Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham
“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”
—Romantic Times on Haunted
“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead
“An incredible storyteller!”
—Los Angeles Daily News
“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”
—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay
“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay
“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”
—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay
“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird
“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”
—Literary Times
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
HAUNTED
PICTURE ME DEAD
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
HURRICANE BAY
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
IF LOOKS COULD KILL
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
Watch for the new blockbuster from
HEATHER GRAHAM
KILLING KELLY
HEATHER GRAHAM
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
First and foremost, with love for my mother
Violet J. Graham Sherman of County Dublin
for being Irish, for being a great mom.
In memory of Granny Browne and Aunt Amy
who taught me all about banshees and leprechauns—
at least, their versions of the tales.
For my cousin, Katie Browne DeVuono,
for being everything wonderful about the Irish.
For Victoria Graham Davant, my sister, my best friend,
for all that we share from the past and the present.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Prologue
Belfast, Northern Ireland,
Summer, 1977
“All right, my son, my fine lad!” his mum said, bursting into his square little room without even knocking. “Your da has made it home, and we are going to the movies!”
The mother was flushed and eager. Her work-worn face was transformed into beauty, for her smile was a young girl’s smile, and brightness touched her eyes. He held his breath, barely able to believe. He wanted to go to the movies so badly. It was the new American film, making its debut downtown. At nine, he spent much of his time in the streets; few promises his parents made came to pass. Not their faults, just the way of the world, and there were many things that were the way of the world, or the way of his particular world, and that was just that, and he understood it. His father had his work, his mother had hers, and they had their time at the pub, as well, with their meetings and such. He was a tough kid, strong for his nine years, street smart and, sadly—as even he was aware—already wary and weary. But this…
It was a science fiction movie. Full of futuristic knights, space vehicles, great battles. The fight for right and, in the end—or so he figured—the victory of right over evil.
He threw down the comic book he was reading and stared at her with disbelief, then jumped up, throwing his arms around her. “The movies! Really? Wow!”
“Comb your hair now, boy. Get ready. I’ll get your baby sister.”
And soon they were walking down the street.
The street was something of a slum. Old brick walls were covered with graffiti. The houses were old, as well, small, drafty, and still required peat fires in winter. But it was a good neighborhood in which to live. There were plenty of dark, secret places in the crevices in the walls; there were gates to be jumped, places to hide.
Here and there, they passed a neighbor. Men tipped their hats. Women greeted them with cordial voices. The boy was so pleased, walking along with his folks. He held his sister’s hand. She was just five, younger than he, with eyes still so bright and alive. She didn’t know yet that the smiles that greeted them were usually grim smiles, that the people were as gray and strained as the sky that ever seemed dark, as the old buildings that always seemed somber and shadowed. She looked up at him, and her smile was real, beautiful, and though they fought at times, though he was a tough kid, a nine-year-old boy, and she just a little girl, he loved her fiercely. Her pleasure and awe in their outing touched him deeply.
“We’re really going to see the movie?”
“We’re really going to see the movie!” he assured her.
Their father turned around, grinning. “Aye, girl, and we’re buying popcorn, as well!”
She laughed, and the sound of her laughter made them all smile; it even seemed to touch the ancient grimed walls and make them lighter.
They reached the movie theater. Some there were their friends, some were their enemies. They all wanted to see the movies, so some of the smiles were a bit grimmer, and now and then his parents exchanged stiff nods with others.
As he’d promised, their father bought popcorn. And sodas. Even candy.
He’d seldom felt closer to his parents. More like a boy. For a few hours he left his own dark reality for a far-off time and place. He laughed, he cheered, he gave his sister the last little kernel of popcorn. He explained what she didn’t understand. He lifted her onto his lap. He watched his mother hesitate, then let her head fall on his father’s shoulder. His father let his hand fall upon her knee.
They were halfway home when the gunmen suddenly appeared.
They had come from one of those dark and secretive places in the wall that the boy had learned so well himself.
The masked man in the front suddenly called his father by name.
“I am he, and proud of it, I am!” his father replied with strength and defiance, pushing his wife behind him. “But me family is with me—”
“Aye, ye’d hide behind skirts!” the second man said contemptuously.
The popping of gunfire, so suddenly and so close, was deafening.
The boy reached for his sister even as he watched his father fall. It had happened so fast, yet it was almost like slow motion in the movies. He could see the terrible end; he couldn’t stop it.
The gunmen had come for his father. But a stray bullet hit his sister, as well. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that the gunmen hadn’t intended it, nor could they afford to regret it. She was simply a casualty of this strange war.
He heard his mother shout his father’s name. She didn’t know as yet that her baby was gon
e, as well.
The lad held his sister, seeing the blood stain her dress. Her eyes were open. She didn’t even feel pain; she didn’t realize what was happening. She smiled, her bright eyes touching his as she whispered his name.
“I want to go home now,” she said. Then she closed her eyes, and he knew she was dead.
He just held her, in the darkness of the street and the darkness of his life, and he listened to his mother’s screams and, soon, the wailing of the police cars and the ambulances in the shadows of the night.
They had the services for his father and sister on a Saturday afternoon. They had waked them in the house in the old way, and family and friends had come and sat vigil by the coffins. They had drunk whiskey and ale, and his father had been hailed and put upon a pedestal, the loss of his baby sister made into a cause. There was so much press from around the world that many whispered that the sacrifice of the poor wee dear might well have been God’s way in their great cause.
They hadn’t seen her smile. They didn’t know that she’d been just a child with hopes and dreams and a wealth of life within her smile and the brightness of her eyes.
At last it was time for the final service, the time when they would be buried—though nothing here, he knew, was ever really buried.
Father Gillian read the prayers, and a number of men gave impassioned speeches. His mother wailed, tore at her hair, beat her breast. Women helped her, held her, grieved with her. They cried and mourned and wailed, as well, sounding like a pack of banshees, howling to the heavens.
He stood alone. His tears had been shed.
The prayers and the services over, the pipers came forward, and the old Irish pipes wheezed and wailed.
They played “Danny Boy.”
Soon after, he stepped forward with some of the other men, and they lifted the coffins. Thankfully, he was a tall lad, and he carried his sister’s coffin with cousins much older than he. She had been such a little thing, it was amazing that the coffin could be so heavy. Almost as if they carried a girl who had lived a life.
They were laid into the ground. Earth and flowers were cast upon them. It was over.
The other mourners began to move away, Father Gillian with an arm around his mother. A great aunt came up to him. “Come, lad, your mother needs you.”
He looked up for a moment, his eyes misting with tears. “She does not need me now,” he said, and it was true—he had tried to be a comfort to her, but she had her hatred, and her passion, and she had a newfound cause.
He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, so he added, “I need to be here now, please. Me mom has help now. Later, when she’s alone, she’ll need me.”
“You’re a good lad, keen and sharp, that you are,” his aunt said, and she left him.
Alone, he stood by the graves. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.
And he made a vow. A passionate vow, to his dead father, his poor wee sister. To his God—and to himself.
He would die, he swore, before he ever failed in that vow.
Darkness fell around his city.
And around his heart.
1
New York City, New York
The Present
“What do you mean, you’re not coming home for Saint Patrick’s Day?”
Moira Kelly flinched.
Her mother’s voice, usually soft, pleasant and well-modulated, was so shrill that Moira was certain her assistant had heard Katy Kelly in the next room—despite the fact that they were talking by phone, and that her mother was in Boston, several hundred miles away.
“Mum, it’s not like I’m missing Christmas—”
“No, it’s worse.”
“Mum, I’m a working woman, not a little kid.”
“Right. You’re a first-generation American, forgetting all about tradition.”
Moira inhaled deeply. “Mother, that’s the point. We are living in America. Yes, I was born here. As disheartening and horrible as it may be, Saint Patrick’s Day is not a national holiday.”
“There you go. Mocking me.”
Moira inhaled deeply again, counted, sighed. “I’m not mocking you.”
“You work for yourself. You can work around any holiday you want.”
“I don’t actually just work for myself. I have a partner. We have a whole production company. A schedule. Deadlines. And my partner has a wife—”
“That Jewish girl he married.”
Moira hesitated again.
“No, Mum. Andy Garson, the New York reporter, the one who sometimes cohosts that mid-morning show, just married a Jewish girl. Josh’s wife is Italian.” She smiled slightly, staring at the receiver. “And very Catholic. You’d like her. And their little eight-month-old twins. A few of the reasons we both really want to keep this company going!”
Her mother only heard what she wanted to hear. “If his wife is Catholic, she should understand.”
“I don’t think the Italians consider Saint Patrick’s day a national holiday, either,” Moira said.
“He’s a Catholic saint!” her mother said.
“Mother—”
“Moira, please. I’m not asking for myself.” This time, her mother hesitated. “Your father just had to have another procedure….”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply.
“They may have to do another surgery.”
“You didn’t call me!”
“I’m calling you now.”
“But not about Dad!”
“He wouldn’t let me call and tell you—he hasn’t been feeling all that well and he didn’t want to disturb you before the holiday. You’ve always come home before. We figured we’d tell you when you got here. He has to have a test on Monday—outpatient, and not life-threatening—and then…well, then they’ll decide just what to do. But, darling, you know…he really would like you home, though he won’t admit it. And Granny Jon is…well, she seems to be failing a bit.”
Granny Jon was ninety-something years in age and, at best, maybe a good eighty-five pounds in weight. She was still the fiercest little creature Moira had ever met.
She would live forever, Moira was convinced.
But Moira was concerned about her father. He’d had open-heart surgery a few years earlier, a valve replacement, and since then, she’d worried about him. He never complained, always had a smile and was therefore, in her mind, dangerous—simply because he was too prone to being half-dead before he would agree to see a doctor. She knew that her mother worked very hard to keep him on a proper heart-healthy regime, but that couldn’t solve everything.
And as to Saint Patrick’s day…
“Patrick is coming,” her mother informed her.
Naturally, she thought.
Her brother, who had property in western Massachusetts, wouldn’t dare miss his own saint’s day. Few men would have such courage.
Still, it was easy for Patrick. He was in Boston often anyway.
In fact, she realized with a small touch of guilt, she had counted on her brother and her sister, Colleen, to make it all right that she wasn’t there for the great family holiday that much of the country saw as an excuse to drink green beer or send out cute little leprechaun cards, though it meant far more to them.
“You want to see Patrick, don’t you?”
“Of course, but I’m mostly worried about Dad.”
“If your father and I were both to drop dead tomorrow—”
“My brother, sister and I would still see each other, Mum. Honestly, you’re not going to drop dead tomorrow, but don’t worry, we love each other, we’d see each other.”
It was an old argument. Her mother said the same thing to her, she said the same thing back. Her mother said the same thing to her brother—who said the same thing back.
Her sister just sighed and rolled her eyes each time.
But Moira did love her family.
“Mum, I’ll be home.” She wasn’t that far away, and it wasn’t that she didn’t get home
frequently. This time, this Saint Patrick’s Day, she hadn’t thought much about it—just because she did get home so often. She had just been home for the Christmas holidays. Going home now hadn’t seemed crucial, in part because of the filming schedule.
But it was crucial now.
“Did you hear me, Mum? I will be home for Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“Bless you, baby. I do need you.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I get things straightened out. You make Dad behave, okay?”
“I will.”
She started to set the receiver down, but then she heard her mother’s voice. “Oh, sweetheart, I forgot to tell you—”
“Yes?” She brought the receiver back to her ear.
“You’ll never guess who’s coming.”
“The great leprechaun?” She couldn’t quite help herself.
“No!”
“Auntie Lizbeth?” She wasn’t really an aunt, just an old neighbor from back home. She came to the States every few years. Moira liked her, though she seldom understood her—she simply smiled at the old woman a lot. She was even older than Granny Jon, had the thickest brogue known to man—and her wolfhound had chewed up her false teeth, since she hated them and was always leaving them on the table. To Moira, she had been almost totally incomprehensible even when she’d had her teeth, and now, well, it was almost impossible for Moira to make sense of her words. Still, Granny Jon and her folks seemed to do just fine understanding the old woman.
“No, silly. Not Auntie Lizbeth.”
“I give up, Mum. Who?”
“Dan. Daniel O’Hara. Isn’t that wonderful? You two were always such good friends. I know you wouldn’t have wanted to miss him.”
“Uh…no,” she said, and her voice cracked only slightly.
“Goodbye, darling.”
Night of the Blackbird Page 1