

“You really think I should go?”

“Absolutely. No question about it.”

Koesler brightened. “Well, if you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.”

“Then I guess I will—though I do wish you were coming.”

“Well, as I’ve said, you can tell me stories. When do you leave?”

Koesler glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going soon. I’ll drive into Boyle this afternoon and look around for my roots, as it were, and then drive on to Gurteen. It’s just a few miles beyond. Then I’ll stay there one or two nights. Tomorrow, I’d like to just do a little sightseeing. Maybe drive down through Connaught to the Burren.”

“That sounds like a most relaxing trip. And you still intend to stay at that pub in Gurteen?” The Inspector was smiling.

Koesler nodded.

“A priest in a pub!” He wouldn’t laugh outright; he didn’t want to hurt himself again. “That should shake the faith of the Irish.”

“Perhaps. But my friend in Detroit insisted. On the one hand, I wouldn’t want to offend him by not accepting his hospitality. And, on the other, it will be very convenient.

“Here . . . ” Koesler searched his pockets until he found a small box of matches, “there’s a picture of the pub on this matchbox.”

Koznicki examined the box. The picture showed a large, two-story brick and wood building with the words, “Teach Murray” across its front.

“‘Teach Murray’? What in the world does that mean?”

“The very question I asked Chris Murray back in Detroit. It’s Irish and it’s pronounced ‘Chalk Murray.’ Chris explained ‘Teach’ as the equivalent of ‘Chez’ in French. I guess the closest we can come to it in English is ‘Murray’s Place.’ Doesn’t it look interesting?”

“Yes. So you will be staying there . . . oh, yes,” he smiled again, “by all means do tell me all about it when you come back.

“But for now,” his face took on a serious aspect, “will you give me your blessing, Father, please.”

Koesler traced the sign of the cross over Koznicki. “May the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit descend upon you and remain with you. Amen.”

The two shook hands and Koesler left the hospital.

As he walked toward his rented car, a bright yellow late-model Ford Escort, he thought he heard someone call his name. Turning, he saw a well-dressed black man walking rapidly toward him. A gold watch chain was stretched across the vest of his gray, pin-striped suit. His hair was closely cropped. Koesler took him to be a professional man.

“It is Father Koesler, is it not?”

“Yes. And you are . . .?”

“My name does not matter. I am a friend of Ramon Toussaint.”

Even if he had not said this, Koesler would have guessed there might be some connection. The man spoke with the Haitian accent that characterized Ramon’s speech.

“He sent a message,” the man said, without further preamble, “asking us to look into a matter. We know of his condition. We know also of his friendship with you. Since we cannot give the information to him, we give it to you: The Rastafarians are not in Ireland so they will make no attempt here on the life of Cardinal Boyle.”

He turned and walked quickly away.

“Wait!” Koesler called. “Who are you? How do I know—” He stopped, sensing it would be futile to try to catch up with the man or to expect any further discourse from him.

The priest stood motionless for some time, pondering the stranger’s message.

5.

Talk about serpentine! Father Koesler thought as he left Dublin and drove toward Boyle; the roads of Ireland seemed to weave in and out and up and down more than any other place he could recall. In addition, it had been many years since he had driven a stick-shift automobile. Also, the gearshift was to the left of the steering wheel instead of to the right.