The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller by L.D. Beyer Read Free Book Online Page A

understand why you had to leave. The troubles that you left behind continue and life in America is surely better for you than it would be here. There is no peace here and no hope in sight. But I am safe so please don’t worry about me. Most of the troubles are in Limerick and Cork and Dublin and in the North. In Kilcully Cross, Mary’s home, there is nothing worth fighting for anyway.
    I’ve not heard from your friends since you left but I am sure they are fine. I wouldn’t trouble yourself writing to them directly as you know how they are. One day here, the next somewhere else. I will inquire for you and let you know in my next letter.
    I long to see you but I know it is not meant to be. I’ll have to content myself with your letters. Please write again.
    Mind yourself,
    Your cousin, Kathleen.
     
    I turned the page over, looking for more. That’s all? I stared at the words, each one carefully written below the light of the oil lamp in her sister’s cottage. They brought neither hope nor comfort. I told myself that she was only being careful, saying no more than she needed to let me know that she had received my letter and that she was well. I told myself that it was an intelligent thing to do. Still, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I read the last few lines again and sighed as the finality struck me. Her words were filled with a resignation, the same one that always found me in the darkness of my room when sleep wouldn’t come. Events beyond our control had cast us apart and there was nothing we could do to change that.
    ___
    Despite my loneliness, New York was an adventure, as confusing as it was exciting and as frightening as it was grand. Each day brought something new. I soon learned which grocer to trust and which would sell you the vegetables too rotten for their own table. I learned how to avoid the gangs of young boys who would gladly stab you with their rusty knives for the few pennies you had in your pocket. And I learned that the past had a way of finding me, even thousands of miles and an ocean away, in the dirty streets of New York.
    It was only one week earlier, on a Friday evening, and I had stopped in the public house, to have a pint with the lads after a long day’s work. Butchers all, we frequented a place owned by a man named Burns, popular with the Irish who worked in the slaughterhouses and produce markets nearby. It was always a quick pint at the end of the week before we each went our own ways.
    I had given up the wire-rimmed glasses and dark hair that had been my disguise on the voyage over, but I was careful not to use my real name. As I had done in Cobh, I told people my name was Michael O’Sullivan.
    I planned on only staying for a short while, knowing full well the dangers of staying too long. One pint too many and tongues loosened; stories would be told and the signing would start. Another pint would be poured, and the process would start all over. It was a mistake I had made once, several months after I’d arrived. The next day, not certain what I’d said or to who, I vowed not to make the same mistake again.
    That night, after two pints, I made my farewells. Although it was a cold night, I welcomed the walk home. I made my way across town, from one river to another, from the Hudson to the East Side, but at First Avenue, I turned south. Several blocks before the Williamsburg Bridge was a bakery that I frequented. Although there were other bakeries closer, this one was owned by an old couple from Clare. The woman reminded me of Kathleen’s sister Mary, and I often found myself there, talking of home.
    I had just stepped out of her store, a loaf of stale bread below my arm—I would crumble it later and boil it in milk—when I heard the voice.
    “Frank Kelleher.”
    I froze. It was so unexpected, hearing my name like that and after so long. The man stood two feet away and, although his hands were in his pockets, his eyes told me he would use them if he had to. I took a step