Favoring his right leg heavily, he cautiously approached the first of the buildings. A drab sign with white lettering positioned at the three way intersection in the dirt road where the buildings stood announced that they belonged to the Skomer Marine Nature Reserve, confirming his earlier decision that he was on the Marloes Peninsula in southwest Wales. That was good; it meant that the village of Marloes was only about seven or eight miles further to the east, but the thought of walking another seven or eight miles drained his enthusiasm. He decided the hike needed to wait until the morning. He'd take shelter in the Marine Reserve tonight. Perhaps his luck would hold and a worker would have left some food behind; an uneaten lunch or even a pack of wafers would go a long way right now.
He entered the property by walking down a short driveway between two stone buildings that appeared to have been there far longer than the other metal buildings that together made up the complex. Inside the tiny lot enclosed by the buildings there were no lights and the only vehicles were several ATVs in various states of maintenance. Looking over them quickly he realized none of them would be drivable. Standing in the center of what he guessed was a small parking lot he turned three hundred and sixty degrees looking for the building most likely to be the headquarters. There were seven buildings in total, three long and rectangular and four much smaller squares that he surmised were storage buildings. Three foot by four foot hedges were sporadically placed around each building in an effort to bring some life to the cold metal. Like the roofs he'd seen from a distance, the walls of most of the buildings were constructed from grayish corrugated steel, industrial looking windows and doors cut into the sides, a few dark red shutters hanging haphazardly beside some of the windows. He chose the building with the most parking spots and walked to the windowless double doors at the front. The doors were secured with a heavy, padlocked chain. He pulled on the lock in hopes that it was only dummy locked, but it wasn't. He turned and looked to see that the other buildings were all similarly secured. Damn.
Reluctantly he bent down and unzipped the duffel bag, withdrawing the Glock 17. With a magazine already loaded, he screwed on the suppressor and chambered a round. Pushing himself tortuously back to his feet he moved to the side of the doors and took aim at the lock. Suddenly a bright light washed over the metal in front of him and he was illuminated by the circular beam. He pulled the Glock close to his body and dived out of the light behind one of the hedges.
Listening carefully, he heard the unmistakable crunch of a gravel road beneath car tires, then the beam of light stopped moving forward. With the roaring wind passing through the joints in the corrugated steel and creating a piercing whistle, he hadn't heard the vehicle approaching. He knew that whoever was driving it had to have seen him. Seconds later he heard a car door open and his suspicions were confirmed.
"Whoever's there, I know you're here. Come out."
The voice was both distinctly Welsh and distinctly female. Declan bent left and right trying to get a look at its owner without revealing his position, but the hedge was too big.
"I know you're here. Come out," the voice repeated. Declan heard a hint of uncertainty, possibly even fear, and he weighed his options. Who was this person, night security? Some sort of caretaker, a camper, or someone else who'd seen him from nearby? He hadn't noticed any houses or campsites and the village was too far away for anyone there to have seen anything.
"Alright, then," the voice sang. "I'll go and tell the police and they'll be round to deal with you shortly. You'd best get back to the moor or wherever you came from. I'd hate to be outdoors on a night like this if I was you."
Declan stashed the Glock in the duffel bag and tugged the zipper closed as he stood and turned towards the vehicle. He couldn't afford to have the police involved and the voice was right, it was bitter cold and only going to get worse as the night progressed. If there was even the slightest chance this person could help him find shelter he had to take it.
"Well, there you are. Finally get done rolling around in the dirt, did you?"
Just beyond the halogen beams, Declan could make out the basic shape of a human. It was obvious from the bulk that she was bundled against the cold. He stepped around the hedge with his empty hands raised to get a better look. Standing behind the open car door as if it might offer her some protection was a young woman, probably in her late twenties, Declan thought. Her cheeks were red from the cold, her hair was covered by a wool stocking cap, and a thick down coat hid the rest of her body from view.
"What the bloody hell are you doing out here anyway?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"I'm a paraglider," Declan lied. "My rig was blown onto the rocks a few hours ago. I barely made it out alive."
"Well, I expect not in this wind. What kind of bloody trick is that, paragliding in this kind of weather? What're you, mad? You damned extreme sports types. Not an ounce of sense in the lot of you, I'd say."
"Who are you?" Declan asked.
The young woman stepped around the Peugeot she was driving and said, "Hannah Sawyer. I'm the wildlife preservationist here. Just came by to make sure I'd locked up all these doors and they weren't blowin' in the gale. Are you injured?"
Declan was relieved that she seemed to believe his story. "My leg is cut up and my wrist is sprained. Other than that, I'm just exhausted."
"Well, I would expect so, after an ordeal like that," she said, stepping closer. Declan could smell a flowery perfume. "What in the name of Saint David are you doing paragliding in weather like this and in the dark?"
"It was for a new world record. I was attempting to sail around the entire British Isles without stopping. I left from the Firth of Clyde yesterday."
"Wrong time of year for that. Lot of good that record's gonna do you when you're dead. C'mon, let's get you to the village where we can get a better look at your injuries."
Declan breathed easy for the first time in several minutes. "Thank you. That'll be grand. I've some money on me. If you'll just drop me at an inn, I can make my way from there."
"Ah, you'll not find any inns around here that are open this time of year. Tourist season doesn't start for another two months. My dad and I have a place where you can hold up and get some rest. In a day or two I'll give you a ride to Haverfordwest and you can go about getting yourself back home."
"Aye, that's grand. Thank you again."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, with a wry laugh. "You haven't tasted my dad's stew."
Together they climbed into the Peugeot and she shifted through the gears as she turned the car around and drove east towards Marloes. The seven mile drive took about ten minutes over a roughly-maintained road that turned to pavement a few miles outside of the town. Halfway there it had started to rain. Passing a bent metal sign that read Marloes in bold, black letters, Declan looked from side to side at the stone cottages that stood barely arm's length from the edge of the one lane road that led into and out of the small village. Through the driving rain he could make out dim lights in some of the homes, but most appeared vacant. He supposed they were vacation homes or rental cottages that saw little use outside of the summer months.
Soon they pulled up to a gray stone house with a rust-colored roof made from what appeared to be clay shingles, and Hannah turned the Peugeot into a narrow gravel parking spot that was just big enough for the compact vehicle. The residence was small; its front yard surrounded by an aging stone wall, Light was visible through two windows beside the wooden front door.
"Well, you'd better give me your name," she said, as she shifted the car into neutral and pulled on the handbrake. "Dad'll want to know what to call you right off."
"Paul Flynn," Declan lied, combining his father's first name and his mother's maiden name. "I really appreciate your hospitality."
"It's nothing. Happens all the time, you lot getting yourselves messed up. The few of us that stay here throughout the year are used to patching people up. Just can't seem to get it through your thick heads that sports are fo
r summertime and daylight."
Declan smiled as they exited the Peugeot. Hannah ran up the gravel path to the front door, the rain horizontal in the wind.
"Well, I found another one, I did," she announced, as she opened the door and walked in, hanging her stocking cap on a peg next to the door. She turned towards Declan and smiled, and he saw she had chestnut brown hair cut just below her ears and huge brown eyes. In the darkness, he'd failed to see how pretty she was.
"You found another wha—? Oh dear," Declan heard an older man's voice say as he stepped into the house. He found himself in the main living area, a brown leather couch in the middle of the floor dividing the living room and the small kitchen where Hannah's father stood with a tea towel in hand. Declan could tell right away that the older man was less enthusiastic about his presence than was his daughter. Drying his hands slowly with the olive green towel, he said roughly, "Rhys Sawyer. And you'd be?"
"Found him at the Reserve, so I did. Says his paraglider crashed," Hannah said, before Declan could respond to her father's question. "His name's Paul Flynn."
Rhys Sawyer stared suspiciously at his guest, his eyes narrowed, and Declan could feel the tension coming from him. He was obviously a great deal older than his daughter, at least sixty, if Declan had to guess. He had dark, narrow eyes bordering on beady, covered by thick white eyebrows. His hairline had receded, and most of his white hair was gone from the top of his head. What was left was thick and unkempt. Unlike his daughter, who was very petite, Rhys was broad-shouldered and carried at least an extra fifty pounds, making him an imposing figure despite his advanced age.
"My daughter has a bad habit of bringing home strays. Unfortunately she refuses to confine the activity to wildlife."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean to impose," Declan said.
"Well, of course you do. You lot with all your fancy gear and immortal attitudes coming down here looking to bounce around and make all kinds of commotion and then when you get yourselves in a mess you look for us regular folk to take you in and patch you up. You got lucky, see, and found the one person out here most likely to do it."
Declan stayed silent, unsure of what to say. He could understand the man's anger. There was a complete stranger standing in his house, someone whose intentions could easily be less than honorable.
"Dad, you're embarrass—"
"Embarrassing you how? You just met him! I've warned you about this, so I have. You cannot bring home every wandering soul you find out there on the moor who just happens to be ruggedly handsome."
Hannah's face flushed a deep red, but Declan couldn't tell if it was anger or embarrassment.
"I apologize for my intrusion, sir. If you could just point me in the direction of an inn or someplace I can wait out the storm, I'll be on my way."
"I've told you already, there's no place open this time of year," Hannah said, as her eyes bored into her father. "I'll drive you back to the Reserve. You can stay there in the office for the night."
"You'll be doing no such thing," Rhys said, his voice a low growl. "My daughter's right, Mr. Flynn, there's no place open. As much as I don't like it, you can stay in our guest cottage out back. Seeing as my daughter insists on ignoring my advice, I may as well keep you in my sight."
Declan was silently grateful. Even though he hadn't seen it, the guest cottage sounded like a slice of heaven. At this point he'd take a barn if it meant he could sleep out of the wind and rain.
"Here, sit down," Hannah said, and she walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table for him. She kissed her father on the cheek as he stood like a statue, still eyeing Declan. "Were you injured?" Rhys asked, finally exhaling.
"Just a cut on my leg and my wrist is sprained."
"Well, don't you worry a bit," Hannah said. "I'll have you right as rain in no time. Dad's just finished making cawl for supper and afterwards we'll get you all set up out the back."
"We have a small barn out the back that we converted to a cottage a few years back. We rent it out during the tourist season," Rhys said, taking a seat at the table.
"Aye, that sounds grand. Thank you both so much."
The house was warm and the food smelled amazing. The aroma of boiled potatoes, lamb, carrots and bacon filled the air. Declan took a seat at the table across from Rhys and placed his duffel bag at his feet. Looking around at the simple residence, he thought how nice it would be to share such a place with his wife, a simple life, free of the frustrations and complications of his current situation. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace behind him, he could feel the heat on his damp clothes.
"Oh my, your clothes are soaked,” Hannah said as she brushed past him.
"I'll get you something dry to wear." Rhys rose from the table and disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the kitchen. Hannah placed a bowl on the table and filled it to the brim with cawl. "Eat, eat," she said, placing a spoon in the bowl. Rhys returned a moment later with a pair of faded blue jeans and a dark red wool shirt.
After he'd eaten three bowls of stew and excused himself for his rudeness, Declan followed as they led him outside to the back of their small lot where a barn with a slanted roof stood. Inside it had been made over into a bedroom, a small bathroom off to the side with just enough room for a sink and a shower. Declan had been right. To a weary traveler, it looked heavenly.
Hannah showed him around the room. "In the summer months it stays rented, always someone from Cardiff or Swansea out here for the hiking or sailing. You know, all that macho stuff you boys are into."
He smiled at her, realizing that she obviously thought he was much younger than he actually was.
"Now, let's see to those injuries," she said.
"Thank you, but it's really not necessary," Declan said. "You've done so much already."
"Oh, don't give me that, you. I'll have none of it. Dad, get my veterinary kit, please."
Rhys sighed audibly and turned back towards the main house.
Her tone of voice was authoritative and, seeing she wasn't going to take no for an answer, Declan gave in. "You'll have to excuse Dad. He's suspicious of everyone."
"He has good reason to be. There are a lot of people out there who aren't very nice."
"Well, I'm a helper. It's what I do. My mum was the same way. Whether it was an injured puffin or a seal, she was always nursing something. She died a few years ago. Dad hasn't been the same since."
Thirty minutes later she had both his wrist and his leg re-bandaged and he already felt better.
"There you go," she said. "Good thing I found you when I did, that leg was pretty bad. Another few hours and you'd have had quite an infection, I expect. You were right about your wrist. It isn't broken at all. A day or two and it'll be fine." She stood up and looked at the shirt and jeans her father had supplied. "Those clothes look like they'll fit you, anyway," she said. "A guy about your age left them here last year. Amazing what people leave behind. We've found everything from cigarettes to foreign money."
"We should leave him be now," Rhys said from his post by the door where he'd been standing guard over his daughter. "I'm sure he needs to rest." Hannah smiled and walked out of the tiny house followed by her father. After they were gone, Declan washed up in the bathroom carefully to avoid his injuries and then, within minutes, he was asleep on the bed, the down comforter pulled up over his head.
Chapter Fifty-Two
6:42 p.m. Local Time – Thursday
Local Road 1402
Mullaghmore, County Monaghan – Ireland
Constance took a deep breath of damp Celtic air as she stood on one of the many balconies of the seventeenth century mansion owned by the McGuire family. Ivy crept up the sides of the stone house and stretched out along the stone balustrade she was leaning her elbows on, her hands either side of her face. Although she considered herself to be quite well traveled she had never seen any place like this. All of the stone columned buildings of Washington D.C., as awe-inspiring as they could be, couldn't hold
a candle to the natural beauty that surrounded her. It was as if nature and man-made things had reached a sort of peace and now lived side by side in harmony.
Upon entering the property, Fintan had explained the layout of the grounds. The mansion stood on over two hundred acres near Mullaghmore, about five miles east of the town of Monaghan. What had once been heavily farmed land now stood empty, home only to the mansion in its northwest corner and to several smaller, but no less atmospheric houses in which the year-round staff lived.
The room Constance had chosen as her own for the duration of her stay was in the mansion's southwest corner and its balcony looked out over the expansive gardens and carefully maintained hedgerows that surrounded the entire house. She'd chosen it because in the distance beyond the gardens a small lake was visible, its water as blue as the ocean they'd crossed just hours before. She imagined the sun glinting off the windswept water and wished Declan could be there with her. She knew that for him, though, this place held many distant memories that he had probably tried to forget. She knew enough about the Troubles to know that many of the IRA's army council had kept homes in places just over the border of the Irish Republic, just far enough to be out of the reach of the British Army or the Royal Ulster Constabulary, the predecessor to Northern Ireland's current police force, the Police Service of Northern Ireland. While the McGuire mansion had obviously been there for many years before the Troubles, and even the war for independence, from what she had garnered from the various conversations she'd heard, Fintan's father had used it as a base of operations for his activities during the thirty year conflict.
She heard a polite knock at the door. "It's open," she said, and listened as someone pushed open the heavy oak door. Moments later Fintan stepped onto the concrete balcony. "Just wanted to see that all your needs had been met, love, and that everything was to your liking."
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