Authors: John McEvoy
She parked in a crowded campus lot three blocks away from her destination which was, on this breezy, overcast, July afternoon, the University of Western Iowa's veterinarian school. It was a sprawling complex of plain but functional buildings surrounded by extensive fields of corn.
The signage was very good. She had no trouble finding the broad walkway and registration office for this advertised “One Day Tour for Prospective Students and Their Parents” that she'd discovered on the Internet. Dressed in a long-sleeved, dark blue denim shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, well-worn jeans, and ball cap brim pulled down nearly to the top of her dark glasses, she melded easily into the crowd of fifty or so. It was primarily a collection of potential vet school enrollees accompanied by their parents, or other relatives, the latter present in advisory and judgmental capacities. Fortunately, sprinkled in the mix, were a few “solos” such as her, scouts on hand at the request of parents who could not attend but wanted information about this relatively new, increasingly well-respected educational facility.
First up that day had been an Information Luncheon in the nearby cafeteria. Many attendees conversed with each other as they moved down the line of “University Garden Produced Food, Compliments of the Agricultural Department,” as the brochure stated. She stood alone near the back of the line, avoiding chitchat with the vocal families in front and behind her. Too nervous to have any appetite, she nevertheless took a small salad and a pear half with low fat cottage cheese. She knew it was best to go through whatever motions were normal in this setting.
A heavyset senior citizen in line in front of her attacked the meat offerings with relish. Surrounding his mound of mashed potatoes with Swedish meatballs, he said to the server behind the counter, “Darling, cover all that up with that great looking gravy, will you?”
The young Latina server slopped a large ladle full of brown liquid on the plate he held out to her. “Hey, mucho gracias,” he said loudly. He paused, as if waiting to be congratulated for his language skills. Disappointed, he shuffled forward.
What to her seemed an excruciatingly long lunch period finally neared its end. She swept the remaining contents of her tray into a refuse receptacle and walked out of the cafeteria into the courtyard, breathing deeply of the fresh summer air.
She felt a tug on her sleeve. Looking around, then down, she saw a very short, elderly woman smiling up at her from beneath a large straw hat, one hand atop the handle of a cane. “Hello, sweetie. I'm Irma Milbert from over near Des Moines. I'm here to look at the school my oldest granddaughter wants me to send her to. Could you kind of help me up any steps if there are some when we get to the barn? I'm by myself today, I don't see as well as I used to, and I'm not as spry as I used to be. Wasn't that a real nice lunch spread?”
She and Irma chatted amiably as they moved forward in the line that led them past cattle enclosures, sheep acreage, and horse paddocks, some populated, most empty. As promised in the event brochure, the “large animals would be available for inspection inside the barn where they reside.”
She looked at her watch. This was taking longer than she had anticipated, and she began to feel uneasy. She was almost relieved to hear Irma inquire, “What brings you here, sweetie?”
“Well, Irma, I'm looking over the school for my niece Margaux. That's m-a-r-g-a-ux is how they spelled it. She's my older sister's oldest child. Margaux has wanted to be a veterinarian since she was about in sixth or seventh grade. But her family lives in California and they don't have the money right now to spend on too many college visits, especially one this far for them. So, I volunteered to help out.”
“That's very sweet of you, dear. Isn't it great that so many girls are now attending veterinary schools?” Irma enthused. “Far different than back in the dark ages when I was in college. That was when almost all the vets and vet students were men.” She paused to take a firmer grip on her cane. “I'm sorry. I didn't even ask your name. Or where you are from? Forgive me, please.”
Answers to those questions were avoided as the guide holding the barn door open at the top of the stairs began talking and waving them forward. “The tour is about to begin,” he said loudly.
“Irma, here, take my arm,” she said. Up the steps, with Irma safely in front of her inside the doorway, she tensed. Pulled her ball cap down lower, almost on top of her dark glasses. Felt a rivulet of cold sweat descend her spine as she readied for her first daylight attempt to do what she believed had
to be done.
Moments later, inside the large, brightly lit barn, the attendees were assembled in a small staging area and met by two barn tour guides. Wielding a hand-held microphone that sporadically squirted out ear-splitting sounds was a tiny, prominent female member of the vet school faculty, Professor Hilda Janks as her large nameplate declared. She was the picture and sound of enthusiasm. Less so was her tall, thin, male colleague, Assistant Professor Ron Schable, who looked as if he'd rather be palpatating an uncooperative ewe than assisting in this tour project.
She and Irma made their way down the long corridor of penned animals, not talking as they listened to Dr. Janks' description of what they were seeing, what was being done to these “carefully and gently tended animals.” How donations to this “valuable exploratory experimental research program” would be “so very, very gratefully accepted.”
As they headed toward the large animal section of the barn, she abruptly stepped off to the side and bent to re-tie a shoelace. Irma looked back for a few strides, then began talking to the couple in front of her and walking on.
Down on one knee, she made sure she wasn't being observed and quickly removed the loaded syringe she had taped to her right calf under her jeans leg. She cupped it in her hand as she stood and moved into place at the end of the long line moving past the animals in their pens and stalls and toward the exit.
She lagged behind as Dr. Janks opened the exit door and began ushering people out. Waited until the door had closed behind the last of the other attendees.
She stepped quickly to the web barrier in front of the stall housing the facility's only thoroughbred, a bright gray gelding. The nameplate on the wall identified him as Silver. Some wag had penciled in the question, “Left here by the Lone Ranger?”
As Silver lowered his head and flicked his lips open to receive the peppermint candies in her left hand, she made a deft thrust with the syringe into his neck. He spat out the candies. Shuddered. And dropped to the bedded floor of his stall, rolling over onto his right side.
She reached across the web and dropped the ALWD card on top of Silver's trembling shoulder. Seconds later, the barn door closed behind her and she joined the group that was now surrounding Dr. Janks in the sunlit courtyard.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” Dr. Janks said. “If you have any further questions about our program here, feel free to call me or e-mail me. That number and that address are on the brochure you were given.”
Dr. Janks paused to look at her watch. “So, I'll say good⦔ She stopped, mouth open, looking past the group toward the vet school entrance from which young Dr. Schable had just dashed. Not laconic now, his usually pallid face flushed as he ran forward, Schable hollered, “Hilda, we've got a horse down inside. Appears to be dead. It's Silver.”
The words “dead horse” ignited a loud group response. Dr. Janks sprinted toward the barn door followed by Schable, his white coat beginning to tangle in his knees. He tripped and fell elbows forward at the foot of the steps. The door had already closed behind little Dr. Janks.
As the news rippled through the group, the babble from these concerned people in the University of Western Iowa vet school courtyard multiplied.
It was easy for her to detach herself from this scene and walk slowly out of the courtyard into the parking lot to her rented car. She was away in a controlled hurry.
Every so often, Jack Doyle forced himself to ruminate. It was a mental exercise suggested by his philosophy professor during his senior year at the University of Illinois. “
Ruminate
” was what Jason Marcial advised his students to do at stressful points in their busy lives. Doyle had occasionally followed the good professor's advice in the ensuing years. This July afternoon proved to be one of those times, and rising through the ruminative muck was a question by no means unfamiliar to Jack, it being, “How the fuck do I get myself into these jackpots?”
He'd taken an early evening run along the shore of Lake Michigan, striding out in a punishing pace as he reviewed that afternoon's telephone call from Ireland. “Jack, this is Sheila. Can you talk now?”
He had just tied the laces on his running shoes and was about to leave his condo when the call came. Its content, not entirely unexpected when he considered its source, took less than ten minutes. Minutes in which he'd agreed to do what Sheila wanted. Went along with her insistence on paying his airfare. Agreed to be there as soon as he could book a flight. That proved to be unnecessary. “I've got you on tomorrow's Aer Lingus late afternoon from O'Hare, Jack. Paid in advance. You can print out your boarding pass. You'll be landing in Dublin early the next morning. Well, of course, you know that. You've done it before. I'll be there to meet you.” She concluded the conversation with another effusive barrage of gratitude.
When he hit his turn-around point at Waveland Avenue, Doyle slowed to a jog and stepped off the running path to take a seat on one of the broad slabs of concrete bordering the lake. His breathing returned to normal, he lifted the water bottle from his belt pack and drank deeply.
“I'm fuckin' confounded here,” he said aloud, startling a pretty feminine sunbather on a slab a few yards to his right. “Sorry,” he said. “Thinking aloud.”
She flashed him a look of powerful disdain before lowering her head back onto her bunched-up towel.
Doyle's was a conflicted state of mind, a condition he despised. He had listened patiently and sympathetically as Sheila described her increased concern over husband Niall's safety. “There is, Jack, pardon my expression, some serious shite going on here. I'm going to beg you to do something for us,” she'd emphasized.
What that “something” involved was Jack's acceptance of an invitation to a Niall Hanratty-sponsored weekend in beautiful Connemara in the west of Ireland.
“We have this gathering once each summer,” Sheila said, “inviting Niall's top employees and their wives. All costs paid. A chance to relax and be rewarded for work well done.”
Doyle was revving up with a series of questions, but Sheila overrode him.
“I'm sure you're thinking, why you? Well, Jack, because I've got great hopes that you can spend some time with, and talk to, my bull-headed husband and get a grip on what is going on with him! The three so-called accidents so far. A fourth event that had nothing about accident written on it, being that it was very certain intended murder.”
“
What?
”
Sheila said, “That's right. Jack, we need you here. We need your help. After your dealings with him in the States, I know he'll listen to you as to what he should be doing. Of that I am sure. He surely won't listen to anyone else.”
Doyle hesitated, then started to explain to Sheila Hanratty that he had “a lot on my plate right now. These horse killings at colleges that I'm working on. I feel very obligated to continue that.” He paused, and listened to her silence. Imagined her thinking that he was treasuring equine lives over that of her treasured husband. Finally, he said, “All right, Sheila. I'll be coming.”
“Oh, Jack, you're a lovely man. Shall I pick you up at the Dublin Airport then?”
Doyle said, “No thanks, Sheila. I'll get another ride if I'm lucky. Please just e-mail the directions to the place we'll be at in Connemara.”
“Is this the rising star of Irish journalism?” Jack said.
There was a pause before he heard, “Is this the reigning king of American bullshitters ringing me up now?” They both laughed.
“Nora Sheehan, it's pure delight to hear your voice. Yeah, I apologize for not calling you as often as I promised. But, listen, I have a great proposition for you.”
“God forbid it would involve my walking down the aisle with you, Jack Doyle. Am I right?”
Doyle laughed. “As usual, you are. Not to worry about that. No, I'm calling to invite you to join me on an upcoming, all-expense-paid getaway to the west of Ireland. Connemara. Have you been there?”
“Jack, almost everyone over here who is, or was, into horses at some time made a trek to ride the famous Connemara ponies. I did that when I was twelve with my two later-to-become professional jockey siblings. It was fun at the time, but I'm not interested in a repeat. Plus, I'm very busy with my work.”
Doyle said, “Ah, Nora. This would just be a couple of days at a gathering sponsored by Niall Hanratty. He and his wife Sheila will be there and some of his employees. That's how he rewards his best workers each year. I've been invited along this time. When I was asked if I wanted to bring a companion, I thought long and hard. Sinead O'Connor, I learned, was busy. So, what other name but yours would come bold-faced to my mind?”
That did bring a laugh. “I've never met the famous Mr. Hanratty,” Nora said. “Maybe I can get a feature story or two out of this. Let me check my calendar.” She was back less than a minute later. “Yes, I can do it.”
“God love you,” Doyle said. “Pack for a couple of days. Could you pick me up at the airport? Dublin, I mean. I'll e-mail the expected arrival time, probably early Thursday your time. Then we can head for Connemara next day if that works for you. I very much look forward to this.”
Nora said, “Trained journalist that I am, do you mind me asking what is the actual purpose of your trip? Beside your almost uncontrollable longing to see me, that is?”
“Details when I see you, my dear. Nora, you're the best,” he said, drawing another unbelieving laugh from across the Atlantic. “Don't ever let any spaulding say otherwise.”
Nora whooshed her breath into the phone. “I can only presume you meant spalpeen, not spaulding. You'll have to start doing a bit of work on your intercontinental compliments. All right, I'll pick you up. When you see an attractive female dressed in a black chauffeur's cap, low cut blouse, short shorts, wearing mesh hose, stiletto heels, and holding a placard that says âWelcome Back J. Doyle,' you'll find me.”
***
Doyle's Aer Lingus flight landed a bit early that Thursday morning. Having cleared customs, he heard Nora's voice. “Jack, over here.”
“Where's your sign? Your chauffeur's outfit?”
Dressed normally, light beige jacket, white blouse, black skirt, Nora said, “I didn't choose to inflame the imaginations of you and the other male passengers so early in the day.” They embraced briefly before she said, “Come on. My auto's this way.”
They spent a pleasant, restful day at Nora's rental home in Bray reviewing recent news from their respective shores, that night renewing their enthusiastic lovemaking before what Nora declared was “the midnight curfew. We have to rise early tomorrow, dear Jack. I need to do a bit of shopping before we leave.” She got out of bed, put on a long white tee-shirt, and went into the bathroom. She was asleep when he returned from the kitchen where he'd gone to pour himself a small nightcap of Jameson's.