by Annie Jones
Fiona’s anguished gasp registered clearly through the muffled static on the tape.
“Me and Uncle Mike had southern fried chicken the other night. The both of us were tired of his cookin' so we followed our noses till we found what we wanted. Uncle Mike says he’s a natural tracker—too bad he isn’t as natural a fisherman!” Devin’s laughter punctuated his rambling thoughts. “I don’t want you to worry about me, Mom. Remember, it’s just like I’m on spring break.”
“I wish I could pretend that, sweetheart, but my heart knows better. There’s no fooling a mother’s heart, you know.”
“I know, Mom. Uncle Mike says I have to hang up now. He says to tell Uncle Cam to get moving on the gold. Tell him that, Mom, to get moving.”
Get moving. Cameron’s finger hovered above the triangle on the screen that would replay the whole conversation. But he wasn’t interested in the whole conversation, just Devin’s cryptic messages.
“Get moving,” he mumbled. The child’s implication, that he had not yet done enough, settled like a boulder on Cameron’s chest.
“Now, don't beat yourself up over that, Cameron.” Fiona raised her hand to her forehead, hiding her eyes from his scrutiny as she tried to sound calm, encouraging even. “Yes, I am near frantic wanting him back with me but I know that Devin is safe with Michael. I do not doubt that one bit.”
Cameron wanted to tug her hand away, to look directly at her. Without being able to do that he didn’t want to say a thing and risk pushing the wrong button. Like her, he didn’t think for one moment that Michael would physically hurt Devin but the very act of keeping him away from Fiona delivered its own brand of hurt to the people Michael should love and want to protect. Then there was the issue of Michael filling the impressionable boy’s head with who knows what kinds of stories about gold and greed and justice.
Cameron clenched his jaw and stared into the tea in his untouched cup, brooding over his every misstep, ever possible outcome until the power of Fiona’s gaze fixed on him brought him out of his daze.
She placed her hand on his forearm. “You’re the real target here. Michael made Devin say that to play on your conscience, trying to force your hand. You’ve got a fine plan all laid out to go into effect tomorrow. If your Saint Patrick’s Day notoriety doesn’t bring Michael to you, then I don’t know what will.” Her chilled fingers wrapped around his hand like a vice. “Well, it just will work, that’s all.”
Cameron shook his head and the movement brought a stabbing pain to the twisted knot of muscles in his neck. “There has got to be a deeper message in there somewhere.”
“Now, Cameron, you’ve gone over and over this before.” She picked up her own teacup and walked to the counter, which only took a couple of steps in her small but cheery old apartment kitchen. “You had every local fishing spot scoured after his first call. Nothing.”
Nothing. The word fell like a piano hammer on a taut metal wire.
She settled the cup and silver spoon she’d been using down in the deep enamel sink with a clatter and a clink. “After the second call, you put the Kentucky officials on alert should they show up at the state park with the moonbow. They haven’t shown up.”
He sighed.
Fiona stretched her arms over her head and yawned, then put her hands on her hips. “So far, none of your hunches about Devin trying to send us a coded message have proven out.”
If that was supposed to make him feel better, it failed to do the job.“Still, Fiona, I have to think that’s my shortcoming, not Devin’s. The boy would try to get us any information he could, I just know it.” He ground his fist into his palm. “Why can’t I figure out what it is?”
“Cameron, I’m the first to admit that Devin is a clever boy— a sheer genius of a child.” She jabbed at his knee with her toe as if to prod him into a better mood.
He obliged her with a blustering chuckle.
“But you must realize that Michael is standing right beside him while he speaks to us. It’s possible he wouldn’t even try to send a coded signal to us—or that he wouldn’t succeed in doing so—under those circumstances.”
“Of course, you’re right. But if Devin was trying to get a message to us, I’d hate to think I dismissed it outright. I guess I’d better get moving then.” He stood, lengthening the stiff muscles of his legs with great effort. He reached down to pick up his phone, where he had a copy of the message now stored. “I know there is something on this that will help, Fiona. I just know it.”
“Then find it, Cameron. Find Devin… and Michael.” She did not even try to conceal the fact that despite all this she cared for that man in ways that maybe Cameron did not want to think about. “And secret message or no—you still have your wonderful plan to bait Michael with your Saint Patrick’s Day activities.”
He nodded. “Will you be coming down to the shelter tomorrow?”
“I don’t dare leave the house, what if they showed up here instead?” She gripped the edge of the sink. “Or what if Devin got away, this is where he would come, not there.”
“That’s probably for the best.” He snatched up his parka and dragged it on. The warmth seeped into his aching neck and shoulders but did not ease the source of his stress.
She managed a watery smile at that. “For what it’s worth, I think your plan is already working. It sounds as if Michael is getting more than a wee bit nervous about what you’re going to do next.”
“Good.” Cameron couldn’t return her smile as his thoughts focused on the situation and how it might pan out. “Greed and anxiety breed haste and blundering. They’ll be Michael’s downfall.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” she said, opening her arms to give him a goodbye hug. “Now get going and tomorrow, have a piece of that fine green colored cake for me, won’t you?”
He laughed and returned the hug, briefly. “Fiona, me darlin’, I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it. In fact, I think that after tomorrow, I won’t want to see anything green for a very long time.”
She wrinkled up her freckled nose. “Went a wee bit overboard on the decorations, did you?”
He rolled his eyes heavenward. “The whole place looks like it was overrun by a clan of crazed leprechauns. And if I hear one more pitiful imitation of an Irish accent—” He groaned.
“Now there’s a fine attitude. An entire holiday intended to celebrate the Irish, and you’re creatin’ a bellyache about it.”
“For sure and I’ll have a bellyache if I have to eat that green cake and wash it down with green punch, no less.” He pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold. “There’s more than one reason I’ll be glad when tomorrow is over.”
*
“Top o’ the morning to ya on this fine and foggy Saint Patrick’s Day in Cincinnati, Ohio. I’m Eric Schultz—make that Sean-Eric McSchultzy for today—and I’ll be reporting to you live from Saint Patrick’s Homeless Shelter where they are honoring the holiday in a grand old style. But first, Stephanie “0’”Zawicki and George “Mc” Maynard have this morning first look news stories.
“You’re clear.” The man with a camera poised on his shoulder gave a thumbs-up sign to the compact, ruddy-faced fellow clutching a microphone.
“You’ll be in the next segment, Mr. O’Dea.” Eric Schultz, billed locally as the Wacky Wake Up Weatherman, motioned for Cameron to join him in the glaring white spotlight.
“I want to thank you and your station for giving us this broadcast this morning.” He shook the man’s hand, surprised at how he towered over the city’s favorite fun loving weathercaster.
“No problem. I have to be somewhere every morning, might as well be here.” Eric contorted his face in one of his trademark rubbery expressions. “It’s you who did us a favor by letting us know about this, anyway. I mean, how often does something like this come along?”
“Saint Patrick’s Day? Comes once a year, if I'm not mistaken," Cameron said, knowing it wasn’t because of the man’s stature that the wry comment
would go over his head.
“Naw, not that.” He waved his hand. “I mean a broadcast opportunity like this. It has it all—great visual, human interest, community appeal, and a real Irish person on a real Irish holiday.”
“Actually, this is more of an American holiday—”
“Whatever. The point is, it’s going to come off fresh and fun and with just the right touch of tugging at the old heartstrings.” He glanced down at the handheld TV monitor to check the progress of the morning news report.
Cameron shifted his hiking boots on the steps of the old building, always scanning the surroundings for any sign of Michael… or Julia Reed. “Well, it certainly is an excellent opportunity for your station to come off looking very altruistic.”
“Yeah, and it makes us look like the good guys, too, putting community first and all that stuff.”
“That’s what I…” Cameron’s cheek twitched and he nodded. “It doesn’t hurt, I suppose, that your main competition is doing a noon report from the shelter, either.”
“Won’t lie to you, pal, it feels good to get the scoop on ’em." He glanced up at the cameraman, who squatted in front of them and held his hand up. “Now, I’m going to do the weather, then do a teaser—we’ll show you and let you say something Irish—then we’ll cut away to a commercial, then come back and do your interview.”
Say something Irish? Cameron combed his fingers through his hair. This had better work, he thought as he plastered on his best “I’m from the old sod” expression. He hated the idea of making a fool of himself for nothing.
In the week he’d been working in and around the place, he had come to care about the staff, the regulars who depended on the place, and most of all, the lovely shelter director. Knowing he could help their cause made this little green-gilded dog-and- pony show all the more crucial.
“And that’s what you can expect for your workday weather.” Eric’s spirited summation brought Cameron’s attention back to the reporter.
“It’s fitting that we’re coming to you today from St. Patrick’s Homeless Shelter in downtown Cincinnati. And I have with me today a former resident of the Emerald Isle who is going to tell us a bit about the shelter, its needs, and what we can all do to help. Meet Mr. Cameron O’Dea.”
Cameron nodded into the dark, bottomless lens trained on his face.
“So, Mr. O’Dea, give us a wee taste of the lilting brogue of the wee folk of old Eire.” Schultz shoved the microphone under Cameron’s nose, and suddenly his mind closed up. Unfortunately, his mouth did not have the same problem.
*
“Always after me Lucky Charms?” Julia lifted a shamrock- covered paper cup to her lips and sipped at the dregs of lime punch gone flat. “That’s the best you could do?”
“He put me on the spot,” Cameron grumbled.
“Well, good thing for you, you can think on your feet,” she teased, gazing at him from over the rim of her upturned cup. “They teach you that at the secret agent technical institute?”
“I must have been absent the day they lectured on sharing witty banter with wacky weathermen.” He scanned the crowd shuffling around the gaily decorated cafeteria.
The late afternoon sun streamed in the barred windows, illuminating the stragglers with a golden glow. Even Julia had to admit that the event had been a huge success.
“You did great. And by the time the last reporter left, you handled yourself like a pro.” She followed his line of vision, pretending to be fascinated by the fading flurry of activity. “Let’s just hope it works.”
“Are you kidding? Look at this place.” He swept his hand out. “This shindig has garnered more good publicity than this place has had in years.”
The rolled lip of the paper cup scraped against her teeth when her jaw inexplicably tightened. She tossed back the last of the warm but still tart punch.
He tapped his fingers against his own cup as he went on. “The cash contributions have been enormous, not to mention the big corporate check that showed up oh-so-coincidentally with the noon news crew.”
Her fingers crushed one side of her cup. “I meant, I hope this works to attract Michael Shaughnessy’s attention.”
He nodded, his eyes still fixed at some point in the crowd. “Oh, and by the way, I received a whole packet of information on Cumberland Falls today”
‘Where?”
“Cum-ber-land Falls,” she pronounced each syllable as though she were speaking to an inattentive child. “You know, the place in Kentucky—with the moonbow?”
“Oh, right. Right.” He nodded. The green shamrock pinned to his collar fluttered with the movement.
“Anyway,” she said, trying not to be fascinated with his every motion, “all the brochures are on my desk in my office under the notes you made at the restaurant.”
He hummed a noncommittal reply, his gaze on the crowd again. And spoke sort of into the air, not as if he were part of an actual human conversation at all. “Thank you.”
It shouldn’t have bothered Julia. She had absolutely understood his inattentiveness to her all day. She had done the same with him, being so busy and… and never too busy to seek him out in the crowd, to catch a glimpse of those golden curls of his across the room and take a moment to just… sigh. So, yes, it did bug her a little that he wasn’t even looked her way. Maybe she could remedy that. “I’m afraid 1 spilled a little magical Irish fairy dust on them, so they are now, unfortunately, invisible to the naked eye.”
“Uh-huh.” He squinted toward a commotion in the hallway.
“But that won’t matter too much. You can still find them by looking under the big pink polka-dotted hippopotamus I used for a paperweight.”
“That’s fine, lass, I will.” The commotion turned out to be Craig asking some people to Irish it up so he could upload a video from his phone.
Julia folded her arms over her chest, her eyes practically boring a hole in Cameron’s strong, compelling profile. “I’d say ‘I give up,’ but I have a sneaking feeling that that you’d hear.”
A slow grin broke over his lips, even as he kept his eyes trained on the dwindling party
Standing this close, she was once again aware of how tall and powerful a man Cameron O’Dea was. And yet, he did not abuse either his physical power or his authority. She’d seen him treat everyone from Fiona to the shelter resident with fairness and a gentle kind of consideration. She could see why so many people were drawn to the man with the glimmering Irish eyes.
She, for all her hard work and sacrifice, seemed to be always fighting and flashing like a fish on a line. If only she could let go a little more—maybe not of everything, but at least of the things that had her so hooked that she found herself losing her time and joy and even her hope for the future to them. Julia sighed and looked again at Cameron’s face. She smiled at the way his golden hair curled against the collar of his sweater, the one he’d worn the first time she saw him.
Suddenly his expression changed. He squinted hard.
“What? What is it?” Her heart began to pound faster, her breathing grew shallow. “Do you see something?”
“Someone,” he corrected in a whisper.
She could feel the energy building in him, a coiled tension waiting to act but his stance did not betray a bit of it. Her gaze flew to the throng, searching for the face she had seen that evening by the billboard. “Where? I don’t see anything.”
“Right—there.” He lifted his paper cup, as if making a toast, and called across the room. “Norman Wilson, great to see you could make it.”
“Norman Wilson?” She flattened her hand to her chest as her pulse settled back into a steady rhythm “Norman Wilson?”
“Your neighbor.” He muttered.
“Yes, I know he’s my neighbor. You’ve been living in the man’s driveway using his RV to keep tabs on me. How could I not know him? But…” She blinked as if trying to make the jigsaw pieces of information form some kind of picture. “What’s he doing here?”
&n
bsp; “I told him he should come down and volunteer his time. Since he retired, his wife has been complaining about always having him underfoot. He says he isn’t ready to just sit and rock, he wants to do something meaningful with his time.” Cameron waved to the gray-haired fellow that Julia who lived across the street from Julia. “He’s an ex-firefighter, you know.”
“No. I didn’t,” she snapped, agitated because she had thought this might be the big break in the case they had hoped for. Also because she had lived across from Norman Wilson for two years without knowing what he had done for a living, that he had a wife or ever once considering he might want to volunteer his time. Yes, it cut her to the quick that she hadn’t been the one to discover all that. She was the great rescuer of people, after all.
That was pride talking. That’s what made her work such a struggle, she realized, while Cameron breezed through touch situation with an ease and humor. Maybe it was time she let go of a little of that. She gave her smiling neighbor a friendly wave. “I mean, no, I didn’t realize that.”
“I’m not surprised you didn’t know much about him—or any of your neighbors. He said they hardly ever see you. I suppose it’s because you’re so wrapped up in this place.” He turned to face her, his head bent so that she could hear his soft voice above the din in the cafeteria. “You put in far too many hours here, you know.”
“I do what I have to do to keep this place afloat. Nobody else can run it the way I do.” Her throat tightened as she heard the defensive edge in her words.
“Maybe you should let someone else try from time to time.” He fixed that gaze of his so fully on her face that for a moment she was lost to anything but the warmth of his voice, the depth of those eyes.
“They’d make more mess than they’d help,” she managed to murmur in reply. “I have my own system and it’s worked so far. I don’t see why I should let anyone—”
For the record and as if she needed proof of how effective the man’s laid back approach could be, he did not laugh out loud at her claim but let just the corner of one side of his mouth lift to show his amusement at her unchecked reaction.