The Secrets of Nine Irish Sons I: The Beginning

About the book...

Part thriller, part mystery, part impossible deceptions---an Irish woman’s supernatural gift becomes the obsession of a vicious assassin. Accused of murdering her husband, Mary Elizabeth O’Malley is imprisoned for two decades while her kidnapper waits for his father to die so he can inherit his fortune and find the woman he believes will help him control a vast criminal empire.

Back in Ireland, her nine sons grow up intent on discovering the truth behind their father’s murder and mother’s disappearance. On the way, they discover ruthless and massive corruption and such unspeakable scandals that the CIA, FBI, and Scotland Yard have teamed up to help them uncover a criminal network of massive proportions.

The Secrets of Nine Irish Sons – The Beginning

By

Laura Joyce Moriarty

To: My children and grandchildren, whom I adore with all my.

I leave the absolute truth to those better qualified than I. -- Assoc. Chief Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes

Copyright 2009

Laura Joyce Moriarty

TXu-618-611– Fed. Copyright Office

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

978-1-4659-1963-2

Permission for reproducing in any write-able format for any purposes must be sent to:

Info@fourrosesandbrownpublishing.com

The Secrets of Nine Irish Sons – The Beginning

By

Laura Joyce Moriarty

I leave the absolute truth to those better qualified than I. -- Assoc. Chief Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes

The O'Malley Family

Jones & Brigid O'Malley

Sons

Liam O'Malley

Gabriel O'Malley

George O'Malley

Luke O'Malley

Sean O'Malley

Daughters

Bridgette O'Malley Brown

Colleen O'Malley Joyce

Geraldine O'Malley Jameson

Polly Marie O'Malley Moynihan

Nellie Anne O'Malley Heaney

--

Luke O'Malley

Born 1947

Disappeared in 1987

Quarryman

Married at 25 to Mary Elizabeth Moran

Father of Nine Irish Sons

Mary Elizabeth Moran O'Malley

Born 1954

Married at 18 to Luke O'Malley

Able to see the truth through her visions.

Disappeared in 1987

Rescued in 2007

Mother of Nine Irish Sons

--

Luke Niall O'Malley, Jr.

First Born Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1973

Quarryman

Becomes the Mayor of Aghadoe

Widower with three young daughters.

Wife murdered with bad drugs during childbirth.

Had an affair with Julie McStanish Nash to uncover

the truth behind his parent's disappearance and wife's murder.

--

Dr. Peter Fionn O'Malley

Second Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1974

General Medicine Practice

Married to Sharon, an epidemiologist

Three children

-

Michael Quinn O'Malley

Third Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1975

The Rose Oisín

Poet

Quarryman

Worked undercover for Interpol

--

Matthew Colin O'Malley

Fourth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1977

Artist & Designer

Quarryman

Married, Peg [Margaret Mary] Ferris

An American Historian who takes over the family's

library of ancient literature housed in the new

headquarters.

--

Edward Moran [Teddy] O'Malley

Fifth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1978

Latin School Teacher

Takes over the archive in the new headquarters.

Wants to work in the field.

Kathie Mickelson, girlfriend

–

Kevin Dermot O'Malley

Sixth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1980

CEO and Owner of a Private Espionage Firm

Divorced

Believes his ex-wife had his daughter.

--

Brian [Brice] Conner O'Malley

Seventh Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1983

Twin brother of Joseph Patrick

Salesman for the Quarrymen

-

Joseph Patrick O'Malley

Eighth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1983

Twin brother of Brian [Bryce]

Works with Kevin

Contracted with AT&F and covers as an FBI agent

–

Timothy Shane O'Malley

Ninth Son of Luke and Mary

Born 1985

Works with Kevin as a spy.

Contracted with the CIA.

Secretly learned Spanish dancing.

-

Micah and Joanna Nolan Frieze

Born in Ireland during the late 1800s

Migrated to Poland to work in textiles.

-

Reiley Frieze

Born 1890

Changes name to Reiley Freeze

Brother of Micah

Joins the British Secret Service March, 1914

Becomes the Ace of Spies – a.k.a. The Rose

Returns to find Micah and Joanna Nolan Frieze in

Cardiff, Wales in 1926

Father of bastard son, Micah [Mickey] Nolan Freeze

with his brother's wife Joanna Monahan Nolan

--

Mickey Freeze

Born 1927

Illegitimate son of Joanna & Reiley

Air Force Ace Flyer

and spy for the British during WW II

Dies 2007

Father of Marilyn who is poisoned by bad drugs during pregnancy

by the same doctor who killed Lucy O'Malley.

Secret Godfather of Aghadoe

Arch enemy of Jeremy McStanish.

-

Jake Sherman

Born 1945

Dies drunk at a train depot.

-

Ellie Edwards Sherman

Born 1959

Married in 1977

Has two sons and four daughters.

-

Eddy Sherman

Born 1978

a.k.a. Father Edwin Shaw

Dies at 29 of congestive heart failure.

-

Jimmy Sherman

Born 1979

Begins working for Mickey Freeze at age 8.

-

Jeremy McStanish

Born 1928

Arch enemy of Luke O'Malley &

Mickey Freeze

First Wife --- Mother of Chris Martin Unknown

Second Wife ---

The duchess, Claudia Van Ecklignberg

-

Chris Martin

a.k.a. Chris McStanish, Chris Mansfield

Born 1945

Son of Jeremy McStanish – Mother unknown.

-

Julie McStanish Nash

Born 1959

Daughter of Jeremy McStanish

& Claudia Van Ecklignberg.

-

Alexis Dering

Born 1802

Catholic missionary priest who deserts his mission,

and lives with the native Indians in South America.

--

Joseph Alexis Dering a.k.a. Alejo Don Alexander

Born 1835

First Son of Alexis Dering and Indian wife.

Fathered Twins.

--

Rico Don Alexander

First son of Joseph Alexis Dering

a.k.a. Alejo Don Alexander

Born 1867

WWI War Profiteer

Fathered Twins.

--

José Santiago Alexander

Second son of Joseph Alexis Dering

a.k.a. José Don Alexander

Born 1867

No Children.

--

Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

Son of Rico Don Alexander

Born 1907

Twin brother to José Santiago Alexander, Jr.

Fathered Twins.

--

José Santiago Alexander, Jr.

Son of Rico Don Alexander

Born 1907

Twin brother to Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

--

Don Alexander

Son of Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

Twin Brother to Santiago

Born 1945

--

Santiago Alexander

Son of Rico Don Alexander, Jr.

Twin Brother to Don Alexander

Born 1945

P r o l o g u e

Peru - 2007

She looked around her bare and musty cell with the usual sense of total disbelief. Most of what she remembered about her trial was that it was filled with strangers. Not one person from the village she lived in or anyone that she knew sat in the courtroom. One afternoon she saw her brother-in-law Gabriel and three of her sons come in, but they were in the back of the chamber and she was not allowed to turn around. It was the day her verdict had been announced.

An odd looking doctor said she was diagnosed with severe personality disorder. She could still hear his testimony: Mary Elizabeth O'Malley is borderline delusional and she doesn't recognize the reality of her offense. Part psychiatrist and part priest, she remembered thinking as she stared at him. Diagnoses when? Such rubbish she thought---that anyone could say such nonsense about her was beyond her imagination. She wanted her lawyer to question him, but he wouldn't—a man who had dirty fingernails and a toupee. He couldn't be a real lawyer, she thought.

She struggles with her competence in ways that are rare, but distinctly unique to people who continually confuse reality with their imaginary deeds. And who is he? Where's that silly accent from? He sounds like a cockney Brit who's pretending to be educated---he's certainly not someone from around here. A real doctor wouldn't wear the clothes he was wearing, she thought. They're dirty. She looked back at her lawyer. He was so disgusting that she was afraid that if she said anything he would touch her and she would throw up in court.

It was all a lie; and not even a logical one. If anyone was present who knew her, this crazy testimony would be contradicted. But there was no one. She was found guilty of murdering her husband, a most ridiculous, and unimaginable thought to her. She was supposed to be executed. And yet she never was. She was here in some foreign prison and had been for years and years. No matter how many days had gone by, her mind would continue to deny the events that brought her to this place of nothingness. Each morning she felt the same sense of shock and dismay the moment she woke. She would close her eyes and pray, I deny this existence today and every day. Yet, she knew her continued refusal to accept her situation was diminishing her ability to survive. Still, she continued to struggle with her thoughts incessantly.

And why this prison, of all the insane places in the world? Why one that was outside her homeland? If the judge and jury truly believed she was guilty of murder, why wasn't she executed immediately as they announced at the trial?

As she pondered these things over and over, she rarely spoke. There was no one to listen except the sentry who did not understand her. In the beginning, she had tried, but she had long since given up hope of ever communicating anything intelligent to her inhospitable guard. She was alone and would be until her God decided it was enough.

O n e

Gift from God or Curse?

I am talking about myself again---in the third person. I did that occasionally when I was a very young child. There must have been something bothering me. She is Mary I used to say to myself. Look at her. She is pretty and quiet. And then I would describe the little girl I saw, making her far more interesting than I thought I was and a much more merciful person than I knew I ever could be.

She, myself that is, was not liked by adults. They called me precocious and strong-willed. Not assets loved by the Catholic nuns either. Has God been punishing me for my oblivious vanity? Is that why He put me in this prison?

When I was around four or five, I had just arrived at school and came in through the back door so I could detour into the church for a moment. I liked the smell of the incense and making the sign of the cross on my head with the holy water. It calmed me before I started school. As I softly walked past the office on the way to my classroom, I heard my teacher, a sister with a strange name, Sr. Mary Sylvester, call someone on the telephone. It sounded like a friend. She was just chatting and laughing. It wasn't her usual severe tone of voice.

When the parish priest showed up at our class unexpectedly, he wanted to know why our teacher wasn't in the room when he arrived. So I stood up and told the priest what she was doing. After all, I too thought she should have been in the classroom. We had to be on time or were scolded. So to me, it was the logical thing to do. First, because she reprimanded me---as well as everyone else for being late, and second, she was mean and deserved a taste of her own medicine. And, most importantly, I was anxious to get started with my reading lesson. It was my dream to sit and read big books.

When she came in the room, the pastor confronted her and asked her out into the hall. We giggled because we knew she was being scolded. Still, right to the priest, she lied and said that someone important had called her away. She was just trying to protect herself. She was embarrassed. After school, she went straight to the phone again, but this time, it was to call my parents.

That weekend, they cut off my long hair because I had challenged her. I didn't even care that my parents had cut my hair. In fact, I was totally unaware of any change in how I looked and happy that I was finally freed up from the ordeal of insufferable tangles. The next school day, she was on time, standing at the door as each child filed in. She stopped me with her foot. Oh, you poor thing, she said as she pinched what hair was left on my head. Too bad you had to lose all those pretty long curls. I sometimes wonder if she has died yet, and if Jesus has shown her the mercy that I never would.

Sometimes I try to convince myself that I don't know why I am here, but of course I do. It is because of some outlandish supernatural presence in me---a gift or possibly a hellish curse. I can see when someone is lying. I'm not just intuitive. I can actually see the truth while someone is talking. But that doesn't mean that I can do anything about it. For me, it is like a ghost that you can see, but if you put your hand out to control it or change it, you couldn't. It would pass right through you and you couldn't stop it.

Chris Martin, a stranger to me, figured out that I had this power and I assume he thought he could use me to his advantage when making deals with his criminal friends. I am fairly sure he is responsible for this imprisonment. But what I don't know is what he thought I could do for him. If he had just asked me straight out, I could have told him that my visions don't work on command. It doesn't matter though. He threatened my children's future. As soon as he said, if you promise to help me I will see that your family is protected forever, then I knew he was an evil man. I couldn't risk having my children vulnerable to an outlandish oath.

I often wonder if my unexplained power to see the truth is still a part of me. Since I've been abandoned in this strange land, I haven't talked to anyone besides myself and my guard and he doesn't speak English.

In the beginning, when I was young and heard a lie, an unfamiliar nausea would pass through me, almost from head to toe and I would almost pass out. I would start to hear very tiny, curious wheezes right behind my ear, but still deep inside, as if someone was crying out to me . . . it resembled a baby's cooing and a gentle pressure. It would come out of nowhere, like a kitten's panting and be so soft that I had to close my eyes and concentrate to hear it. Someone is in pain, I would think. It was such an insufferable keening. I would pray immediately for it to go away. Please God---stop it---it's frightening me.

As I grew older, even stranger things would happen. The voice of the person speaking would be drowned out by another voice from inside me, but it sounded as if someone was talking to me from across the room. The voice would not only contradict what was being said, but speak the truth. I had never spoken a word about this to anyone, except briefly to my son Kevin. And that was only when I was able to grab him for a hug a few seconds before I was whisked away to be executed for a crime I had not committed. But I doubt that he understood what I was saying. He was so young.

I had begun to question people or make their lies obvious almost as soon as I learned to talk. I thought everyone just intuitively knew when someone else was fibbing. I thought people were being silly or polite for keeping it to themselves-—which I did frequently when I liked someone or wanted someone to like me. I would push it right out of my mind.

I was often reprimanded severely by my parents whenever I made accusations to them. Yet, they lied incessantly. Mostly, to shield themselves from each other and both seemed impervious to it.

As an adult, I realized that their inability to understand consequences, especially the obvious hypocrisy in front of their children, was probably due to a lack of intelligence. The worst part of the problem was coping with their ridiculous lectures when I confronted someone. After the first few traumatic instances, I thought that they had learned to believe me. My accuracy and age of innocence should have been enough to cause them some degree of pause, but it didn't. There would be formidable yelling and especially if I had upset anyone within the Church.

By the time I was seven, I had learned to keep my insight to myself unless I was asked. Then I would let them know the facts but refused to carry on conversations or be subjected to long interrogations. I had finally been stifled but I wasn't afraid to stare at adults, showing them that I knew the truth.

As a teenager, the more I knew, the less I let on. I had become wise among the inhumanity and parade of sins that crossed my path every day. It was the visual experiences that emerged later in life that changed everything for me. The first time it happened I was already 25 years old. My husband had come in from the stone quarry and was complaining about the rain.

It held me up considerably today, said Luke. The mud was so thick I could barely get a rock up out of the soil, even at the rim of the quarry.

I saw his face flush slightly . . . just slightly more than it would have from the nippy cold in the air. I knew immediately that it was not the truth. Then the voice inside my brain spoke. I was always far more interested in identifying the owner's voice, than what it had to say. But there was no time. It happened so quickly, and yet, was so revealing that I must have looked completely stunned. It said, See the gazebo.

What's the matter? Luke asked. You look so pale and weak. Are you ill my darling? Is it the twins you'll be having soon?

I didn't answer. My mind became immediately impressed with the image of the dilapidated gazebo still standing in the middle of land that had long since been neglected by its wealthy owner. It was like watching a movie. I saw Luke, with his broad naked back to the railing, his great white shirt hanging around the back of his trousers---his suspenders hanging to his side. A pair of bony white arms were wrapped around his back, digging into it as if the creature was about to be saved from death. A bare leg was wrapped around him and the skirt was almost completely hidden by the white cottons of her underskirt . . . still, I could see its red color splashed around the edges.

How long could this wayward afternoon have kept him from real work, I started to think, as the image flashed by and I had seen what had happened. It was so revealing that I must have looked completely stunned.

No, I am not ill, I said. I am very hungry though and it is nearly an hour now keeping the dinner warm. The children have been very patient waiting on you.

Someday they will appreciate hard work, he said.

Indeed, I muttered. When I turned around to pick up the pot of stew off the stove, I saw Peter and Teddy chuckling under their breath. I quickly turned back around and forced myself to regain my composure.

My dear then, I'll wash very quickly and be right back. You go right ahead and sit down at the table, he said on his way out. No formalities needed for my sake tonight, he said sweetly.

That night I watched Luke very carefully during dinner. He rarely looked at me and then when he did it was with delight as if he was happier than ever. What did he think? He was not like himself—almost a wee bit nervous. I wondered. Does he think I am so stupid as to not know how he looks after an extra-long day of hard work in the quarry? Does he think he has gotten away with his little infidelity? I'm absolutely sure that can't be. He probably thinks that he is so grand that he can do what he wants, whenever he wants, and that I would defer to his rights as a descendant of some grand Irish chieftain. Surely his mother had raised him so. Well, mostly I don't really give a damn I said to myself as I stuck a fork into a potato.

With every indiscretion, Luke would become even more attentive, like a child who was about to lose his privileges. He seemed cavalier out in the freedom of daily toil and blustery weather, and like a wayward teenager once he was home. Instead of dwelling on Luke's curious behavior I would look at my sons. They are grand indeed. So far, I had borne the finest children of anyone in the county, and I was truly blessed with them as well as delighted with my life. They'll grow up to be good men. I'll see to it for sure.

After that, each unearthed indiscretion became more and more clearly presented in my mind. As my husband continued his escapades, I battled against wanting to know what was going on and not wanting to know at the same time. I struggled with the episodes and sometimes would follow up on one. Luke would come in and describe some work he was going to be doing and say he would be off to the other side of the Lakes of Killarney. My mind's eye would see him rolling around in the tall grasses as soon as he spoke the words. I would put the babes in a wagon and jaunt on after him several miles back. Then I would witness the transgression, but just for a second. It was simply to confirm that my most recent revelation was correct. It was enough to hear his baritone nonsense in the fields along with outbursts of giggles before I would turn my cart around and head for home. Each time I was annoyed and, yet, each time I became more interested in my powers than in the unquenched passions of Luke. Something about his infidelity just didn't sync.

On my way home one evening, I thought about telling my family that I knew what was going on. Still, I reneged on myself as soon as they had gathered around the supper table. It was the one time of the day that the feelings of love among my sons and my family, and yes, myself regardless of Luke's unfaithfulness, would rise in me like fresh absolutions.

It was when the home, with all its smallness and unpretentiousness would turn into a tiny castle of make-believe; children everywhere—warm glows of polished wood and perfect white walls. Wild red roses that clung to the stucco walls outside the window would brighten in the moonlight against the dark blue of the evening sky. Lots of little treasures everywhere and a huge hearth that couldn't be found in even the most elegant homes in town.

I was so content and proud of everything around me. Luke had rebuilt the entire fireplace and had laid perfectly flat slate tile floors inside the cottage. None of the other men around were strong enough to tackle such a formidable task. No dirt accumulated for very long and it was easy to knot old rags into new oval rugs for the floors. It was a charming cottage, and more than anything, the family itself was like a storybook ending of happily everafters.

I would watch him challenge the boys with an eternal list of rhymes and riddles; puzzles and paradoxes. He had a way with words and would read stories to them with the most wonderful expressions every evening after supper. And then later, when he would make love to me, he was very different than he was with his silly conquests. There was no yammering or puffing for my sake. He would be adoring; and very, very loving. I knew his feelings for me were completely different than his feelings for any other woman. I didn't understand it but somehow I just didn't feel bad.

Every one of the boys would sleep in the loft except for the babies. They were lined up, each with the space of a cot, small table, and lamp. On the opposite wall, there was a long built-in cabinet with an individual locker for shoes, clothes, and their own personal items. Each time the space would reach its limit, Luke would make light work of rebuilding and expanding the loft. Off would come the old beams to the left of the cottage and new floors would be decked out across the lawn, supported by stacked-stone pillars that would sprout up almost overnight. He would cut the new length of the beams and reuse some of the wood from the old wall. When we knew that we would need a much larger loft, he stacked stone on the back exterior wall to block the north winds. In the corner he built a new fireplace with a huge deep hearth. It was designed to keep the evening coals safe inside and the stone around warm to the touch. He would meld the cement in an unusual method not seen by any other local builders and somehow made these inexpensive constructions of his own design attractive.

I would marvel at it when the work was finished and would go up the stairs to find space for four more cots. All that cement, I would think; all those stones up and down every day. He is like a machine, I would think. The hard physical labor had only enhanced his physique over the years and now that he was approaching 34, he was more handsome than ever, his muscles just rippling across his back every time he moved.

No one could understand our life from outside. Many of our neighbors had heard rumors about Luke. They also assumed that there had to be torrential fights and squabbles going on with all the boys in such close quarters, but there weren't.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, one would say. Your patience is surely tested every day with all those boys in your cottage.

And then I couldn't resist asking, Have you seen them carrying on and quarreling then Mrs. O'Hara?

Well no, but surely . . .

Good day then, I would say as I walked away.

From the very moment they were born, I taught my sons to love each other and they did. I had told them that their loyalty would carry them through any disasters the world could throw at them and they would never have a day of worry if they knew they could count on each other. I would say to them: This will be your legacy and be worth more than all the money in the world.

T w o

The Nine Irish Sons - 2007

The O'Malleys decided to meet up in Dublin. Peter, Michael, and Matthew looked like any young grad students on the Trinity grounds, except that they were all noticeably handsome. They wanted to keep their reunion private, and by meeting on the campus, the young men could blend into the scenery and chat openly without worrying about gossip.

When Kevin approached them, his three older brothers hardly recognized him. He looked more like a finely manicured and cultured CEO of a multinational than a brother of the tough and ruggedly dressed O'Malleys. Certainly, he was not as good-looking as they were in some respects, but he had acquired a striking style and an exceptional attractiveness of his own. At first glance, he threw them all into a somewhat speechless state, but as soon as he spoke they recognized the old Kevin.

Peter, what the hell is going on? he asked. Luke has been acting really distant—every time I called he put me off. I hear from Uncle Sean he's been spending a lot of time over at McStanish's place. Didn't he die? You would think he was having an affair with that awful daughter of his.

He is, . . . sort of, said Michael.

You're kidding aren't you? She must be pretty old by now.

She's actually a few years younger than our mam would be today, said Matthew. So by current standards, Julie's quite a hot chick for an older woman. She has improved somewhat in her looks, but mostly because she has so much money to spend preserving herself.

I thought she was married, said Kevin.

She's single after three miserable marriages and the gossip is that she has no interest in tying the knot again---though we think that's just servants talking.

So why is he seeing her? asked Kevin.

Apparently Luke ran into her at the track. They exchanged a few cordial words, but she said something that made him very suspicious . . . like she knew something about our mam. So Luke has been trying to cozy up to her to see if she would tell him anything more, said Peter.

So, the reality is that Luke is not having an affair, nor does he waste a lot of time at the track, said Michael.

It's just a show, said Matthew. That's one of the things we will talk about tonight since Luke has kept most of what has been going on from us too. I guess he felt a little unsure of our reaction. He didn't even tell Teddy or Tim yet. Meanwhile, we don't want anyone else to know that Julie is being used to find out what we can. It may be the only way to finally get some answers.

Funny, it does make some sense since she has to know something, but I never would have thought about Julie as a source of information for us. It's a surprise, frankly, said Kevin.

Yes, to us too, so keeping all of this quiet is important. We don't want anyone else to know it's a sham, especially if gossip around the village might raise Julie's suspicions. Actually, as ridiculous as it seems, we don't want our sudden reunion to be general knowledge either. Plenty of help still goes in and out of the McStanish mansion. We would look really stupid if we discover she knows nothing and her interest in Luke turns out to be nothing more than a silly woman's mantrap. Once we leave the farm again, we must believe what Luke is doing is as natural as following in da's footsteps.

We'll all try to get on the same page this evening. Meanwhile, we are confident that Luke could pull it off if anyone can. He's still more of a romantic than any of us, said Matthew.

Speak for yourself, said Michael.

And what else is there to do in Glocca Morra? remarked Kevin.

Hey, there's plenty to do these days. Anyway, what's really interesting is that whatever you, Joe, and Tim found out when you were playing detective as kids might be relevant as well. Kevin, you are the one we need to sort out the minutia and dig out what you guys were putting together for all those years. Tim says that the tracking and documenting of all the McStanish routines at the mansion would be extremely helpful, possibly supporting the surveillance dates and activities stored at the FBI, said Matthew.

I thought Tim was working for the CIA, said Kevin.

He is. It's such a long story, said Peter. We will try to start at the beginning if you promise not to ask questions until we finish. They all laughed except Kevin.

Ha ha---is that supposed to be a joke at my expense? You guys haven't changed at all, sighed Kevin looking annoyed.

Hey, don't get sore---we know you're a control freak when it comes to information, said Matthew.

I'm not sore. You guys sound weird though. I guess this is the first time we've spoken about all this stuff together. We used to keep it all within our own secret little worlds. Besides, it would be fun to look back at some of our investigations. Who knows? Maybe some of it might make some sense now, said Kevin somewhat cautiously. He had to find out how much they knew and how well they could handle the information as a group.

But his thoughts had already wandered off to his own investigations that had never ceased in either intensity or thoroughness. He was wondering how this group of brothers could ever discover anything new next to the research he had been doing secretly for over a decade, with some of the most advanced and powerful investigative tools in the world.

As we speak, Tim is digging around in the Vatican City comptroller's offices. He knows we are meeting but will catch up on our discussions later. He just wants to get the rest of what he has uncovered shipped here first, added Michael.

And do we know why he is sending us research from there?

When Tim went to school in the States, he did a paper on some of your investigative techniques, only meshed what you guys had learned with new information technology and changed the circumstances. That is what brought Tim to the CIA's attention when he graduated. His paper was out on the Internet and there were a few identical incidents in a case of international fraud that they had been investigating for more than forty years . . . some group called Mezzadonies, Inc., supposedly a supplier of prescription drugs, said Matthew.

The hair on the back of Kevin's neck prickled. He must have flushed.

What's the matter? asked Matthew.

Nothing. I think I am having a bit of an allergic reaction to some aspirin I took on the plane, said Kevin looking somewhat absentmindedly. I stopped taking aspirin years ago but they didn't have any ibuprofen. He didn't mention that he had flown in on his own private jet.

Anyway, once Tim was hired, he shared what he knew about McStanish and all the spying you guys did. Then he and his boss ran the name along with some of Tim's stories against their databases and McStanish's name popped up on two very old documents from the sixties matching Church property transfers, said Peter.

Kevin knew this. He had had some access to their huge databases for years and now reciprocated work daily, thanks to Tim's ability to get onboard with them.

About forty years ago, it seems McStanish bought a couple of rest homes in Ireland and then transferred ownership to a company in the States. He must not have known that at the time, such transactions were controlled by international commerce regulations, said Peter. Tim is trying to keep us organized by feeding us information in chronological order.

They wouldn't have been kept in the files today---back then mostly original documents were still saved. He was probably only about 18 to 20 years old then, said Kevin thinking out loud.

At first glance, it doesn't seem like a possible connection to anything connected to our parents. Yet, my instinct then, tells me that there is one, said Peter.

"It caught their attention. The two of them put together some possible leads. They decided that it was worth a trip to see if some more Church property transfers could be found so Tim was sent to look for matching records in the Vatican archives.

It seems that our friend McStanish intervened on behalf of several corporations with syndicate connections, by giving them title to health facilities originally owned by the Catholic Church. The few that they know about were under scrutiny for questionable practices, and then each one of them subsequently closed years ago. According to Tim, the Agency had been picking up clues now and then because these companies had so many crime families linked to them. Every business they were involved in is red-flagged. The few irregular papers they have uncovered so far, still don't give them enough information to nail down the source of the crimes or how the businesses were connected," explained Peter.

My company has investigated some of the international crime rings that have developed some complex health insurance stings, said Kevin. Apparently, ripping off the aged by defrauding their medical insurance coverage and health care assets has grown into indecipherable paperwork puzzles involving many corporations; some legitimate and others disreputable. I've heard that the best of the IRS auditors in the States couldn't nail down the financial records of even one such multinational. Billions may be involved and the types of creative crimes are more than any of us could have ever imagined.

Example? asked Peter.

One of my clients discovered a drug scheme that killed hundreds of people in the States and the public doesn't know about it. Most governments are afraid there would be widespread panic if their populations knew that drugs administered in nursing homes and rehab centers were nothing more than placebos or are tainted with dirty ingredients. They are so easily replicated these days. It's an easy scam. Most of the time, families are thankful when their ill relatives are released from their misery, said Kevin. Even doctors can't really figure out if someone who is eighty dies from tainted pills that have been administered over a period of six months or a year or the illnesses they're being treated for—and usually, no one wants them to check, said Kevin.

One thing is for sure---Tim is excited about finally finding out what Jeremy McStanish was up to all those years. It's amazing that it looks like our evil neighbor was somehow involved, and possibly the mastermind behind an international corruption ring that's been shadowed for years, said Michael.

Regardless of that, it still is going to be a stretch to connect McStanish with our parents in any way that makes sense, but as they say, God is in the details, said Kevin.

In more ways than one, said Michael. Most of what has been mailed to us so far are records going back to the sixties with more verbiage in Latin than one would expect. Teddy has been at the translations for days already and not much of it seems worthwhile. Meanwhile, we haven't contacted Tim just in case we are in over our heads. We thought that unusually frequent calls with him might look suspicious, so we are waiting until we can give him a little more to go on or just wait until he decides to return here.

Look suspicious to whom? asked Kevin.

They all shrugged their shoulders. He's a spy isn't he? chuckled Matthew.

And from what I can remember about his ability to deduce clues, probably a damned good one. What was it that Julie McStanish said to Luke? asked Kevin.

"What Luke told us was that he was so suddenly stunned that he didn't digest it word for word. He was more afraid to noticeably react to her. Luke didn't know if she meant to say what she did, but assumes not and that it was just a slip of the tongue. All he could remember was that she said something like, Luke, when I first turned around and saw you, for some reason I thought that woman standing right behind you was your mam----returned from paradise----and then she giggled. Returned from where? he asked her, and she said again, paradise. But then, as if she was thinking too hard about it, she said---you know you silly, like heaven. That's where she is, isn't she?" said Peter.

Luke said he felt a sudden lightheadedness because he was sure that word meant something else . . . something from the past. But he can't place it. Plus, she had laughed somewhat nervously. In his mind, she said it so carelessly. He couldn't believe that she would have said that about his mother or been so flighty about it if she knew she had been executed. He thinks about it a lot, said Michael.

Kevin looked very seriously at his brothers and they were wondering what he was thinking. What had come to his mind was the smoothness of Michael's handling of the information. Peter he expected to be a top notch analyst, but he wondered how he had missed this in Michael.

Has she said anything else yet? asked Kevin.

"Not yet. He knows she realized that she had slipped up, so hasn't pressed her. He thinks she would have said from heaven or from the grave or a more common cliché, and looked a little sympathetic if she believed that our mother was really dead. He says we have to prove it, but he thinks it must mean that mam is still alive and she must be somewhere that Julie thinks of as paradise," said Peter.

So this is the clue that Tim had held back from Kevin and made him go home to force him to include his brothers now.

Luke and Teddy are home looking through stuff from their old spying days that may be important. Luke swears there is some evidence we had about South America or the word paradise, said Peter.

South America? That's a stretch. You really think this means something? How could mam have ended up there? Where could she be kept? Certainly not in some South American prison? I can only imagine the worse, said Kevin.

George and Gabriel are already at the farm waiting for us. They think we may be desperately imagining something based on our persistent grief. They both think we need therapy to just get over our loss and move on."

You're not serious?

Everyone laughed. The uncle in both of them always emerges when you least expect it.

Luke should be home soon. Let's just get going, said Peter.

They started walking across the remainder of the College grounds that had provided them with a sense of obscurity. They cut across the Quay to Jury's where they could catch a cab to the Guinness factory.

We'll just taxi over to St. James Gate. Uncle Sean will be waiting for us at the car park with Jimmy's old Dairy truck, said Matthew.

Kevin looked at his brothers with a great deal of curiosity and yet was visibly miffed that something really important had been going on with his family and that he was meant to be the last to learn about it. Well he did know about it. He had set up the whole meeting. Still, it was annoying. He was always the one who could be relied on the most to sort out clues and make sound judgments.

On the way home, there was nonstop chatter about recent events, but everyone sensed that Kevin was a little put-off. Still, they knew when he had heard the bits and pieces of information they had, it would satisfy all his curiosity along with a deep understanding of their discretion.

By the time the gray old truck passed through Killarney it was barely noticeable against the bleak stone walls. No one was curious about a dairy truck that had been part of the scenery for nearly forty years.

When they arrived at the farm, Kevin was numbed by the cottage. From the front, it hadn't changed since he had left. It was exactly the same as it had been nearly two decades earlier when his dismay over the trial and bewilderment around events had motivated him to eventually run away to England to study law and learn more about the world of espionage.

He had not only become an official British barrister but also had become a renowned economist, both studying and teaching international regulations pertaining to capital investment and interstate commerce. He had initially sought criminal law and wanted to be prepared for a future that would change the outcome of his mother's trial—at least for the next generation's sake. He wondered how his family would react when he would finally tell them about his lucrative business. He had never spoken to any of them about it. They just assumed that he would become a lawyer and never imagined that there were so many different types of criminal law.

When Kevin first arrived in London, he had met an interesting Oxford professor in one of the pubs and found the conversation of this ancient artisan of the English language fascinating enough to ask to be tutored in the semantics of getting one's way---when breaking the law . . . especially international law. Later, he would think, he would work towards the truth behind his family's scandal, regardless of how daunting the task seemed.

Only after he had worked in international commerce law did he understand why God had put his language mentor in the middle of his life's path. It became obvious that becoming a traditional trial lawyer would not have allowed him to do the kind of work that he was doing . . . very personal, very independent---very lucrative work. And work that brought more than a few bits and pieces of his own information on McStanish.

T h r e e

My Prison

I must figure out what year it is. It has to be at least 2004 but I am not sure because during the first few years of my imprisonment, I was sick most of the time. And each episode of sickness made my existence more confusing. I would pass out for hours, days, or weeks. I don't even know how long each illness lasted. I only know that a slimy looking doctor showed up occasionally and he hollered at my sentry. I think it must have had something to do with my rations of water because he yelled agua agua at him which is one of the few Spanish words I understand.

The weather is mostly the same every day, usually very dry and hot except for a few days of drizzly rain. It can cool down and stay somewhat foggy. Those are the best days for reflecting on my home in Ireland. But it can bounce back to a mild, warm day unexpectedly. I am glad I have not had to suffer extreme heat or cold.

Recently, I have been losing my teeth, two of them so far, and my skin is ravaged with sores and peculiar marks. My hair always feels disgusting to the touch, and I don't know if it has grown thicker or thinner. I must look like a monster. Otherwise, I suppose my health is fine now. It would probably be a lot better if they hadn't rationed my water for the first few years. When I look at the salt and pepper mangles that hang down to my waist, I feel so embarrassed---as if someone is going to walk in and see me.

My sentry, who was so cruel in the beginning, has softened over time. He's just a little stupid. During the first few years, I had been allowed to go outdoors but for brief periods of time when he would tie me up with a rope around my waist. I would be taken out of my cell and pushed through a small portal right outside the door of my cell. He used to hit me with a stick, I suppose because I wasn't moving fast enough. Finally, one day I turned on him, grabbed the stick and broke it in anger. I was so much bigger than he was that I think I truly did frighten him. After that, I exited through the portal on my own and he would keep a good distance away.

Outside the back wall of my hut is a parcel of stone---about forty meters long and sixty meters wide. I have walked up and down it many times. It must be the tip of a plateau or cliff of some kind, but I can't see a view to the left or right, only straight down. I can't see the front of any of the other prison buildings if they exist. All I can see is the back of a few more adobe huts that bend around to the right of mine. They could be anything. I never hear any real voices or traffic or anything really. . . occasionally something that sounds like a radio.

I never have considered escaping from this place. If I did get away from the immediate buildings I know I couldn't make it through the jungles below and out to the coast and if I did, then what would I do? I have no clothes, no money, and no papers that would allow me back into my country. I know no one. I wouldn't even know if I could make a phone call home. And if I could, how could they find me. I don't even know where I am.

I was transported across the Atlantic at night in a private jet where I was locked in a bathroom with no food. I was then blindfolded and rode in a car for about an hour before I was moved into a very large truck. I was able to remove my blindfold and feel around in the dark until I found a few bare essentials. There was a heavy door, much like a small refrigerator door that opened from the outside and my captors used it to remove my waste twice a day and shove in trays of food. I existed in total dark until a shred of morning light would seep through two tiny grilled windows at the top of the container. I think I was in this truck for at least four weeks.

When it finally stopped and I was led out of the truck, I was blindfolded again and put in a jeep with three soldiers. I could barely hold on to my seat as it tumbled through some very rocky terrain. When we finally stopped and they removed my blindfold, I thought I was in a Spanish mission. There were huge black cars blocking most of the view of the lightless buildings, but they were definitely expensive looking and there were some lovely flower gardens scattered around. I was quickly pushed toward a long adobe wall. We passed through a solid wooden gate that was bolted on the other side once we passed through. It was the first time I saw my little hut where I would be kept. At that very moment an extraordinary red hue sprayed fingers of light upwards across the horizon which seemed to be an arm's length away from where I was standing. That night I heard a lot of yelling in Spanish and think that most of the cars pulled out of the property right after I arrived. I have been here ever since.

In the beginning, when I was let out on the ledge, I would lie down and look over the edge. It was hundreds of meters above a jungle below, and off in the distance, was a sea—and not an Irish sea. There was no escape except suicide. I thought about it every day but made no serious attempts to leap off the edge. Once the guard realized that I would not jump he let me crawl in and out onto the ledge and stay as long as I wanted. At first, I would sit out there and look at the water for hours. It had to be at least 30 kilometers off; maybe even a hundred. There was no way to figure it out or judge the distance to the horizon at this height.

The only thing that seems to have helped me with my survival has been pretending that I had some sense of purpose or service to do for God to prove that I was still the good person I had always been and no matter what, would remain so. I began to make up ridiculous efforts at work. When I would sit outside on my sparse ledge, I would push little piles of warm dirt together with my fingers and then place small stones on top to save the piles of dust from the wind. Day after day, my little mounds of dirt grew to three-meter square stacks bound by small stones and crusty mounds of fallen concrete that were all around the edges of my cell. The stones held the dirt down at night until there was a rare rain or heavy sea mist.

I did this work in the early morning until the sun behind me would come across my building in the afternoon and then I would retreat to my adobe room where I would think. It would feel cool after sitting out in the heat. One day a bird will fly over and drop a seed and a plant will appear and I will have given birth to a living thing and then God will know I am still alive.

After a few very unusual days of rain, I saw a sprig of something growing. When my guard saw it, he immediately pulled it out and threw it away. I cried about it for hours and just couldn't stop, but I also knew I wasn't crying for a sprig of greenery. It was for the loss of my life. No one could ever understand this. Shortly after that episode, my guard came out to the ledge, which he had never done before and surprised me. He pulled a handful of seeds out of his pocket and placed them in one of my piles of tidy sand. He then emptied a flour sack of rich black dirt into the pile. He brought a little more dirt and an extra bucket of water each day when I was outside and then would just leave for the rest of the day. He no longer looked harsh or bothered me. On occasion, he even grinned.

What I was most surprised with was this sudden appearance of a full bucket of water. I had only two cups of water a day for at least the first three years. While wondering where the greater amounts of water were suddenly coming from, I realized that I could hear the sound of a tap or a hose. I was so infuriated and began to use some of the water to drink and wash my face. I scowled at him to bring another bucket in the afternoon. Amazingly he did. Then one morning, as I entered my odd garden on a plateau in the sky, I noticed a tiny sound as if a seltzer bottle cap was loose. I looked around and saw a yellow hose had been brought around to my garden from somewhere on the other side of the building. There was no way for me to turn the broken nozzle. I could not increase the flow or shut it off, but the sprits could fill up my bucket several times a day.

The next day, he rolled a wheelbarrow up to the portal and called me. Immediately, I used my bucket to empty out the black soil. He did this for several days. I worked tirelessly creating three square foot gardens all over my yard of stone. I gave them names and made sure that each had a fair amount of morning or afternoon sun.

It was the water that seemed to bring me out of my coma. In no time, my gardens were harvesting large melons, tomatoes, cucumbers, and many odd looking fruits and vegetables that were completely foreign to me. After a while, my guard realized I didn't know what they were and occasionally would stop to show me which ones to eat raw and how. After that, every time I needed something, for example, some sticks for my tomato vines, they would show up unexpectedly. Some of the vines were so high that I could stay outdoors in little shady areas and let the hose drip cool water all over me. During these hours, I would thank God that I was safe, and that my children were safe. I seemed to know this.

One morning my guard came in earlier than usual and smiled at me as if I was supposed to be pleased. I knew he had snuck in to take an entire basket of tomatoes and peppers one night. But this day he handed me a brown bag filled with a meal of corn crisps and a glass container of spicy stewed tomatoes. With his strange expressions and hand movements, he conveyed that he took the little harvest home to his wife to be canned. The short Spanish man with black teeth was very proud. He also handed me another bag of seeds. I realized that my guard was offering me a truce of some kind. If I continued my gardening, he would allow me the freedom to move in and out of my hut at will and provide all the water I wanted.

And, the best part, he would continue to take some of my harvest in return for some very good but unusual food. Each time I sent him off with fresh produce, he would return with more and more home cooked meals from his wife. After the first few months of trades, he brought me a few other necessities---some soap and toothpaste and a very large toothed comb. Shampoo could not be conveyed. Nevertheless, my life was slowly regaining some sense of normalcy, despite my deprivations and loneliness.

Each day that I wiped my face I would feel better than the day before. I rarely saw my guard anymore. I adjusted to my surroundings, as I finally had enough food and water and the freedom I needed to improve my routines. The water allowed me to keep my hut, clothes, cot, and everything else fairly clean. And just sitting in the soft warm breeze and allowing the fresh water to dry on my face was enough of a sensation to take my thoughts back to Ireland—and to my extraordinary past life.

F o u r

My Mayoral Sons

As they grew up and learned to count on each other at school and around the Village of Aghadoe my sons began to trust in my wisdom. They realized that people were jealous of them, and they were always proud to be seen with each other. They were not just envied for their strapping good looks, but also for their great sense of humor and intelligence. Any one of them could be relied on to intercede as a diplomat for the teachers or the merchants on the streets.

I would hear various stories about their routines in and out of school. The tenor and excitement in their voices were always the same. As I would lie on