Destiny - The Callahans #1 (22 page)

“Clearly,” McGuire said, somewhat exasperated
by Stromberg’s struggle to get the facts into his head.

“Right. Then here’s what I want you to do.”
For ten minutes, Harold described to Ken McGuire how he wanted the
situation handled, with McGuire interrupting on several occasions
to protest.

Finally, Harold overcame McGuire’s resistance
by saying, “Look, McGuire. This lout has been making unwarranted
advances toward my wife. I want him out of town. I’m not asking you
to perpetrate a fraud. You don’t even have to lie. Simply tell him
you know what happened in Kansas City, and that as an officer of
the court you have a duty to inform the local police. Tell him . .
. tell him, oh, I don’t know what! Tell him there’s always a chance
of some mistake in these things, and that in fairness to him,
you’ll give him, say, forty-eight hours to consider his actions,
before you go to the authorities. Would that be so hard to do?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Stromberg. It seems we’d
be pushing this Callahan fellow into a corner.”

“That’s where he belongs, McGuire. Be
sensible. In a few days I have to leave town on business, and I’ll
be gone for several weeks. Would you want someone like that
menacing your wife if you weren’t there to take care of the
matter?”

“Well, actually, I’m not married, so—”

“Confound it, man! That’s beside the point!”
Harold shouted.

Then, adopting a softer tone, Harold said,
“Look. Maybe there’s a way for us to do a little more business. I
would like the premises of my home watched while I’m gone, just to
be sure that this Irish scum doesn’t disturb my wife during my
absence. Can your firm handle that extra business?” Harold asked,
holding out the carrot, in the form of a roll of money he had taken
out of his pocket.

Certain now of the kind of man he was dealing
with in Stromberg, the detective said, “I’m certain we can, Mr.
Stromberg.” Then, eyeing the money, he asked, “Now, exactly what is
it you want me to tell Callahan?”

Harold Stromberg went over it again, McGuire
nodding as he rationalized in his mind how he could skirt the edge
of ethical misconduct and satisfy his well-heeled customer, without
interfering too drastically with the rights of an insignificant
Irishman named Tom Callahan.

“Then we are in agreement?” Harold asked.

“That we are, Mr. Stromberg.”

“Good. When can you approach Callahan?”

“This afternoon, if I can locate him.”

“Good. Very good.”

“Tom, a man named McGuire is asking for you
upstairs in the main parlor.”

Tom looked out from underneath the cluster of
wires and control panels he was helping to install in the basement
of Holy Cross Hospital. The project was proving more difficult than
anyone could have imagined. But Sister Mary was determined to have
an electric call bell installed in each room of the hospital, and
Tom had been assigned to help the electrician who had contracted to
do the work.

“Did he say what he wants?” Tom asked.

“Nope, just asked if he could see you.”

“Thanks, Hernando, I’ll be right up,” Tom
said to the gardener.

Five minutes later, Tom walked down the
hallway in the east wing and into the main reception area. A
solidly built man holding a brown derby in his hands and wearing a
brown business suit and boots with silver toe tips was standing
there. A thin leather satchel lay on the couch next to him, and he
was studying one of the framed paintings on the wall.

“Mr. McGuire?” Tom asked.

“I am. Are you Thomas Callahan?”

“Aye. How can I help?”

“Is there somewhere we can speak privately,
Mr. Callahan?”

McGuire wasn’t wearing a uniform, but Tom
tensed up, on guard because of McGuire’s official behavior.

“Sure. But what’s it about?”

“I have a matter of business we need to
discuss. Where can we talk?”

Tom led McGuire down the hall to a small room
normally used as a family waiting area. It was vacant, and as they
stepped in, McGuire closed the door.

“What’s this all about?” Tom asked again.

Moving to take a seat on one of the chairs in
the room, McGuire said, “Sit down, Mr. Callahan.”

As they sat, McGuire began.

“Mr. Callahan, I’m with the Pinkerton
Detective Agency, and I’ve learned of an incident involving you
that took place in Kansas City, last November twenty-second.”

Tom’s heart leaped, and he suddenly felt
woozy. His first impulse was to jump and run, but he somehow
managed to stay seated. McGuire noted with satisfaction the look of
alarm on the young Irishman’s face and was instantly certain he
could accomplish what he had come to do.

McGuire continued. “I’ve been made aware of
what happened there and your part in it. A man named
Skomolski—Isaac Skomolski—was killed in a fight that night, and
there is reason to believe you are the one responsible for his
death.”

Even though he half expected that was what
McGuire was going to say, the words jolted Tom. He eyed McGuire,
quickly evaluating what kind of a chance he would have against the
muscular detective if it came to a fight. Tom’s throat was dry, and
when he spoke, his voice nearly failed him.

“How do you know about it? Are you a
policeman?”

McGuire pressed his advantage. “No,
Pinkerton’s is a private investigative agency. But I am an officer
of the court, and I have an obligation to report such things to the
police when they come to my attention.”

“Then, why have you come to me? What do you
want?”

“I think I can help you, Callahan.”

That was the first hopeful thing McGuire had
said, and Tom was immediately curious, though he remained
cautious.

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve been retained by a party who I’m not at
liberty to identify. My client has an interest in having you get
out of town, and I’m here to see that, one way or another, that
happens. You will be gone, Mr. Callahan. Count on it.”

Tom’s mind was racing. “It’s Stromberg, isn’t
it?” he stated.

“That’s for me to know and you to guess,
Callahan. I’ll only say that my client is a real hard case, and
he’s got the goods on you.

“Now here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll wait
forty-eight hours before I go to the police and tell them what I
know. Between now and then, you decide what you’re going to do. If
it were me, though, I wouldn’t have to think about it.”

“What’s your stake in it, McGuire? Why not
just turn me in?” Tom asked.

“Let’s just say . . . it looks to me like the
wrong pig’s getting stuck.”

Leaving the hospital a few minutes later,
McGuire felt as though it had been a good afternoon’s work. His was
a grungy business, but every once in a while, a chance came along
to do something fun. He’d lifted some money off that pompous
Stromberg and been able, without saying so directly, to let the kid
know who had fingered him. He’d earned his money. Callahan would
get out of town, and maybe the kid would get a chance to get even
one day. Stromberg, coward that he was, might yet get what he
deserved. Yes, sir, McGuire congratulated himself, all and all, it
hadn’t been a bad afternoon’s work.

Just before one a.m., Tom completed the note
to Sister Mary, having had great difficulty in expressing his shame
over leaving in the middle of the night. A second note, for D.O.
McKay, and a short third note for Anders Hansen, were enclosed with
Sister Mary’s, and she was asked to see that they were delivered to
each man.

The early morning train west, departing at
six-fifteen from the station in Salt Lake, would allow Tom to be
long gone before someone came to his room to determine why he
wasn’t available for work. In the note, Tom asked Sister Mary to
contribute his final pay to the children’s surgery fund.

Climbing the stairs from the basement, his
small valise in his hand, Tom moved quietly through the halls
toward the side entrance to the first floor, east wing. As he
hurried through the reception area, toward the main entrance, a
noise from the chapel startled him, and he suddenly found himself
face to face with Father Lawrence Scanlan, Archbishop of the Salt
Lake Diocese.

Noticing the valise in Tom’s hand, Scanlan
looked up at Tom. “Coming or going, my son?” he asked softly.

“Going, Father.”

“Well, so am I, lad. I have a buggy outside.
May I offer you a lift to your destination?”

“It’s just down the hill, Father. To the
train station.”

“Right on the way. Come along, and we can
introduce ourselves in the buggy.”

Tom hesitated, but then followed Father
Scanlan outside. He laid his piece of luggage in the rear of the
buggy and climbed up to the passenger seat. “I believe I know who
you are, Father Scanlan.”

“Do you now?” Scanlan said as he lightly
tapped the whip on the horse’s back. “Then you have the advantage,
although I believe Sister Mary spoke of you some time ago. If I’m
right, you’d be young Mr. Callahan, late of Ireland,” he laughed.
“And I haven’t been able to hear such a pleasant accent in many
years now. But tell me, Tom, if I may call you Tom, I was under the
impression that you were quite happy at Holy Cross and we would be
able to depend on your services for a while. Has something happened
to change all that?” the Bishop asked, looking directly at Tom.

“Ah, Father, it’s not an easy story.”

“They never are, my son. But God has a
listening ear, and He’s asked me to be patient each time I sit in
for Him. So, what part of Ireland do you come from, Tom?”

“County Tipperary, Father.”

Scanlan eyed Tom and smiled. “What
parish?”

“Pallas Grean.”

“You don’t say! Neighbors, we are, young Tom.
I hail from Ballytarna, just down the road. In that neck of the
woods, maybe we’re even relatives. What was your mother’s maiden
name?”

“Ryan, Father. Margaret Ryan.”

“Not Margaret Ryan, daughter of Matthew Ryan
and Margaret Donohue, per chance?”

Tom was surprised. “Aye, Father. One and the
same.”

Scanlan laughed. “Well, bless my soul! Your
mother is my cousin, Tom, and that makes us first cousins, once
removed. Blood relatives, can you believe it, lad! All the way from
Ireland to run into your cousin in the wilds of Utah. The Irish are
popping up everywhere, Tom. Just everywhere,” he laughed
heartily.

Born September 23, 1843, to Patrick and
Catherine Ryan Scanlan, Lawrence Scanlan, as oldest son, followed
an accepted tradition and attended All Hallows Seminary in Dublin,
becoming an alumnus nearly fifteen years after Father P. J. O’Leary
had followed the same course.

Father Scanlan’s career, however, had been
somewhat different than O’Leary’s. Taking a clipper ship around the
Horn in 1868, Father Scanlan landed in San Francisco, and was
immediately assigned to a small mining town in Nevada, eventually
moving to Petaluma, California, as parish priest. His assignment to
Utah came in 1873, to preside over about 800 Catholics in the
region, then the largest territorial Catholic diocese in the United
States.

Recognizing the need for medical care for
indigent miners, Father Scanlan petitioned the church to establish
a hospital and, in 1875, the Sisters of the Holy Cross complied.
Holy Cross Hospital was born shortly thereafter, and Father Scanlan
continued to preside as bishop over the Salt Lake diocese.

Part of that history was briefly related
while the horse slowly made her way down South Temple, toward the
train station.

“But back to your story, Tom. Is there some
way I can be of assistance? Anything I can do to encourage you to
stay? After all,” he smiled, “I’d not be gaining and losing a
relative in the same day, or night, if I had a choice.”

Tom laughed nervously as the buggy approached
Temple Square and the center of Salt Lake City. “Father, it’s an
honor to be related to you, and certainly Sister Mary has been the
soul of kindness since my arrival, but I just think it best I move
on. For all concerned.”

“Is the law chasing you, my son?” he asked
directly, surprising Tom with his insight.

“Father,” Tom said, looking down at the buggy
floorboard. “I had some bit of trouble on the way out to Utah, and
it does seem to have caught up with me.”

Scanlan reined the horse over to the side of
the road, stopping at the corner of West Temple and South Temple.
He tied the reins to the brake handle and then looking directly at
Tom, he said, “If you’re intent on leaving, son, would you like to
make your confession?”

Tom was embarrassed and stumbled his speech.
“It’s been some time, Father.”

“I understand.”

Silence ensued as they sat together, in the
shadow of the recently dedicated Mormon temple, with the time
approaching one-thirty in the morning. Tom thought how often he had
been here at this very spot, and how often it had been just as
late, or later, as he and Sister Mary delivered food to needy
families throughout the poorer sections of town.

“Father,” Tom said, his voice soft and
contrite. “Will you hear my confession?”

“Certainly, my son,” Bishop Scanlan said as
he reached inside his coat for his vestments.

Later, much later, his story of the fight in
Kansas City purged and his sorrow over the loss of Katrina
expressed, Tom wiped the tears from his eyes as Father Scanlan
refolded his vestments. Then the bishop spoke in a directive rather
than a compassionate voice.

“Tom, although we are the minority religion
in Utah, I am not without some influence. I could perhaps render
some assistance, if I had some time.”

“Father, I think it’s best I go and avoid any
further conflict. The church should not have to bear the
embarrassment of having their maintenance man arrested for murder.
Plus, I’m scared, Father. Ever since I heard that story from Father
O’Leary, of the young Irish lad who was executed in New York, I’ve
worried the same thing could happen to me.”