“I never learned if his behavior resulted from an injury or if he was born that way. He was always an odd duck. We got along because we did things he liked to do like riding horses or playing in the woods. You’re right about him learning how to interact. With games, he would study the rules and learn different strategies, but once he did, his game never varied. When he learned to do something, he would do it the exact same way again and again. He is extremely reliable.”
“Which would make him perfect for schooling horses. Flawless execution of repetitive drills.”
“It’s hard to tell what’s on his mind, but if he gets rattled, he can’t stop his actions or his words before they happen. It took me a while to figure that one out.” He rubbed his jaw at a memory. “When we were fifteen, Tim landed a left hook during a disagreement.”
“But you’ve stayed friends?”
Michael sensed she was probing around, trying to understand something. “Not really. After that we drifted apart, but our relationship was always a bit one sided. We’re only recently back in touch. I admit I felt sorry for him.”
“Why?”
“He struck me as gullible. As kids, he would latch on and follow me everywhere. He was always turning up. The store, a local dance, beach. Wherever I was, he was, doing the same things as me. He was annoying and kind of pitiful. The only break I got was on Sundays when he wasn’t around. But, my mother told me to be patient with him. She said he was expressing steadfast loyalty to the family and she showed him a tremendous amount of kindness. She welcomed him in the house, made sure he had enough to eat, and even gave him clothes. He didn’t need the charity, but accepted her kindness just the same.
“He was definitely happiest when surrounded by things I either owned or had owned. He had the toughest time with my brother. Liam figured out that Tim would accept whatever tale he was told as true. He tormented Tim. Liam fed him everything from ghost stories to conspiracy theories and laughed when Tim would jump a guy and rough him up because of something Liam said. His fights always ended in Liam’s favor. As soon as Tim learned I’d never do that to him, the following, or what felt like hounding, began. He was a lot like his father in the way he attached to people. His father said he would never betray Magnus and killed himself after being arrested for smuggling.”
“How sad! Was he smuggling drugs?”
“No guns. He used the transporting of horses to tracks in the States, the Irelands, and Europe as a cover for gunrunning. My father made sure I didn’t hear many details, but my sense was that Tim’s father handled a complex operation. I guess he felt killing himself was the best way he knew to keep his word of loyalty and silence to my father.”
She shook her head. “Tim must have been crushed.”
“Yeah. He completely crumbled. I was back at college, and he must have called me five times a day to talk for hours. Listening to Tim go on about what his father was involved in—and knowing his death was because of my father—I couldn’t take it anymore. I was sorry his dad died and all that, but that was the final straw for me. My college years were,” he rubbed his head in thought, “tumultuous. That’s when I was realizing what the Charity was and broke ties with my father. I eventually had to stop taking Tim’s calls.”
“That must have been a double loss for him—his father, then you.”
“My uncle took Tim under his wing. I’m glad I had an ocean between us. Uncle Liam told me he went a little off the rails and would have been completely lost if he didn’t have Liam as an anchor.”
“I’m not sure he’s found himself either, though. Funny how he ended up back at his beginning.”
“Hmm?”
“You know—working horses, the Connaught family, that full circle thing.”
Michael pulled back the curtain of hair that obscured her expression. “Okay. Out with it. Why all these questions about Tim? It’s more than just the tattoo.”
Jessica gnawed on her lip and kept her head down. “The day I saw the tattoo...” She averted her eyes. “He was giving me a ride home from town and made a pass at me.” Each word carefully chosen and spoken slowly. “It felt like he wasn’t going to stop.”
“You’re okay?”
She picked at a fingernail. “Yeah, definitely. The whole episode was weird. One second he’s all over me and the next he’s nearly bawling and asking for forgiveness. Clearly he imagined it would happen one way, and when it happened differently, he got all flustered. He begged me not to tell anyone.”
His hands closed into fists as he listened. His voice strained with the effort to remain even. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because I could tell that something was off with him, that he might have been like my cousin.” She held her head against the flow of memories. “He knew he had made a mistake and afterward made a point to stay away from me. Besides, I needed the help before the race and obviously he was at the cottage as a bodyguard. He just took that role too seriously for my taste,” she chuffed. “Now that I’m at Ballyronan, I want to get a sense of how he fits in.”
“From this point forward, he doesn’t.”
Jessica heard the menace in his words but was relieved that Tim’s behavior was out in the open. It was one less secret between them.
“He’s probably never had a girlfriend,” she continued. “If he was taught about women by some drunken sot at a pub, no wonder he acted like he did. Until he learns some manners, I’d prefer he not be around.”
“Consider it done.”
Michael’s body, fluid and warm when he first arrived, was now heated and tense. His shirt pulsed over his pounding heart. He stood and walked around the room. A few minutes of staring at the lake helped him unclench his hands.
“My uncle has him working at Tully Farm until the last of the horses are transported. I’ll make damned sure Tim won’t be back.” He went back to the sofa and gathered her in his arms. “I’m so sorry that happened to you and I’m grateful you’re okay.” Slowly, they entwined again, taking comfort in the other’s presence.
Her thoughts drifted as she enjoyed their easy silence. She could see why the room had been the favorite lounging area over the generations. Rattan furniture with deep cushions welcomed a person to idle there. Sunlight poured through the glass walls. Hinged windows opened to catch the warm summer breeze. Just beyond, the waters stirred, barely rippling the mirror surface. A couple of sailboats and a motorboat took advantage of the perfect conditions.
“It’s beautiful here, Michael. I had no idea you had a home like this. Why didn’t you bring me here from the start?”
He raised his index finger. “One: armed guards. It’s not a detail most women go for.” He grinned at her light trickle of laughter and raised a second finger. “Two: the master suite renovations needed to be completed before I would sleep here again, and it certainly made it more comfortable for you.” He raised a third finger. “And most important, number three: no stable means no horses—a fact I plan to remedy immediately. The cottage and lands were perfect for the training job, plus I had no way to keep a half-wild woman out of trouble here.” He raised her chin and brushed his lips against hers. “I’m glad you wanted to come. I know your plan was to be closer to places your mother visited, but I feel better knowing you’re under some very watchful eyes.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so at ease. Her worries and fears felt very far away.
He unbuttoned her shirt and slipped his hand inside. She pressed her body against his.
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
THE EYE OF a security camera hung in a corner of the employees’ lounge at the Manchester Airport, dingy and glazed with lack of attention. Dally noted the money budgeted for airport security went to the public areas of the terminal or areas with lots of comings and goings—like the tarmac and cargo hangars—not to employee areas where everyone’s background and affiliations had already been checked. The only security interest was in the occasional rifling of lockers. Nothing there
warranted government surveillance.
She had to pass through three different check points—one to drive onto the grounds, one to enter the airport through the back gate, and one to enter the “Staff Only” areas. By the time she was escorted around the maze of cinder block walls and employee lockers, nefarious intent would have long been sniffed out and summarily dealt with. Anyone sitting at the mismatched groupings of faux-wood tables and plastic chairs in the lunchroom would be of no interest to security.
The yellowed and green linoleum tiles were gritty with years of wax build-up and nicotine. Vending machines, serving an assortment of caffeinated beverages and a few flavored mineral waters, flickered and hummed along the walls. The pervasive stink of jet fuel mixed with old cigarettes should have driven her to distraction, but the copious amounts of snot running out of her head flushed the smell out before it had a chance to fester.
She took another handful of budget brand, rough tissues, vowing that when she made it to the top she’d buy only the softest. The skin under her nose was reddened and raw from the relentless assault, but she hardly cared that she had become a red and soggy fountain. What she had in front of her was everything she had ever dreamed.
The sound of someone clearing his throat and shifting in a nearby chair startled her into remembering the mate who had signed her in as his sister. He sat grubby and hunched by the window, taking a smoke, and picking at a Styrofoam cup filled with black goo.
“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked, impatient to get his payout.
“Perhaps,” she replied, keeping the excitement out of her voice. “Will take a s-spot more spit and polish before there’s a story here.”
He grunted and took another long puff off his cigarette. “I did my bit.”
“What’s this now? You sign me as your beloved s-sis, hand me a bag of snaps, and act like you’re all the better for it?”
He wiped his stubby fingers on his oil-stained shirt. “I did my bit,” he repeated. “Now you do yours. They said you’d pay in cash.”
If her mates in customs had known how big a scoop their pilfered security images were, she never would have been able to afford them. Britain’s tabloids had an unquenchable thirst for pictures that would spark a few thousand impulse sales by ladies and gents in the grocery cues. To the customs blokes, a few fuzzy images of a pretty girl getting on and off a private jet didn’t matter. They had seen enough of the rich and famous to know that pretty girls with blonde ponytails were a dime a dozen, and this one, although arguably prettier than most, was no one they paid particular attention to.
But to Dally, the brown paper bag filled with curled pictures was gold. Pure feckin’ gold. The series of images documented Jessica Wyeth’s arrival in England. The first black and white image was enough to keep her stories flowing for weeks, but she knew she couldn’t stop there. This was Miss Wyeth. Hair tucked up under a baseball cap. Aviator glasses with dark lenses. Disembarking from a top-of-the-line six-seater Cessna 525B CJ3 Citation Jet. Tail markings “MMC, Ltd.” Registered to Magnus M. Connaught Enterprises, Limited. Time stamped 4:00 pm GMT. Woman saying something to airport employee. Forklift and mini lorry seen in background pulling up to jet. Time stamp 4:01 pm GMT. Woman gone. Assortment of baggage and wooden crates, some with unclear markings, unloaded from jet. Time stamped 4:21 pm GMT. Another set of pictures. Same woman. Standing in the large hangar dedicated to receiving and clearing cargo. Large crates emblazoned with “MMC” logo. Time stamped 4:30 pm GMT. One crate stood opened. Her head craned to look inside. Time stamped 4:35 pm GMT. Head bent while writing something on clipboard, most likely signing for cargo. Time stamped 4:37 pm GMT.
Dally gave another look at the security camera. She folded up the paper bag of pictures and shoved it into her canvas satchel. With great show, she rummaged for money, purchased a can of pop from a vending machine, sat down, and produced what looked like a flattened sandwich wrapped in wax paper. She offered it to her companion. When he refused, she pushed it further in his face.
They watched a few more jets land and take off before he stubbed out his cigarette. He slapped his hand down on the sandwich and shoved it into his pocket, shaking his head with impatience and disbelief.
She watched him give the wad of cash an unconscious pat as he walked out the door.
Dally’s mind was in full gear as she drove back to her office. Her head held clearly articulated stories. Every illusion and innuendo was perfectly crafted by the time she sat down to write. All she had to do was blurt it out through her fingertips and press send. She wouldn’t just write one article and drop it like a nuclear bomb. To keep the momentum going, she determined to write a series of articles. Each would evoke the readers to ask the very questions the next article would answer. She’d become a veritable Scheherazade of rag journalism.
The series would start in the bowels of the paper on page ten’s graveyard of retreaded news. Each segment would work its way progressively up in stature to Page One by the time the week was out. Increasing interest in her stories would increase readership and her own value.
Gaining readership was a one-sided game that the news rags wrote the rules for. The object of the game was to lure as many people as possible to buy your paper. Truth was a tool to be used only when needed. If it were a slow news day, even a headline of “Aliens Invade Buckingham Palace” over a picture of oval-eyed beings fingering a Beefeater’s button would do nicely.
The news cycle at Grandier News was a neatly orchestrated event. Gone were the days where the papers would be printed in a central location and shipped by truck or boat to all corners of the UK. With a simple press of a button, the content would flit to presses sprinkled throughout the Kingdom and printed where the readers were. The morning papers would have instant distribution and be in the readers’ hands within hours.
A close eye and ear were kept on which stories garnered the most interest. By the time of the evening broadcast, the stories that held the most interest were culled and placed into TV format, updates included if necessary. This fit perfectly into Dally’s plans and her headlines read like a steady drum beat. Once the editors saw how her stories sold papers, she would certainly be asked for a live on-camera report. Her nose tickled at the thought.
She wrote Monday’s headline and article immediately after her conversation with Colleen Shaunessy-Carrillo. Don already approved it to run in the early edition.
Man Dies in Mountain Search. Murdering Heiress Sought for Questioning
Part One of the game is to refresh the British memories, build the foundation for future stories and to whet their appetites for more “news.” Dally used the information gained from the American reporter and splashed in a few of her own details, veracity notwithstanding. Loosely cited quotes pilfered from other articles on Sheriff Michael Conant were liberally peppered throughout.
Colleen provided the scintillating images. Photos showed Conant in a tuxedo and Wyeth in a too-tight dress with her boobs popping out in a cozy embrace. Others of Conant showed him as a grave but very handsome Kentucky lawman. One image showed Wyeth—with a deer in the headlights expression—on the courthouse steps after being exonerated of murder. Displayed together, identities and connections were clear. Today’s news would be the last time Dally would use the phrase “Murdering Heiress” to describe Jessica. The first headline was a cheap hook to grab readers. The brave girl risked her life in a blizzard to save a young disabled boy and deserves to be called by her given and reclaimed name. Greek tragedies didn’t get any better. Sympathies would build.
Tuesday’s Headline: Death and Hoax Search Covered up. Wyeth Flees U.S.
Dally imagined her readers clutching their hearts.
This second article, concept and outline submitted and approved by Don, begins to create the image of the poor girl as a skittish and misguided waif who misplaced her trust in Sheriff Conant. Did the sheriff save her life as many claimed, or was he the one who inflicted her terrible injuries? So much speculation! Who could
blame the poor thing for running again? But, to where? And who is that dashing but dastardly sheriff anyway? He certainly looks familiar. Dally sniffled and smiled to herself anticipating the letters, emails, and phone calls that would come rolling in as readers undoubtedly recognized his face and wanted to be a part of making the identification.
Wednesday: Jessica Wyeth Spotted at Aintree
Ah! England’s beloved racetrack filled with a colorful history and even more colorful characters. A perfect backdrop. Who could blame our poor confused heroine for falling for the trappings of wealth and power by selling out her formidable equestrian skills to the highest bidder? Poor thing is even wearing silks with corporate logos. MMC, Ltd no less. But wait. Who’s that man strong-arming her into a standing position after that zillion dollar claiming race? It’s that Conant guy!
Hold on a second. Mega money? MMC? Jumpin’ Jehosephrat! Thanks to a sharp-eyed, but unnamed reader, a question would be raised that Sheriff Conant is a dead ringer for Michael Connaught, Magnus Connaught’s only surviving son! A sidebar would refresh the reader’s memories of the suspicious dealings and terrorist campaigns the Irish scum Connaught senior supported and how—gasp—our sweet, brave Jessica single-handedly brought down that mighty crime empire. Could his son be out for revenge?
Dally jotted a quick note to get some archival photos of the Wyeth family’s thoroughbreds and run them side-by-side with recent pictures from Aintree. How perfect if she could get some snaps with that trainer Jessica was supposed to have murdered, Dally thought. She wrote the name “Gus Adams” in bold letters and underscored them for emphasis.
Thursday: Michael Connaught Seduces Jessica Wyeth
A bit of soft news on the emotional side of the story will grab a few more readers who may have been hiding under a rock for the past days and not heard the news. Everyone picks up a paper when the headlines scream “Sex!” The images would be of a beautiful woman and handsome rich guy. All the better that they’re young. Dally had her fingers crossed that the photographer she sent out would get some decent pictures of the two of them together in time to run with the story. This wasn’t speculative fiction; this was hard-core journalism!
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 30
