TWENTY-EIGHT

A Knock on the Door

We were packing up the few items that we’d brought to the castle when Liam Gallacher tapped on the door, stuck his head inside before we could answer, and indicated with a wave of his hand and a few anxious words that we had company.

“What kind of company?” Caeli asked, annoyed at the intrusion, though curious.

“Front-door company this time, it ’tis,” Gallacher said. “A black man, tall and distinguished, ya might call ’em, with a voice like he belongs on the radio and …”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “He calls himself Michael Corbin.”

“Aye. That he does, Professor Blake. Is this the same Michael Corbin ye was askin’ after then?”

“It’s the only one we know right now,” I said. “God help us if others are running around.”

I figured that Caeli would want to take a moment to plot strategy, or to work out a plan that would leave us in a position of bargaining strength with a skilled and dangerous adversary.

Instead, she picked up the Beretta that she’d tossed on the bed moments earlier and started toward the door.

“Caeli,” I said. “We should talk.”

“The time for talking is over,” she said. “I’m through talking.”

She brushed past Gallacher, who pulled back in alarm when he saw the pistol, and he gave me one of those looks that you only wish you could describe – a cross between What the hell? and Did I really just see that? … sprinkled with a bit of apprehension and consternation and even a trace of amusement dancing in his eyes.

It made me wish that I had the Nikon with me and could snap off a handful of quick photos to show Doc Strand and Bill Kohlmeyer and Mad Dog, and even Jerry Berger, my old pal at the college where I used to work, and the rest of the gang back home.

“Here’s how we really spent our Irish vacation,” I’d tell them. “Never mind sight-seeing at Nelson’s Pillar or the Ring of Kerry. Caeli went postal when a visitor came a-callin’, grabbed a borrowed pistol, and pushed our obliging host out of the way to get at the bastard.”

I could hear the raucous laughter rolling in my head, but I still managed to ask Gallacher the obvious question.

“Elmore and Leonard are down there, with an eye on this guy – right?”

“Aye – right ye are then, lad. The answer is most assuredly a yes,” Gallacher said. “They have yer Mister Corbin covered, as you Yanks like to say. But it’s one in and one out: Yer man the doctor is packin’ up to go at the same time, frightened off when the pistols came out downstairs. Don’t think we’ll see his like again.”

I grabbed the Beretta that I’d borrowed from Elmore and started after Caeli, with Gallacher stumbling out of my way, slowing me down as he tried to move aside, costing precious seconds before following along in my path, steps behind, muttering to himself.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Corbin’s role in this mess mattered more than we might have been led to believe. We simply hadn’t gotten far enough into the dance with him at Oliver Plunkett’s to determine who he represented and the stake he had in the way that things might play out.

He’s more than a messenger from some lonesome Irish Western Union outpost, I thought. And he’s damned dangerous besides.

“One other thing, Mister Gallacher,” I said, calling over my shoulder, picking up the pace again because Caeli already was out of my sight. “Station as many men as you can muster around the grounds, especially at the doors. If you don’t have anyone handy, I’d advise calling some.”

“Do you really think …”

He didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t have to: We both were thinking the same thing. I already pictured a sniper, the same one who’d taken pot-shots at us in town, positioned close by, this time with orders to kill.

“Tell them to be careful,” I said.

By the time I’d hurried down the stairs and followed voices into the great hall, Corbin was seated in a high-backed chair that looked as though it came from the Viking era. He was covered by three semi-automatic pistols: two Walthers and a Beretta.

“Did you search him?” I asked.

Leonard rewarded me with a beautiful scowl, truly one of his better efforts from a trip that had produced many such looks, and I almost laughed at the sight.

At least he didn’t bother to respond.

“Professor Blake,” Corbin said. “Glad you could join us.”

If he was uncomfortable, he did a terrific job of hiding it. His face contained the same bemused, whimsical look that I’d noted in the pub a couple of hours earlier. His legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles, as though he’d just finished an exercise regimen and was relaxing as he cooled off, uncoiling his limbs to keep from tightening up.

I wondered how many times he’d found himself in similar predicaments and how he’d managed to become so blasé about his current status – one that would cause most people to recoil in fear.

“Might I suggest,” he said, his eyes flashing between Caeli and me, “that we dispense with this display of horsepower – firepower, if you will – and continue our conversation?”

He displayed his hundred-watt smile – a quick flash, his eyes sparking with mischief and merriment and just a hint of danger – and spread his hands wide, the same gesture that we’d seen from him earlier.

“We still have much to discuss, the three of us, and time is, as they say, growing short,” he added.

“Who’s they, exactly? How about some names?” I asked.

“In due course,” Corbin said. “Do we really want to continue this discussion in this setting, with these … gentlemen” – he said the word as though it disgusted him – “flashing their manhood so carelessly?”

“You chose the setting,” Caeli said, before Elmore and especially Leonard could snap at Corbin’s bait.

“Only because you’ll be less likely to run away this time,” Corbin said.

I was tempted to tell him that even before he’d knocked on the door, we were already on our way out of Castle Ballygarvan for good, heading someplace where I hoped the whole of Ireland wouldn’t know our exact location.

But it dawned on me that he probably already knew that, and I wondered again about the Italians, and Liam Gallacher and his entire staff, and how we’d come to be in this place, and who our friends were at that moment.

If we even have any friends … 

“We ain’t moving,” Leonard said. “Get used to it.” His Beretta was held in his left hand, his arm tucked close to his ribcage, unwavering as it covered Corbin.

“I was merely suggesting that this many guns are … overkill,” Corbin said easily. “But I’m happy to talk to anyone and everyone at the castle, Mister Gallacher included, so long as I get to say my piece.”

His voice took a dark turn with those last few words, signaling that the time for merriment was over.

“I trust you brought some answers this time,” Caeli said. “I’m tired of asking the same questions.”

Corbin eyed her with a different look this time, calculating and assessing and perhaps even sizing her up as a worthy adversary for the first time.

If you only knew, buddy, I thought. 

Gallacher, who’d been hovering nearby, cleared his throat softly, rolled his shoulders, and tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, left side and then right, as he stepped cautiously forward.

“After what’s already taken place, or so I’ve heard, there’s naught you can say that’d I’d be after wantin’ to hear,” he said, addressing Corbin. “But I’d be a poor host, indeed, if I didn’t offer the lot of ya … something.”

“A drink then?” Corbin said. “That’s exceedingly generous of you, Mister Gallacher. I’d enjoy a glass of water, if you’d be so kind.”

“Do I know you, sir?” Gallacher asked.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Corbin said.

If the two of them were putting on a show for our benefit, it was a good one.

Gallacher looked flummoxed and a bit angry, I thought. But he recovered as best he could, at least for the sake of appearances, and acknowledged Corbin’s comment with another tug at his shirt sleeve.

“I’ll have me staff set up refreshments in the dining room,” he said, then caught Caeli’s eye. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to escort our … well, our guest in that general direction.”

He bowed ever so slightly and spun smartly around, quickly leaving us alone.

“Interesting man, your Mister Gallacher,” Corbin muttered, almost as an aside. Then he glanced around the table and added, “No time like the present then,” rising slowly, his hands well away from his body. “Lead the way.”

“I’ll show you the way, all right,” Leonard grumbled. “Straight into the dirt.”

Caeli waved her hand in the direction of the dining room, indicating that Corbin was free to move in that direction, and she fell in step behind him, her Walther covering his back as he walked with an easy grace that reminded me of a professional athlete – definitely a man who was used to being in tight situations, with pistols pointed at him from multiple directions. The rest of us moved in behind her, uneasy with the unfolding situation and carefully watching Corbin’s every movement.

“You get 5 minutes and not a second more,” Caeli said. “Consider it time enough for your drink, water or whatever. Tell me something of interest, something that helps me find my uncle, and you’re free to go without incident. Waste my time again and I’ll let our friends decide where you end up.”

“Yes. Vinny Fierro’s boys,” he said, swiveling his head about and nodding appreciatively, first in Leonard’s and then in Elmore’s direction.

Geez, I thought. Who the hell is this guy?

“But to put you at ease, my dear Miss Brown, your terms are more than acceptable,” Corbin said. He turned his head again, trying to track Caeli’s movements behind him, but she didn’t make it easy and moved a couple of steps to the side, away from the sightline of his peripheral vision.

“Keep moving – straight ahead,” she said. “The clock’s running.”

“Tick-tock,” Caeli said as we cautiously sat, with Corbin taking a spot on one side of the table, Caeli and I zeroing in directly across from him, and Elmore and Leonard at either end.

Corbin continued to grin, as though he knew something vital that the rest of us didn’t … which in fact is most likely the case …

Leonard continued to scowl, but that was standard operating procedure.

Elmore’s face reflected his personality: curious, open, reflective, attentive.

Caeli looked as hard and cold as I’ve ever seen her. She set the pistol on the table in front of her, removed her wristwatch and set it next to the handgun so that she could keep an eye on the passage of time, and clasped her hands together while staring at Corbin with an icy efficiency.

I’m sure as hell glad we’re on the same side, I remember thinking.  

Gallacher’s staff was already shuffling in and out, carrying trays laden with pitchers of water and tumblers, along with a variety of sweets, slices of soda bread with dishes of jams and preserves, baked goods that smelled even better than they looked (and they looked spectacular), and assorted silverware and tableware and whatnot.

Not one member of the staff took note of the P99 or the two Berettas that were held with focused intensity and pointed directly at our guest. It made me wonder whether this sort of encounter was an everyday occurrence at Castle Ballygarvan.

Corbin waited until the room cleared. Then he poured himself a tall glass of chilled water and took a long drink.

“You can start your clock now, Miss Brown,” he said.

“Three minutes, 10 seconds,” she said. “Let’s have it.”

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“Things are not as they seem,” he said, staring at her intently, inviting a question, a comment, a reaction of any kind.

Caeli remained silent.

Corbin tried again.

“Ask yourself what you know for certain,” he said.

“Two minutes, 50 seconds,” she said.

“I’m trying to help you – bring you along … get you to the right spot,” he said.

“You’re wasting my time. Again. Two minutes and a half.”

Corbin settled back in the chair and smiled once more, as though unconcerned about Caeli’s ticking clock and whatever ramifications might be in store for him, or for any of us, seemingly oblivious to the looming danger that surrounded him.

He stared at Caeli for a moment, as though daring her to admit the truth.

She ignored him, her eyes fastened on her watch.

“Two minutes,” she said.

He sighed theatrically, spreading his hands wide again, perhaps indicating a hint of frustration this time. I could understand that reaction, I guess, although concern, or even desperation, would have been a better indicator of his overall lack of control of the situation. But we all react to stressful conditions differently, and Corbin apparently had a knack for remaining outwardly calm in a pending storm.

“I’ll say this again. I’m trying to help you – to allow you to help yourself,” he said.

“Still wasting time. A minute and a half,” she said.

He reached for his water glass and took another drink.

Caeli tapped her finger twice on the table top, close to her watch – a subtle but effective reminder that time was, indeed, slipping away.

“I was asked to have you come to the proper conclusion on your own,” he said.

Caeli said nothing.

I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Asked by whom?”

“By my employer, of course.”

“And your employer is …?”

“Ah, but now you sense my dilemma,” Corbin said. “If I tell you that outright, I haven’t accomplished what I was asked to do … which was, again, to have you reach the proper conclusion on your own.”

“Forty-five seconds,” Caeli said.

Corbin leaned forward, his eyes darker now, more intense, boring in.

“What brought you to Ireland, Miss Brown?” he said. “Ask yourself that.”

“Thirty-six seconds.”

Corbin shook his head, frustrated this time – the first crack that I’d detected in his protective shell. He sensed that his strategy, whatever it was, wasn’t going to work. He truly was running out of time.

“A postcard – yes? A postcard of the burial site of William Butler Yeats, with Yeats’s poem about the horseman riding on, inscribed on the marker.”

Caeli tapped on the table top again, her fingers close to her relentlessly ticking watch.

“The arrangement made the previous year was that your uncle would send the postcard if he should ever be in need of assistance. Am I correct?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“What you need to know, Miss Brown, is that your uncle didn’t send that postcard.”

“Ten seconds.”

I almost blurted out the obvious question:

If Uncle Jack didn’t send the damn thing, who the hell did?

But I didn’t have to. Corbin supplied the answer, and I’ll admit it: I didn’t see it coming.

Neither did Caeli, judging by her reaction.

“McBride sent it,” Corbin said, the words delivered just as Caeli’s 5-minute countdown expired.

I can’t say for certain whether Caeli’s eyes widened with that bit of news, but mine sure did.

“A second postcard also was sent, was it not? – this time containing a single word, this time not in McBride’s hand,” Corbin said.

Caeli said nothing, but a quick glance off to the side indicated to me that this was information she hadn’t previously considered.

Still, she efficiently played her role well.

“Your time is up, Mister Corbin,” she said.

“Ask yourself why McBride would send those postcards, Miss Brown,” Corbin said. “Ask yourself how he’d even know about such a pact.”

“There’s no great secret,” Caeli said. “They were boyhood friends.”

“Yes. Two boyhood friends on separate paths,” Corbin said. “But which one of them was an advocate for peace, as you might see it, and which one wanted to fight the British occupation in Ulster? Ask yourself that, Miss Brown. And then tell me whether your uncle is truly missing, or whether he’s simply trying to discourage you from finding him.”