Authors: Loucinda McGary
Donovan’s gaze settled again on Rylie, who had laid the wand on the arm of the chair and rearranged the crown back on Shawna’s
head. He felt a little catch in his pulse. She fit in so easily, but from bits she’d revealed, she hadn’t lived a cozy family
life.
Heaven knew his childhood held few pleasant memories. Maybe that was why his own sister had tried so hard to achieve an existence
like this one. Doreen had the adoring husband and the row house, but so far, even after nine years, no child. He’d never sought
any such things for himself. Never let himself consider them.
As if she felt the weight of his stare, Rylie turned and locked her enigmatic gray eyes with his. Her alluring mouth curled
slightly, a smile of shared secrets and intimacies. Donovan’s throat constricted with the realization that he had shared more
with her the past few days than he ever had with anyone else in his entire life.
He took a gulp of tea to loosen his throat while he told himself it was because of the sex. ’Twas
fecking deadly,
as the local lads would say. And anything that wonderful was bound to throw a man off. That, and the fact that by the end
of the week she would be gone, taking all his secrets with her.
Precisely what he wanted. So why did regret and something more ripple across his nervous system when he thought about it?
Perhaps he wasn’t so very different from his sister after all?
As if thinking of her had conjured a spell, his mobile rang, and he knew it was Doreen.
“Excuse me,” he apologized, setting his cup and saucer on an end table as he rose to his feet. He turned and stepped away
to answer.
“Donovan! Oh God, Donovan!” his sister cried on the other end of the line. “They’ve taken Da to hospital. He’s had another
stroke.”
“What?” He nearly dropped the mobile. Blood roared in his ears as the crushing weight of a sledgehammer pounded inside his
chest. “When? Where are you?”
“Just now,” she sobbed. “We’re in the car on our way there. Sean’s driving.” Her voice disappeared in a surge of weeping.
Somehow, Donovan made his tone come out even and calm, though his every nerve and brain cell screamed. “I’m in Newtownabbey,
but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Please hurry,” Doreen sniffed, and rang off.
Feeling as if he were in a bad dream, Donovan shoved the mobile into his pocket and turned back to the crowd in the sitting
room, who were all openly regarding him.
“’Tis my father,” he said, clutching the top of the sofa in a death grip. “He’s had another stroke.”
The drive to Armagh City passed in a haze for Rylie as it undoubtedly did for Donovan also. He had insisted on driving, saying
he needed to keep his thoughts occupied. She hadn’t tried to engage him in small talk; she knew how useless it felt in this
kind of situation. She answered whenever he did speak and tried to encourage him to open up. Of course, he didn’t.
Damned stubborn man.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said as he pulled the car into the hospital parking lot.
This was the third—no, make that the fourth time he’d told her the same thing. And for the fourth time she replied, “I know,
but I want to.”
Doreen’s husband Sean had called a half-hour after they’d left the Murphys’ house to tell Donovan that Dermot was in intensive
care and Doreen was waiting to see him.
Rylie grabbed Donovan’s hand and his grip tightened around her fingers when they walked through the front doors of the hospital.
The unmistakable smells of disinfectant, sickness, and despair assailed her as soon as they stepped inside, along with flashes
of memories from her mother's illness. She remembered too well the feeling of being alone in a hospital while a parent clung
to life. That was why she intended to stay here with Donovan. She would leave when he left, and not a moment sooner.
The ICU was on the second floor, and instead of waiting for the elevator, Donovan opted for the stairs. Reluctantly, she let
go of his hand and followed him. She couldn’t keep up, and he was forced to wait for her at the top.
She recognized the man pacing inside the glass enclosed waiting room from the wedding photo she’d seen in Donovan’s apartment.
A bit paunchier and with thinning brown hair, Sean Sullivan still looked like the anxious bridegroom. When they entered the
room, he glanced up and relief washed over his ruddy face.
“Ah, Donovan, here you are then,” he exclaimed, thumping his taller brother-in-law on the back in a typical male greeting.
“They’ve just allowed Doreen in to see himself.”
“He’s stabilized then?” Donovan’s tone was tightly controlled.
“Appears so.” Then Sean saw her and extended his large, work-roughened hand. “And you must be Rylie.” A smile lit his features
as he vigorously pumped her hand. “Sean Sullivan, as I’m sure you’ve guessed already.”
“Yes, hi. I’m Rylie Powell.”
“Well done, lad,” Sean muttered to Donovan, blue eyes twinkling. “Doreen said she was a looker.”
Rylie felt her face heat with a blush and was thankful no one else currently occupied the room. Sean’s comment notwithstanding,
she was sure whatever Doreen had said about her was not complimentary.
Donovan ignored both of them. “What did the doctor say?”
“Same old bull—” Sean glanced her way and cleared his throat. “Same old medical mumbo-jumbo. Can’t tell the extent of damage
yet, not out of the woods for another twenty-four hours.” He looked at Donovan’s stony expression and added, “Personally,
my money is on Dermot. We both know he’s a tough old bugger. He’ll pull through.”
“I hope so,” Donovan said in the same emotionless tone.
Since only one visitor was allowed into the ICU at a time, the three of them drifted into the metal and plastic chairs lining
the walls and began what Rylie knew would be a long vigil. She picked up a well-worn magazine and thumbed through the pages,
not really seeing any of the words or pictures.
After about twenty minutes, Donovan announced his intention of taking his turn at Dermot’s bedside. She didn’t mind being
left alone with Sean, who’d proven, in typical Irish fashion, to be quite talkative. She already knew that he was from Dublin,
the third of four brothers, and a plumber as his father and older brothers all were. When his father died, he’d taken his
share of the family business in cash and come north to go it alone. His life sounded so blissfully ordinary in comparison
to hers or Donovan’s, and she was thankful for Sean’s steady stream of talk that distracted her from the grim reality all
around them.
Sean was in the midst of recounting how he and Doreen first met when the woman herself swept into the room. She gave Rylie
a haughty glare and met her husband in the middle of the room.
“Donovan and I are trading off every hour at Da’sbedside,” she said, as Sean gripped her hands and pecked both her cheeks.
“Unless, of course, you’d like a turn.”
“Maybe later,” Sean replied. He craned his neck to include Rylie in the exchange. “What say we all go down to the cafeteria
for a cuppa?”
Doreen shot Rylie another glare, then shook her head so that her dark hair obscured her expression. “I’m going to the chapel
and pray for awhile. Perhaps you should stay here in case there’s any change.”
“I’ll stay,” Rylie volunteered. “You go ahead, Sean.”
He returned her strained smile with a bob of his head, and escorted his wife out the door. Fifteen minutes later, he returned
alone, carrying two styrofoam cups and some packets of sugar and powdered creamer.
“Figured you could use it, but didn’t know how you took it,” he explained, handing her one of the lidded cups. He slid into
the chair next to her, as she murmured her thanks.
“Don’t pay Doreen too much mind when she gets on that high horse of hers,” Sean said, his ruddy face pinkening. “She’s not
usually like that, it’s just that there’s none who breathe air good enough for her baby brother.”
Rylie’s smile was genuine this time. “Glad to know it’s not just me.”
“Not a’tall, darlin’,” Sean reassured. “And as far as I’m concerned, he’s damned lucky to have you here. Just don’t be telling
herself I said so.”
Doreen didn’t return until a few minutes before Donovan’s hour was up. Her absence suited Rylie. However, when Donovan reappeared
to wait until his next stint, he proved almost as uncommunicative as his sister. He had not been here when Dermot had suffered
his initial stroke in June, and Rylie knew that seeing his father in the midst of all the tubes, wires, and equipment disturbed
Donovan deeply. She did drag him down to the cafeteria for tea, but he continued to be quiet and withdrawn.
Rylie purchased a couple of fashion magazines in the gift shop and went back upstairs for the long haul. Over the course of
the afternoon, a few people drifted in and out, but mostly only she and Sean occupied the narrow room with whichever of the
siblings was not sitting with Dermot. After the third hour, Donovan stopped telling her to go back to her B&B.
Hospital staff changed shifts, and a couple of times a doctor or nurse ejected Doreen or Donovan in order to perform procedures
on Dermot. Near the dinner hour, Sean forced Doreen to eat something from the cafeteria. When Donovan came out, Rylie made
him go downstairs with her. Neither of them finished their watery soup and cardboard sandwich, but at least the temporary
change of scene was a distraction.
As the night wore on, Doreen dozed fitfully with her head resting on Sean’s shoulder. His unflagging devotion made Rylie smile.
Sean had admitted to her that he’d proposed to Doreen on their third date, but it had taken him another four months to “coax
her ’round” to accepting.
Finally, shortly after midnight, Sean convinced Donovan to go to the Sullivan’s house for some real rest.
“There’s been no change for hours and we’re all exhausted,” Sean argued, pressing his house key into his brother-in-law’s
hand. “You and your wee Yank go catcha few winks in the guest room, whilst I drag your sister home by the hair of her head
if I have to.”
“Good luck with that,” Donovan muttered.
Rylie squirmed nervously in the uncomfortable chair. “I don’t think Doreen will like me sharing the guest room.”
“I’ll tell her ’twasn’t safe for you to drive any farther,” Sean insisted. “Which ’tis not. Now go!”
In spite of her misgivings, she knew Sean was right. She felt like a zombie and Donovan looked equally as bad. Rising to her
feet, she grabbed him by the arm before he could protest further, and dragged him out the waiting room door.
After ten minutes of driving through the deserted, rain-drenched streets, Donovan pulled into the driveway of a dark townhouse,
and they got out of the car and hurried inside. The Sullivan’s place was almost identical to the Murphy’s house in Newtownabbey,
with sitting, kitchen, and dining rooms downstairs, while two bedrooms and a bath occupied upstairs.
The stairs felt steep as Everest as she followed Donovan to the guestroom, situated in the front overlooking the street. Her
exhausted brain vaguely registered butter-yellow walls and frilly lace curtains at the windows as she kicked off her shoes
and dropped her clothes onto the carpet.
Clad in only her stretchy white tank top and underwear, Rylie snuggled beneath the prim eyelet-edged duvet, too tired to care
how much of a hissy-fit Doreen would throw when she discovered her in bed with her brother. She was asleep even before Donovan
crawled in beside her.
The muffled jangling of a telephone woke her, but before she could drag herself up, it stopped.
Excellent!
She flopped back against the pillow and tried to reclaim blissful slumber. Unfortunately, Donovan was gone, leaving a chilly
expanse where his warm body had just been. With a groan, she clutched his pillow to her chest and curled herself around it.
But she still hadn’t managed to go back to sleep when he came into the room and switched on the bedside lamp. Rylie groaned
again and squinted her eyes against the light.
“Good news,” he said. Though he still looked tired, the tension in his jaw was gone. “They’re moving Da into a regular room.”
A huge sigh of relief heaved out of her while he continued. “Sean’s driving Doreen and me to the hospital now, then he’ll
take me back to Ballyneagh before he starts work.”
“What time is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “And what about me? I’ll take you back to Ballyneagh.”
He flashed one of his killer smiles, the kind that left her feeling boneless with pleasure. “’Tis almost six and you need
to get yourself back to your B&B and get some more sleep.” When she started to protest, he raised his hand in a silencing
gesture. “No more arguing. As soon as I see Da is settled, I’ll go home and rest too.”
“Why don’t I wait for you there?” she insisted, scooting closer to the edge of the bed.
“Because then neither of us is likely to rest, and you know it.” He tried to look severe but couldn’t quite stifle his grin.
She reached for him, but he shied away. “No, don’t get up. You’re far too distracting, and I really need to go.”
Shivering from the chilly air on her bare arms, she pulled the duvet back up to her neck and mused, “Your sister actually
trusts me alone in her house?”
Donovan’s expression grew serious. “After all you did yesterday, she wouldn’t dare speak a word against you.”
“I didn’t do it for her.”
“I know.”
Her mind replayed the events of the previous day, bringing her up short when she remembered his visions and how he’d seen
McRory’s death. She bit back a gasp, but from the sudden flash in Donovan’s eyes, he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I’ll call you for lunch,” he said, turning for the door.
“Donovan, wait!” Her command momentarily froze him in place. Then, he warily turned to look at her, blue eyes guarded. “Please,
promise you won’t go into the fens without me. Promise me?”
DONOVAN STOPPED RUBBING THE TOWEL OVER HIS WET HAIR and cocked his head. He’d heard right, his mobile was ringing. Hastily
draping the damp towel around his hips, he stumbled for the bedroom and grabbed the phone off the nightstand before it went
to voice mail.
“Donovan, did I wake you?”
Just the sound of Rylie’s voice sent a surge of pleasure through him that settled directly in his groin. “No, I was in the
shower. Wish you were here.”
“Sorry,” she murmured, obviously ignoring his salacious invitation. “I know you said lunch, but I heard from the PI about
my . . . about Christy Reilly. He
is
in Maghaberry Prison outside Belfast.” She took a deep breath and completely switched topics. “How’s Dermot?”
“Fine,” Donovan replied, fumbling to pull on boxers and sweats. “Yelling some fairly clear curse words at the nurses, last
I saw him. I’m guessing he’ll be back at Holy Family in a day or two.” He bent to mop up his wet footprints with the discarded
towel. “Are you calling the prison, then?”
“I just did,” she replied, her tone tentative. “I can see him at two o’clock. Can you still come with me?”
A wave of protectiveness swamped him. “Are you sure you’re up to that?” he asked before he could curb himself.
She gave a nervous little giggle. “I guess it’s that or the fens. Some choice, huh?”
“Rylie—” he began, but she cut off his protest before he could finish it.
“Can you be ready by the time I drive over? Then we can go see Dermot first.”
“I’ll be ready,” he said, and rang off.
Dermot was asleep when they arrived at the hospital, though Donovan was mystified how he could pull off such a feat in the
midst of the noise and bustle. Not to mention the fact that he had various lines and wires still attached to him. However
the old man had managed it, Donovan couldn’t bring himself to wake him, and after about ten minutes he decided to leave his
father to his rest. The charge nurse reconfirmed that Dermot would be released back to the Holy Family facility within a couple
of days.
With one final look at Dermot’s grizzled face, Donovan took Rylie’s hand and together they left the hospital. She seemed pensive
and withdrawn, not at all her usual self as they drove toward Belfast.
“I supposed you’ve worked out everything you’re going to say to him,” Donovan ventured.
She worried her teeth over her bottom lip a moment before she replied, “I planned to let him do most of the talking.”
“What makes you think he will?”
“He’s Irish,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “You’re the closest to a taciturn person I’ve met in this entire country.”
“True enough,” he admitted. But in his mind, he kept seeing a hard-boiled tough in one of those old prison movies, and he
didn’t want her hurt by some SOB like that. “Just realize he’ll probably lie to you, at best. And most likely he’ll try to
plead money out of you.”
“Donovan.” Her hand on his arm stopped his words, while the way she breathed his name nearly stopped his heart.
“I’m not that naïve,” she admonished. “Don’t worry.” Then she let go of his arm and added, “I don’t know if I can eat anything,
but do you think we have time for coffee?”
He glanced at the dashboard clock. “’Tis not even noon, we’ve plenty of time. Starbucks, then?”
The way she smiled when she nodded left him feeling weak in some places and decidedly stiff in others.
Good
thing she would be leaving in a few days.
And perhaps if he repeated that to himself enough, he might actually start to believe it.
At a quarter before two, Donovan parked the car in the designated lot, facing the concrete-block compound of the maximum-security
prison. The coffee he’d drunk churned in his stomach in an acidic wave, and he guessed Rylie’s did too. He had called on his
mobile before they left Starbucks and confirmed the scheduled visit.
Rylie had given both their relationships to Christy as cousin, and had used Dermot’s stroke as well as her impending return
to the States to leverage their hasty visit. A dozen cars dotted the visitors’ area and they followed the other people scurrying
toward the gate in the tall razor wire topped fence.
Though her expression was inscrutable, Rylie’s hand trembled a little in his. He tried to give her a smile of encouragement,
but he couldn’t manage much more than a reflection of their grim surroundings. The events of the past twenty-four hours crowded
his mind: the vision of McRory’s dead face, Lynch’s thinly veiled threats, Dermot’s struggle for life amid the noise and desperation
of the ICU. He wouldn’t let himself speculate what might come next inside Maghaberry Prison.
Going through the security check took twenty minutes. They wouldn’t allow Rylie to carry in her purse or her envelope of pictures.
Donovan had to surrender his mobile, wallet, and the contents of his trouser pockets. They also both left their jackets, and
were forced to follow single file behind their escort to the visitors’ room.
Metal tables sat in a long line across the back of the otherwise empty room. Prisoners in orange jumpsuits sat singly on the
far side of the tables with guards standing at intervals behind them.
“That’s himself just there,” said the escort with a nod of his head toward a burly prisoner on the extreme left.
Donovan’s eyes skimmed over the man, whose head sported little more than dark stubble on top. With broad shoulders and a thick
neck, he reminded Donovan of a bull, the one from Irish legends, powerful and dangerous. The man turned his head to survey
the room, displaying a dark tattoo of a Celtic cross that ran from behind his ear into the neckband of his shirt.
His images of the movie prisoner hadn’t been too far off, Donovan realized, his gut twisting with an urge to shield Rylie
from the man’s sight. The urge intensified as they moved closer, and Christy got a glimpse of her. His eyes widened and he
half rose from the chair, his lips forming a word that might have been a name. But the guard stepped toward him and Christy
hastily sat back down, though his eyes remained riveted to Rylie.
Donovan pulled out a chair for her while the escort addressed the prisoner. “What do ya know, Christy, you’ve actual visitors.
These are your cousins from America, Rylie Powell and Donovan O’Shea.”
Christy Reilly grunted and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, dropping his gaze like a whipped but resentful
dog. Another tattoo peeked from the edge of his shirtsleeve, a Celtic knot design that encircled his massive biceps.
Donovan murmured appropriate thanks to the escort and took his seat next to Rylie. Wearing a silky turquoise blouse and dark
slacks, she looked like a delicate porcelain figurine poised stiffly on the edge of the chair. However, her jaw was clenched
in what he now recognized as her stubbornly defiant mode.
Heaven help
Christy Reilly if he crossed her.
When the escort walked out of earshot, Christy muttered, “You’re the spittin’ image of your mother, as I suppose you’ve heard
often enough.”
His voice sounded gravelly, as if it didn’t get much use, and he continued to study his hands.
“Y-yes . . . I mean, I know.” Rylie bit her lip and drew in a breath that made her breasts rise enticingly. “I think I have
your eyes, though.”
Christy lifted his gaze from his hands, and his steely gray eyes met her equally flinty ones. One of his black eyebrows arched
up a scant millimeter. “So you do.” His gaze fell back to his hands and he steepled his fingers. “How’s your mother, then?”
Rylie’s face and tone remained emotionless. “She died of cancer six months ago.”
Donovan saw a fleeting shadow of pain flash over Christy’s stony expression. He didn’t lift his head. “So that’s why you’ve
come?”
“No—Yes—” Rylie cleared her throat. “She never spoke of you, but I wanted to see you for myself.”
“Well then, here ya are.” He threw back his head and sat ramrod straight in his chair, clapping both palms against his chest.
“Yer old man’s a worthless piece o’ shite who couldn’t even give ya his own name, except in a roundabout sorta way.”
Rylie lifted her pointed little chin, and her voice no longer wavered though it remained flat, uncaring. “My mother loved
you. Why did you leave and break her heart?”
Christy clasped his hands back on the tabletop and turned his head to one side, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere near
the ceiling. “’Tis not like I had a choice.”
“Why not?” She threw the words like a challenge.
The burly man sighed with resignation and faced her bold question. “I suppose you’ll pester me ’til you’ve had the whole story?”
In spite of himself, Donovan’s lips twitched.
How
very right he was.
When Rylie didn’t respond, Christy sighed again. “All right, since you must know. ’Twas a fine spring morning, I was taking
you to the park so Jen could study. She was back at university, ya see.”
He stopped long enough to crack the knuckles of first one hand and then the other. His eyes grew unfocused with a faraway
look, as if the scene were replaying in front of him.
“You insisted on walking, holding both me thumbs. The park was at the end of our street but we didn’t even get halfway there
when up walks Conor McTeague, bold as brass, right there in the heart o’ Brooklyn. ‘Hullo, Christy lad,’ he says to me. ‘Surely
you weren’t fool enough to think you could be staying here forever.’” Christy abruptly halted, while Donovan struggled to
recall why the name Conor McTeague sounded familiar.
“Then he chucked you under the chin and you started to cry.” Folding his beefy arms across his chest, Christy addressed Rylie
directly, no longer lost in his reverie. “Young and stupid I might have been, but not that stupid. I knew the best thing I
could do for both of you was disappear.”
“So you did,” Rylie finished for him.
“And so I did,” Christy reaffirmed in the same flat tone.
“Why did you take Dermot O’Shea’s identity?” Rylie asked. “And did my mother even know your real name?” Christy’s arms loosened
and he slumped forward to lean his elbows on the table. “Jen,” he whispered. “My angel, Jen.” Then his eyes snapped up, hard
and accusatory, moving from Rylie to Donovan and back again. “She knew nuthun’. I never told her a word. I couldn’t. Scotland
Yard was hot on my arse. That’s why I used Dermot’s name. Couldn’t very well leave under me own when I was wanted for murder.”
He paused and cracked his knuckles again, glancing over his shoulder at the guard. “Sorry little girl, but your old man really
is a heartless bastard, a thief, and a murderer.”
Finally placing the name as one Lynch had told him, Donovan blurted, “Did you kill Conor McTeague?”
Christy’s hard gaze swept over him. “No. But I killed plenty of others, including a guard during a riot ten or so years ago,
which is why I’m still here.” Then his eyes narrowed, “But surely you’re Moira and Dermot’s wee lad. What would you know of
Conor?”
Donovan stiffened to a defensive posture. “I know that he was a Provo and a crony of Malachy Flynn.”
“Ah, yes. A worse pair you’ll never meet.” Christy’s lips curled in a sneer of disgust. “I reckon someone’s done ’em both
in by now, but ’twasn’t me.”
“You’re right, at least about Malachy,” Rylie said in the same matter-of-fact tone he used. “They only just found his body,
but he was murdered a long time ago.”
Sudden unease drove Donovan to lay his hand on her arm and stop her from saying more, but he wasn’t fast enough.
“In the fens.”
At her words, Christy’s contemptuous expression dissolved and knowledge flickered through his eyes. “She killed him then.”
Donovan sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath as Rylie asked, “Who?”
“You know who,” Christy replied, his probing gaze directed at Donovan. “But maybe you don’t know why.” He cast another glance
over his shoulder and continued in a low, conspiratorial tone. “’Twas no secret that Malachy was smitten with Moira, even
though she’d have none of him. One night Malachy bragged about how he’d forced himself on her, and how her feckin’ gobshite
of a husband wouldn’t have her now.”
“Ow!” Rylie protested in a hoarse whisper and Donovan realized he was squeezing her arm. He dropped his fisted hands to his
lap, breath sticking in his throat.
“I went for him, of course,” Christy continued dispassionately. “Would’ve most likely killed him on the spot, except McTeague
pulled me off. Told me to give those with the most cause their chance. But Flynn made himself scarce for a long time after
that. Some in the Provos thought he might be the traitor we believed we had in our midst, though I always thought ’twas that
nine-fingered bastard.”
Donovan could scarcely hear for the blood pounding in his ears. Breathing hard, he unclenched one hand and rubbed his temple.
“I think you know the rest of this story,” Christy mused, his expression unreadable. “For you’ve the same tall rangy look
about you as Malachy Flynn.”
Donovan choked. Cold rage and helplessness engulfed him as he spluttered and coughed.
“Donovan?” Rylie leapt from her chair and grasped his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
For another long moment, he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs, but he nodded anyway. The guard started toward them and
Rylie plopped back into her chair worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Her small hand clutched his, pulling him back from
the black abyss.
“So
that’s
how ’tis then?” Christy murmured, his eyes flicking between the two of them.
While Rylie’s face flamed, Donovan’s strangled attempt at denial was interrupted by the guard. “What’s happening here?” he
demanded.
Christy dropped his gaze to his hands but his voice was sullen. “Nuthun’.”
“This visit is over,” the guard stated, hand on the billy club at his waist.
“First bleedin’ visitors I’ve had in twenty years,” Christy complained, his head still down.
“Two minutes more.” The guard took a single step backward and stood glaring at them.