The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  His images of the movie prisoner hadn’t been too far off, Donovan realized, his gut twisting with an urge to shield Rylie from the man’s sight. The urge intensified as they moved closer, and Christy got a glimpse of her. His eyes widened and he half rose from the chair, his lips forming a word that might have been a name. But the guard stepped toward him and Christy hastily sat back down, though his eyes remained riveted to Rylie.

  Donovan pulled out a chair for her while the escort addressed the prisoner. “What do ya know, Christy, you’ve actual visitors. These are your cousins from America, Rylie Powell and Donovan O’Shea.”

  Christy Reilly grunted and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, dropping his gaze like a whipped but resentful dog. Another tattoo peeked from the edge of his shirtsleeve, a Celtic knot design that encircled his massive biceps.

  Donovan murmured appropriate thanks to the escort and took his seat next to Rylie. Wearing a silky turquoise blouse and dark slacks, she looked like a delicate porcelain figurine poised stiffly on the edge of the chair. However, her jaw was clenched in what he now recognized as her stubbornly defiant mode. Heaven help Christy Reilly if he crossed her.

  When the escort walked out of earshot, Christy muttered, “You’re the spittin’ image of your mother, as I suppose you’ve heard often enough.”

  His voice sounded gravelly, as if it didn’t get much use, and he continued to study his hands.

  “Y-yes . . . I mean, I know.” Rylie bit her lip and drew in a breath that made her breasts rise enticingly. “I think I have your eyes, though.”

  Christy lifted his gaze from his hands, and his steely gray eyes met her equally flinty ones. One of his black eyebrows arched up a scant millimeter. “So you do.” His gaze fell back to his hands and he steepled his fingers. “How’s your mother, then?”

  Rylie’s face and tone remained emotionless. “She died of cancer six months ago.”

  Donovan saw a fleeting shadow of pain flash over Christy’s stony expression. He didn’t lift his head. “So that’s why you’ve come?”

  “No—Yes—” Rylie cleared her throat. “She never spoke of you, but I wanted to see you for myself.”

  “Well then, here ya are.” He threw back his head and sat ramrod straight in his chair, clapping both palms against his chest. “Yer old man’s a worthless piece o’ shite who couldn’t even give ya his own name, except in a roundabout sorta way.”

  Rylie lifted her pointed little chin, and her voice no longer wavered though it remained flat, uncaring. “My mother loved you. Why did you leave and break her heart?”

  Christy clasped his hands back on the tabletop and turned his head to one side, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere near the ceiling. “’Tis not like I had a choice.”

  “Why not?” She threw the words like a challenge.

  The burly man sighed with resignation and faced her bold question. “I suppose you’ll pester me ’til you’ve had the whole story?”

  In spite of himself, Donovan’s lips twitched. How very right he was.

  When Rylie didn’t respond, Christy sighed again. “All right, since you must know. ’Twas a fine spring morning, I was taking you to the park so Jen could study. She was back at university, ya see.”

  He stopped long enough to crack the knuckles of first one hand and then the other. His eyes grew unfocused with a faraway look, as if the scene were replaying in front of him.

  “You insisted on walking, holding both me thumbs. The park was at the end of our street but we didn’t even get halfway there when up walks Conor McTeague, bold as brass, right there in the heart o’ Brooklyn. ‘Hullo, Christy lad,’ he says to me. ‘Surely you weren’t fool enough to think you could be staying here forever.’” Christy abruptly halted, while Donovan struggled to recall why the name Conor McTeague sounded familiar.

  “Then he chucked you under the chin and you started to cry.” Folding his beefy arms across his chest, Christy addressed Rylie directly, no longer lost in his reverie. “Young and stupid I might have been, but not that stupid. I knew the best thing I could do for both of you was disappear.”

  “So you did,” Rylie finished for him.

  “And so I did,” Christy reaffirmed in the same flat tone.

  “Why did you take Dermot O’Shea’s identity?” Rylie asked. “And did my mother even know your real name?” Christy’s arms loosened and he slumped forward to lean his elbows on the table. “Jen,” he whispered. “My angel, Jen.” Then his eyes snapped up, hard and accusatory, moving from Rylie to Donovan and back again. “She knew nuthun’. I never told her a word. I couldn’t. Scotland Yard was hot on my arse. That’s why I used Dermot’s name. Couldn’t very well leave under me own when I was wanted for murder.” He paused and cracked his knuckles again, glancing over his shoulder at the guard. “Sorry little girl, but your old man really is a heartless bastard, a thief, and a murderer.”

  Finally placing the name as one Lynch had told him, Donovan blurted, “Did you kill Conor McTeague?”

  Christy’s hard gaze swept over him. “No. But I killed plenty of others, including a guard during a riot ten or so years ago, which is why I’m still here.” Then his eyes narrowed, “But surely you’re Moira and Dermot’s wee lad. What would you know of Conor?”

  Donovan stiffened to a defensive posture. “I know that he was a Provo and a crony of Malachy Flynn.”

  “Ah, yes. A worse pair you’ll never meet.” Christy’s lips curled in a sneer of disgust. “I reckon someone’s done ’em both in by now, but ’twasn’t me.”

  “You’re right, at least about Malachy,” Rylie said in the same matter-of-fact tone he used. “They only just found his body, but he was murdered a long time ago.”

  Sudden unease drove Donovan to lay his hand on her arm and stop her from saying more, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  “In the fens.”

  At her words, Christy’s contemptuous expression dissolved and knowledge flickered through his eyes. “She killed him then.”

  Donovan sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath as Rylie asked, “Who?”

  “You know who,” Christy replied, his probing gaze directed at Donovan. “But maybe you don’t know why.” He cast another glance over his shoulder and continued in a low, conspiratorial tone. “’Twas no secret that Malachy was smitten with Moira, even though she’d have none of him. One night Malachy bragged about how he’d forced himself on her, and how her feckin’ gobshite of a husband wouldn’t have her now.”

  “Ow!” Rylie protested in a hoarse whisper and Donovan realized he was squeezing her arm. He dropped his fisted hands to his lap, breath sticking in his throat.

  “I went for him, of course,” Christy continued dispassionately. “Would’ve most likely killed him on the spot, except McTeague pulled me off. Told me to give those with the most cause their chance. But Flynn made himself scarce for a long time after that. Some in the Provos thought he might be the traitor we believed we had in our midst, though I always thought ’twas that nine-fingered bastard.”

  Donovan could scarcely hear for the blood pounding in his ears. Breathing hard, he unclenched one hand and rubbed his temple.

  “I think you know the rest of this story,” Christy mused, his expression unreadable. “For you’ve the same tall rangy look about you as Malachy Flynn.”

  Donovan choked. Cold rage and helplessness engulfed him as he spluttered and coughed.

  “Donovan?” Rylie leapt from her chair and grasped his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  For another long moment, he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs, but he nodded anyway. The guard started toward them and Rylie plopped back into her chair worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Her small hand clutched his, pulling him back from the black abyss.

  “So that’s how ’tis then?” Christy murmured, his eyes flicking between the two of them.

  While Rylie’s face flamed, Donovan’s strangled attempt at denial was interrupted by the guard. “What’s happening here?�
� he demanded.

  Christy dropped his gaze to his hands but his voice was sullen. “Nuthun’.”

  “This visit is over,” the guard stated, hand on the billy club at his waist.

  “First bleedin’ visitors I’ve had in twenty years,” Christy complained, his head still down.

  “Two minutes more.” The guard took a single step backward and stood glaring at them.

  “They told me Dermot was in hospital. That true?” Christy’s question and his stare were once again unfocused.

  Cheeks still pink, Rylie nodded. “A stroke.”

  Donovan found his voice at last. “The doctors say he’ll recover, but not one hundred percent.”

  “Too bad,” Christy murmured, his gaze raking over both of them again. “S’pose you’ll both go home to America then?”

  Rylie nodded again. “I’m leaving Thursday.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but Christy’s gray eyes pierced hers.

  “Good. Don’t want you coming back ’round here.” He cracked his knuckles again and added, “Don’t want your pity.”

  Then he rose to his feet, tilting his chin in the guard’s direction. “Let’s go.”

  Rylie stood also, and swayed a little. Still feeling half cold-cocked, Donovan got up anyway to put an arm around her.

  As the guard motioned for an escort, Christy turned and looked at them a final time. “You could send me a card at Christmas, though,” he said, then turned and shuffled away.

  Silently, they followed the escort from the room. Neither of them spoke more than perfunctory answers while they collected their jackets and personal items. More than a little dazed, they stumbled out to the parking lot.

  In spite of her golden tan, Rylie looked wan and tremulous. As for Donovan, the ugly truth sat like a stone in the pit of his stomach, making him cold and nauseated.

  “Are you all right?” Donovan finally asked as he held the passenger door for her.

  She nodded. “Are . . . are you?”

  “Y—Yes.”

  Eyes glittering with tears, she lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. “Are you sure?”

  Her fingers felt smooth and warm against his skin. Such a welcome comfort. He turned his head and rubbed his lips across her palm. Then a sudden shudder struck him, shaking its way from his fingertips to his toes, bringing a full dose of frigid darkness with it.

  “Hold me,” she whispered, and pulled him tight against her.

  Small as she was, she anchored him. Her arms encircled his waist, her body warm and soothing against the horrors ripping through his mind. Embarrassed by his weakness, Donovan buried his face in her silky hair as a single sob escaped his throat.

  Rylie’s grip tightened. “Oh, Donovan,” she murmured in his ear. “Oh, please. It’ll be all right. I love you, Donovan.”

  Holy freaking hell!

  The split second after she uttered the words, Rylie tried to suck them back into her mouth. But it was too late. She felt Donovan’s body stiffen beneath her hands. He’d heard.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  They jerked apart and she stared at her feet, face burning.

  “I’m sorry . . . ” she fumbled. “I didn’t mean that—No, wait! What I meant to say was . . . ” She looked up and his eyes were focused somewhere far over her head. “Shit.”

  Mortified that she’d said that aloud also, she clamped one hand firmly over her mouth, melted into the passenger seat, and shut the car door.

  Oh, God! She had so totally screwed up! But the worst part was, she did love him. And she wanted desperately for him to love her, too. With a groan, Rylie covered her face with her hands.

  A few moments later, she heard the car door open and felt Donovan slide into the driver’s seat. Wishing she could disappear into the upholstery, she sneaked a sideways peek at him through her fingers. His gorgeous face looked chiseled from marble.

  Reluctantly, she pulled her hands away and took a deep breath, “I—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, his tone brusque. “We’re both pretty done in. Shall we go to tea?”

  “Okay,” she replied, still wishing she could just die on the spot and end her misery.

  In spite of her wishes to the contrary, she neither expired nor vanished, so she occupied herself with replaying every moment of her meeting with Christy Reilly as Donovan drove. Talk about an object lesson in loving the wrong man! By his own admission, her father was a thief and murderer. Yet her mother had loved him once. And he had loved her. All the surly scowls in the world couldn’t override the way he’d whispered her mother’s name.

  Then she thought of Donovan and the crushing blow Christy had delivered to him. Had Christy lied? From Donovan’s reaction, she had to assume it was the truth. Not that it mattered to her, but she couldn’t even imagine how horrible he must feel knowing he was the product of a rape.

  Donovan pulled the car over at a small café, interrupting her gloomy thoughts, and they got out and went inside. Frilly curtains hung at the windows and lacy cloths covered the tables in a cutesy tribute to quaint Ireland. The Ireland the tourists came to see, and had little or nothing to do with reality. At least not her reality. And not Donovan’s.

  Rylie went straight to the ladies’ room to try and wash the stench of the prison off her hands but the dank, musty odor seemed to linger in her nostrils even after she rubbed on scented lotion. She rejoined Donovan, and they sat in awkward silence after the freckle-faced young waitress took their order.

  Finally, Donovan cleared his throat. “Rylie, about us . . . ”

  Oh no! Here came the big “no strings” speech. She really did not want to hear this right now. Not on top of everything else. Quickly, she decided to go there first.

  “Look, you were right, we’re both stressed out. Don’t worry about it.”

  Consternation furrowed his brow. “True enough, but I need to tell you that I . . . I’ve never been involved with anyone long term before. I’m not sure I know how.”

  Every word from his mouth was torture. She had to interrupt him. “Can you do three more days?”

  She glanced at her watch. Two days, fifteen hours and twenty-five minutes. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest. She had to look away, but somehow she kept her voice steady, “That’s all I’m asking, then I’ll be outta here.”

  The reappearance of the young waitress prevented Donovan from replying. Rylie looked everywhere but at him while the girl served their sandwiches, cookies, and scones. She had just set the teapot, sparkling white with green shamrocks, on the table when Donovan’s cell phone rang.

  Excusing himself, he walked a few steps toward the front door to answer. Rylie didn’t know whether to giggle or sob, so she nibbled the edges of a delicately trimmed cucumber sandwich and tried to hear what he was saying. Within moments, he flipped the phone shut and signaled the waitress.

  “I’m sorry, but we have to go,” he said, shrugging into his jacket and reaching for hers.

  Concern leaped from her stomach into her throat. “Dermot?”

  Donovan shook his head, handed the waitress two bills and asked for a box. “The lawyer. Seems the police want to formally question me about McRory’s disappearance.”

  “But you don’t—” she began, as she shoved her arms into the jacket he held for her.

  “Lynch’s doing.” He didn’t elaborate, for the waitress reappeared with a box and his change.

  Wordlessly, Rylie shoved the dainty little sandwiches and scones into the styrofoam container and followed him back to the car. She might have momentarily dodged the commitment bullet, but this was not the way she wanted to do it.

  “What are you going to do?” She asked the double-edged question as she fastened her seat belt.

  Donovan’s grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white. “I’ll tell the truth, of course, to whatever they ask.” Then, as if he anticipated her next question, he added, “’Tis not like they’ll ask me about my Sight, or visions, or anything like t
hat.”

  “No, why would they?” she muttered more to reassure herself than anything else. Too bad it didn’t work. They sat in strained silence for a few minutes until they reached the main roadway. The route was beginning to look so familiar that Rylie could probably drive it in her sleep.

  “I’ll drop you off in Dungannon then come back for you when I’m done.” Donovan looked straight ahead and spoke as if he were discussing the weather.

  “No, I have a better idea. I’m going with you, and we’ll go see Dermot when you’re done. Then we can go to dinner or something.” And as far as she was concerned “something” included both of them naked in Donovan’s horrible bed. Preferably for the next two and a half days.

  “Rylie, I—”

  “Save your breath for the police and their questions.”

  His sapphire eyes flicked momentarily to meet hers, then returned to the road again. Rylie saw his beautiful lips twitch slightly.

  “I can see ’twill do me no good to argue with you.”

  She gave his leg a possessive little pat and quickly pulled her hand back into her lap. “Like I said before: smart man.”

  Now she only had to figure out how she would live without him.

  Though it was after five, the attorney and his secretary were waiting for them when they arrived. Donovan made introductions, and Jeremy Heaney exuded Irish charm, though Rylie couldn’t help but think he looked more like a schoolboy than a lawyer. However, he and Donovan were in complete and stalwart agreement that she remain behind. He offered to have his secretary, who resembled a typical Irish grandmother, stay at the office and wait with her, but Rylie declined. Bad enough that the two men insisted she not go along to the police station, but she most certainly did not need a babysitter.

  “Sorry to hear about your father,” Heaney said to Donovan, as the secretary let herself out. “And I’m sure this will all come to naught. ’Tis a flimsy attempt by the PSNI to get you to be more forthcoming about this old murder case.”