While Donovan shifted self-consciously, Rylie couldn’t contain herself any longer.
“I don’t get it,” she complained, still miffed about waiting at the office. “Malachy Flynn has been dead for over twenty years, and the Provos have long since disbanded. Why does the PSNI care?”
“Gone but not forgotten,” Heaney replied, his boyish face serious. “Recently it’s come to light that members of British Intelligence were once involved with the militant IRA splinter groups. Turns out Malachy Flynn was one such agent. Or possibly even a double agent.”
With Christy’s words about Flynn and McTeague echoing inside her head, Rylie crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would that matter now?”
Heaney gave a dramatic sigh. “Because, Miss Powell, no one in the world has a longer memory than we Irish. And no one can nurse a grudge half so long.” She watched as he transformed from schoolboy to pontificating lawyer. “Take the Troubles for example. Most non-Irish would tell you that this constant unrest and sporadic violence originated in the plantation policies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Point of fact, it had been going on for at least a thousand years before that when Queen Maeve of Connacht invaded Ulster.”
“’Ulster forever Connacht never?’” She couldn’t help quoting.
“Exactly!” Heaney grinned, the miscreant schoolboy once more, and elbowed Donovan. “I see some Ulsterman has taught you the right of it.” Then, after a look at Donovan’s strained expression, he said, “Let’s go and get this over then. Miss Powell, help yourself to tea in the back room just through there.”
She curbed the urge to hug Donovan or even give his hand a squeeze. That’s what he got—or didn’t get—for making her stay here.
Once the two men left, she wandered into the back room Heaney had indicated, plugged in the electric teakettle, and heated one of the scones in the microwave. She tried to distract herself by thumbing through a newspaper sitting on the counter, but it didn’t hold her attention.
Her mind wandered back to her meeting with Christy Reilly. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined about meeting her biological father, none had come close to the reality. The man who’d fathered her might be a hardened scary-looking criminal, but now she knew he’d acted in what he believed to be the best interest of her and her mother. She’d never anticipated that.
But then, all the expectations she’d ever had of Ireland didn’t begin to match the reality either. The quaintness was strictly for show, while all around lurked the ancient, wild, and, most of all, tragic beauty of the real Ireland. A place far beyond what tourists saw. A place that took her breath.
And then there was Donovan.
She’d never in her wildest dreams expected someone like him. By turns charming and aloof, hard-nosed and then vulnerable, he was the ultimate puzzle wrapped in a sexy-as-sin package. No matter how many times she told herself this was one of those crazy wonderful flings, she knew that for her it was more. She had never experienced such an intense connection with anyone. Too bad it couldn’t be permanent.
Once Rylie finished drinking her tea and nibbling on the scone and sandwiches, she went back into the front reception area and stretched out on a small settee. She actually dozed off before Donovan and Heaney returned. The key rattling in the office door awoke her with a start. She could hear Heaney talking, and though she couldn’t make out the words, his voice sounded sharp and strident.
The two men entered, both wearing grim expressions. Neither greeted, nor even acknowledged her.
“Please, Mr. O’Shea.” Heaney’s emphatic tone shifted suddenly. “Donovan. You can trust me to keep strict attorney-client privilege about anything you say.”
Donovan wore his frosty distant look. That didn’t bode well for Heaney.
Rylie stood and smoothed her rumpled clothes. “How did it go?”
“Fine,” Donovan bit out in a way that practically shouted the opposite. He shot her a dark glance and tilted his head toward the door. “We need to go.”
“Half a moment!” Heaney insisted, raising his hand in a halting gesture. “I can’t help you or your father if you don’t tell me what you know about Malachy Flynn’s death.”
“As I said before,” Donovan muttered between clenched teeth. “I was seven years old and I don’t remember.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go, Rylie.”
She felt like the rag toy being tugged between two dogs. And the demanding tone of Donovan’s voice made her want to plant her feet and fight back.
“Doreen’s the one you need to talk to,” she flung at Heaney. “She saw her mother drag the body out of the house.”
“W-what?” Heaney stuttered, blinking rapidly.
Donovan couldn’t have looked more stunned than if she’d slapped his face with all her might. He just stared, mouth slightly agape, eyes round with shock.
Once again, too late to take the words back, so she might as well tell it all. “But I don’t think Doreen knows that Malachy raped her mother.” Rylie picked up her purse and reached for the doorknob. “My father, Christy Reilly only told us that this afternoon.”
She yanked open the door and stepped into the vestibule.
“Is this true?” Heaney continued to splutter.
“Yes,” Donovan replied, and followed her out. “We’ll be in touch.” Then, as the attorney stood dumbfounded, he pulled the door closed.
Not waiting, Rylie spun on her heel and marched away. She didn’t stop until she reached her rental car, parked alone in the row of empty spaces next to the building. She stood in the dark with her arms folded over her chest as Donovan unlocked the passenger door for her.
“So where are we going?” she asked, still a bit peeved. At him. At herself. At everything.
“The fens,” he answered. “I think I know who killed McRory. But I still don’t know why.”
Chapter 14
“DON’T THINK YOU CAN GIVE ME THE RUNAROUND LIKE you did with Heaney,” Rylie warned.
“No, I don’t have any such foolish illusions,” Donovan conceded, his tone and expression still grim. He started the car and pulled out of the parking space onto the street, all in stony silence.
“So what’s the deal with the police?” she ventured after several long, uncomfortable moments during which she steadfastly refused to apologize for what she’d revealed to the attorney. “Do they know McRory’s dead?”
Donovan flinched a little at her last question. “At least one of them does.” He shot her a quick, sidelong glance, then added, “Lynch.”
Though she wasn’t really surprised, Rylie suppressed a shudder and asked, “Did you have a vision?”
He shook his head, and waited until he’d turned onto the main roadway before he replied. “Actually it was something your . . . something Christy said about the Provos. He said some of them believed Malachy was a traitor in their midst, but he always thought it was the nine-fingered bastard.”
Rylie’s mind skimmed back to the few times she’d seen Inspector Lynch. The day they’d found the body in the fens, he’d been wearing gloves. The morning in Donovan’s apartment, she hadn’t seen his hands. And yesterday when he'd come up to her car window in the parking lot of the police station, he’d kept his hands in his pockets.
“I never noticed either,” Donovan continued, as if he followed her thoughts. “But today, he grabbed the back of my chair, and I saw his left hand was badly scarred, half his ring finger was missing and the pinky was completely gone.”
She swallowed hard, trying to digest this disturbing information. “So Lynch was a Provo too. Do you think he used a different name?”
Donovan gave a non-committal shrug, though his jaw remained clenched. “According to Heaney, they were a paranoid lot, so likely he did.”
They reached the outskirts of Armagh City, and Donovan continued on the main road. Rylie didn’t bother asking about Dermot and the hospital, since clearly they were on a mission. She rolled the knowledge about the Provos, Lynch, and Professor McRory arou
nd in her mind, but it still didn’t quite gel.
“What would matter enough to make Lynch kill McRory?” she muttered in confusion.
Donovan cast her another dark look. ”I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”
In the fens.
Neither of them spoke the words, but they hovered in the air between them nonetheless. Her stomach churned at the idea, but at the same time, there was no way in hell she would let him go alone.
“Can we stop at Dungannon on the way?” she asked, brushing her hand over the leg of her wrinkled pantsuit. “So I can change my clothes?” She wiggled her toes; those pumps definitely had to go, too.
He had dressed more casually, though he wasn’t exactly set for mucking around in the fens either. However, he didn’t look happy at her suggestion.
“Five minutes, no more,” he muttered.
On a mission, all right.
She only hoped it wasn’t one of the impossible variety. Once they left the city behind, the traffic was pretty much nil and they quickly covered the distance from Armagh to Dungannon. The lights from Cavanagh House shone invitingly when they pulled into the circular driveway, and Rylie couldn’t help but wish they could stay awhile, maybe have a light supper.
Donovan angled the car into the space closest to the side door, and made no move to turn off the ignition. Struck by a sudden suspicion, she reached over, flipped the key to off and palmed it.
“Five minutes, I promise!” she exclaimed over Donovan’s muffled protest. Then she bounded out of the car and hurried inside.
“Miss Powell!” Mrs. Cooke called to her, as she rushed through the kitchen.
But she didn’t dare pause long enough to return the manager’s greeting. She rubbed her thumb over the smooth metal surface of the car key. Knowing Donovan, he’d probably try to hot-wire the damn car so he could ditch her. Well, think again, smart man!
“Miss Powell!” Mrs. Cooke cried again, chasing her down the hall. She caught up as Rylie swiped her card key in the lock of her room. “That friend of yours, Miss Gallagher has been calling.”
Face flushed, the manager held out a folded piece of paper, and at Rylie’s puzzled look explained. “Your friend in Portadown, Miss Gallagher? She’s called every hour for the past three.”
“Thanks.” Rylie snatched the paper and stepped into her room. “And do you have a flashlight I can borrow?” Before the startled woman could answer, she shut the door.
She had no time to ponder why Sybil would call her. Shoes went flying as she shrugged out of her jacket. Pants and blouse landed in a heap on the floor as she pulled on socks, T-shirt, and a sweater. The only jeans she had were the ones she’d worn yesterday. Oh well, they’d be even more dirty after tonight. As she tied her sneaker laces, she discovered she’d put on two different colored socks. Crap! No time to change now. She grabbed her red hoodie, keys, and the note, then rushed back out into the hall.
“Miss Powell?” The manager gave her a reproachful look as she hurried for the door. “Aren’t you calling your friend?”
“Later,” Rylie answered, grabbing the small plastic flashlight from the woman’s hand. “Thanks, Mrs. Cooke.”
From the look on the woman’s face, Rylie guessed that her opinion of Americans in general, and her in particular were pretty much the same as Doreen’s. Not that she cared.
Rylie slid into the passenger’s seat, and passed Donovan the car key.
“All set,” she panted, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts momentarily mesmerizing him.
Just having her next to him effectively dissipated any righteous indignation he’d managed to cultivate since leaving Heaney’s office. Mentally calling himself a fool, he started the car and pulled to the end of the driveway.
“Can I use your phone?” Rylie asked in the midst of smoothing back her hair and securing it with one of those wide elastic bands. “I need to call Sybil Gallagher.”
Donovan fished awkwardly in his trouser pocket with his left hand. “She called you?”
Rylie nodded and took the proffered device. “Three times.” Then she turned on the dome light and squinted at a piece of paper before dialing. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention anything about . . . ” Her voice trailed away as she turned off the light.
He turned onto the road headed toward Ballyneagh as she said into the mobile, “Sybil? It’s Rylie Powell.”
She murmured some unintelligible phrases, then he heard her say, “From Aongus? Insurance? I don’t . . . What does it say?” Rylie put her hand over the lower half of the phone and whispered to him, “She got a note from McRory, some kind of photocopied list.”
While Donovan’s mind revved faster than the car engine, she moved her hand and spoke loud enough for him to hear also. “Looks like names and account numbers? Anybody you recognize?” She paused and made that little humming sound he found so endearing. “Hmmm, interesting . . . ” Then her voice squeaked, “Lynch? Inspector Lynch? And he called?”
“Tell her not to go to the police!”
“Sybil, listen!” Rylie ordered at the same instant. “Don’t call him back. You need to call Jeremy Heaney.” She spelled the name in rapid staccato. “He’s Donovan’sattorney. Leave a message with his service and tell them it’s urgent.”
Rylie’s free hand settled atop his thigh, her fingers gripping flesh though the twill of his trousers. Her voice echoed hollowly inside the dark confines of the car. “Don’t stay there. Go someplace else, a motel or a B&B. And don’t answer your phone, just check your messages.”
She paused again, and though the tension in her fingers didn’t lessen, her tone was soothing. “No, but we’re on our way to look for him now.” Another momentary pause. She might not be an actress, but her control was admirable. “Don’t worry, we will as soon as we find him.” Then he heard just the slightest catch in her voice. “And Sybil, I’m really happy about . . . the baby.”
Ringing off, she let out a long shaky breath and pulled her hand away from his leg. “Should I call Heaney?”
Donovan shook his head. “Let’s wait. We’ll only get his service.” She handed him the mobile, but when he went to shove it back into his pocket, he only succeeded in dropping the blasted thing between the seats. He muttered a curse then asked, “What about that list?”
Her face was unreadable in the dark and her tone was once more tightly controlled. “McRory mailed it to her at her cousin’s house in Portadown. She said it was a photocopy of names and numbers and he’d scrawled something across the back about safekeeping and insurance. She said she recognized one local politician’s name and a couple of others she thought were in the government. And Lynch’s name was on it, too.”
“So I gathered.” Donovan strove to keep his own voice as calm as hers. “I take it Sybil hasn’t heard about McRory’s car being in Lough Neagh, and him missing?” “Not yet, and I wasn’t about to tell her.” Rylie’s voice faltered with a tiny catch. “She’ll find out soon enough.” The truth of that sobered him into silence. Whatever they’d stumbled into had already proved deadly. However, he could no more deny the urgency of his visions than he could change who or what he was. Heaven knew he’d tried. For fifteen years in America he’d tried to be someone else, but only four months back in Ireland had effectively erased all he’d sought to become, and forced him to face the hard truth.
For a wild instant, he wanted to keep right on driving. Take Rylie to some safe and cozy little B&B and not come out until it was time to take her to the airport. All right, if he wanted a true flight of fancy, then he wouldn’t take her to the airport either. In this fantasy, he could actually be worthy of her, not some ill-conceived bastard of a terrorist spy. A man laid low by hallucinations he couldn’t control. A man so weak he might endanger the woman he loved.
Donovan was so intent on his self-loathing and disgust that he nearly missed the turn for the cottage. He had to stomp on the brake pedal and almost throw the car into a spin whipping down the lane.
Rylie gave a l
ittle squeak of surprise.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “You don’t scare me,” she replied in a somber tone. “But the fens do. You really believe McRory’s in there? His body, I mean?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where.” Since she was now inextricably involved, he might as well tell her everything.
“I plan to ask for help, from a holy man, a Celtic Druid. I guess he’s some kind of shade or something who’s been wandering the fens for over a thousand years.”
When he paused for breath, she interrupted, “Okay, you’re seriously creeping me out now, Donovan.” She gave a little nervous laugh. “How ’bout you don’t tell me anything else and let me just wait and be surprised?”
Considering how totally preposterous it all sounded when he tried to put it into words, he was happy to comply. Steering the car over the rough track took all his focus anyway, especially with the fog beginning to settle close to the ground. The lights from Mr. Farrell’s neighboring cottage looked like they were shining through layers of gauze. They would have the devil’s own time picking their way through the fens.
The police tape still fluttered from the gate posts as he guided the car through and up to the yard. The cottage loomed like a spectral hump in the dark, an image not completely dispelled when the headlamps shone on it. He parked close to the front door, and they got out.
“Are we going inside?” Rylie asked. Then she pulled a small plastic torch from the pocket of her sweatshirt and switched it on. “I borrowed it from Mrs. Cooke.”
Donovan could have kissed her for remembering a light. But then he could have kissed her for no reason at all.
“Brilliant woman,” he murmured, and her smile was a hundred times brighter than the narrow beam of light. Tamping down his desire, he looked from the door of the cottage across the dark expanse of yard to the even darker presence of the fens. “Unless you need to use the loo, I’d just as soon get this over and done.”
The Wild Sight Page 20