The Searcher(47)

The Wi-Fi is in an obliging mood, so Cal pulls up Facebook on his phone and pokes around for Eugene Moynihan and Fergal O’Connor. Eugene is dark and narrow, with a semi-arty shot of him in profile on a bridge somewhere that looks Eastern European. Fergal has a big grin, a moon face with spit-shined red cheeks like a kid’s, and a raised pint.

Brendan has a Facebook account, too, although his last post was a year ago, some like-and-share attempt to win tickets to a music festival. His photo has him on a motorbike, grinning over his shoulder. He’s thin, brown-haired, with the kind of sensitive high-boned features that are good-looking in some moods and not in others, and that imply quick changes. Cal sees Sheila in him, in the cheekbones and around the mouth, but he can’t find any look of Trey.

If Eugene is a student and Fergal is a farmer, then Cal has no doubts about which of them is more likely to be up early on a Saturday morning. He walks down through the village, where Noreen’s and Seán óg’s and the decorous little ladieswear boutique are still shuttered and asleep, and the road is empty: only an old woman putting flowers in the Virgin Mary grotto at the crossroads turns to say good morning. Half a mile on are a set of broad fields full of fat, feisty sheep, and a sprawling white farmhouse. In the yard, a big young guy in a fleece and work pants is unloading sacks from a trailer and hauling them to an impressive corrugated-iron shed.

“Morning,” Cal says, at the gate.

“Morning,” says the young guy, hefting the next sack. He’s a little out of breath. The exercise has given his face the same shine it has in the pub photo, and he has the same look of pleased expectation for Cal as he had for the camera, like Cal might be here to bring him a surprise snack.

“That’s a fine bunch of sheep you’ve got out there,” Cal says.

“They’ll do,” Fergal says, hoisting the sack more firmly onto his shoulder. He’s chubby, with soft brown hair and womanish hips. He looks like most things might take him a while. “Oughta be more of them, but sure, we’ll make the most of what we’ve got.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

That makes Fergal pause and give Cal a wide-eyed look, like he’s startled anyone might not know this. “The drought last summer, sure. We’d to sell off some of the flock because we couldn’t feed ’em.”

“That’s a bad blow,” Cal says. “Plenty of rain this summer, though.”

“ ’Twas better, anyway,” Fergal agrees. “Last year the drought went on right through breeding season. Hurt the lamb crop something fierce.”

“I wasn’t here for that,” Cal says. He squints up at the sky, which is mottled in pearly whites and grays. “Hard to imagine this place getting more sunshine than it can handle. That’s not what they sell on the tourist websites.”

“I love the sunshine, so I do,” Fergal confesses, with a bashful grin. “It was a mad feeling last year, hating the sight of it. I didn’t know if I was coming or going.”

Cal likes this kid, he likes this conversation, and he would be perfectly content to continue it along these same lines. He feels a jab of aggravation at Trey and his dumbass brother.

“Cal Hooper,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m in the old O’Shea place, out the other side of the village.”

Fergal clumps over to him, readjusting the sack so he can free up a hand and shake. “Fergal O’Connor,” he says.

“Well, look at that,” Cal says, pleased. “I heard you might be the man I need, and here you are. Can I give you a hand with that while we talk?”

While Fergal is working his way through this, Cal goes in the gate, closes it carefully behind him and pulls a sack off the trailer. He gets it up on his shoulder, appreciating the realization that four months ago he would probably have ripped half a dozen muscles trying. The sacks have a line drawing of a sheep and the words QUALITY RATION underneath. “These go in the shed?” he asks.

Fergal is looking perplexed, but he can’t come up with anything reasonable to do about Cal, so he goes along with him. “They do, yeah,” he says. “Sheep feed.”

Cal follows Fergal into the shed. It’s clean, high-roofed and airy, divided into long rows of metal-barred pens; bales of hay and sacks of feed are stacked along one wall. Up in the rafters a couple of fledgling swallows are swooping around their nest. “You got some lucky sheep,” Cal says. “This is a nice place.”

“We’ll be needing it soon enough,” Fergal says. “The aul’ fellas are saying it’ll be a bad winter.” He keeps looking over his shoulder, but he can’t work out what question to ask.

“The old guys mostly get it right?”

“They do, yeah. Mostly, anyway.”

“Well then,” Cal says, dumping his sack on top of a neat pile, “I sure hope you can help me. I’m aiming to get my house in shape before that winter hits us, and I’m looking to rewire my kitchen. Some guy in the pub, he mentioned that Brendan Reddy was the go-to guy for that stuff.”

He glances over to see how Brendan’s name strikes Fergal, but Fergal merely blinks at him, perplexed.

“I went looking for him,” Cal says, “but Miz Sheila Reddy told me he’s not around these days. She said you might be able to help me out.”

Fergal’s bafflement deepens. “Me?”