“Remarkable . . . truly remarkable.” The doctor sucked in his breath sharply. “I’d almost say it was a bit of miraculous.”
“That may be,” said the other man, “and the luck of the Irish rubbin’ off on him, as well as a nice solid buckled seat belt.”
“Just the remote possibility of a very mild concussion,” said the doctor, “and of course the external abrasions, contusions, and hematomas.”
“The goods are all right, only the package is damaged?” the other man asked.
“Quite.”
“What day is this?” Koesler decided to ask a few questions of his own.
“Thursday,” said the doctor.
Ah, yes. Koesler nodded. Thursday. But what week? What month? “What’s the date?”
The doctor, who had seemed affable, appeared to grow concerned. “What date do you remember?”
Koesler thought for some moments. “The eighth of May.”
Satisfied, the doctor glanced at the other man, then nodded. “He’s all right.”
Thank God. At least it was still the same day. “Where am I?”
“Regional Hospital in Galway.”
“How did I get here?”
“Superintendent O’Reardon here,” the doctor indicated the other man, “had us send an ambulance for you.”
That’s who he was. Koesler had met him in Inspector Koznicki’s hospital room. Superintendent O’Reardon must be spending a lot of time in hospital rooms lately.
“Do you know what happened to you, Father?” asked O’Reardon.
“The Burren . . . the car . . . out of control . . .” Koesler shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “But . . . how did you happen along?”
“Oh, Inspector Koznicki asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Koesler’s brow furrowed. “You mean you followed me all the way to Gurteen . . . and to the Burren?”
“I did.”
“But you’re the Superintendent. Why wouldn’t you just send one of your men?”
“I felt I owed it to the Inspector. We didn’t do much of a job making him secure now, did we? I sort of did it as a penance.” It was said with a twinkle.
“And you followed me all the way from Dublin? I didn’t see you.”
“Well, now, that’s the idea, isn’t it? If I’m going to keep an eye on you, you shouldn’t see me doing it, should you now? Otherwise, I might just as well ride in your car with you and save the petrol. It’s a knack. But if I haven’t learned it after all these years I would be a sad excuse for a saint now, wouldn’t I?”
Koesler thought about this. There really was something to the feeling that one was being followed. It had happened to Toussaint and Koznicki and now to him. At least from now on, if someone asked what it felt like to be followed, he would be able to tell them. Suddenly, another thought occurred.
“Wait a minute: If you’ve been following me all this time, where were you when I was getting shot at?”
O’Reardon shook his head. “It was I was doing the shooting. Even on the road at that speed, I put a bullet or two in their car. If I hadn’t been there, saints preserve us, after they forced you off the road, you can be sure they would have inspected their job and when they found you alive, they would have finished you off, there can be no doubt.
“But don’t worry, we’ll get ’em. And we’ll get ’em soon.”
“Well,” Koesler extended his hand, “thanks is a poor word. I owe my life to you.”
“Think nothing of it, Father.” They shook hands. “But for the rest of the time you’re in the Republic, there’ll be a Garda nearby. I don’t expect any more shenanigans, but we can’t be too careful.” O’Reardon rose. “I’ll be leaving now, Father. Take care. And keep us in your good prayers.”
Koesler turned to the doctor. “How about it? Can I—may I— leave now?”
“Whoa now. Father. You seem to be all right internally. But especially in view of your head injury, we’ll be wanting to detain you at least overnight for observation. It’s the very least, you know. Then we’ll just see how you are tomorrow.”
“O.K.” He wasn’t going to argue.
“Here, let me help you, Father. Can you just step down from the examination table and sit in this wheelchair?”
“I think so.”
Koesler stood gingerly and felt pain in muscles he hadn’t known he had. “Oh, yes; I think a little rest might do me a lot of good.”
The doctor was alert. “And we’ll give you something for that pain, too.”
As Koesler took the couple of steps to the wheelchair, he caught sight of himself in a mirror. Then he knew the ugly reality of those euphemisms: abrasions, contusions, and hematomas. He looked as if he had been the big loser in a very tough fight.
“Oh, yes,” he eased himself carefully into the wheelchair, “a little rest is definitely called for.”
10.
Patrick Joseph O’Flynn tipped his head to one side. He gave every indication of seeing something he found difficult to believe. He watched wordlessly as a uniformed Garda assisted an obviously battered Father Koesler into Teach Murray.
Until the arrival of the walking wounded, O’Flynn had had the pub to himself. Tom Murray was out back hanging up some bar cloths. O’Flynn was patiently awaiting the hour of ten, when he would start nursing his first pint of the day.
On catching sight of Koesler, O’Flynn had respectfully snapped to his feet, meanwhile snatching his cap from his head, leaving his fine brown hair pointing in every direction.
Then he noticed Koesler’s obvious distress and was unsure whether to go to the priest’s aid or await developments. He decided to remain at the table, especially since Koesler and his human crutch seemed headed in O’Flynn’s direction.
Koesler lowered himself gingerly, wincing as his back met the unpadded chair. The Garda tipped his cap, excused himself, and retreated to the rear of the pub whence, on earlier orders from Superintendent O’Reardon, he continued to watch over Koesler. O’Flynn sat down opposite the priest.
“I suppose you’re wondering what happened,” said Koesler, after a brief but pregnant silence.
“Well, now, the thought did occur.” O’Flynn jammed the cap back on his head. “Y’ve been gone only a day! Meanin’ no irreverence.”
“My car . . . that is, the car I was driving, was forced off the road. In the Burren. I crashed. The car’s a total wreck.”
Pause.
“Well,” said O’Flynn, “ya might try lookin’ at the bright side of it.”
“The bright side of it?” Koesler fixed O’Flynn with a quizzical gaze. “What could possibly be the bright side of this?”
“Arra,” O’Flynn stuck pipe in mouth, “it could have happened to ya in England.” It was said with great conviction.
Koesler made no reply. His mind, recovering from a goodly amount of pain-killing drugs administered yesterday and this morning, attempted to compare the benefit of being nearly killed in Ireland with suffering the same fate in England. He was not doing well.
“Wait now!” O’Flynn almost shouted. “Was it forced off the road ya were?”
“That’s right.”
“Now who would do a shameful thing like that? To a priest! In Ireland!”
“I don’t know. But it’s the same one who shot a policeman from Detroit and one of the ones who will try to murder the Archbishop of Detroit this Saturday in St. Patrick’s in Dublin.”
Normally, though gregarious, Koesler was not garrulous. However, the combination of the events of the preceding week and the cumulative affect of the drugs caused him to be more talkative than usual.
O’Flynn sucked in his breath sharply. “Ya don’t say! Arra, the wonder of it! Why, nothin’ in Ireland’s happened the likes of that since . . . well, since the days of the Tans.”