“You do that.” Then the ghoul threw back his head, uttered an unearthly howl, and vanished.
Rylie released her pent-up breath in a rush, and her trembling body sagged against Donovan. Equally unsteady on his feet, he nearly tipped over and sent them both sprawling. But somehow he regained his equilibrium and they remained upright. He tilted his head in the direction of the cottage.
“The car,” he muttered, his voice tight with pain. “Can you walk?”
She nodded, though she wasn’t sure how far. And she was even less sure about him. Covered in streaks of mud and blood, from his caked hair to his sodden sneakers, he balanced precariously, his left foot clearly not able to bear any of his weight. Shoving her good shoulder under his arm, the two of them began a shuffling hop toward the cottage in a bizarre parody of a three-legged race.
The distance seemed interminable. Every movement sent the pain in her arm shooting into her body, in addition to the fatigue and dizziness draining her. But the idea that one of the murderous apparitions might swoop down on them again at any minute kept her moving.
Afraid to look at anything except the ground a few feet in front of them, Rylie was taken aback when the whitewashed wall of the cottage loomed in her field of vision. She jerked reflexively. Donovan hobbled around so that he slumped momentarily against the wall instead of her. Without his body heat close to her, she shivered.
“Need something to open the car,” he panted. “You go on.”
Clutching at the rough exterior, he dragged himself toward the little lean-to fastened to the back corner of the cottage. She didn’t have the strength to argue, so she stumbled around to the front yard.
The sight of the gaping door made her gasp aloud. No matter how long she lived, she would never forget the numbing terror of Lynch’s pistol resting under her chin. The same pistol she had used to shoot him.
“I’ve taken my own vengeance.” The rasp of McRory’s hideous specter echoed inside her head.
So had she. And she wasn’t sorry.
Resting against the front bumper of the car, Rylie fought against the waves of pain threatening to overcome her. After all they had been through tonight, she refused to lose it now. She banished all thoughts from her mind and concentrated on willing away the pain.
Using the ruined broom for a cane, Donovan slowly staggered toward the car. He could see Rylie’s slight form huddled against the bumper. Though she was shaking, she remained upright, obviously on sheer stubborn will power alone. She’d saved his life at least twice in the past few hours, nearly losing her own in the process. But that was not what made his heart pound in his aching chest.
She loved him! And God in heaven knew how much he loved her.
He was past caring whether he deserved her or not. He would never give her up.
The knowledge pushed him on when every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He reached her at last but had to steady himself against the fender before he could toss aside the broom and touch her. His mud-encrusted fingers trailed across her icy cheek, and he could see the glitter of pain in her eyes.
“Just another few minutes, I promise.” The words scratched his dry throat.
Her breathing labored, she nodded in reply.
With awkward and agonizingly slow movements, Donovan inched his way down the side of the vehicle. Using the screwdriver he’d found in the lean-to, he fumbled with first the lock and then the seam of the door. When he got nowhere with either of them, he summoned the last bit of his strength and whacked at the back passenger window. On the third blow, the glass cracked. One more knock scattered chunks of safety glass onto the back seat.
He reached through the hole and flipped up the door lock. Heedless of the broken glass, he opened the door and heaved himself onto the floor. After several long moments of thrusting his hands between the two front seats, he located his mobile. With a grunt of triumph, he flipped the phone on and punched in 999, emergency.
“An ambulance,” he gasped at the nasally voiced female who answered. “Send an ambulance right away!”
Something warm ran down his wrist. The knife wound on the back of his hand was bleeding again. Ignoring the emergency dispatcher’s question, he uttered a curse, then gave her the address and directions to the cottage.
“Hurry!” he admonished, and rang off. He’d leave it to her to contact the PSNI.
Donovan pressed his filthy left shirtsleeve against his bloody right hand, and struggled upright. Rylie stood, her uninjured arm draped over the open car door for support, regarding him.
“They’re on their way,” he reassured.
“Good,” was her barely audible response.
She scooted aside and let go of the door so he could stand. But her legs started to buckle under her.
He grasped the door with one hand and pulled her against him with the other. “Easy there.”
“You’re bleeding again.”
She felt so small and fragile as she shivered against him. The need to protect her sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body.
“’Tis nothing.” In the grand scheme of things, that was certainly true.
Without letting go of her, he somehow finagled the front car door open. Then he dropped heavily into the passenger seat, pulling her onto his lap as he did. She squeaked in surprise, but then snuggled against him. Her head rested beneath his chin, her silky hair tangled and matted with mud. He shifted his legs and pulled the door closed with a jarring thud.
“So tired . . . ”
“I’ll just recline the seat back until they get here, shall I?” Donovan reached down with his left hand and pulled the lever, sending the seat as flat as it would go.
Rylie gave a ragged sigh and scooted a bit lower on his lap. Her shivering subsided.
“Please . . . ” Her voice sounded miles away. “Don’t leave me . . . ”
She was the one about to leave him, but he wasn’t going to remind her. “Don’t worry,” he replied, tightening his hold. “I never will.”
“Ummm . . . ” was all she said.
Donovan listened to her shallow breathing and watched the gray streaks on the horizon lighten while he tried to think of a coherent explanation to give the authorities for their night’s escapade. He still hadn't pulled his jumbled thoughts into order when he heard the singsong wail of sirens approaching. He had a hard time rousing Rylie, and the noise from the vehicles sounded like they were almost to the gate before he succeeded.
“What?” she gasped in confusion. “Where . . . are we?” “’Tis all right, sweetheart,” he soothed, patting her hair. “The ambulance will take us to hospital.”
She looked at him, but her gaze remained uncomprehending. “To see Dermot?”
He patted her hair again. ’Twould be far better if she didn’t remember anything. “Maybe later, after they fix your arm.”
“My arm . . . ” She glanced down, still confused. “And your hand?”
“Yes, don’t worry.”
The flashing strobe from the ambulance bathed them in garish red and blue lights. Donovan shifted his grip on Rylie before he swung the car door open.
“Over here!” He shouted and waved, but the noise of the sirens drowned out his voice.
The ambulance screeched to a halt just behind the car, headlights glaring like a supernova. Also close at hand, a police siren continued to shriek. He didn’t know which was worse, the ominous silence of the past long minutes, or the chaos now erupting around him. Against his chest, he felt Rylie tremble. But the two ambulance attendants hurried up before he could reassure her.
“What happened?” The nearest one demanded, reaching for Rylie. She shrank away with a sob.
Donovan had to shout to be heard above the still blaring police siren. “Her arm. Gun shot.”
The man’s pale eyes widened, his brows arching up into the fair hair flopping across his forehead. “And you?”
“Twisted my knee. Can’t put weight on it.” He patted Rylie’s hair and murmured close t
o her ear. “’Tis all right, sweetheart. We’re going to hospital now.”
“That blood hers or yours?” The attendant asked as he and his partner positioned a rolling gurney close to the open door.
Donovan looked at the stains, some brown, some dark red, on his hands and sleeve. “Both. I’m afraid she’s lost a lot.”
The man gave a grim nod as he pulled Rylie from Donovan’s grasp. Mercifully, the police siren stopped, and then as the two men carefully moved Rylie onto the gurney, a uniformed PSNI officer approached.
“Donovan!” Rylie cried out.
He leapt to her side, hanging onto the gurney for balance.
“Sergeant Kelley, PSNI,” the man barked at Donovan. “You’re O’Shea?”
Donovan nodded, realizing he would undoubtedly need legal counsel and that he should call Heaney. He let go of the gurney and fell back into the car, scrambling to retrieve his mobile from the back seat. He heard Rylie cry out his name again, but the sergeant blocked his way.
“Care to tell me what happened?” His voice was as belligerent as his stance.
Shoving the mobile into his pocket, Donovan pulled himself to his feet, using the open car door for support. “Inspector Colm Lynch shot her—Ms. Powell. He was trying to hit me.”
This news seemed to catch the sergeant off-guard, for his mouth fell open. But before he could speak, Donovan rushed on, “I knocked the gun out of his hand. He came at me with a knife, and Ms. Powell picked up the gun and shot him.”
Most of it was the truth.
“Did she kill him?” The man blurted.
Donovan shook his head. He could see the two attendants had Rylie inside the ambulance, though he still heard her hysterical cries. He must go to her. But Sergeant Kelley’s partner was approaching from the opposite side of the car, boxing him in.
“Far as I know, he’s still out there somewhere.” Donovan waved his hand in the direction of the fens, and a drop of fresh blood splattered on the sergeant’s cheek. The man automatically wiped his face then stared at his stained fingers. “Did he cut you anywhere else?”
“My shoulder,” Donovan replied. “And I twisted my knee when I fell.”
Over the PSNI officer’s shoulder he saw one of the ambulance attendants hurrying toward them.
“Just stall the ball there, Kelley!” The attendant called out. “The lad may have internal injuries. You can question him after the docs look him over.”
The sergeant rounded on the man with a squint-eyed glare. “Don’t be tryin’ to tell me my business, O’Dwyer. A PSNI inspector’s been shot.”
“Well I don’t see him here,” the attendant, O’Dwyer snapped back. “So shall I remind you of poor old Shamus Muldoon, who nearly died last spring because of your infernal questions?”
“He does look pretty done in, Sergeant,” said the second officer, who now stood on the other side of the car door beside Donovan.
“Shut up, Dooley,” Kelley ordered, but he stepped aside nonetheless.
Happy for the diversion, Donovan leaned heavily on the attendant’s proffered shoulder, and hobbled toward the waiting ambulance.
“Donovan O’Shea, is it?” asked his benefactor with a half-grin. “I’m Bobby O’Dwyer, Gerry Partlan’s nephew.”
Then, before Donovan could offer his thanks, Bobby O’Dwyer shoved him into the back of the ambulance and shouted, “Let’s go, Smitty!”
The ambulance ride went quickly. Donovan spent most of the duration holding Rylie’s hand, though he did manage to call Heaney’s service and ask them to have the attorney meet them at the hospital in Armagh. The ongoing wail of the siren in the background no doubt helped him drive home his point that this was an emergency.
With an IV in place in her arm, Rylie rested quietly. A white bandage gleamed just below her throat. O’Dwyer turned his attentions to Donovan’s various injuries. He slit the seam of Donovan’s pant leg and peeled it back to reveal the swollen and bruised kneecap. Once he stabilized it with a plastic splint, he moved on to the knife wounds on Donovan’s shoulder and hand, scrubbing away the caked on grime.
“You two take the prize for the dirtiest patients I’ve ever seen,” O’Dwyer pronounced, taping gauze over the cuts he’d already appraised as superficial. “How long did the pair of you roll about in the mud?”
“Too long,” Donovan replied, reaching for Rylie again as soon as the bandage was in place on his hand.
When his fingers settled over hers, her eyelids fluttered up. With a wave of relief, he recognized lucidity in her eyes. The dried mud streaked across her face and clinging in chunks to her hair didn’t matter. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Hullo, gorgeous,” he murmured, gently squeezing her hand.
The corners of her wide mouth tilted up a fraction. “You’re such a liar,” she whispered.
“What? Name calling, is it?” enquired Bobby O’Dwyer, checking her vitals. “I can see you’re going to be fine, my girl.” Then he nodded at Donovan. “And you are in for a heap o’ trouble.”
“From a wee little thing like her?” Donovan scoffed, his tired grin peeking through. “Although she did save my life tonight. Twice in fact.”
Rylie’s gaze moved between him and the paramedic. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”
“’Tis all right if you don’t remember,” Donovan prompted. Far easier to claim faulty memory than be questioned endlessly by the PSNI. “You’ve been in shock.”
“Indeed you have!” His unexpected ally, O’Dwyer, agreed.
Her fingers curled in Donovan’s and she squeezed his thumb with a knowing glow in her eyes. “Some things I remember very well.” Her voice sounded considerably stronger, almost sassy. “You said you loved me.”
“Oh, did I now?” asked Donovan, playing along.
“Don’t you dare try to deny it,” she murmured, her tongue tracing her lower lip. “Not after all I went through to get you to admit it.”
Shot.
Stabbed.
Pursued by vengeful spirits.
What she had endured tonight, how she had risked her very soul, momentarily robbed Donovan of a reply. He rested his forehead against their clasped hands and drew in a ragged breath.
“I’m not about to deny it,” he finally choked out. He raised his head enough to brush his lips over her grimy knuckles. “I’ll shout it from the rooftops if you like.”
Rylie sighed out a little tsking sound. “You’re lying to me again. You can’t even walk with that knee, much less climb onto a roof.”
Bobby O’Dwyer gave a snorting chuckle. “Didn’t I warn you about being in trouble, O’Shea?”
Chapter 18
DONOVAN FIDGETED IN THE PASSENGER’S SEAT OF HEANEY’S BMW sedan as the vehicle bounced down the rutted lane. The attorney had given up attempts at conversation shortly after they passed Dungannon and Donovan’s replies dwindled from monosyllables to grunts.
Heaven knew he didn’t want to be here. But Donovan had to find out for certain that the forces rampaging through the fens two nights ago—forces he feared he had triggered—were dissipated. Dread sat in his stomach, growing heavier by the second.
“That’s the gate ahead on the left,” he informed Heaney.
Fresh yellow police tape fluttered in the pale morning light, but the gate stood open. Heaney’s Beamer jounced through and headed for the wretched-looking cottage. Rylie’s rental car had been towed to the police impound yard, so the parking area was empty. A dozen more pieces of yellow tape criss-crossed the front door.
“As your attorney, I want to warn you one more time not to touch anything,” Heaney said as he shut off the ignition.
“’Tis not the cottage I’ve come to see,” Donovan replied, avoiding eye contact. “’Tis the fens.”
Heaney exited the car and scrambled around to join him. “I’d better come with you then.”
Leaning heavily on his three-pronged hospital cane, Donovan turned away. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
; “Sorry, but I insist.”
Tenacious as a terrier with a bone, Heaney kept pace with him. Not difficult, considering the cumbersome plastic brace on Donovan’s left leg and the way the cane kept sinking into the soggy earth.
When they came to the first excavated pit, Heaney’s mobile rang and Donovan flinched in reaction. Nerves frayed to the breaking point, Donovan gazed first at the mound of dirt, then into the hole, waiting, listening. Perhaps the meds they’d given him for pain and inflammation were dulling his senses, for he heard and felt nothing.
Saints in heaven! If medication really could short-circuit his “gift,” he would gladly pop a dozen pills a day.
Refusing to get his hopes up, Donovan drew in a deep breath of chilly air and hobbled on toward the fens. A moment later, Heaney caught up to him.
“The coroner concluded that Lynch drowned.”
That removed a couple of small bricks from the load of worry weighing upon Donovan. But the bulk of the weight remained. “Did they find his gun?”
The other man shook his head. “And they haven’t found the knife he used on you either.”
Nor would they.
Donovan kept that bit of information to himself. The mist rising up from the ground blended with the white puffs of his breath as he continued doggedly toward the looming presence of the fens.
By contrast, Heaney seemed in a mood to disclose things.
“I gave a copy of the paper McRory sent to Sybil Gallagher to the PSNI, of course,” he said, matching his steps to Donovan’s uneven ones. “But I kept the original just to be sure. A list of bank accounts along with the names of Provos from the look of it. My guess is that McRory tried to blackmail Lynch into giving him a cut. Since those accounts haven’t been touched in twenty-five years there are probably several million pounds in them.”
Donovan shook his head with disgust but didn’t stop moving. “Enough to kill a man over?”
Money fell pretty low on his priority list right now, quite inconsequential in comparison to things like his future, his sanity.
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