“What’s the emergency number?” I said as we tended to Ian, there on the roadside. Alex tied his handkerchief around Ian’s upper arm. I was still crouching beside them, afraid to stand up.
“It’s 999, isn’t it?” Alex asked Ian. “We need your phone.”
Alex was clear-headed enough to realize that it would be an international call on my phone, country code and other numbers, but it should be easy enough with Ian’s phone.
“No doctor, no Guard. I don’t think it’s too bad.” Ian touched his arm and made a face, but he was insistent. “Just get me to Shepherds.”
There hadn’t been a lot of blood. That seemed promising, but I didn’t know much about gunshot wounds. “You don’t want to risk an infection,” I said.
“We must call the police—the Guard,” Alex said. “Someone may still be out there.”
Ian might have relented, but the first car lights we’d seen since leaving town came into sight. Not an ambulance, but it was better than nothing. Alex stood and waved. I hoped he was wrong about someone lurking in the dark hedgerows. The car slowed down and pulled over.
“What happened?” a young man called, standing at his car door.
“He’s been shot.” Alex said. “Those lights. That’s where we’re going. Can you give us a ride?”
“Of course! That’s Shepherds.”
“Who shot him?” asked the young woman in the passenger seat who had opened her door to get a better look.
“We don’t know,” I said, looking around, wondering that myself.
“Someone must be half-cracked to discharge a weapon out here by the road,” she said.
“If it’s a hunter—I’m not one myself, but I do know those who go hunting for foxes and rabbits at night. But I expect you would’ve heard dogs,” the young man said.
He started the motor. We huddled in the back seat. Ian was able to sit up between Alex and me, but his expression, a brave grimace, showed that he was in pain.
Overly-friendly, as Alex often alleged, I asked, “Do you know the O’Tooles? Colin and Grace?”
“Of course!” said the young man.
The young woman said, “I went to school with Bridget.”
Alex darted a look at me. He must have thought I was going to ask a lot of questions about Bridget. Really! I had better judgment than that, under these circumstances. I said, “Thank you so much for stopping to help us.” We could have been carjackers. On the other hand, they could have seen us as easy prey to rob. Sometimes you just had to trust.
“We’re coming home from a concert,” the young woman said. “It must have been divine intervention that made us stop by the pub—or we would have been along this way an hour ago.”
Divine intervention or coincidence—whatever it was, I was happy and thankful for the safe conveyance to Shepherds. The color had drained from Ian’s face as the car turned into the driveway and pulled as close to the door as possible.
Alex reached over the driver’s shoulder with some bills. “You have done a good thing,” he said, giving the shoulder a pat. I didn’t know the denomination of the Euros, but the young man drew in a quick breath before voicing his gratitude, and the look he gave the young woman indicated that Alex must have been generous.
I helped Ian out of the car. He managed to say “bless you” in a weak voice.
I was prepared to rouse Grace and Colin if necessary, but Colin was working in the office. “I’ll get Grace,” he said. “She’s not been upstairs ten minutes. Go to the keeping room.”
Ian walked, propped up by Alex and me. I thought he was about to faint before we reached the keeping room and helped him to lie down on the daybed. I brought him a glass of water and braced his head with my hand while he took a sip. Colin came back with some towels and blankets. “What in bloody hell happened?” he asked.
We told him what we knew, which was not much. “You didn’t see anyone? You have no idea what it’s all about?” No, we insisted. With a swipe at his face, Colin said, “Good God. What’s happening in Thurles? It’s always been such a peaceful place.”
By the time Grace arrived, some color had returned to Ian’s cheeks. Grace was wearing a robe. She’d had time to remove her makeup. She might have even been asleep already. Colin had said ten minutes, but he hadn’t actually timed it. My bet was, if Grace’s head had touched the pillow, she’d slept. With infinite calmness, she examined Ian’s arm. “It’s a superficial wound. You’ll be fine,” she said.
“I knew it. Though my arm feels like it’s burning off,” Ian said, his voice a little stronger now.
“Just because the shot grazed your arm, it’s doesn’t mean you won’t hurt like hell,” Grace said. “It just means I can fix you up right here with peroxide and bandages, and you won’t need to go to the A&E tonight. There’s nothing to dig out.” Ian scowled. I think I did, too.
“Now we should call the police,” Alex said.
“I’m not keen on going to the Guards station to make a statement,” Ian protested. “Not tonight.”
“I’ll call. Maybe someone at the station can come out,” Colin said without great enthusiasm. I imagined he was ready to be finished with the Guard.
No more than ten minutes later, the police arrived. Colin gave a sigh when the uniformed officers, male and female, flashed their badges and introduced themselves. If they knew anything about the investigation that morning by Inspector Perone, Sergeant Casey, and Garda Mallory, they gave no indication. They took the information from Alex and me and the female officer said, “We’ll be letting you know what we find.”
“Not likely they’ll find anything,” Alex said after they were gone. “But we had to report it.” I agreed that it was the right thing to do. Was there a chance the shooting was somehow connected to Dr. Malone’s murder? I couldn’t see how, but at least the police had the report.
A moment later we heard voices in the front room, Helen’s, in particular, her shrill question: “What on earth were the bobbies doing here?”
Colin said, “Better that I explain to them so they won’t worry. Or speculate.” He left us in the keeping room.
“You should sleep here,” Grace said to Ian. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Don’t know that I’m up to climbing the stairs.”
“You will be tomorrow,” she said.
The Prescotts and Quinns had come in all at once. Even Mr. Sweeney had returned, it seemed, while Colin was telling the guests what happened, trying to ease any fears they might’ve had about Thurles. Everyone in but Patrick and Enya. “Friday nights they usually go to Dublin,” Grace said. “To dinner or a club, and then overnight with Enya’s parents.”
“It’s the compromise Patrick makes,” Colin said, closing the door of the keeping room, leaving Ian to sleep after the other guests had gone to their rooms.
“Maybe he enjoys it,” Grace said, hooking her arm in Colin’s. “You may not remember, Colin O’Toole, but it’s good to have a night out sometimes.”
“I remember,” he said, “and I swear we’ll be having one ourselves, girl. Just as soon as we can get all this other business settled.”
In my room, I checked my phone. I had a text from Catherine, saying she was leaving Emory, on her way to Savannah. “Relief, a 4.0!” she wrote. “Have fun! Stay out of trouble!”
I hadn’t planned on trouble, but I had to wonder: Was the shot meant for Ian? Or for Alex? Or for me?
“Lovely! It was simply lovely!” Doreen was saying as I came into the breakfast room. “I must say Molly outdid herself. She wouldn’t like me to boast, but it’s true.”
Grace was unloading the breakfast cart. I saw that Colin was in the kitchen with Little Jimmie and remembered that Patrick and Enya were in Dublin.
“Looks and smells scrumptious, as always,” I said. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Oh, yes. Running a B&B, you have to learn how to get by on a few hours. Last night was better than some. How about you? You’re up early,” she said.
“I’ve been waking at the crack of dawn, eager to get on with my day, I guess.”
“I heard you had some excitement last night,” Doreen said as she made her tea. “Any idea what that was all about?”
“Not a clue,” I said. “Did you and Molly walk home?”
“We started out to walk, but Helen and Charles stopped for us.”
Probably a good thing, I thought, though I couldn’t shake the notion that the shooting was not a random thing.
“How is our patient?” I asked Grace.
“He’s up. Colin went with him to his room but he said Ian was surprisingly strong on his feet.” Grace pushed the empty cart away from the buffet. “Go ahead. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Doreen and I filled our plates and sat talking mostly about Molly’s performance. Alex joined us, and then Molly. The Prescotts arrived as we were finishing. “I guess Ian isn’t going to make it down to breakfast,” Molly said. “What a terrible thing that happened to him.”
“Not as bad as it could’ve been,” Doreen said.
Mr. Sweeney didn’t come to breakfast, but if he was missed, no one said so.
I excused myself, leaving Alex and the Quinn ladies at the table. As I went into the kitchen, I heard Doreen say, “So, Alex, what’s on the schedule today?”
Little Jimmie was having his breakfast, and his grandparents were busy cleaning pots and pans. “Maybe I should take Ian some toast and tea,” I said, after I’d stopped to say good morning to the little boy, whose smiling face was smeared with jam.
“Good idea,” Colin said. “I’ll make the tray.”
I took the tray up and knocked on Ian’s door. “It’s Jordan,” I said, “with breakfast.”
Ian answered without delay. “Good morning. Ah, now that’s what I need.”
“You look much better than the last time I saw you,” I said.
“I just finished cleaning up a bit. I’m feeling like I might live now,” he said. “Please come in if you don’t mind the mess.”
I saw the desk was cluttered and looked for somewhere else to set the tray, but Ian went to the desk and moved the books, papers, and laptop onto the foot of his unmade bed to make a space. “This is grand, right here,” he said.
“I see you’re not using your left arm,” I said.
“Better that it wasn’t my right.”
I put down the tray. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who shot at us—at you.”
“Do you think someone was aiming at me? I thought I was just the unlucky one.”
“I can’t imagine why Alex or I would’ve been the target. We’re not from around here.”
“I’m not from around here either,” he said, pouring tea from the pot. “Sure, I’ve been asking questions, trying to gather more legends and tales for my book. You don’t think there’s a connection with my book, do you?”
“I have no reason to think so, but I don’t think the shot was fired by a hunter,” I said.
“Who then? And why? I have no enemies that I know of.” He finished with the cream and sugar and stirred. “Sweet Mother, I don’t want to spend the rest of my holiday jumping at shadows, thinking someone’s going to shoot me.”
I didn’t mention that he had jumped at shadows a couple of times last night. We’d probably all seemed a bit jittery out on the lonely, dark road, with the owl hooting.
Ian raised the cup to his lips. His expression showed that the tea hit the spot. “You look pensive, Jordan. Tell me if you have some theory.”
“I don’t have a theory,” I said. I was back to the question: Was Ian the target, or Alex, or me? I turned toward the door. “Enjoy your breakfast. I guess you’ll be staying in today, resting.”
“I probably should,” he said, “but a man at Monks last night told me I should try to find an old woman who lives out in Red Stag Crossing. He said she’s probably ninety, and she’s lived there all her life, plus she’s a little—you know.” He made the whirly sign for crazy.
I tried not to show any reaction, but I wondered what Grace and Colin would say if they knew he was going to seek out Magdala. “You should give yourself a little more time to get stronger.” Before he could answer, I added, “Why don’t you go to The Source with Alex and me tonight. Assuming you’re feeling up to it. It shouldn’t tire you too much, just to sit in a comfortable seat and listen to a concert.”
“That’s Molly’s performance,” he said.
I gave a coy little smile. “Bet she’d be happy to get you a ticket.”
“I’ll go then,” he said. “Would you mind asking her about the ticket?” I couldn’t tell if he was playing innocent, showing no particular interest in Molly, nor acknowledging her interest in him. If he was, he was good at it.
The door was open. I was about to enter the hall when he said, “There is one thing.”
I turned around. He made a motion for me to close the door. He set his cup on the desk, asking, “Did you hear anything before it happened?”
“Before the shot?”
He nodded. “A rustling sound? I don’t know—maybe it was just—a feeling, something you sense when someone is near. But first there was the hooting owl.”
“I heard the owl, nothing else. You did seem a little jumpy, Ian.”
“I might have been, a wee bit.” He looked at me with those dark eyes Helen had called dreamy. I could see a sudden glitter of anxiety. “That bloody owl. I’ve been going to the pub most nights, you know. Most times I walk home. Three times now, I’ve heard the owl.”
He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. I had no logical explanation, but I gave it a try. “Maybe you pass the owl’s tree and disturb him. And he hoots. Maybe it’s as simple as that.”
Ian gave a vigorous shake of his head, his dark curls bobbing. “It wasn’t the same place along the road, not tonight.” He reached back for the desk chair and eased himself into it.
“Are you all right?” I said. “Why don’t you drink some more tea.”
He did. “I was feeling a bit weak in the knees. Maybe I’m not mended, after all.”
“I’m sure you’re not mended. Not yet. It’s only been a few hours. You need to rest.”
He looked into his teacup. I sensed he was embarrassed to look at me directly as he said, “Y’know, one of the legends in my book has an owl as a harbinger of death. A man is acquitted of a crime, but he’s guilty, and the guilt he carries inside him drives him to madness. The owl comes to him three times.” He stopped but did not look up.
I said, “And the third time?”
“After the third time, he plunges a dagger into his own heart.”
I caught my breath. “Well, you didn’t do that.”
A smile curled on Ian’s lips, and he raised his eyes to mine at last. “No, I did not.”
“Are you carrying a big load of guilt about something?”
“No, I am not.” His smile widened.
“Ian, I know you’re a very imaginative writer, but—you don’t really think the owl we heard has anything to do with your story, do you? Or with the shooting?”
He gave a sheepish look. “All of it does seem a bit mad, doesn’t it? Forgive me. Sometimes we Irish get too much into fanciful things.”
“All the same, I’d like to read your story.”
“It’s on my blog,” he said. “I posted two of my stories, and that’s one of them.”
Your blog keeps coming up, I thought, but I didn’t say it. He was touching his arm, wincing.
I went to the door. “I need to let you have your breakfast. Take it easy now, and I’ll see Molly about that ticket.”