Kate touched her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. "I do remember the water. So cold. Nothing around me. Nothing I could touch. And then suddenly, Phillip was there. He wasn't much of a sailor, but he’d finally managed to bring the boat into the wind and stop fairly close. He tried to throw me a lifeline, but I was hypothermic and nearly unconscious by that point. He jumped in after me and somehow got me back into the boat.
"What about Michael?" Conor asked.
She shook her head, her eyes still closed. "Gone. He wasn't wearing a life jacket. Someone called in the Coast Guard, and they gave me first aid and told Phillip to get me to the hospital while they searched. Hours later when I woke up in the emergency room, Phillip had to tell me they hadn't found Michael, and there wasn't much hope left that they would. I screamed at Phillip, I blamed him. He let me rage at him—hit him even—and then he held me while I cried. He never left my side that day, but he hardly ever said a word. He left as soon as I was released the next morning." Kate opened her eyes, and they were clear and calm. "What's he doing, now that he's not working for you?"
"He's got a place on a ferry run, taking tourists to the islands off the Dingle Peninsula."
"On a ferry. Good for him. He wasn't afraid to go back on the water." She gave an approving nod. "I lost so much that day but I want some things back, and I think I've waited long enough."
"I think so, too." Conor took a step forward and put his hands on the dock. "Will you let me help you?"
Kate frowned and indicated the shallow water near the shore. "I usually start back there."
"I've seen that. Let's try something different." He brought his hands to her waist, bracing to lift her, but seeing the panic in her eyes, paused. "No? Should I stop?"
"No."
Conor lifted her, easing her down into the water, and immediately the color drained from Kate's face. He felt her muscles shudder and lock in terror. Alarmed, he moved to lift her back on the dock, but she took his hands from her waist and held them in a crushing grip.
"Don't," she whispered. "Let's go. Farther out."
He moved slowly backward, praying he wouldn't trip over something. Kate stayed rooted in place, but when her arms were almost fully extended between them, she took a step. And then another. As the water reached her collarbone they stopped, and Conor held her lightly by the elbows. She trembled, her breath coming in uneven gasps, but gradually grew quiet. After a few minutes she stepped away from him and turned in slow circles, a tranquil, dervish-like movement that reminded him of the figures in her painting.
"Maybe it's enough for now?" he suggested, when she stopped. She was calm, almost serene, but still pale and shivering. Again, she shook her head.
"No. Not enough. I want to float. Some day I want to swim out to that raft and jump up and down on it, but for now I just want to lie on my back, look at the sky . . . and float."
She tried on her own, but couldn't bring herself to lift both feet. Conor finally took her up into his arms and she pressed her face into his neck, fingers tight on his shoulders. He held her for a long moment, and as she gradually relaxed he lowered her to the water. Eyes shut, she floated there, her hair washing around her face like an exotic sea grass.
Slowly, Conor removed his arms and withdrew, stepping several yards to the side. As he drifted backward, Kate opened her eyes and looked at the sky with a smile that took his breath away. A tear swelled and grew bright before spilling onto her face. He watched, and felt changed. As though he had become the single drop of water sliding down her cheek, carrying its taste of salt to the sweet water of the pond, dissolving without struggle.
11
Darkness hid their faces as they moved, descending through the woods and across the field. Kate carried the flashlight. She focused on the juddering beam teasing them along the path, absently alerting Conor to obstacles as they appeared.
"Rock. Roots. Hole." The terse warnings were the only conversation she could manage as her mind lingered over a long-awaited epiphany, probing the outline of something taking shape inside her.
Conor had lifted her up and rested her on the water, and with his hands anchoring her the terror of being weightless and unmoored had finally disappeared. He'd held her for as long as she'd needed, but had known enough to release her, and when she'd realized his hands were gone the sensation of freedom had been staggering.
With outstretched limbs holding her in balance, her body was like a tightened fist that had unclenched and stretched for the first time in years. She was grateful for his intuitive understanding—allowing the moment to be hers alone—but in its aftermath she found herself torn between an instinct to nurture a hard-won liberation and the desire to feel his hands beneath her again.
They came through the door into the kitchen, and in the fluorescent glare of its light she looked at him and saw her own uncertainty reflected back at her. He emptied the contents of the backpack onto the prep counter and Kate put the leftovers into the refrigerator, and then they stood staring at the flattened bag until she finally broke the silence.
"You're always helping me—so much, and so often. Won't you let me return the favor?"
Conor offered a fleeting smile. "I wish it could be that easy."
"Are you saying my ‘phobic disorders’ don't compare with yours?" Kate feigned outrage, teasing him, but Conor's face remained pensive.
"No, Kate. I'm saying you're braver than I am."
She stepped forward, yielding to impulse, and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. He stiffened, hesitating, then his arms circled her waist and he drew her against him.
"I think we each have what the other needs." She rested her head on his shoulder. "But it will only work if we can accept what the other offers."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You apologize too much." Kate drew back, smiling. "It isn't only you. I need some time as well—to understand how much I'm able to trust, and what I'm willing to risk. Does that make sense?"
"How can it not? It's the story of my life." He gave her waist a final squeeze before stepping back. "Do you need any help here?"
"You've helped enough for one day. Are you heading upstairs?"
"Not yet. I'm going down to the brook to play a little longer."
The moment of intimacy was slipping away, and she felt reluctant to let it go so abruptly. He picked up his violin and Kate caught his arm as he moved past her. "Conor, I don't want to lose whatever this is."
He reached out to sweep the still-damp hair from her face and gently kissed her forehead.
"Nor do I."
Following several false starts Conor took the violin from his shoulder in frustration. His objective was the diffusion of passion, not its escalation. He should have known the murmuring undercurrents and shadows below the inn would confuse that effort. The air itself was enough to unsettle him. With an aroma of newly cut grass on its breath, a breeze whispered against his face while the moon lit up the brook like a showcase of crystal.
He was in love with her. One minute he was telling himself to relax a little for fuck's sake, and the next minute he was in love with her. Just like that. His shoulders slumped and he dropped his head. No, not really 'just like that'. The truth was, he'd been tumbling a little farther every day from the moment he'd met her.
The undeniable reality of being in love was all the more unnerving for being alien. His mind wandered back to his years in Dublin and his short-lived engagement to a fellow musician named Maggie Fallon. Such memories were so remote they seemed like the history of someone else's life.
Despite assurances to the contrary—sincere at the time—he'd never been in love with Maggie. Until now he hadn't acknowledged how short of the mark he'd been. He'd assumed his arrest and conviction had prompted her to leave him, but maybe her letter would have come anyway. Maybe Maggie had realized what he was holding back, and now he did as well. He also knew what he was holding back from Kate, and what he stood to lose by it. For the first time he began fearing the cons
equences of secrecy almost as much as disclosure. Christ, he needed to stop thinking about it.
He shook himself into a more formal posture, and raising his bow like a whip set to crack, he glared at the moonlit brook and launched into Paganini.
He played caprices, the musical equivalent of a long run in the rain. Moving through them without pattern, his mind emptied of everything that was not concerned with the placement of his fingers and the movement of the bow. He stopped when his arm was limp and burning, and when he could no longer ignore the additional distraction lurking in the darkness behind him. Conor massaged the back of his shoulder and spoke without turning.
"Care to offer a critique? I'd say the pace was a bit ragged myself, but I wasn't planning on an audience."
"Ragged perhaps, spirited nevertheless." The soft voice with its deep mellow notes easily carried above the sounds of the brook. "I'd hoped not to disturb you. I'm sorry you perceived my presence."
"Just as well I did. I tend to react badly when I'm startled." He turned from the water and walked toward Professor C, who was sitting on the garden bench next to his violin case.
"I took such care to be silent, but you are more accomplished than I in these matters, yes?" Professor C winked at him.
"If it makes you feel any better I didn't hear a thing. I smelled the smoke." Conor sat down, nodding at the cigarette perched between the conductor's muscular fingers. "Give me one of those, will you? I've an idea I'm going to need it."
The conductor produced a silver case and lighter. Conor hesitated after picking out a cigarette, already regretting the lapse of willpower, but he put it to his lips and accepted the offered flame in surrender. The first smoky exhalation ended in a groan and Professor C smiled.
"Better than sex?"
Conor breathed a laugh. "Hard to tell. I've gone without that for a while, too." He read the label stamped below the filter tip and studied his companion's face. "Same brand. How is he, then, our mutual friend?"
"He is well, and pleased at hearing you also are well."
"How did he find me?"
"Are such things important?"
"Might be, yeah," Conor replied evenly.
"In truth, I do not know." A brief flash of annoyance gave credence to the assertion. "I am merely the courier. My role is quite limited."
"Uh-huh. What about your sidekick?"
Professor C pursed his lips in distaste. "Leonard is a boring young harpsichordist, nothing more. I would have happily left him in Sherbrooke but he quite conveniently had a car, while I—inconveniently—do not drive."
"Do you do this kind of thing a lot?"
"I prefer not to, but as you are aware our friend's charm and power to persuade can be devastating."
"I think you find it more charming than I ever did," Conor said. "So, what's he want?"
"To deliver a message to you."
"I gathered as much. What is it?"
"He wants to see you."
Conor shifted impatiently. "Oh, for Christ's sake. We're going to be at this all night. What does the man want and why isn't he here to tell me himself?"
"I don't know. Yes, yes." Professor C raised a hand, anticipating Conor's irritation. "For both of us this is frustrating, but I can give only the information presented to me. He wishes the meeting to be discreet; he wishes it to take place elsewhere." He drew a small, narrow envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Conor. "Tomorrow evening. Arrive at six o'clock. You will look for a pair of low folding chairs, in red-and-white striped canvas. You will sit in one and wait."
"Will I?" With a thumb and forefinger, Conor parted the envelope and squinted at the ticket inside. "Suppose I choose not to show. What then?" Receiving no response, he looked up and saw Professor C's smile of weary patience.
"Forgive me, but truly this is not a serious question, Conor. I have delivered such messages before. You are no different than the rest. All of you fear something and cannot afford the indulgence of choice. All of you come when you are called."
Conor absorbed this assessment—brutally honest and accurate—without visible emotion. He dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his heel. They sat in silence until Professor C heaved an expressive sigh and stood up, offering him the silver case.
"A parting gift. Accept it with my apology. I have presented you with an unwelcome task."
With a small grin Conor declined the offer. "Another indulgence I can't afford. I accept the apology, though."
"Excellent. I hope we may meet again—perhaps on the concert stage, a milieu I believe we each find more suitable to our talents."
Conor hoped so as well. He watched the enormous figure gradually merge with the darkness, climbing the stone steps in the hillside like one of Jacob's angels. A mystery only partly revealed.
12
He wasn’t a tourist or a dinner guest; she could tell that as soon as she saw him. Kate tried not to judge by appearances, but in this case she made an exception. The rail-thin man loitering in the doorway of her dining room looked like trouble. A pair of green cargo pants sat low on his hips, held notionally in place with a woven belt, and his t-shirt had the mottled color of something in heavy use and infrequently washed. His boots offered a contrasting impression—they were well-worn but an expensive brand—and she fastened on them with a glimmer of hope. He might simply be a hiker looking for directions.
She motioned for him to wait and finished seating a table of four before returning to the restaurant's check-in desk. He watched her approach, squinting in weariness, and although the evening was warm he shivered a little.
"I need to speak with Kate Fitzpatrick. You, I'm guessing?"
Okay. Not a hiker. She met his eyes—they were an unsettling shade of nickel gray—and gave a composed smile. "Yes. How can I help you?"
The man's rigid stance relaxed and he swayed to the left. He caught himself, frowned and stiffened again. "I'd appreciate a glass of water before anything else."
"Of course." Kate eyed him with cautious concern. "Maybe you should sit down in the living room and I'll bring you one. Are you feeling ill?"
"Starting to." He pushed away a portion of straight blond hair falling across his eye. "I've got about an hour before it gets worse. The living room won't work, though. I need to talk to you about Conor McBride." Digging into the pocket on his right thigh, he pulled out a slim wallet and flipped it open for her. "Curtis Sedgwick. Special Agent with the US Drug Enforcement Agency."
"I see."
At least they keep sending the 'special' ones, Kate thought. Her wan amusement lurched into queasiness as she examined the ID. The number of federal agencies tangled up in Conor's life had just doubled, and she wondered how many more might be waiting in the wings.
"If you're looking for Conor he isn't here." She masked her unease behind a cold formality. "And I honestly don't know where he went. He left word with my chef not to expect him back until late."
"No worries, I know where he is." He pocketed the wallet again.
"If that's the case, you should go find him there. I don't know how I can help you, Agent Sedgwick."
"I don't need to find him. He'll be back soon enough, and in a bad mood I imagine." The lines of fatigue in the agent's face deepened in amusement. "Just plain 'Sedgwick' is fine. Nobody calls me Agent-anything unless they're dressing me down."
"I don't know how I can help you—Sedgwick," Kate repeated.
The sardonic smile widened, but faded as he angled his head in appeal. "How about that glass of water? And two or three of whatever you've got for a headache. If we start there I'll be in better shape to tell you."
Reluctantly, Kate steered him into her office, to a chair across from the desk. She asked Dominic to take over for her and returned with a pitcher of water and some ibuprofen. She found Sedgwick standing at the antique breakfront behind her desk, eyeing the contents of its shelves.
"Handsome piece of furniture," he observed without turning, casually opening one of t
he side drawers. "Matches the desk. Victorian?"
"Biedermeier," Kate said curtly. She gave him the ibuprofen. "If you're going to search my office, don't you need to show me a warrant?"
"I'm not actually searching. Just snooping." Sedgwick shook three pills from the bottle and accepted the water she offered. He drained the glass while sauntering around the room, his eyes like a recording device, sweeping over the braided oval rug on the floor, the green-and-cream striped sofa in front of the window—another Biedermeier—and the framed Audubon reproductions on the walls. After this tour he returned and silently presented his glass. She poured again, then pointedly took a seat behind her desk and waited, trying to appear calm.
For many reasons Kate had accepted Conor's secrets on faith, assuming his grounds for keeping them were sound and honorable. Her belief structure was not yet under active assault, but she felt the chill of a threat.
The agent emptied the glass a second time. Placing it on the desk, he brushed a few fingers against chapped-looking lips and releasing a slow breath sank back into the chair.
"Thanks. Helped more than I expected." He crossed his arms and regarded her speculatively, a scrutiny she wasn't prepared to tolerate.
"Well? If you want a question answered you need to ask one."
"What do you know about Thomas McBride?" he asked.
"Very little. If this concerns Thomas you need to wait for Conor to come back. I'm not comfortable answering questions about his brother."
"I didn't come here to interrogate you." Sedgwick was still watching her with a trace of laughter. "I'll be doing most of the talking. I'm just trying to get a baseline so we don't waste time. What did he tell you?"
"That his brother was tricked into stealing money from the European Union and Conor was convicted as a conspirator, that Thomas disappeared, and that he's dead." Sedgwick flinched, a muscle rippling along his jaw. "Oh. You didn't know?"
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 43