Liam interrupted, “Spare me the high-minded drivel. You’re a smart man. The Charity’s network of corporations and charities feed and support one another, with legitimate businesses laundering money for the illegitimate ones. Your father anticipated this day and created an entire business mechanism that would function with or without him but only temporarily. He handpicked his soldiers for their discretion and ruthlessness. But he’s been dead a few weeks, and without a clear message from you his authority will fade. He wanted you to work by his side. He created this for you—for your future.”
“Bullshit. He never once thought of me.” Michael paced the room in an effort to control himself. “He destroyed good people by draining their businesses of hard-earned cash and killing or maiming their loved ones to ensure their loyalty. I want the school to undo some of his harm. If he ever thought of me, it was only in how to control me.”
“You could have refused to take his place and continued to hide behind the life you created in the States.” Liam raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief at the thought. “But you chose to be here. You left the U.S. and brought that girl with you.”
“Jessica. Her name is Jessica.”
Liam grew impatient. “You knew damned well what you were getting into.” He raised his voice to stop any more conversation. “I have neither the talent nor the inclination to assume leadership here. It’s done. You are the head of the Magnus Connaught’s Charity. You have to start acting like it.”
Michael downed his Scotch and rattled the ice in the empty glass, deep in thought. He felt Liam’s eyes join with the cracked and oily stares of past headmasters as the grandfather clock’s pendulum ticked away the minutes. He retrieved a file from his briefcase and tossed it on the table in front of them. “I had no idea how big the Charity had become. I thought his illegal operations were limited to some extortion and money laundering operations in the States to supply his pet organizations. I’ve been looking at the accounts—Bahrain, Venezuela, Spain, and Italy. I can see the money running through the corporations like a rat eaten by a snake—one huge bulge twisting through until it’s spit out the other end.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But there’s more I’m not seeing.”
“Magnus was a brilliant man. He used charitable organizations as fronts for the other businesses he ran. You’re using the school the same way. Students don’t have to roam these hallways for the school to meet its obligations.”
Michael pushed away the papers with barely contained anger. “My management of the school is completely different. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Aidan seems to think otherwise.” Liam’s eyes rounded in a studied expression of innocence. “From his perspective, following you or Magnus looks exactly the same.”
“Fuck Aidan.”
“You don’t want more blood on your hands,” he said, absently inspecting his own. He cleared his throat and stared at his nephew. The soft folds of his lids draped his eyes, keeping his expression neutral. His shoulders, once square with intimidating strength, were rounded and soft under his tweed jacket. “Magnus didn’t start off as a violent man. When we were boys together, he was always the first to share his lunch with a hungry man. I’m not sure when it crystallized, but he used money like a drug dealer would. He gave only enough to get people hooked and used his charitable donations strategically. Once he saw how the politicians swarmed, he began to look at other ways to wield power.”
“Since his death, the money has started to flow to Belfast again.” Michael scanned the columns of numbers on the spreadsheets, scrutinizing the red and black ink as if all would suddenly make sense. He ran his index finger down the rows to bring certain transactions to his uncle’s attention. “If I can’t see the final disbursements and payments out, how can I tell who is getting the money?”
“Time will tell.”
“How?” Michael pressed.
Liam looked at his nephew with a mixture of impatience and sadness. “You’ll know. The numbers will tell you only what you want to see. You have to understand the people in order to know the whole story. I’ve set meetings up for you.”
Giving up, he gathered the spreadsheets and shoved them back into his briefcase. He respected his uncle and knew he held the key to bridging the gap between the growing factions inside the Charity. Keeping his uncle happy was essential. He could take his time to run the numbers to fully grasp the intricacies. “I want to get away for a few days.”
“You’ve barely gotten your feet wet. If you’re going to see that girl instead of tending to business, what message does that send,” Liam quipped, more a statement than a question.
“Her name is Jessica,” he reminded his uncle again. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Is that wise? You’ve not hidden your concern for her, and there’s agitation in the ranks. Without a strong presence, people will sniff out and prey upon a weakness. Anyone that wants to make a point with you might use her as leverage.”
Michael nodded in agreement. “That’s no secret. I’ve stayed away from her as much as I can. My contacts in the States helped me find her a short training gig over the border in the Republic of Ireland, not here in Northern Ireland.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“She couldn’t go back to the States. You know that.”
“Do I? You brought her here for you or for her?”
“For her... her own protection.”
Liam put down his glass and turned to his nephew, his eyes bloodshot with age and fatigue. “It’s bad enough that you want me to believe that—I’m sad for her that you do.”
Michael shook his head. “She was exposed in the States. There had been attempts to kill her. Hell, they nearly succeeded.” He could feel himself grow tense at the memory. He took a steadying breath. “It... it wasn’t safe.”
“Wasn’t it? She was one of the most recognized faces in the U.S. The only people hunting her were scoop-hungry reporters. Yes, she would have been badgered for a few weeks, but the attention of the American public would have flitted on to the next scandal soon enough.”
Michael angered at being forced through this exercise. “She exposed my father and his dealings.”
“Don’t fool yourself. The people who wanted her dead for the damage she did to the Charity don’t pay attention to international borders. You said it yourself. People kill for revenge, too.”
“Damn it, Liam! I need your help in knowing who to trust. The only way I can protect her is in Ireland with your handpicked Charity members keeping a watchful eye on her.”
Liam walked over to Michael, grabbed his upper arms, and gave him a little shake. “Listen to yourself. You’ve brought a kitten into a lion’s den. Send her home with the same setup you gave her at the cottage. Give her a body guard or two and a stable full of horses, but send her home.”
“She,” he stammered, “she could be useful here.”
“Don’t be daft.” Liam released Michael’s shoulders with a shove. “She’ll never want to be one of us. Send her back to the States, Michael. If not the States, then anywhere. Tell her to hide again.”
“I can’t ask her to do that. She spent years under assumed names. She’s done with that.”
Fatigue deepened the lines on Liam’s face. “I’m an old man, Michael. I’m doing what I can to prevent an all out mutiny. I’ll keep Aidan in line so no more directors will support his insurrection, but my days of endless number crunching, phone calls, meetings, and schmoozing are over. I envy your youth and energy. You’re a quick study of the numbers, but of people? You’re thickheaded. I’m afraid you still don’t grasp just how much of an outsider you really are.”
RAPHOE, IRELAND
JESSICA WYETH NEEDED to cool and blanket her horse before he chilled. A heavy mist fell, coating her hands and face in beads of moisture. She ran her hands down the big gray’s legs checking for soreness that would tell if their ride along in the dips and dells of the countryside
was too taxing. The wisps of steam rose from Planxty’s back and chest.
As they walked in small circles, she took in the details of her temporary home. A barn and cottage sat on top of a gentle rise. They overlooked fields that held a training ring and jump course. Thickets of trees broke the expanse of hills in the distance. The buildings’ windows, framed in weathered wood, dotted their whitewashed sides. A stone-enclosed courtyard hugged the cottage, and a wooden fence separated it from the barn. The barn was rustic but suited her needs. Eight stalls lined a cobbled corridor, and an annex held a tack room, office, and ladder to the hayloft.
Sensing she wasn’t alone, she peered into the shadows and sifted through the sounds gripped by the ever-present wind. Only a church bell and the bleating of sheep were carried by it. The birdsong sounded more ragged than melodic, and the earth smelled more of decay than spring. Her surroundings were so different she wondered if it was worth the investment of time to become familiar with them.
Jessica patted Planxty’s neck and shook her head free of longings. A chorus of throaty nickers and hooves kicking stall doors greeted her—all welcomed sounds of horses impatient for attention. She was relieved to see a swept corridor and fresh shavings in each of the eight stalls. A full hay bin and feed bucket waited in the empty one. She jotted her observations of the day’s ride in the folder for the local trainer hired to help her. Cryptic notes back and forth did not provide enough insight for effective training. She wrote yet another request to speak with him directly.
Walls made from thousands of dark gray stones no larger than footballs and overgrown with wild roses flanked the paddocks. She gingerly picked a fistful of soft pink blooms and headed back to the cottage. Inside a single bedroom off the living room provided enough living area to be comfortable. A wooden bench and a hand-hewn pegboard holding an oiled canvas barn coat and anorak graced the spare stucco hall. Tall black leather field boots and a pair of drab green rubber Wellies sat on a woven rug. She slipped off her wet fleece and boots and headed to the kitchen to hunt for a vase.
A stout, middle-aged woman didn’t startle when Jessica burst in to the rustic kitchen. Jessica gave a bemused smile at the man-tailored pants, tattered sweater, and crisply starched white apron. As much as Jessica wanted to have a friend in Ireland, Nan O’Reilly would not be the one. The cottage belonged to Nan, housekeeper and main conduit to the outside world.
“Oh, hi Nan,” Jessica said as she picked a thorn out of her thumb. “Do you have anything I can put these in?”
“I do at that.” Nan produced a Mason jar from one of the cabinets and set it on a long, rough-hewn wooden table beside a basket made of black, thorny wood. “Beautiful blooms, these roses. Makes the whole place glow in pink.”
“I could pick armloads of them.” Jessica watched Nan fuss with the flowers with efficient motions. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“Fair enough, but you should hear that folks are talkin’ about someone riding crazy over the hills.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “The county is filled with tales of one form of spirit or another makin’ an appearance. I don’t listen to such talk, but you should be aware of it.”
“Thanks, but that was hardly worth you making a special trip out here to tell me that.”
Nan lifted her chin. “We don’t get many visitors in these parts, and there’s nothing like a new face to get people talkin’. You must take better care not to be seen. The last thing you need is for people to start thinking they’ve got the “Murdering Heiress” in their backyards.”
Leaving that nickname behind and all that came with it were the reasons she agreed to Michael’s idea of a training job in Ireland. Hearing it again bothered her. “How?” she stumbled, searching for words. “My rides have been away from any homes. You’re the only person I’ve spoken with.”
“I’m just being cautious. You got your share of attention in the papers here as well. You’ve only been resurrected for a few months and we have those here who question how innocent you really are.” Nan’s voice betrayed neither empathy nor disgust.
Jessica flushed. Resurrection was a fitting term, but the cloud around her innocence hurt. Nan’s concerns drove home the point that it will take more than dropping out of sight for a few months to be reborn and live freely. Michael had taken great care to make sure she remained safe, and he trusted Nan to be discrete. She could stop and catch her breath. Michael gave her that hope, and she wasn’t about to let it go easily.
“I don’t think you respect the amount of work that’s gone on to protect you.” Nan’s brows formed a straight bar across her forehead. Her expression mixed resentment and stubbornness.
“Of course I do. I answer your questions and follow every rule you give me.”
“That’s not good enough. Havin’ this handy means you might be thinkin’ about touring the sights.” She fanned herself with a blue book with gold lettering.
Seeing her passport stunned her. She thought she had tucked it away. Snapping it out of Nan’s hands, she said, “I don’t see how my past trips are your concern. Besides, how anyone could blame me for wanting to travel after what I’ve been through.”
Nan scoffed. “You became my responsibility before you left Gibraltar. You didn’t bother to stay away from public beaches so anyone could have recognized you then and followed you. The only full-witted act you did was keep to yourself after Michael left. Rumors stirring make me fret I’ve overlooked something.” She reached into her bag and flopped a file on the table. “Michael wasn’t sure I should give you this, but you need to appreciate what I’m up against.”
Jessica leafed through pages enough to realize the folder bulging with clippings from The Boston Globe, The New York Times, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune. All carried feature articles and photos of her. The Sun and Guardian of the United Kingdom, The Irish Times out of Dublin and Le Monde of France could not resist the story of an heiress who faked her death to avoid a murder charge.
For twenty-eight years, Jessica knew herself as Jessica Bridget Wyeth, daughter of Margaret and Jim Wyeth of Hamilton, Massachusetts. For seven of those, the rest of the world knew her by a number of names, “Murdering Heiress” being the most well known. She paid the price of her freedom by enduring the startled reactions of people who recognized her and the ever-present threat of being chased down by a reporter looking for a follow-up story. Michael knew she hated the papers and the people who read them thinking every lie was true. She hated the way strangers looked at her, either shrinking away in fear or challenging her with questions they had no business asking. For someone who had spent the better part of her adult years hiding, the glare of attention withered. The other reasons he wanted her at the cottage remained unspoken.
Jessica didn’t fight for freedom only to be locked away in a thatched-roof prison. “Okay. I get it. I’m famous, and you have a harder job because of it. That’s no reason to search through my belongings or lurk about in shadows.” She wasn’t just irritated with Nan, she was irritated with knowing her life had evolved to needing dossiers and bodyguards. The confines Nan wanted to impose chaffed. “How about a telephone?”
“No.” Nan kept her voice upbeat as she resumed putting food away. “Strict orders from Michael ‘imself. He said you agreed to that.”
“I didn’t realize how isolated I would be.”
“Maybe he doesn’t trust you enough. You’ve known each other, what now? Barely a year? Moreover, how many names have you had? It’s hopes and promises that keep many a girl thinking she’s in love only to find out her man is gallivanting about. Think of it. You’re here waiting. He’s off tending to better things.” Nan’s eyes glittered with unkind thoughts.
Any hope she had of having a warm relationship with Nan faded in that moment. “I didn’t ask your opinion.” When Michael suggested living in a rocky corner of Ireland with a barn filled with horses, surrounded by fields and in a cottage staffed by his personally chosen people, the idea sound
ed idyllic. Doubt began to creep around her decision.
“I’ve done nothing but train these past weeks. Is that all I’m allowed to do every day?”
“You’ve a job to do, and I’m surprised to hear you complain about it. Those horses need more than a bit of schooling. They’re some of Ireland’s best. Michael and that woman in Kentucky did a good amount of cajoling before the owners here would let some green trainer like you get a hold of them.”
“I know, and I’m not complaining,” she quipped. Jessica determined to bend the rules in her favor. “I only have the notes on each horse, and I’d really like to talk to someone about them. There’s more to the behaviors I’m seeing than simply poor conditioning or past injuries.”
“Are you sayin’ the animals are second rate?” Nan needled.
“No. Not at all.” Jessica kept her voice even, covering her desire to snarl. “In fact, they are some of the best horses I’ve ever worked with. Who helped him choose them?”
Nan ignored Jessica’s conciliatory manner and returned her focus to rearranging the roses in the jar. “Aye. They need a special hand, and Michael’s word is you have it. He said he only wanted the animals that could win.”
Jessica was in no mood to be played with. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“One of his men picked them.”
“The one I’ve seen here?”
Nan screwed up her face and nodded.
“Then I have to meet him. It’s maddening that I haven’t spoken with him.”
“His job is to work with the horses. Not to talk to you.”
“That’s ridiculous!” She drummed her fingers on the table, rankled that Nan turned resisting a simple request to meet someone into sport. “He picked them for a reason, and I have to speak with him. I’m tired of him avoiding me.”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 2