On a hunch, she went to the apartment door. Slight scratches around the lock gave her the answer.
She turned back to survey the room one more time. Familiar, who'd been sitting on the foot of the bed, jumped to the floor and dashed across the room to the telephone. One quick movement of his front paw flipped a pen to the floor. That was quickly followed by a pad.
"I suppose you want me to leave Patrick a note," she said softly. "Probably not a bad idea, as long as you stay here and watch him for me."
"Meow," Familiar said agreeably.
"But first…" Catherine dialed directory assistance. Speaking as softly as possible, she explained that her child had gone to visit a friend but that he'd left only a phone number, no name or address. Since no one was answering the phone, Catherine was justifiably worried. Would the operator possibly give her the address so she could check on her son? She smiled as she listened to the operator's crisp answer.
After hanging up the phone, she lifted the pen to paper.
Gone to Galway. Allan Emory is involved and I have to find him. Someone used your telephone to call 55575. It's a long story, but with Familiar's help I made the connection. It's Andrew Bessler?— never heard of him— at One Robby's Lane. Once I find Allan, I'll know more.
She signed her name.
"Take care of him," Catherine said to the cat as she put the notepad in a prominent place by the telephone.
She took one last look at Patrick to make sure his breathing was steady and unlabored. She wanted to move him to the bed, but it was a physical impossibility. Sighing, she settled for giving Familiar a scratch under his chin.
As she left the loft she tried not to think about the fact that she'd never really known Allan. She'd thought she knew him— she'd almost married him. But there had always been a dark and controlling side. Now she was about to find out how deep that side went.
Chapter Sixteen
What's a cat to do? Catherine has decided to run off to Galway, alone, to talk to that unsavory Allan Emory. Women! No matter how much of a jerk he's been, she only wants to see the good side of him. I get the impression he'd sell his mother down the river for top dollar. There's no telling what he might do to Catherine if he gets hold of her and feels cornered.
And Patrick? He's out like a champ. I can see where he's been clouted on the head, but as thick as his skull is, I'm shocked to see it made an impression. It must have been a wallop.
So, should I go with the broad, or hang out with the comatose horse trainer? That's hardly a choice. Both of them need me to take care of them. I suppose it's a matter of degree. Whose need is greater?
Catherine can certainly get into more trouble, but if I'm with her, I can't help Patrick find her. If I'm with him, I can't help her when she gets in a jam. And somebody needs to be organizing a hunt for Limerick.
* * *
SINCE MAUVE had long since gone home for the night, Catherine pointed the cook's car toward Galway and stepped on the gas. It wasn't a long drive, but it was long enough that she felt the pressure of time.
Speeding into the city, Catherine crossed Galway Bay and picked up the main highway that led south from the city. There were probably shortcuts, but Catherine didn't know them. And she'd never heard of Andrew Bessler. No matter how she searched her memory there was no way she could connect the name.
Driving through the heart of the city, she took the highway out of town. In only a few moments the lights became more scattered, moving further back from the road and appearing more infrequently. It was beautiful land by day, marked with stone walls and green pastures that gave it the quality of a patchwork quilt. Now darkness hid all of the familiar landmarks.
The foolhardiness of her actions made her grip the wheel of the car tighter. Panic was a deadly element, and she couldn't allow it to get a toehold. She could manage Allan. He might be a crook and a womanizer, but he wasn't violent. Who had been talking with him from Patrick's loft, though? She didn't have a shred of proof, but she was willing to bet it was Eamon McShane.
She almost stopped the car when she realized that she'd left Patrick alone, sleeping, without protection. But Familiar had stayed behind with him. That was some consolation. The cat was an extraordinary creature. As the wheels rolled over the miles, Catherine tried to remember all of the times she'd been around Familiar. He could hide in plain view when he chose to, yet he had a knack for always turning up at just the right moment to avert trouble. If his owners didn't come back for him, he certainly had a home at Beltene— for as long as she owned it. Which wouldn't be much longer if she didn't find Limerick.
She came back to the problem at hand. Robby's Lane was the turn she sought, and she found it, a narrow paved road bordered by flowering shrubs that grew at least eight feet high. In the dark night, the narrow road was a cave of blackness. Catherine made the turn and tried to keep her skin from rippling with unease.
Her foot automatically eased off the accelerator as the headlights picked up the stone front of a small cottage. With her breath shallow and light, she stopped the car. Darkness swooped down around her as she switched off the headlights and stepped into the night. There wasn't a sound at the house.
It was after three in the morning. What would these people think when she banged on their door? What if it hadn't been Allan's voice that she'd heard? Whoever lived here would think she was a madwoman. Doubts moved in as darkly as the night. What would Allan be doing in a small cottage in the country? He was a man who loved luxury, fine liquor, fast horses and women with money. This place was not something she'd ever associate with the Allan Emory she knew. But it was a terrific hideaway.
Caution made her hesitate with her hand at the front door. The wood was painted dark, perhaps green, but she couldn't be certain in the night. Lace curtains hung at the windows. In the daylight, it would be a peaceful place, serene and isolated. By night, it was eerie. Instead of knocking at the door, Catherine maneuvered in the weed-filled flower beds to the window. The pattern of the lace curtains offered small glimpses into the room, but all she saw was emptiness. A dim light burned in a back room, giving just enough light for her to see several chairs, a small table. There was an air of temporary habitation about the furnishings— papers scattered on the floor, glasses on the table.
Easing around the corner of the house, she came to another window. This gave onto a small bedroom with a single cot against the far wall. The bed sheets and a dark blanket were rolled into a lump. More than anything, it was a sad room. One Robby's Lane looked abandoned, except for perhaps the neighborhood children who'd begun to use it for a getaway or clubhouse.
Feeling with one foot behind her in the flower bed, she started to back away from the window when the bundle of bedclothes began to shift. In a moment, a frail old man sat up. He looked blindly around the room, as if he couldn't see, or maybe as if he didn't know where he was.
"Mick." She whispered his name.
"That's right. And you must be Miss Nelson."
She felt the cold barrel of the gun press into her waist and the sudden weakness of muscles jellied by fear. She fought to retain control of her legs and lower body.
"That's a good girl, no noise. Very nice. Now come away from the cottage. If you'd like to go inside, I'm just the one to arrange it for you." He laughed. "And I thought I was going to have to spend the night taking care of that filthy old man."
Catherine wanted to turn around to see her assailant, but she didn't dare. He was pressing the gun hard into her back. His voice had that cocksure quality that comes either from the young or the very stupid. It wasn't working class, but it wasn't exactly upper class, either.
"How did you know my name?" she asked calmly.
"Oh, I know enough about you to write a book." He laughed. "Mick tells a good tale about how you took over Beltene and put all of the men against you. The old fool still insists that you don't have the horse."
The barrel poked into her ribs with a jab, and she forced herself to move away from the
house. None too gently, she was prodded forward, back to the front door.
"Where's Allan?" she asked.
"So, you did figure it out. I told him not to leave those ridiculous notes. Wax and seal!" The man poked her hard with the gun several times. "But Allan does have to have his little pretensions, doesn't he?"
"Where is he?" Catherine had one hope— that Allan would not allow anyone to hurt her. Allan wasn't an ethical man, but he'd been raised with a certain code of conduct. Her captor's next words stripped even that hope from her.
"I'm getting rid of the old man tonight, no matter what that prig says. He's screwed up everything he was supposed to do. Maybe I'll make it a double deal and take care of you at the same time."
Catherine gritted her teeth and forced herself to speak normally. "Is Mick okay?"
"Righter than rain." The man laughed and prodded her up to the door. "Go on in, it's open."
She pushed open the door and entered. It had the smell of an abandoned house, a place where no one cleaned or cared. Without asking permission she went to the bedroom where she knew Mick was being held. The man with the gun made no effort to stop her as she pushed open the door.
"Mick, it's me, Catherine."
"They've got you, then." Mick sounded as if he was too tired to speak. "I never told them anything."
Fumbling for the light switch, Catherine clicked it on and hurried to the bedside. Mick was lying, eyes closed, in the narrow bed. His color was gray, his lips tinged with blue.
"Can you sit up?" Catherine put her arm around him and moved him to a sitting position. "Hey!" She called out. "Bring me something for him to eat."
"What's the point?" the young man asked. He came to stand idly in the doorway, the gun still held at his side. "Food won't mean much to him in a few hours."
"Get me something for him to eat." Catherine ground out the words through her teeth.
The man chuckled. "I forgot how you rich people like to give orders. Excuse me, ma'am. Right away, ma'am." He chuckled at his own wit and went toward the kitchen.
"You bleedin' bas— " Mick checked himself. "I was a fool to get in the car with him. A fool. My foot was hurtin' and I thought to save myself a walk. He said he knew my son."
"Are you hurt? Have they hurt you?" Catherine asked.
Mick brushed the question aside. "Where's Limerick?" He gripped her hand with surprising strength, and when he opened his eyes, there was a vitality there that had been deliberately hidden.
"I don't know. Someone took him from the hideout."
"These criminals followed us there and planned to snatch him themselves. But someone got there first, so they decided to nab me instead."
"Exactly as we thought," Catherine said. She explained the things that had happened in Clifden with Cuchulain, and how Patrick had been hurt.
"Damn! We need Patrick here." Mick looked around the room. "They've taken everything that could be considered a weapon."
There was the scuffle of feet, and Catherine shushed Mick. "Just eat this and don't worry," she said, loud enough for her captor to hear.
As Mick was finishing the last of the cold soup, Catherine heard someone at the front door. False hope sprang up, but was quickly suppressed. Patrick was the only one who could find her, and he was undoubtedly still sleeping soundly. There would be no rescue attempts on her behalf.
"Your lady friend is here," she heard the young man say. She knew then that Allan had arrived— for better or for worse.
Straightening her back in the chair beside Mick's bed, she watched the doorway. When Allan walked into the room he was dressed in a cashmere coat and wool slacks. Every hair was impeccably groomed. "Allan," she said, as if they were meeting at a friend's home for cocktails.
"Catherine." He shook his head, his worry clearly showing. "Where is that damn horse?"
"So it was you? I didn't want to believe it."
"I've got everything I own riding on the bay in the race Saturday. We both know Limerick can beat King's Quest hands down. The only way for me to win is to detain Limerick from racing. I'll win by default."
"Not very honest gains."
"Not very easy financial times. I'm afraid my luck has been running against me lately. In cards, horses and women. Ridgeway convinced me to make the bet. He said Limerick had a bad knee and that he'd make sure it was good and sore. He played me well."
Catherine recalled the day when she'd ordered Timmy to ride the big gray— at Kent's insistence that Patrick was mollycoddling the horse. So, Patrick had been correct. It wasn't surprising. At this point the only thing that surprised her was her own gullibility.
"So you and Kent have been working together," she deduced.
Allan's laughter was bitter. "Fat chance, that. I wouldn't turn my back on that wolverine."
Confusion touched Catherine. "You're not involved with Kent?"
"Not on your life. Why would I want to work with a man I can't trust?"
"Indeed," she answered, aware that Allan had missed the irony of his statement. "Do you know if Kent has Limerick?"
Comprehension spread across Allan's handsome face. "If he has him, then he'll deliberately run him." His head snapped up, his gaze riveted suddenly on Catherine. "If you honestly haven't hidden the horse away, then there's no need to hold you anymore." As he finished speaking the younger man with the gun entered the room.
Catherine smiled, and for the first time she felt the tension ease. "Thank goodness. I knew you'd see— "
"What shall we do with the two of them, Allan?" The young man spoke softly. "My, Allan, you haven't introduced me to your friend. Miss Nelson, my name is Craig. Craig Neville."
Something in his eyes made Catherine afraid, but she knew she could never show her fear. "Why, you've got to let us go, both me and Mick. Isn't that right, Allan?"
"Allan isn't making any more decisions." Craig lifted the gun.
"Look, no harm has been done to me or Mick. We can stop this now. Let us go and no one will be the wiser."
"Allan may believe you, but I'm not such a moron. Where's the horse?" Craig's eyes were deadly.
Catherine forced a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. We don't have Limerick. The game is over. You can't simply kill us because we don't have what you want."
Allan arched his eyebrows. "He can, Catherine. And I can't stop him."
The flutter of fear nearly choked Catherine. At that moment, Craig looked perfectly capable of killing both of them. She could expect no help at all from Allan. She'd been correct— he wasn't a killer, but he wasn't a hero, either.
"Where is the horse, Catherine? You see, along with Allan's fortune, he managed to bet mine, as well. It really isn't a matter of winning or losing. It's that if we don't pay our gambling debts, the people we owe are going to kill us. This race was our last chance. You understand, don't you, that we're desperate? Totally desperate. Now I'll have the truth. Are you and Ridgeway in this together?"
"It's to Kent's advantage if Limerick doesn't run." Catherine had to keep him talking. "We're hunting him, too," she continued. "My future depends on finding that horse." She felt Mick stir beneath the covers and put a hand on his shoulder to warn him to be steady.
"I have to find that horse." Allan looked back at Catherine. It was as if he didn't know her.
"We have to get out of here and we don't have time to baby-sit your friends," Craig said. "They'll be after us, and they won't take another excuse this time. They're going to kill us both."
"Shut up, Craig." Allan's voice was emotionless.
"Allan, I can help you. Father will— "
"Thanks, but it won't work this time. I'm in too deep. Now you must tell me where the horse is."
"What would you do if you had him?" Catherine asked. "You can't run him or breed him. What good is he to you?" Catherine felt her chances slipping away.
"Make certain he won't run Saturday."
"Allan!" She started to rise.
Allan moved swiftly across the room and pushed he
r back down into the chair. "I don't want to hurt you, Catherine. Honestly, I don't. But I have no choice. I owe money. Lots of it. And the people I owe are going to kill me."
"In a not very pleasant way," Craig said as he walked to stand beside Allan.
"Do what you have to." Allan shook his head, suddenly weary, and walked out of the room.
* * *
SANDPAPER was scrubbing at Patrick's face. He pushed it away with his left hand, only to find himself stroking smooth fur. One eye opened to confront a golden eye glaring back at him. He opened the other eye and brought the black cat into focus.
"Familiar," he said, and the syllables sounded thick and slow.
"Meow." The sandpaper tongue swiped at Patrick's chin.
"Okay, okay." Patrick realized the cat was standing on his chest. He eased forward in the rocker, cradling the cat in his arms as he started the painful process of awakening. His head throbbed. His body felt as if he'd been beaten with a bat.
It took several minutes for him to fully remember the incident with Limerick, and he wasn't certain how he'd gotten home.
"I saw him, and I should have had him," Patrick said as he stroked the cat's back. "But now I know where to look."
"Meow!" Familiar sank sharp claws into Patrick's hands and began to tug gently.
"If you were a dog, I'd have to call you Rin Tin Tin," he said as he unhooked the cat and stood. Obediently he followed Familiar to the telephone. He saw Catherine's note and the time.
"Good Lord, it's been over two hours! She should have been back!"
"Meow!" Familiar agreed.
Fully awake now, Patrick tore the top sheet of paper from the pad, and then as a second thought took the entire pad. He wanted to remove all traces of where he was going. With Familiar on his heels, he pounded down the narrow stairs and got into his vehicle.
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