Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Maguire returned the next afternoon, Granny was there, and naturally she joined them for the meal Rynn had promised him.
Rynn had mixed feelings about Granny’s presence, but the largest, most sensible part of her whispered that it was a good thing.
The little glow of anticipation she’d felt all day at the prospect of his visit was almost certainly an indication of how
isolated she’d been since Thomas’s death and had nothing personally to do with Maguire at all. She would have felt the same
had any old friend turned up unexpectedly, she told herself. But still the uptick in her spirits when he was around made her
feel uncomfortable, and even the tiniest bit guilty.
When he left, she stood on the front steps watching through the gathering darkness until all she could see of his car were
the headlamps as they disappeared over the nearest hill. He was heading to his sister’s to pick up Tim, then driving on to
Dublin, where he now lived. He would, he said as he left, be back in the area in a few weeks.
The remark had been a general one, made to both her and Granny, who’d stepped outside with her to bid him goodbye, but still
it was enough to bring on another of those little niggles of gladness that were as unsettling as an unexpected twinge of physical
pain.
“It was kind of Major Maguire to drive all the way from Dublin to offer you his condolences,” Granny said as they went back inside.
By then, she’d agreed to Rynn’s suggestion that she stay the night, as there was some question as to whether, now, the roads were safe after dark for a woman alone, and had telephoned to the doctor’s house, where the doctor’s wife had agreed to send someone to let Glenna know.
Granny had come in the pony trap, and the pony had been put up in the otherwise empty stable when she’d arrived, so there was no trouble about that.
“Most men would have sent a letter, if they thought to do anything.”
“He had business in Killybegs.” Rynn could tell from the speculative glint in Granny’s eyes what she was hinting at and did
her best not to sound defensive. “And his sister lives nearby.”
“So he said.”
“He was a friend of Thomas’s.”
“Yes, he said that, too.”
As the glint in Granny’s eyes evolved into a twinkle, Rynn lost her patience. “He’s not coming a-courting, so you can just
put that notion out of your head. He’s not interested in me, except as a friend. Nor I in him.”
If anything, Granny’s twinkle grew brighter. “If you say so.”
Given that that was the second time in just about twenty-four hours that someone had answered her with if you say so while clearly meaning the opposite, Rynn felt she could be forgiven for the near snap in her voice when she replied with
“Come on, Granny, while I’ve got you here let’s go play a hand or two of Twenty-Five.” (Granny’s favorite card game, which
she played on many a Saturday night in the kitchens of her cronies.) “And you’d best have your wits about you, because I’m
aiming to win, too.”
“If you’re thinking that will ever happen, you think far too much of yourself,” Granny said. Rynn silently congratulated herself
as, effectively distracted, Granny followed her into the card room.
It was not quite a week later when, as she was walking along the cliff path to the Point, two masked men rose up from where they had crouched concealed in the tall grass that covered the slope beside the path to point rifles at her.
Rynn’s heart gave a great leap. She stopped dead, staring at them.
“You’ll be coming with us,” the taller of the two said. His mask consisted of his wool scarf, which he had wound around his
face, covering it from neck to eyeballs. It muffled his voice, made it sound gruff and distant. The other man’s face was hidden
similarly. They were mid- to late twenties, she guessed, fit men dressed in rough civilian clothes, with peaked caps pulled
low to hide what the scarves didn’t. If it hadn’t been for the way they’d concealed their faces, she might have mistaken them
for hunters out after rabbits.
“Who are you?” Instinctively she probed height, build, clothing and what little she could see of their faces for any sign
that she might know them.
“Never you mind. Step down here with us and walk toward those trees.” With his rifle the first man indicated the line of old
oaks that marked the beginning of the woodlands behind the stable. Rynn looked where he pointed, then glanced quickly back
toward the house. It was, she judged, too far away for anyone inside to hear her if she screamed, but—
“We’ll shoot any who comes,” the first man warned. “So I’d think twice about screaming, were I you.”
“We’ll shoot you if we must,” the other threatened, raising his rifle at her. “We’ve no time or stomach for games, and so I warn you.”
“What do you want of me?” It was all she could do to keep her voice steady. Inside, she was quivering like jelly.
“I said, come here,” the first one said. There was a tone in his voice that told her some violent act was imminent if she didn’t. “I’ll not be telling you again.”
Heart pounding, seeing no help for it, Rynn started down the slope.
He grabbed the front of her coat and yanked her toward him as soon as she was close enough. Even as she struggled to keep
her footing he clamped onto her arm. Tucking his rifle under his arm, he started walking, long, hurried strides, propelling
her with him through the grass toward the trees. The second man followed behind, his rifle at the ready. The setting sun cast
a warm glow over the landscape. Rynn darted desperate looks around. The shed, the stable, the fields with their stone walls—all
were deserted. The only living creatures in sight were sheep. In little more than an hour it would be dark. If she hadn’t
come inside by then, she would be missed. Someone—Cyril, probably—would be sent to look for her, and . . .
She would be long gone, and whatever was going to happen to her would have happened.
Too late, mourned a terrifying singsong whisper in her brain. Too late.
Her heart thumped like it would beat its way out of her chest.
“You’re Irish,” she said, desperate to make a connection. There was no doubt about his nationality. “I’m Irish, too. My granny
is a Shaughnessy, from the village here—”
“Shut your mouth. Walk.” Hand tightening like a vise around her arm, he shoved her along at a brutal pace.
Fight free. Run. More frantic whispers in her brain. To which another, pragmatic part of her, having taken stock of the situation, replied,
No chance of that. They’d chase her down, or shoot her, before she’d taken a dozen steps.
When at last someone came looking for her, there would be nothing to tell what had happened. Perhaps they’d think she’d fallen from the cliff to disappear under the waters of the bay. She wouldn’t be the first . . .
It was cool and dark under the trees, with each step through the carpet of fallen leaves stirring up the slightly musty smell
of damp earth. Silent except for the occasional bird call. No sign of another human being, although she thought the road to
Ballyshannon ran along the top of the distant ridge she could just glimpse through the trees. If she was correct, it made
no difference: no traffic of any kind in sight, and the road was too far away to offer any chance of help. The path, if it
could be called such a thing, cut in and out. She was dragged through undergrowth and over a creek until finally, in the lee
of a giant beech, they stopped in front of a tumbledown stone cairn. Rynn barely had a chance to notice the opening before
she was shoved inside it.
She stumbled and nearly fell as she missed a step that wasn’t there. The space was essentially a hole, dug out below ground
level. Her lightning impression was that it was small and dark and sour smelling, with fallen leaves littering a hard-packed
dirt floor. A slanting stone slab formed a low ceiling hung with vines.
Her arm free now, she whirled as her captors stepped in behind her.
There were two of them, they were bigger than she was and they were armed. Together they formed a solid wall. Breaking through
and getting past them would be impossible.
Whatever they intended, she was trapped.
Fear tightened her throat. She should have screamed when she had the chance. She should have at least tried to run.
The first man loomed over her. Close, too close. She took a quick, panicked step back.
“Help him.” He used his rifle to point to something behind her.
“What?” She was afraid to take her eyes off them.
“You’re a nurse, they say. Help him.” Once again the first man gestured with his rifle.
A nurse? They wanted a nurse? This time she dared to glance over her shoulder.
Against the far wall was a shape—a man. Sprawled flat on his back in the dirt. Motionless. Silent. Difficult to see in the
gloom.
“Go on.” The second man prodded her with his rifle.
Casting another wary glance at her captors, she turned and crouched at the third man’s side.
He was bareheaded, barefaced, ordinary looking. Overlong dark hair. Several days’ growth of dark beard. Pale, pale skin, most
likely from pain or blood loss. Maybe twenty-two or -three. From the unnatural angle of his leg, it was obvious that it was
broken, badly. She leaned closer. Yes, that was his femur protruding through the wool of his trousers. The white, jagged edge
of the bone was grotesque. The black splotches saturating the brown weave of the cloth were blood. Conscious, he would have
been screaming with pain.
A half-empty bottle of poteen rested beside his slack fingers.
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“Lorry ran him over.” The information was given grudgingly.
She touched his face. It was cold and clammy. From shock—
“Barney McShea, private, Cloughaneely Company, First Donegal Brigade,” the injured man muttered, and began to toss and moan.
“Look out, they’re coming—Jaysus, get out o’ the way, oh, oh—ah!”