The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  She settled on the window seat and indulged in a long, uninterrupted study of him. He still wore his jeans but the offending t-shirt had been dropped on the floor next to his boots, and he'd pushed away all except a corner of the patchwork quilt covering him. His hands rested on his stomach, moving with the rise and fall of his chest, and they seemed to symbolize the contradictions she'd been struggling to reconcile. His fingers had the graceful elegance of a virtuoso, but years of manual work had weathered them, and the prominent tendons running up into his wrists hinted at a hard, concealed strength. Like everything else about him, Conor's hands contained layers of meaning not easily discovered. They lay deceptively relaxed against the coiled muscles of his abdomen, and looking at them Kate acknowledged what was useless to deny—mystery, risk, danger—however hazardous it might prove to her peace of mind and wellbeing, all of it only increased her attraction to him.

  She rose to peer outside before leaving. The rain had tapered off at last and hints of watery sunlight burned through the thinning clouds. Behind her Conor's measured breathing changed, and when she turned from the window her own breath caught. He was awake, dark eyes fixed on her.

  "You look nice." His sleepy voice contained more air than sound.

  Kate glanced down at her selection for the evening—a simple, long-sleeved black dress—feeling the color rise on her face. "Thank you." After an awkward pause she offered him the glass of orange juice Abigail had left next to his bed but Conor groaned, shaking his head.

  "I've had enough juice, thanks very much. She's been throwing it into me all day. My tonsils are floating." He squinted at the clock next to him. "Damn. Is that four o'clock already?"

  Kate set the glass on the table. "Never mind the cows, I'll call Jared. Don't be stubborn, or bite my head off about it. You know this could be dangerous if you're not careful." She hesitated, worried and conflicted. "I'm supposed to leave for New Hampshire tomorrow morning. Maybe I should tell them I can't go."

  "Oh, no." Conor lifted himself to sit against the headboard. "Don't use me as an excuse to avoid your family. Especially after they've been calling all week."

  Kate had to admit canceling was out of the question. Each year, the charitable foundation her grandmother had founded showed its appreciation with an extravagant dinner at her favorite resort—the Mt. Washington in Bretton Woods. All of Kate's siblings had called during the week to confirm her attendance, and she understood why. The dinner this year had been planned to coincide with her thirtieth birthday, which was coming up on Sunday but she hadn’t mentioned that to Conor. Her family had a horror of anything that smacked of vulgarity, so she was sure the event would be marked with no more than a discreet cake at the end of the evening. The milestone itself was one she'd been secretly dreading, and she was anxious to discuss it with her grandmother. Also, she'd promised to take Jigger along with her to give Yvette a chance to rest.

  "All right." Kate tucked the quilt up around Conor's shoulders. "I'd better not come home and find you in the hospital. Or the barn."

  "Well it's late, so if you're going to call Jared you should go do it, otherwise that's where I'm headed." Peevishly, he pushed the quilt down again, and seeing her exasperation offered a sheepish grin. "Sorry. I'm the most churlish invalid you'll ever meet."

  "Yes, I'm beginning to realize this." She gave him a light cuff on the head and headed for the door. "Go back to sleep. I'll send up some soup later."

  "Send up a pint," Conor muttered. "I'm more likely to drink that."

  "Soup," she said, bringing the door shut behind her.

  "Guinness is good for you," came the insistent, muffled reply.

  17

  Christ, that can’t be right.

  Conor swiveled his head to the window and met a blast of morning sunlight before swinging back to the clock—it was a little after eight in the morning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept past five o'clock, let alone three hours beyond.

  With some effort he rolled upright, and sat listening to the wheeze carrying on inside him like an independent life form. He'd downplayed the symptoms with everyone else but wasn't so foolish as to ignore them. He'd phoned his pulmonologist the previous afternoon, hoping for reassurance, and after a fashion the physician had tried to provide some when she returned his call later in the evening.

  "Probably just pneumonia again," she said, and told him to report for an examination the following day.

  Brilliant. Just pneumonia. Again. He wondered if all his past misadventures would keep repeating themselves like this—a series of open cadences without resolution.

  Conor drew in breath for a long sigh of self-pity. Bad mistake. Once he'd stopped hacking he had another depressing thought for the start to his day—he sounded like his father, a pretty fucking uncomfortable idea to be sure. He'd been grateful to have inherited the musical talent of Thomas McBride, Sr., but he could do without the crap pulmonary genes.

  A long steaming shower revived him a bit, and down on the ground floor he was relieved to find the place deserted. In the kitchen he drank a few mugs of tea, then after inspecting the barn and resisting the urge to clean what Jared had not—beggars can't be choosers—he drove off to Copley Hospital for another round of x-rays and antibiotics.

  He was back a few hours later and ready for a nap, only to find Darla on the scene. He tolerated her effusive concern with what patience he could summon before excusing himself, shaking his bag of pills in apology. That worked only for the moment. As he lowered himself onto the couch in Kate's living room, Darla's face loomed over him.

  "I come bearing gifts," she said brightly. "Abigail is on her way, but she called and asked me to heat up this nice bowl of chicken soup for you. Doesn't it smell wonderful? Don't you think you could eat a little?"

  "Thanks very much, Darla. Sure I'll do my best. Maybe you could leave the bowl on the counter down the hall. I'll tackle it after I've had a rest."

  "I think you'd better eat while it's hot—no, don't get up. I can manage."

  The tray was heavy looking and she was a tiny thing, but Darla maneuvered with little effort in setting it down on the table in front of him. She irritated the hell out of him but Conor had to admire her spunk, and her manic, wiry strength. He obliged her by slurping up a few spoonfuls of the soup while she moved to the picture window, still chattering.

  “What a beautiful day after so much miserable weather! Perfect for a drive to Mt. Washington. I think Kate's family will be so happy to see her. She didn't go last year you know, but they weren't going to let her get away with it this time. Seemed like every time I picked up the phone this week another one was checking in to make sure she was coming. I told Kate she might want to get a second phone for the front desk. Not that I mind answering a few personal calls—no, no, I don't at all. But it would be easier not to run into her office all the time, and then when a guest needs to use the phone—they can never get their cell phones to work here—I have to send them in and hope they don't run up the long-distance bill. Some of them take their sweet time, too . . .”

  Conor abandoned the soup and sat watching her blather on, trying to identify which avian species she most resembled. Nut hatch? Shrike? He sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes, not caring anymore how long she might stand there, talking.

  Someone is listening.

  It was like the air speaking into his face, riffling his hair, covering his hot skin with a puff of coolness.

  Wake up, love. Someone is there. Someone is listening.

  Not a puff now but a gust—a short, sharp hurricane piped directly into his ear, raising a line of gooseflesh up his back.

  Wake up, Conor.

  "I'm awake, Ma."

  And he was. Completely awake. Wide awake. Conor remained still, his ear tuned to an interior conversation for about ten seconds before he leaped up, nearly falling over the coffee table where the bowl of soup sat, cold and gelatinous. He raced from the room, taking the stairs two at a time down to the lobby. Wh
en he exploded from the staircase next to the front desk, his face shining with sweat, Darla received him with a jittery scream.

  "Who's been using the phone?" She stared at him, speechless for once in her life, and he slammed his palm against the countertop with a crack like a gunshot. "The bloody phone, Darla. You were talking about the phone in Kate's office. Which guests have been using—oh fuck it."

  He came around the desk and flew past her into the office, pulling the phone line from the wall and grabbing the cordless handset from its base. Darla found her voice again, shrieking as Conor ransacked the drawers. He pulled out a letter opener and went to work on the phone, and heard Abigail's voice at the front desk.

  "What the hell is going on out here?"

  "I have no idea!" Darla wailed. "He's delirious! He looked ready to murder me!"

  The letter opener merely bent in his hands. He threw it to the floor and picked up the granite paperweight near Kate's computer, bringing it down on the phone with a crash. He pulled the half-shattered remains apart and the electronic bug fell out into his hand.

  "Jesus help me." Staring at it, Conor dropped heavily into the chair. "And we thought nothing was going on."

  With his elbows on the desk he rested his hands over his eyes, and when he removed them his face was flat and composed. He got up and walked to the doorway where the two women stood staring in at him.

  "Darla, I apologize for frightening you," he said evenly. "Abigail, I need a favor. I'll meet you in the parking lot."

  Head twitching, Darla appeared ready to pose a shower of questions and Abigail seemed as though she wanted to speak as well, but Conor closed the door on both of them. He went to the breakfront behind the desk and unlocked the combination safe inside. The small leather bag seemed to wriggle in his hands as he removed it, the innards shifting and sliding against each other. He swept the wreckage of the phone into a drawer and opened the bag, spilling the contents onto the desk. A Sig-Sauer this time, he observed grimly. He pulled up his shirt to mop his face then briskly assembled the pistol, sliding the magazine into place with a click both familiar and repellant.

  He found Abigail outside leaning against the truck, arms folded, wearing a battlefield expression that prompted him to come to the point without mincing words. "The phone's been tapped. For all I know the whole house is bugged and the cars as well."

  Abigail popped away from the truck as though it had burned her. "Son of a bitch. How did you know?"

  "A sudden intuition," Conor said.

  "Who did it? And when?" she demanded.

  "I don't know, and I don't have time to speculate." He swiped again at the perspiration beading on his forehead. "The point is, Durgan's people have been here already, and since they chose not to carry me off with them they're playing a trickier game than I figured. Do you have a mobile phone?"

  Abigail shook her head. "They usually don't work up here, anyway."

  “I need you to get to a phone somewhere off the property and try calling Kate to tell her I'm on the way."

  "You think Kate's in danger?"

  He nodded, rigid with the effort of standing still while every muscle in his body screamed for movement. Conor wished his mother's ethereal voice had blown something more helpfully specific into his ear but it hadn't, so he was operating on little more than inherited prescience, which was telegraphing a simple, repeating signal that Kate was in terrible danger.

  "Tell her to stay where she is and to stay in a group, or at least in public. She shouldn't go anywhere alone, even to her room." He took out his wallet and removed Frank's ivory-colored calling card. "After that I need you to call the number on the back of this card. They'll ask for a password—it's Kreisler."

  "Chrysler," Abigail repeated. "Like the car?"

  "No, like the violinist, Fritz Kreisler." Conor rocked on his heels restlessly. "Listen, doesn't matter. Recite the bloody thing for whoever answers. They'll connect you to the agent I told you about—Frank Murdoch. No details. Tell him you're calling for me and I want to know what time his friend will arrive. That's the signal to get someone up here. He'll send an MI6 general staff officer from the embassy in New York, but this is a London number so you have to—"

  "I know how to dial a London number. I'll call from home." Abigail snapped the card out of his hand. "Now, do you know how to get to the hotel?"

  "Bretton Woods. I've a map in the truck, I'll figure it out."

  "You look ready to pass out."

  "I'm okay."

  "You'd better be. I love you honey, but if anything happens to Kate I'll kick you until you're dead."

  Her threat, delivered while throwing her arms around him, had little credibility. Conor returned the embrace before stepping away.

  "Abigail, if anything happens to Kate I'll be begging you to."

  Bretton Woods wasn’t as far away as he'd feared and Conor made good time, especially after hitting the interstate in St. Johnsbury, a scenic but not heavily traveled section of highway. For long stretches his was the only vehicle in sight and he pushed the battered farm truck to its limit, cursing it for not being a Mustang. In a little over an hour he'd exited onto Route 302 and was sweeping through the White Mountains, only dimly aware that the landscape around him was magnificent.

  He passed the sign welcoming him to Bretton Woods and began scanning the road on either side, anxious not to miss any clues as to the direction of the hotel. He needn't have worried. As he came around a tree-lined curve the resort abruptly materialized in the distance on his left, looking like a massive cruise ship on dry land—white-faced, red-roofed, flags flying.

  Conor slammed on the brakes to make the turn onto the entrance road, and after leaving the truck in the parking lot he paused on the sloping driveway to take stock of his appearance. Not great. To hide the gun riding in a holster against his back, he'd layered a black-and-gold checked flannel shirt over a blue t-shirt. Both articles carried their share of mysterious stains, and his jeans were a long way from clean. He returned to the truck for the black duck jacket he'd left on the seat. It made him too warm but looked better than anything else he was wearing.

  Walking onto the massive veranda and through the door of the Mt. Washington Hotel was like stepping onto the creaking floorboards of an earlier era. The cavernous lobby was typical for the grand hotels of the Gilded Age. It was an unusual combination of elegance and mountain rusticity—from the central chandelier and rows of stately columns to the rugged stone fireplace with its moose-head trophy. The space was generously furnished with deep sofas and wingback chairs, and in one of them near the fireplace Kate was sitting with her face to the entrance.

  Overcome with relief, Conor's knees buckled slightly as she rushed across the lobby and into his arms. She circled his waist, and when her hands brushed against the gun through the fabric of his jacket she hitched in her breath, letting her face rest against his chest.

  "I was so worried. Abigail said you seemed ready to collapse when you left and I've been sitting here freaking out since she called. This doesn't make any sense, Conor. Why would anyone be coming after me?"

  "I don't know." Conor held her close and brushed his lips against her hair, breathing in its fresh scent.

  He had to admit her skepticism was justified. He could think of nothing Durgan would gain by targeting Kate and complicating his main objective, and allowed himself to consider the possibility of being wrong. The phone surveillance was real but the bug on Kate's phone might have been incidental, another means of gathering intelligence about him. Maybe he was delirious—he felt hot enough to be—and maybe this rescue operation was a neurotic over-reaction. What was he supposed to tell her? That his mother had whispered to him in a dream and it sounded like truth? That he believed its murky warning even now, despite the lack of any rational explanation? Kate stirred in his arms.

  "You're trembling," she said.

  "I think we both are." He rested his chin on top of her head.

  "But you're the one with a fev
er. You're not trembling with emotional derangement."

  "Don't be so sure."

  She pulled back and examined him. "Do you think we're in danger right now?"

  Still holding her by the elbows Conor let his eyes travel around the lobby, realizing its majestic size and an accumulation of furniture had created a false impression of emptiness. He counted eight guests sprinkled amongst the sofas like artfully arranged bric-a-brac. Studying each of them—golfers, senior citizens, a few mothers with young children—he found nothing menacing for even the most paranoid mind to fix on as a threat. Frustrated by his own uncertainty and aware that the circumstances made him appear unhinged, he dropped his hands and took an unsteady step away from Kate.

  "I guess not right now. Nothing looks dangerous, anyway."

  "Did you eat anything today?"

  "Darla heated up some soup."

  "A clever non-answer which I'll take as a 'no'." She circled her arm around his and drew him forward. "Come on, they're serving lunch on the back veranda. If you don't sit down and eat something you won't be able to protect either of us from anything."

  Having satisfied his concern for Kate's immediate safety, Conor could spare a bit more attention for their surroundings. He spent a moment leaning on the back veranda's spindled railing, looking out at a panoramic view of the Presidential Range. The epic bulk of Mt. Washington dominated the scene, trails drizzling down its sides like lines of rainwater. Below him the hotel's back lawn rolled down to a brook about a quarter-mile away. It was spanned by an arched footbridge that connected the resort to its golf course, which sat in a bowl-shaped valley in the middle distance. Before returning to the table where Kate was already seated he swept a gaze over the veranda. Along its length guests were sitting in similar groupings, in wicker chairs arranged around low tables. Some were eating, others chatting or simply admiring the view. All of them clearly innocuous.