Authors: Loucinda McGary
“Doreen’s the one you need to talk to,” she flung at Heaney. “She saw her mother drag the body out of the house.”
“W-what?” Heaney stuttered, blinking rapidly.
Donovan couldn’t have looked more stunned than if she’d slapped his face with all her might. He just stared, mouth slightly
agape, eyes round with shock.
Once again, too late to take the words back, so she might as well tell it all. “But I don’t think Doreen knows that Malachy
raped her mother.” Rylie picked up her purse and reached for the doorknob. “My father, Christy Reilly only told us that this
afternoon.”
She yanked open the door and stepped into the vestibule.
“Is this true?” Heaney continued to splutter.
“Yes,” Donovan replied, and followed her out. “We’ll be in touch.” Then, as the attorney stood dumbfounded, he pulled the
door closed.
Not waiting, Rylie spun on her heel and marched away. She didn’t stop until she reached her rental car, parked alone in the
row of empty spaces next to the building. She stood in the dark with her arms folded over her chest as Donovan unlocked the
passenger door for her.
“So where are we going?” she asked, still a bit peeved. At him. At herself. At everything.
“The fens,” he answered. “I think I know who killed McRory. But I still don’t know why.”
“DON’T THINK YOU CAN GIVE ME THE RUNAROUND LIKE you did with Heaney,” Rylie warned.
“No, I don’t have any such foolish illusions,” Donovan conceded, his tone and expression still grim. He started the car and
pulled out of the parking space onto the street, all in stony silence.
“So what’s the deal with the police?” she ventured after several long, uncomfortable moments during which she steadfastly
refused to apologize for what she’d revealed to the attorney. “Do they know McRory’s dead?”
Donovan flinched a little at her last question. “At least one of them does.” He shot her a quick, sidelong glance, then added,
“Lynch.”
Though she wasn’t really surprised, Rylie suppressed a shudder and asked, “Did you have a vision?”
He shook his head, and waited until he’d turned onto the main roadway before he replied. “Actually it was something your .
. . something Christy said about the Provos. He said some of them believed Malachy was a traitor in their midst, but he always
thought it was the nine-fingered bastard.”
Rylie’s mind skimmed back to the few times she’d seen Inspector Lynch. The day they’d found the body in the fens, he’d been
wearing gloves. The morning in Donovan’s apartment, she hadn’t seen his hands. And yesterday when he'd come up to her car
window in the parking lot of the police station, he’d kept his hands in his pockets.
“I never noticed either,” Donovan continued, as if he followed her thoughts. “But today, he grabbed the back of my chair,
and I saw his left hand was badly scarred, half his ring finger was missing and the pinky was completely gone.”
She swallowed hard, trying to digest this disturbing information. “So Lynch was a Provo too. Do you think he used a different
name?”
Donovan gave a non-committal shrug, though his jaw remained clenched. “According to Heaney, they were a paranoid lot, so likely
he did.”
They reached the outskirts of Armagh City, and Donovan continued on the main road. Rylie didn’t bother asking about Dermot
and the hospital, since clearly they were
on a mission.
She rolled the knowledge about the Provos, Lynch, and Professor McRory around in her mind, but it still didn’t quite gel.
“What would matter enough to make Lynch kill McRory?” she muttered in confusion.
Donovan cast her another dark look. ”I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”
In the fens.
Neither of them spoke the words, but they hovered in the air between them nonetheless. Her stomach churned at the idea, but
at the same time, there was no way in hell she would let him go alone.
“Can we stop at Dungannon on the way?” she asked, brushing her hand over the leg of her wrinkled pantsuit. “So I can change
my clothes?” She wiggled her toes; those pumps definitely had to go, too.
He had dressed more casually, though he wasn’t exactly set for mucking around in the fens either. However, he didn’t look
happy at her suggestion.
“Five minutes, no more,” he muttered.
On a mission, all right.
She only hoped it wasn’t one of the impossible variety. Once they left the city behind, the traffic was pretty much nil and
they quickly covered the distance from Armagh to Dungannon. The lights from Cavanagh House shone invitingly when they pulled
into the circular driveway, and Rylie couldn’t help but wish they could stay awhile, maybe have a light supper.
Donovan angled the car into the space closest to the side door, and made no move to turn off the ignition. Struck by a sudden
suspicion, she reached over, flipped the key to off and palmed it.
“Five minutes, I promise!” she exclaimed over Donovan’s muffled protest. Then she bounded out of the car and hurried inside.
“Miss Powell!” Mrs. Cooke called to her, as she rushed through the kitchen.
But she didn’t dare pause long enough to return the manager’s greeting. She rubbed her thumb over the smooth metal surface
of the car key. Knowing Donovan, he’d probably try to hot-wire the damn car so he could ditch her.
Well, think again, smart man!
“Miss Powell!” Mrs. Cooke cried again, chasing her down the hall. She caught up as Rylie swiped her card key in the lock of
her room. “That friend of yours, Miss Gallagher has been calling.”
Face flushed, the manager held out a folded piece of paper, and at Rylie’s puzzled look explained. “Your friend in Portadown,
Miss Gallagher? She’s called every hour for the past three.”
“Thanks.” Rylie snatched the paper and stepped into her room. “And do you have a flashlight I can borrow?” Before the startled
woman could answer, she shut the door.
She had no time to ponder why Sybil would call her. Shoes went flying as she shrugged out of her jacket. Pants and blouse
landed in a heap on the floor as she pulled on socks, T-shirt, and a sweater. The only jeans she had were the ones she’d worn
yesterday. Oh well, they’d be even more dirty after tonight. As she tied her sneaker laces, she discovered she’d put on two
different colored socks.
Crap!
No time to change now. She grabbed her red hoodie, keys, and the note, then rushed back out into the hall.
“Miss Powell?” The manager gave her a reproachful look as she hurried for the door. “Aren’t you calling your friend?”
“Later,” Rylie answered, grabbing the small plastic flashlight from the woman’s hand. “Thanks, Mrs. Cooke.”
From the look on the woman’s face, Rylie guessed that her opinion of Americans in general, and her in particular were pretty
much the same as Doreen’s. Not that she cared.
Rylie slid into the passenger’s seat, and passed Donovan the car key.
“All set,” she panted, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts momentarily mesmerizing him.
Just having her next to him effectively dissipated any righteous indignation he’d managed to cultivate since leaving Heaney’s
office. Mentally calling himself a fool, he started the car and pulled to the end of the driveway.
“Can I use your phone?” Rylie asked in the midst of smoothing back her hair and securing it with one of those wide elastic
bands. “I need to call Sybil Gallagher.”
Donovan fished awkwardly in his trouser pocket with his left hand. “She called you?”
Rylie nodded and took the proffered device. “Three times.” Then she turned on the dome light and squinted at a piece of paper
before dialing. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention anything about . . . ” Her voice trailed away as she turned off the light.
He turned onto the road headed toward Ballyneagh as she said into the mobile, “Sybil? It’s Rylie Powell.”
She murmured some unintelligible phrases, then he heard her say, “From Aongus? Insurance? I don’t . . . What does it say?”
Rylie put her hand over the lower half of the phone and whispered to him, “She got a note from McRory, some kind of photocopied
list.”
While Donovan’s mind revved faster than the car engine, she moved her hand and spoke loud enough for him to hear also. “Looks
like names and account numbers? Anybody you recognize?” She paused and made that little humming sound he found so endearing.
“Hmmm, interesting . . . ” Then her voice squeaked, “Lynch? Inspector Lynch? And he called?”
“Tell her
not
to go to the police!”
“Sybil, listen!” Rylie ordered at the same instant. “Don’t call him back. You need to call Jeremy Heaney.” She spelled the
name in rapid staccato. “He’s Donovan’sattorney. Leave a message with his service and tell them it’s urgent.”
Rylie’s free hand settled atop his thigh, her fingers gripping flesh though the twill of his trousers. Her voice echoed hollowly
inside the dark confines of the car. “Don’t stay there. Go someplace else, a motel or a B&B. And don’t answer your phone,
just check your messages.”
She paused again, and though the tension in her fingers didn’t lessen, her tone was soothing. “No, but we’re on our way to
look for him now.” Another momentary pause. She might not be an actress, but her control was admirable. “Don’t worry, we will
as soon as we find him.” Then he heard just the slightest catch in her voice. “And Sybil, I’m really happy about . . . the
baby.”
Ringing off, she let out a long shaky breath and pulled her hand away from his leg. “Should I call Heaney?”
Donovan shook his head. “Let’s wait. We’ll only get his service.” She handed him the mobile, but when he went to shove it
back into his pocket, he only succeeded in dropping the blasted thing between the seats. He muttered a curse then asked, “What
about that list?”
Her face was unreadable in the dark and her tone was once more tightly controlled. “McRory mailed it to her at her cousin’s
house in Portadown. She said it was a photocopy of names and numbers and he’d scrawled something across the back about safekeeping
and insurance. She said she recognized one local politician’s name and a couple of others she thought were in the government.
And Lynch’s name was on it, too.”
“So I gathered.” Donovan strove to keep his own voice as calm as hers. “I take it Sybil hasn’t heard about McRory’s car being
in Lough Neagh, and him missing?” “Not yet, and I wasn’t about to tell her.” Rylie’s voice faltered with a tiny catch. “She’ll
find out soon enough.” The truth of that sobered him into silence. Whatever they’d stumbled into had already proved deadly.
However, he could no more deny the urgency of his visions than he could change who or what he was. Heaven knew he’d tried.
For fifteen years in America he’d tried to be someone else, but only four months back in Ireland had effectively erased all
he’d sought to become, and forced him to face the hard truth.
For a wild instant, he wanted to keep right on driving. Take Rylie to some safe and cozy little B&B and not come out until
it was time to take her to the airport. All right, if he wanted a true flight of fancy, then he wouldn’t take her to the airport
either. In this fantasy, he could actually be worthy of her, not some ill-conceived bastard of a terrorist spy. A man laid
low by hallucinations he couldn’t control. A man so weak he might endanger the woman he loved.
Donovan was so intent on his self-loathing and disgust that he nearly missed the turn for the cottage. He had to stomp on
the brake pedal and almost throw the car into a spin whipping down the lane.
Rylie gave a little squeak of surprise.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “You don’t scare me,” she replied in a somber tone. “But the fens do. You
really believe McRory’s in there? His body, I mean?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where.” Since she was now inextricably involved, he might as well tell her everything.
“I plan to ask for help, from a holy man, a Celtic Druid. I guess he’s some kind of shade or something who’s been wandering
the fens for over a thousand years.”
When he paused for breath, she interrupted, “Okay, you’re seriously creeping me out now, Donovan.” She gave a little nervous
laugh. “How ’bout you don’t tell me anything else and let me just wait and be surprised?”
Considering how totally preposterous it all sounded when he tried to put it into words, he was happy to comply. Steering the
car over the rough track took all his focus anyway, especially with the fog beginning to settle close to the ground. The lights
from Mr. Farrell’s neighboring cottage looked like they were shining through layers of gauze. They would have the devil’s
own time picking their way through the fens.
The police tape still fluttered from the gate posts as he guided the car through and up to the yard. The cottage loomed like
a spectral hump in the dark, an image not completely dispelled when the headlamps shone on it. He parked close to the front
door, and they got out.
“Are we going inside?” Rylie asked. Then she pulled a small plastic torch from the pocket of her sweatshirt and switched it
on. “I borrowed it from Mrs. Cooke.”
Donovan could have kissed her for remembering a light. But then he could have kissed her for no reason at all.
“Brilliant woman,” he murmured, and her smile was a hundred times brighter than the narrow beam of light. Tamping down his
desire, he looked from the door of the cottage across the dark expanse of yard to the even darker presence of the fens. “Unless
you need to use the loo, I’d just as soon get this over and done.”
Her smile dimmed, but he could still make out the stubborn, defiant set of her jaw. “I’m fine, and you’re right. Let’s go.”
They crossed the yard slowly, picking their way through the dead tangles of grass and avoiding the piles of excavated earth.
Once, when Rylie shone the torch beam over one of the mounds, a distinct buzzing jarred his brain. Inadvertently, he raised
his hand to his temple. “You hear it already, don’t you?” Rylie asked in a whisper.
He dropped his hand and nodded. “’Tis strong tonight.”
She gave a nervous little giggle, “Because it’s Halloween?”
“Samhain,” he corrected, recalling the Druid’s words from a few nights ago. “Tomorrow is Samhain, one of the Celts’ most celebrated
days. A time when the spirits are close.” “Lucky us,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “Sure hope they’re friendly spirits.”
The air grew heavier with mist and the feculent odor of decay. Vines and brush overcame the grass and weeds, and the earth
grew spongy under foot. Beside him, Rylie paused.
“Looks like we’re here,” she observed. “You go first. And take the flashlight.”
She shoved the plastic cylinder at him, their hands colliding. Hers felt icy, fragile as a snowflake against his. Of its own
volition, his other hand came up and stroked her cheek, equally chilly in the moist darkness.
“Rylie . . . ” he breathed her name on a sigh of longing.
Then his lips settled atop hers. Unlike her hands, her mouth felt warm and inviting. She tasted achingly sweet. Her eager
tongue met his on an escalating wave of need, while her hands looped around his neck and she flattened her breasts against
him.
God in heaven knew he’d give anything to be worthy of her! But he never would be. And tonight’s escapade would prove it to
her once and for all.
The torch flickered crazily between them and clunked to the ground. With a groan of regret, Donovan broke the kiss and bent
to retrieve it. She bent with him, both of them groping for the rolling light.