He moaned softly, a sign Catherine took to be good. She put the jacket over him and lifted his hand. Pressing it against her lips, she talked to him, telling him that he was going to be fine, that everything would work out.
When he tried to stir, Catherine forced him to be still. “Take it easy,” she warned. “Head injury.”
“It was Limerick,” he whispered, forcing his eyes open. “He knew me. He tried to avoid me. I almost had the bastard. I had his leg, and he was coming off.”
“You almost got yourself killed,” Catherine added.
“We have to get home.” Patrick forced himself to sit up. Dizziness struck, and he braced himself with both hands behind him. “Now. We have to get back.”
“We have to go to the hospital. And no arguments.”
“To the barn, Catherine. We can get torches and follow the tracks.”
“He went down the road,” Catherine admitted. “Hell-for-leather.” She almost flinched as she thought of Limerick’s beautiful clean legs pounding on the pavement.
“But not for long.” Patrick pushed himself to his feet. “Not for long. The horse is here, in Connemara, and I’ll have him by Saturday.” Weaving slightly, he went to the car. “Drive me, please,” he called out to her. “Damn the fog, drive me home.”
At Patrick’s insistence, Catherine drove to the barn. He had no intention of staying in her home for the night. He wanted his loft. How he was going to get up the stairs was another matter, though. During the tedious drive home, he’d drifted in and out of awareness.
“Quiet, now,” Patrick ordered, as he stumbled out of the car.
As quietly as she could, Catherine made her way to his side. Together they lurched toward the stairs that were little better than a ladder. Catherine had no idea how Patrick would negotiate them. She hadn’t counted on his total stubbornness. Step by step, he worked his way up, weaving a couple of times to the point where Catherine feared he would topple over backward and to his death. At the top, he wisely crawled a few paces before standing and staggering into his loft apartment.
Following closely behind him, Catherine stopped at the door. He’d not invited her in, but he wasn’t in any condition to issue invitations. Looking around, she wondered if he’d feel that she’d invaded his private domain. The loft was definitely a man’s abode. There were touches of home—a braided rug, several very nice drawings on the wall, all of horses, and a beautiful quilt on the big bed. Curled in the center of the bed was Familiar. He watched them with his lazy, yet alert, gaze.
Although there was no hearth, there was a rocker beside a good lamp and a stack of books. Patrick made his way to the sturdy rocker and sank into it. Groaning softly, he let his head recline and touch the back of the chair. “I feel like someone hit me in the head with a hammer.”
In the better light of the room, Catherine went to examine his injury. The gash was at least three inches long, and in places, it was deep, but it was not too serious. “You need stitches,” she said.
“No time for that,” Patrick answered. “If I go to hospital, they’ll give me drugs and want to keep me for observation.”
“Not a bad idea.” Catherine went to the bathroom and returned with antiseptic and cotton. It looked as if one of the horse’s iron shoes had clipped the side of his head in a glancing blow. There was the possibility of concussion, internal bleeding, a clot that might suddenly break loose. The horrors were endless and only a hospital could run the proper tests. But she knew Patrick well enough to know she’d have to knock him in the head again to get him to a doctor. Besides, his speech was clear and his pupils dilating properly. He’d have a headache—a big one—but she didn’t think he’d die.
“Clean it out and get me some aspirin, please.” He added the last as he squinted up at her.
“Men,” Catherine muttered as she applied the antiseptic. Patrick flinched, but he grasped the arms of the rocker and held steady. Feeling every stroke of the cotton, Catherine forced herself to thoroughly clean the wound. “I can try taping the edges,” she suggested. “If that doesn’t work, you’re going to have a nasty scar.”
“Get the tape,” Patrick answered. His voice was worn out, drained.
Catherine finished dressing the wound as well as she could. She’d cut his thick black hair away from the gash, and now she picked up the pieces of it.
On the bed, Familiar stretched long and luxuriously. He hopped to the floor and promptly dug his claws into Catherine’s foot.
“Hey!” She tried to shake him loose, but he held tenaciously. When she bent down to unhook him, he grabbed her hand. “Familiar!” she cried, holding steady so as not to set his claws more firmly in her.
“I think he’s trying to tell you something,” Patrick said. In the rocker, his eyes were barely open. “He’s rather adamant.”
“Okay, what?” Catherine stopped resisting and allowed herself to be maneuvered across the room by the cat. When he had her beside the telephone, he let her go and flipped the receiver off the hook with one deft movement.
“So who should I call? The doctor?” Catherine asked. “I agree completely, but Patrick will shoot both of us.”
Familiar pulled the receiver down to him and deftly pressed the redial button with his paw. Bemused, Catherine lifted the receiver to her ear as she heard the digits being pressed. The phone began to ring. Four, five, six, seven times. She was almost ready to put it down. It was well after midnight.
On the ninth ring, it was answered. The voice that spoke was heavy with sleep. “Hello?”
Catherine caught the hint of something. She knew that voice. Who was it?
“Hello?” The man was more fully awake, and growing angry. “It’s nearly one o’clock. Who’s calling?”
“I’ve seen the gray stallion.” Catherine lisped the words in a guttural tone. “He’s on the road tonight. How much for his location?”
“Who is this?” There was a sudden caginess in the man’s voice.
Catherine swallowed a gasp. She knew who she was talking to. How could she have forgotten he was in the area? How had she failed to consider that Allan Emory might be involved in everything that was happening at Beltene? He was also a man who knew too much of her business.
“Who is this?” Allan was growing angry.
Catherine replaced the receiver slowly, depressing the hook before she eased it back into the cradle. As soon as the connection was broken, she picked up the phone and pressed redial. Before it could ring, she hung up and went through the process again. When she’d memorized the pattern of beeps, she matched them to the numbers on the phone.
Galway.
The call had been made to somewhere in Galway, and she had the number. She had only to figure out where.
She gave Patrick a hopeful look, but he was dozing in the chair. She hated to wake him, but...why would he be calling Allan in Galway? She concentrated on watching his chest rise and fall as he sprawled in the rocker. The answer to that question was crucial. Her answer. No matter what Patrick said, she had to decide whether she trusted him.
Why had he called Allan? Or did he place the call? He’d been gone for two days. Someone else could have slipped into the loft apartment and used the phone.
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. 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.
16
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 wouldn’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 flowerbeds 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 flowerbed, 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.
“Old 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. “Old 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. Mayb
e 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 Old 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 Old Mick was being held. The man with the gun made no effort to stop her as she pushed open the door.
“Old Mick, it’s me, Catherine.”
“They’ve got you, then.” Old 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. Old 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—” Old 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.
Old 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.
Thrice Familiar Page 21
