The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  "This man?" Frank pointed, watching her closely. "You're certain it was this man? When did you see him last?"

  "Six years ago." Kate felt lightheaded. "We exchange Christmas cards, and he sent an email last April saying Conor needed a place to stay. I don't understand. What is Phillip doing with the man who—"

  "Just a minute," Frank said sharply. He pulled the photo closer, staring in silence, then abruptly pushed it back at her. He removed a slim notebook from his briefcase and uncapped a fountain pen. "Phillip Ryan." He wrote the name at the top of a blank page. "Tell me everything you know about him. Everything. Quickly."

  23

  Initially, her shock produced an anesthetic detachment, helping Kate comply with Frank's command. She spoke deliberately and calmly, telling all she remembered of that horrific summer weekend—of the accident and its aftermath, of every detail she recalled about Phillip—while the agent filled his notebook.

  The constrictive daze gradually lifted, and as the significance of what she'd learned sank in Kate lost focus. Her eyes shifted, irresistibly drawn to the photograph. He'd saved her life and had been so kind to her, but Phillip Ryan was not who he'd appeared to be. What had he really come for that week? Had he known about her money, even then? And how?

  The questions cascaded, leading to the one her mind barely touched before scuttling back in horror. Was her husband's death an accident? Or had he learned something about his cousin that week? Something that made him an unacceptable threat.

  "It's him, isn't it?" She pushed back from the table, fighting an urge to run, to get away from the photograph and all it represented. "Phillip Ryan is Robert Durgan. A murderer. Conor said he had someone tortured and killed. A man named Desmond."

  "Desmond Moore." Frank rested a finger next to the one face in the photograph Kate had not recognized. "The other man—your would-be kidnapper—is Ciaran Wilson. Both from Northern Ireland. Armagh."

  Kate looked up at the note of strain in his voice but he gazed past her, bemused and sad.

  "How did I miss this? I ransacked every department in the service, looking for a mole that never existed. It was the bloody farm manager all along." He glanced at the photograph with a puzzled frown. "And who the hell is he, I wonder?"

  "Conor's best friend. Are you going to tell him? He's already so weak and this will break his heart."

  "Certainly not." Frank swept the photographs together and back into the envelope. "Far better for this to remain between us two at present. I need to make a number of phone calls. You've confirmed Wilson as your abductor, and I'm eager to provide information to the local authorities to ensure his capture."

  He rose from the table and nodded at Gideon, who had seated himself at a discreet distance. The agent immediately stood and came forward.

  "I'm sure you're anxious to return to the patient's bedside." Frank smiled at her. "When I'm finished, perhaps I'll join in the vigil, if you'll allow me? I'm rather fond of the fellow myself, you know."

  "Please do. I'd appreciate the company."

  Kate accepted the hand he extended to lift her from the chair, her heart unexpectedly warming to the man. His manner was cloaked in a theatrical persona he'd clearly taken pains to perfect, but a twinkle at the corner of his eye suggested humorous self-awareness, and occasionally a flash of something more pensive.

  She arrived at the ICU to be introduced to another new set of faces who provided an update even more somber than she'd feared. With Conor's soaring temperature a source of increasing worry, they'd started a fresh combination of drugs, but he'd grown progressively weaker. Before leaving her alone with him a large, muscle-bound nurse with tattooed arms and a diamond earring tried to provide a few words of comfort.

  "He's tired, but still battling." He set a chair down for her. "Just keep encouraging him. He may not respond, but he'll know you're here and I'm sure that's going to help."

  Kate thanked him with a smile. She stood next to Conor and took his hand, its heat quickly absorbing the chill from her own. He didn't move or open his eyes, but she sensed a faint answering pressure when she kissed his forehead and began speaking softly.

  Flowers again. Always marigolds.

  So many this time. Feathery bunches pillowed beneath his hands, yielding to his fingers. Spread all around, under his arms, over his chest.

  Like a bright blanket of light.

  Like the offerings of Taj pilgrims on the tomb of the Mughal empress.

  He's with her now, a pilgrim with only himself to offer. He feels the stone-cool air moving in the darkness of the lower crypt. The relief of coolness. Darkness. He can press his hot face, his blistered lips, against the smooth, polished marble. Touch row upon row of scripted calligraphy. Trace out the ninety-nine names of God.

  He can rest.

  He hears her, the beloved ornament, in her seclusion. In her everlasting loneliness. Calling him.

  Stay with me. I love you. I've waited so long. I've waited for you.

  Like a gentle wave, caressing and retreating, pulling him with her.

  Repeating over and over for as long as she needs to.

  Until he finds the way.

  The conversation floated above Conor like a ghostly radio signal—fuzzy, but growing stronger as he emerged from a world of fog and curious dreams.

  "I'm telling you, I've never seen a fever break like that."

  "Unbelievable."

  "Seemed like he just punched his way out."

  "Looks like he punched through Hoover Dam. He's drenched."

  "No shit. Been going on for twenty minutes. He was headed down, all his levels dropping, then all of a sudden his back arches right up off the bed. Next thing, the sweat just starts pouring out of him. He fought hard for twelve hours but I didn't think he had anything left."

  "Fighting Irish, huh?"

  "Seriously."

  "Where's the girlfriend?"

  "Went to call home with the good news. I'm not sure she's the girlfriend, though. He muttered some crazy shit for a while, and she and I both tried to figure it out. Sounded like some other girl's name. Awkward, right? And crazy, 'cause if he doesn't want her . . . you know what I'm saying?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Calm down."

  "Anyway, whatever. I thought this one was gone. Figured we'd be calling it in another hour."

  "Okay, Danny. Shut up. Look, he's awake. He can hear us."

  Conor blinked, trying to clear his eyes, but water kept streaming into them, stinging and blurring his vision. Where was he? Where was Kate? Where was all this fucking water coming from?

  A towel descended, scrubbing at his face and neck. When it was removed he stared up at a bull-necked, red-haired man in scrubs, with a diamond stud in one ear. Conor drilled him with a hard stare.

  "Where is she?"

  The question came out as an abraded rasp, but had some energy behind it. A snort of laughter erupted from the foot of the bed.

  "Tough luck, Danny. Sounds like he wants her."

  When Conor opened his eyes again several hours later everything seemed a little sharper, a little less inclined to spin and pixilate into shapeless color. In the chair next to him Kate slept with a blanket pulled to her chin. He stared at her arm resting next to his on the bed, wanting to touch her, torn between wishing she would wake up and wanting the drowsy, peaceable moment to go on forever.

  "They say that her beauty was music in mouth." The line of poetry came out in a whisper, and moving his hand closer—he couldn't help himself—he allowed a finger to settle against her wrist.

  "And O she was the Sunday in every week." The voice, soft and resonant, set off a disorienting prickle of confusion until he turned his head to discover Frank sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the bed. Conor gave him a weak grin.

  "Thought you were a ghost."

  The agent smiled. "You wouldn't believe how often I've heard that."

  "You've finally convinced me, Frank. Anyone who can give out a line of Austin Clark must have some Irish in him." />
  "A rare victory for me at last."

  "What's the time? How long have you been here?"

  "It's just gone six o'clock. I've been in and out through the day, offering succor to my lovely fellow guardian. Allow me to speak for her in saying how delighted we are you've decided to remain with us."

  "Good to be here." Conor slipped back into a whisper. His aching throat had grown as dry as an acre of sun-baked sod; every word scraped like the tines of a rake. Stretching his neck, he shifted his weight then gasped and coughed as a scalding pain spiked up his side. Frank stood to pour some water.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Leathered. Top to bottom." He accepted the cup, took several long gulps, and sighed in relief. "Thanks. And thanks for being here, Frank. For staying with her."

  "Hardly an onerous burden I assure you, but I'm glad you're awake as I'm just preparing to leave. I've a rendezvous with the FBI in Nashua."

  "Your man came through, then?" Conor asked. "The FBI agreed to help?"

  Frank nodded. "Rather a strain on our relationship, I'm afraid. He wasn't at all pleased to hear an MI6 agent was wandering loose in America, but the director of the New Hampshire state police is a friend—something to do with ties formed at the FBI National Academy—so the jurisdiction was transferred with a single phone call."

  "So, what's going on in Nashua? Did they find the guy?"

  "They did, yes. The manhunt proved anti-climactic in the end. Ciaran Wilson, or the 'big fucker' from Armagh as you aptly called him, was apprehended there about an hour ago. An FBI agent found him in his car, bleeding and unconscious, in the parking lot of a shopping mall. The local hospital is pumping pints of blood into him and he'll be ready for questioning in the next few hours. I'm eager to get his thoughts on a particular line of inquiry. After that I'll fly back to London, but I'll be in touch again once things have been . . . clarified."

  "Will he cooperate?"

  Frank's hazel eyes flashed with a cold metallic glint. "Oh I think so, Conor. Yes, I feel certain he will."

  Although he tried not to, Conor drifted off again before Kate woke up, and remained asleep through the night and into the next morning. Once fully awake his passage from peaceable contentment to restless boredom was swift. For one thing he was alone now, apart from the circling presence of the Diplomatic Security Service. Agent Levine reported his partner Gideon Reynolds had driven Kate home the previous evening for some much needed rest. They would return later in the day. Conor found little in his surroundings to interest him, but diversion arrived in the early afternoon—a therapist, leading him in an unpleasant session of lung-clearing exercises. A frighteningly youthful nursing aide followed shortly after, wanting to help him shower.

  The combination of activities left him literally dizzy and breathless—especially the bathing ordeal, which involved fierce negotiations around what he'd be allowed to do by himself. He was back in bed, washed and bandaged, trying to fend off more unwelcome attentions when Kate appeared in the doorway. The nursing aide sang out to her.

  "Come on in, we're almost finished." She squeezed a dollop of lotion on her palm. "Just sit forward a little Mr. McBride, so I can get this on your back."

  "You know, I don't think I need any—ouch. Right. Okay." Conor cradled his ribs and pitched forward. Get me out of here, he mouthed at Kate, his desperation only half-facetious.

  "Between this and the lung-clearing therapy I'm afraid we've tired you out." The young woman settled him back and winked at Kate as she departed. "Don't be surprised if he falls asleep on you."

  "I hope not. I've waited three days to catch him with his eyes open. Lung-clearing therapy?" Kate asked, lifting herself to sit on the bed next to him.

  "Best not described."

  Happy for the first time all day, Conor studied her—the practical, unpretentious innkeeper, gifted artist, and forty million dollar heiress of royal lineage. At the moment she was a very weary looking heiress. "You look so tired, Kate. You shouldn't have come all the way down again, today. They're telling me I'll be out by Wednesday."

  "They told me Wednesday at the earliest."

  "A distinction without a difference, as far as I'm concerned. How's everything up north?"

  Much calmer since the departure of Reg Effingham, Kate assured him. They talked for a while about Frank and the events of the past few days. Conor was amused at how thoroughly the agent had worked his way into her affections, but Kate was distracted, not noticing his playful teasing. She was also reluctant to muse on where Frank's interrogation of Wilson might lead, or how Durgan had discovered so much about her circumstances.

  Conor thought he understood the source of her uneasiness. He knew she cared for him—a miracle in itself, considering all he'd told her—but warm feelings aside, his presence in her life was a rolling disaster. He'd appeared at her door dragging his troubles behind him, and on top of the sins he'd arrived with he could add another to the pile—introducing a murderous criminal to a prize even larger than the one he'd originally sought. A peculiar way to conduct a romance.

  "I need to talk to you about something," Kate admitted at last, "but I don't want to upset you."

  "Sure. Whatever you like. I won't be upset." He hoped that was true.

  She regarded him for an indecisive moment, then asked, "Did you have a serious relationship with a woman you haven't talked about, yet?"

  Jesus. What?

  He started to answer, heard himself stutter, and closed his mouth. Possibly a calamitous reaction but he couldn't help it. The question was so monumentally unexpected. Conor swallowed and began again.

  "I'm not sure. That is . . . we've never talked much about any of my relationships with women. Which," he hurried to add, "I wouldn't say have been unnaturally numerous."

  "I guess that's fair." The edge in Kate's tone suggested otherwise. "I'm not asking you to break down your record for me, and I realize you were engaged once—"

  "Which ended years ago."

  "Yes, I understand. What I'm asking is whether there was something more recent, and serious."

  "More recent, yes, but serious? No." Confident in his honesty, he was hurt by her lingering doubt. "What is this about, Kate?"

  "You were calling a woman's name, Conor," she said softly. "You were delirious and most of the time just mumbling gibberish, but you kept calling for her and it's hard to believe that doesn't mean something."

  Before he could say anything a nurse came in to check his IV line and deliver another injection. Appearing sensible to the fact she was interrupting, she worked without extraneous conversation, completed her task and retreated quickly. She left some juice in front of Conor and he stared at the plastic cup, sliding it back and forth between his hands on the tray table.

  "Are you going to tell me the name?"

  "I was hoping you would say it," Kate said.

  "Right. I see. So, in fact you are asking me to break down the record."

  "You're getting upset."

  "Well it's hard not to."

  "Astor." Kate threw out the word like an incantation, as though expecting something or someone to materialize in front of them. "Even the big nurse with the diamond earring heard you. Astor. He asked if it was my name, which was a little awkward, as I'm sure you can imagine."

  "I suppose I can," Conor shot back, "but does it matter at all I don't know who you're talking about? My ex-fiance's name is Maggie, and if it's a list you want I'll give you one, but there's nobody called 'Astor' on it."

  His insistence, so vehement and genuine, seemed to hit its mark. Kate looked startled. Whatever else she might be thinking he could see she believed him.

  "Actually, something you said did sound a little like 'Maggie', but more like 'McGee'. Her last name, I thought."

  "Oh for Jesus' sake, you're killing me with this." Conor pushed the tray table aside and rubbed his hands over his face. "I never had any dreams about Maggie Fallon. Ever. It's hard to believe I'd start now, or that I'd have them over somebod
y named Astor McGee who I've never—"

  He stopped and abruptly dropped his hands, gazing at the opposite wall as the light bulb pinged in his brain. "Astor McGee. Oh my God." Conor looked at Kate and laughed out loud.

  "So, you do know her." She recoiled and jumped down from the bed. "And you're laughing. Why is this funny?"

  "Wait. Come back here, and I'll tell you." The quick movement made Conor wince as he circled an arm around her waist, drawing her to his side. No longer laughing, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Gibberish, you say. My own native tongue. Here's me, in the article of death, crooning out fine poetry in Irish, and you thought it was gibberish. I suppose I'll forgive you. Sounds strange when you're not used to it."

  He watched Kate's brow wrinkle in adorable astonishment. "Irish? You think so?"

  "Only one way to be sure." He put his lips to her ear. "A stór mo chroí. Was that it? Is that how it sounded?"

  Her body relaxing against him was the only response he needed. "You weren't far off, Kate. It is a sort of name. A stór mo chroí. It means 'heart's treasure'." He cupped her face in his hands, stroking its warm flushed skin, and gave her head a gentle shake. "It means you. I was calling for you."

  She blinked away a few tears, and Conor thought he'd be happy to spend the rest of his life trying to put a name to every color he saw in her eyes.

  "I was calling for you, too," she whispered.

  "I know, love. I heard you."

  He started with her forehead, then moved to her ear, her cheek, her chin and her lips, taking his time, savoring each new discovery— the warm, spicy taste of her mouth, the quiver of a heartbeat at the base of her throat. With every kiss he added a few new words to her vocabulary, wreathing her in the poetry of an ancient language—the first he'd ever learned, the one that best captured what he most wanted to say.