Tangled Souls by Jana Oliver Page B

background check?”
    O’Fallon frowned.
    “You think she checked me out?” God, let that be it. The light bulb went on. Of course, she’s playing me. How could I be so stupid not to see it?
    “Is it possible?” Avery asked.
    O’Fallon rose from the bench. The afternoon sun felt warm on his face, but it did little to mitigate the chill inside his breast. Above him, high in the trees, squirrels skittered, leaping from branch to branch.
    Doubt returned. “This case doesn’t seem that important. Why would she bother?” O’Fallon asked.
    “Some folks are very adept at finding a weak spot. Your father’s death is your Achilles’ heel.”
    O’Fallon shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. She didn’t know my name until that moment.”
    “Perhaps someone in the Alliford household found out about you and passed the information to her.”
    Is that what happened?
    “The question stands—are the details available somewhere she could find them?” Avery pressed.
    O’Fallon thought for a moment and then shook his head again, his mind in turmoil. “No. I put the plane in his coffin right before the funeral mass. Nobody but Gran knew I did it. Actually, she put it in there for me. She never let me look inside.” He took a deep inhalation followed by a shuddering breath. “I never saw my dad after he died.”
    “That’s a blessing, Doug. You remember him from that morning, going out the door.”
    Tears threatened again and he struggled to push them down. “He gave me a big hug. He wasn’t afraid to show his emotions.”
    “And, thank God, neither are you.”
    “All I feel is anger, even now. Our village priest said I should forgive the bastards who killed him. I never will.” O’Fallon stared at the rosary in his hands and then held it up. Suspended from his fingertips, the heavy silver crucifix slowly turned in midair. “This was my father’s. They found it in the rubble. They said it was a miracle it survived.” He offered it to his friend.
    Avery accepted the rosary as if it were a priceless relic. He studied it; the crucifix was discolored and bore signs of heat. Some of the beads were scorched.
    O’Fallon explained, “My dad said beer didn’t choose sides when it came to religion, and neither would he. Anyone was welcome at the pub as long as they parked their intolerance at the door.”
    “He sounds like a good man.”
    “He was. Some of the locals didn’t like his attitude, so they vandalized the pub to warn him off. He ignored it. Then a couple came to work him over. They got the worst end of the deal.” He sighed at the memory of his dad’s arm in a cast and stitches across his forehead. Patrick O’Fallon had laughed it off in his usual style.
    “Who planted the bomb?”
    “The New IRA.”
    Avery’s eyes flared. “Good God, they killed one of their own?”
    “They’d kill the Holy Trinity if it served their purpose,” O’Fallon replied, gall in his voice. “All the men in the pub that day were Catholic; not a one was a Protestant. It cost the bastards dearly. Some blamed my dad, but most felt the bombing was just plain murder.”
    Avery crossed himself and handed the rosary back. O’Fallon kissed it and dropped it into his inside jacket pocket. He thought for a time, allowing the stillness of the courtyard to cradle his sacred memories. His father would have loved Saint Bridget’s just as much as his son did.
    In time, he turned back toward the priest. “So what do I do?”
    “It appears you have a choice. You can deny that this woman spoke of matters that only you and your grandmother know, or you can accept that God does indeed work in mysterious ways.”
    O’Fallon sputtered in protest. “But she’s a pagan, Avery. You know what the church thinks about them.”
    The priest nodded. “I know what they think.” He glanced around to insure they were alone. “Nevertheless, I know that there are cases in which the Almighty shares His gifts with those outside the fold,