He stood in the bathroom doorway. He could feel the steam from the hot water as he watched his wife pull off her shirt. Heavy rain darkened the long June night earlier than usual.
Perfect, he thought, easing into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.
* * *
Henrietta felt a sudden chill as she headed upstairs to bed, in the room she’d always used as a child. She hadn’t touched Posey’s room. She dreaded going through her aunt’s things. She could grab Cassie one quiet, rainy Sunday, buy a couple of bottles of wine and have a treasure hunt. Who knew what Posey had squirreled away in her near century in this life. Maybe they’d find something they could put up on eBay. In exchange for Cassie’s help, Henrietta would be delighted to split any profits, but given Posey’s habits, they’d be lucky to find anything of enough value to pay for their wine.
Henrietta drew the shades and drapes—frayed, a high priority for replacing—and dug her Swiss Army knife out of a drawer and set it on the bed stand. She didn’t own a gun.
Does the killer?
She shook off that thought. She wasn’t one to dwell on matters outside her control—fears, the unknowable...
But there was a killer.
MI5 could help Oliver even now, after bolting this morning. If he got himself killed? Nothing to be done then except bury him in the York family plot in the village cemetery.
Henrietta washed her face, brushed her teeth and fell into bed before she realized she’d forgotten to put on a nightgown. She dragged herself out of bed, slipped into a nightgown and got back in bed, pulling the duvet up to her ears.
For all the wrong reasons, she thought of Oliver. He was suffering, reliving the horror of his boyhood trauma, probably still trying to get all of Davy Driscoll’s blood off him—and she was thinking about having him in bed with her. What it’d be like to make love to him. To feel his palms coursing up her skin, lifting her nightgown...his tongue following his palms...
It was fatigue. Shock. Adrenaline. The emotional connection they’d had since childhood that was now getting all mixed up with everything else.
Not everything else. Sex.
Simple enough and yet oh, so complicated.
She fought hot tears and pulled her duvet down to her waist, but the rush of cool air on her hot skin only made things worse. She ached for him. Feared for him. And she wanted him desperately, more than she’d ever wanted a man before. It had nothing to do with her family or his family or thieving or MI5. It was him.
She could see his irreverent smile, a lock of tawny hair on his forehead, his eyes...and his taut abdomen, pants hanging low on his narrow hips. As solitary as he was, she knew he wasn’t inexperienced with women. She imagined what his mastery of karate and tai chi would do for him in bed. The control, the hard muscles, the stamina. She longed to fight to keep up with him, to sweat and pant and moan as he thrust into her, taking her to dizzying, orgasmic heights. And she would do the same for him, again and again through nights like this one.
She’d never let herself think this way, with such openness and abandon. She and Oliver weren’t lonely children anymore, and it felt good to see him as a man she wanted with her now, in bed, making love.
“Oliver, Oliver,” she whispered. “Please get out of this alive.”
13
Declan’s Cross, Ireland
The rain got worse during the mercifully short night and ended before dawn.
Served him right, Oliver thought, that the long spell of beautiful June weather ended the night he decided to hide on a remote—at least by his standards—Irish headland.
And all was well, really. He’d forgotten how dark it got out here at night, but in addition to a late sunset, June brought an early sunrise.
By the time Oliver made his way to the low stone wall and through two small holly trees, Wendell Sharpe had arrived in his sporty Audi and was waiting on the lane. “I brought you coffee and a scone,” he said, handing Oliver a small bag. “I decided against tea. I figured coffee would go down better after a night in the rain, and personally I hate cold tea.”
Oliver welcomed the warmth of the coffee inside the bag. He knew he must look dreadful. “My high-tech emergency blanket worked reasonably well to keep me dry. Didn’t help with the rocks and tree roots, unfortunately.” He placed his jacket on the stone wall in front of a holly tree, the only spot not covered in dripping moss and foliage. He sat, glancing up at Wendell, who was clad in a waxed-cotton jacket, a cap, khakis and walking shoes. “Thank you.”
“Coffee will get cold soon and the scone’s leaden.”
“I don’t mind. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, that you managed to find me.”
“I know you pretty well.”
“Perhaps better than was wise on my part.”
Wendell shrugged. “Too late now.”
Oliver got his breakfast out of the bag. He’d awakened early, shaking off nightmares. He hadn’t escaped getting wet entirely, but he was in relatively decent shape after his long night. He had to admit he appreciated Wendell’s company. “Do you want to sit down?”
“I’ll stand. Sciatica’s acting up. The drive from Dublin feels longer in my old age.”
Oliver sipped the coffee and unwrapped the scone. A marginal breakfast, but he was grateful for it. “We’ve bonded. Inviting you to visit in January sealed our friendship.”
Wendell grunted. “I wouldn’t go that far but it was a pleasant couple of days. I’d never stayed in an English farmhouse. Amazing you turned into an art thief with all the lousy paintings of dogs on your walls.”
Oliver smiled, remembering Wendell sipping Glenfiddich by the fire, the hunter and the hunted ending the chase. “As if you’re an art connoisseur.”
“I buy what I like.”
“Irish artists.”
“For the most part,” Wendell said, wincing as he rubbed his right hip. But he didn’t complain of any pain. “I hear you have a dog of your own now.”
“Yes. He’s named Alfred, after Batman’s manservant. Martin sees to him.”
“He must be worried about you. Martin, not the dog.”
“I do regret that.” Oliver swallowed a chunk of the dry, heavy scone. Wendell hadn’t exaggerated its flaws. “Talk to me, Wendell.”
He told Oliver about the break-in at his home. “Wasn’t you,” he said when he finished.
Oliver shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
“That wasn’t a question. I know it wasn’t you. I wasn’t convinced it had anything to do with you, but turns out this guy who died on your doorstep showed up in Heron’s Cove the first of the week, and probably Rock Point, too. It was Davy Driscoll, wasn’t it?”
Oliver nodded solemnly but said nothing as he drank the dreadful coffee.
“I haven’t spoken to Emma and Colin since I decided to drive down here,” Wendell added. “They’re in your village. Emma’s left messages.”
“You don’t want to call her back until after you’ve seen me.”
“That’s your story. Maybe I haven’t called her because I’m getting old and forgetful.”
Oliver doubted that. “Everything you do is deliberate, Wendell.”
“Used to be, maybe. I’m slipping now that I’m retired.”
With the toe of his shoe, Wendell pushed at the muddy edge of a hole in the lane now filled with rainwater. For a man in his early eighties, he did well. He was in excellent shape mentally and physically, especially for a man of his years.
“I wonder,” Oliver said, breaking off a piece of scone. “How dangerous might you be if you were cornered?”
“Not very these days, unless I’m armed, and I’m not.”
“I don’t mean physically cornered. If you had something to hide and someone was forcing you to face it—threatening yo
ur reputation, your relationship with your family, your freedom—what would you do?”
Wendell pulled his foot away from the puddle and stood straight, his green eyes narrowing on Oliver. “What’s going on, Oliver?”
He ate the piece of scone and sipped more of the coffee. Bleak, it was. “If you were guilty of something in your past, how far would you go to preserve your reputation and that of the company you built?” He set the coffee next to him on the moss-covered stone. “When was your first contact with my family?”
“Your family?” Wendell was silent a moment. “I’ve only met you.”
“Did you know my parents?”
“No. I was living in Maine when they were killed. I read about their deaths in the paper.”
Oliver stretched out his legs, leaning back slightly, the holly’s prickly evergreen leaves poking him in the ribs. He kept his gaze on Wendell. “Which paper?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You traveled frequently for your work back then. Were you in London?”
Wendell sighed. “I could have been. It doesn’t matter. I never knew your parents.”
“My grandparents?”
“I didn’t know them, either. What, do you think I had something to do with the attack on you and your parents? Is that why you taunted me after each of your thefts?”
“You were in London,” Oliver said. “You stayed at Claridge’s, just blocks from where my parents were killed. I’m surprised you don’t remember where you were.”
“I see.” Wendell walked over to the wall, to Oliver’s right, and brushed his fingertips across a yellow wildflower. “How did you learn that tidbit?”
“We’ve been doing this dance for a decade.”
“Yes, we have. All right. I was at Claridge’s. I didn’t want to tell you once I realized you were our thief because I knew you’d be tempted to connect dots that don’t connect. It was a coincidence, Oliver. I was there on a job unrelated to your family.”
“You weren’t planning to meet with them?”
Wendell shook his head. “No, I was not.”
“I’m trying to make sense of things.” Oliver left it at that and picked up his scone again, broke off another chunk. It had come with a small triangle of butter and a plastic knife, but he didn’t bother with them and had left them in the bag. “It really is leaden, isn’t it? Ruthie Burns makes fresh scones every Friday, enough to last the weekend.” He ate the bit of scone. “I’m afraid Ruthie was first on scene yesterday.”
“She saw you with Driscoll?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rough. Did she recognize him?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure she got a good look at him. I heard her gasp. She didn’t scream.” Oliver pushed back the images of less than twenty-four hours ago. “I suspect she was in such a state of shock she couldn’t get out a proper scream at first. I had to stay focused on Driscoll. He was bleeding out. I did what I could but it was too late. He was unconscious by the time Ruthie came upon us.”
Wendell moved back from the yellow wildflowers, sidestepping his puddle. “How long was that after you encountered him?”
“Seconds. He got to me—or I got to him—too late. There’s so little time with that sort of injury.” He paused. As bad as the scone and coffee were, they were helping to clear his head. The sunshine no doubt helped, too. “I’ll go over everything in detail with the police.”
Wendell nodded. “You need to turn yourself in to the gardai and let them get you back to England. For your own good.”
“I know. I’ll do it.”
“Was this man murdered, Oliver?”
“Yes. I’m certain, but it’s not for me to say.”
“Was the cut meant for you instead of him? Did he intervene and save you?”
Oliver got his feet. He noticed raindrops on the waxen holly leaves. “Holly is said to protect against fairies with malevolent intent. Maybe that’s what’s at work here. Malevolent fairies.” He turned to Wendell. “But that’s just one traditional belief about holly. Celtic mythology tells us about the holly king who ruled during the dark half of the year. He’d have given way by now to the oak king.”
“Oliver.”
“I don’t believe the cut was meant for me.”
“Davy Driscoll didn’t come to your farm to kill you and changed his mind and killed himself?”
“By cutting his brachial artery? I could have saved him if I’d gotten to him sooner.”
“He could have saved himself,” Wendell added.
“Possibly. He might not have known what to do. Whether it was an attack or an elaborate suicide, he’s dead and the police are investigating and need to talk to me.”
“You didn’t kill this man, Oliver. Acting guilty won’t help you.”
“I’d just been talking about flowerpots when he turned up.” Oliver gave a small laugh in disbelief. “If he was in Maine early in the week and at your place in Dublin on Wednesday, he must have taken an overnight flight to Ireland on Tuesday and then continued on to England later Wednesday or early yesterday.”
“We shouldn’t assume it was Driscoll who broke into my place,” Wendell said. “It could have been someone chasing him.”
“Fair point.” Oliver debated a moment before he continued. “Driscoll mentioned Finian Bracken at the end.”
“Did he confess to him?”
“I don’t know. Finian can’t reveal a sacramental confession. What if Driscoll told him about plans being made?” Oliver felt a rush of blood to his face. Tension, frustration, regret. “Why did Driscoll come to the farm?”
“You’re the one who saw him, not me.”
“It was a rhetorical question. All this time...” He cleared his throat. “I have so many questions.”
“What exactly did he say before he died?” Wendell held up his thin hands. “No, don’t tell me. Tell the police.”
Oliver was still. His nightmares roared back, quickening his pulse. His breathing was rapid, shallow. But he knew what to do. He’d learned. He listened to the breeze in the trees, concentrated on separating its sough from the sounds of the tide. He picked up his jacket off the wall where he’d used it as a mat. He calmed his breathing as he focused on being fully present in this moment. He was safe. Martin, Ruthie, Henrietta, the farm workers, his neighbors—the police would see to them. They were safe, too.
Finally he turned to Wendell and smiled. “It was a long night.”
“I’d have nightmares sleeping in a cemetery even if I wasn’t on the run from the police.”
“Did you come all this way because you feel sorry for me?”
Wendell zipped his jacket higher against the breeze. “So what if I did? What if someone figured out Reed Warren was Driscoll’s alias and was blackmailing him? Did he mention Bart Norcross? We can’t rush to answers. We can’t assume.” The old man winked. “I knew that even before Emma became an FBI agent.”
But Oliver saw something—felt it—as Wendell stepped across the puddle to his small Audi, parked at the end of the lane near a trail that would take them up to a cliff overlooking the sea.
“Wendell,” Oliver said. “Tell me.”
He stopped, shadows deepening the lines in his face. “I’ve been missing something about you. Your past.” He paused, as if to give Oliver a moment to let his words sink in. “I had you on my list of people of interest early on after the Amsterdam heist, but I didn’t know you were our bold, cheeky thief. Not until last fall. Oliver...” Wendell was silent again. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“You’re not going to do anything of the sort,” Oliver said firmly. “You’re retired. You’re going back to Dublin and doing as Emma and Colin say.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah,” Wendell sputtered, waving a hand in dismissal.
“You get to a certain age and everyone thinks they know better and can order you around.”
“This is a police matter. It’s not about your age.”
He pointed a bony finger at Oliver. “Whatever we missed is haunting you, too, isn’t it?”
“A lot haunts me.”
“Yeah, I know. What you went through, no child should ever have to go through. Still, though. Ever wished you’d gotten into raising Cotswold sheep to cope instead of thieving?”
Oliver grinned. “I’m glad we’ve become friends.”
“You fled the scene of a death.” Wendell softened. “Come on. I’ll drop you off—”
Oliver shook his head. “The less you’re involved with me, the better.”
“A little late for that. In the car, Oliver.”
As if Wendell could force him. All Oliver had to do was scoot up the path. It was steep, wet and rugged. As spry as Wendell Sharpe was, Oliver would be able to lose him in seconds. But what was the point?
“Are you heading straight back to Dublin?” he asked.
“Once the gardai send me on my way, which I hope they will. Lucas wants me to stop driving.”
“Maybe you should.”
“In my own good time.” Wendell twisted his mouth to one side, eyeing Oliver, then sighed. “Okay. Walk into the village. I’ll let the gardai know you’re on your way, but there’s no guarantee they’ll wait for you.”
“I’m not on the run. I bolted. There’s a difference.”
“You have friends in high places, Oliver. MI5 has your back.”
Friend wasn’t the word Oliver would use but he smiled at Wendell. “You Sharpes and your imaginations.” He looked at the tangle of holly, rushes and wildflowers along the stone wall. “The truth of what happened to my parents, to me... I don’t trust my memories anymore, Wendell.”
“You were eight.” As if that explained everything.
“I was the only eyewitness left alive,” Oliver said half under his breath.
Wendell stood by the driver’s door, his hand on the mirror as he studied Oliver. “Tell the police everything, Oliver. If you don’t trust them for any reason, tell Emma and Colin. Tell them, anyway. That’s my advice.”
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