CHAPTER 12
Devyn damn near vibrated all the way back to Belfast. Padraig’s parting shot had hit her hard, and it took all of Marc’s willpower not to pull over and take her in his arms until she did what he suspected she wanted to do—sob. To her credit, she didn’t cry.
She didn’t talk, either. Or look at him. What she did was stare at that picture and occasionally give in to a shiver despite the fact that the windows were closed and no air-conditioning chilled the car.
Near the hotel, she finally took a deep breath and looked at him. “I’m going. You know that, don’t you?”
“I figured that.”
“She…” Her fingers grazed the picture of a teenage girl in full high school graduation garb crossing a stage to receive a diploma. It had been taken from quite a distance. “I have to go and find her.”
And he had to be very careful with how he proceeded. She was emotionally raw, obviously clinging to a hope she’d tried to talk herself out of, and they had nothing but questions.
“Before we—you—make any decisions, we should think this through. We don’t know who Fallon is, what his agenda is.”
“She’s in trouble.”
“Possibly. Or it could be a trap to get you where they want you.”
She closed her eyes, not about to be talked out of a decision she’d already made. “She’s… followed me. She knows me. She wanted my phone number.”
“And she appears to have been at your high school graduation.” He waited a beat. “The operative word being appears.”
When she didn’t reply, he reached over to her and said, “You know we can figure this out.”
She turned, blinking as though trying to bring herself back to the moment, then nodded. “I’m going to Enniskillen.”
Not until they had more information, she wasn’t. “Devyn, listen to me. Several unsavory characters have suggested you leave, to no avail. Now this guy produces a picture that, frankly, anyone could have taken—”
“This is me, Marc.” She waved the picture.
“Anyone could have taken of you,” he finished.
“But anyone didn’t. Sharon Greenberg did. On the back, in handwriting, it says ‘Rose on her Grad Day.’ ”
He frowned. “Rose?”
“On my birth records, it says Rose Devyn. She named me before giving me up. My parents have never called me anything but Devyn. No one has. No one… until now.”
“Still—”
“It isn’t the first picture,” she said, cutting him off. “I think”—her voice finally cracked—“she needs me.”
“Or someone does. And they know just how to get you.”
She just closed her eyes, unwilling to discuss it.
“This is really the first concrete lead I’ve had,” she said when they reached the hotel.
“No, you had word that her bags were here. Now they’re gone.”
“And going to Enniskillen is exactly what you’ve been trying to do—get me to leave Belfast.” She wasn’t listening to him. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t just agree to go.”
“Let’s go read this note left by the man who took the bags.”
“Maybe it’s one of the notes that Fallon guy says we need to have to find her.”
He nodded, considering that. “Maybe it is.”
Parking the car, he turned off the ignition and sat still for a moment, listening to his gut. “After we read the note, we can reassess.” He turned to her, reaching for her hand to make his point. “But I have to ask you, for your own safety, please let’s not go running to Enniskillen. At least wait until morning, until I have more information on Padraig Fallon. Until we know more.”
“Where is Enniskillen?” she asked.
Nope, she wasn’t hearing a word he was saying.
“I’m pretty sure it’s in the middle of Northern Ireland, maybe a little closer to the western border. We’ll have to get some intel on the place before we make any decisions.”
Her eyes sparked bright blue. “So it’s only a few hours’ drive?”
“Devyn.” Her name came out harshly, and she blinked at him. “You’re not listening.”
“I just can’t believe it,” she said, lifting the picture to her chest, tears threatening again. “After all these years. If she needs me, if she’s in trouble, I have to go, Marc. I have to.”
“I can understand how you feel, Dev—”
“No, no, you don’t.” She pushed his hand away. “You can’t possibly understand how I feel. Not with your big, perfect, happy family that works together and plays together and still has Christmas dinner together. No. You don’t understand.”
“But I—”
“Either go with me to Enniskillen or get the hell out of my way.”
As he turned the engine off, she flung open her door, almost getting out before he grabbed her arm.
“I’m serious, Marc,” she ground out, trying to wrest free of his grasp. “Help me or leave me—those are your only two options. Our deal still stands. I’m willing to pay you with information on Finn.”
He tightened his fingertips and inched her closer. “If I wanted, I could have it by now. I know your information is in your suitcase.”
She remained very still, barely breathing. “Then why don’t you take it?”
“I want to help you.” He waited a beat, their gazes locked and steady. “My way. The smart way. Maybe take an hour, a night, but figure out what we’re doing and why.”
She shuttered her eyes, a silent consent. He released her arm and she instantly climbed out of the car. He did the same, meeting her at the back.
This time he didn’t fight the urge, pulling her into an embrace that let him feel those vibrations humming through her. “Don’t, don’t be impulsive. It could get you killed.”
“That’s like asking me not to breathe.” Against his chest, he felt her shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“I’m always cold,” she admitted. “I’ve been cold since I was born.”
He draped an arm around her, snuggling her against his chest. “Let’s get inside and get warm and safe, and pick up that note.”
She didn’t argue, and they walked to the back entrance, toward a long corridor of meeting rooms that led to the lobby. As they reached the glass doors, a man came out, holding the door to let them in, watching Devyn as he did.
Marc wanted to catch the man’s eye and nod a thankyou, but his gaze never left Devyn.
“Come on,” he whispered as he guided her into the hotel and down a wide corridor, hesitating near an elevator, considering a change in plans. They could take this back elevator instead of the one in the middle of the lobby, lock her in the room, and he could get the note.
And she might be gone when he got back.
“How do you think Padraig knew?” she asked, her gaze wandering toward a ballroom draped with white netting and stars, obviously the site of a wedding later that evening.
“Million-dollar question, sweetheart. You’ve asked a lot of people about Dr. Greenberg in the past few days. I suspect the wrong people.” He tucked her closer, scanning the people in the lobby, on guard for anyone or anything that seemed out of place. But tourists and guests gathered in groups, many in formal wear for the wedding, a festive buzz in the air.
At the front desk, they waited a few seconds for the next clerk, then separated as Marc stepped forward to speak to the woman who waved him over.
“Marc Rossi, I’m a guest.”
“I recognize you, Mr. Rossi. Is everything in order with your room?”
“Thomas, the concierge, left a note for me.”
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a man texting into a cell phone approach Devyn. Marc turned to look, just as the man bumped into her, his gaze glued to the screen.
“Oh, excuse me,” they said simultaneously, and instantly Marc moved to her, his hands on her shoulders to get her away.
“So sorry, lad,” the man said in thick Irish, liftin
g the phone in apology. “My fault entirely.”
Marc bumped the man’s hand as it came back down, knocking his phone to the ground. A flurry of apologies from her, from him, as Marc and the man both bent to retrieve the phone. Marc reached the device first, and as he lifted it, he read the screen.
They’re at the desk now.
Marc’s head shot up as the other man snatched the phone immediately darkening the screen as they both came up. He muttered a few more apologies, backing away quickly.
“Mr. Rossi?” the woman at the desk called. “I have that package you were looking for.”
His arm firmly around Devyn, one eye on the man with the phone as he returned to the desk to take a plain white envelope the woman held.
“Uh, one more thing,” Marc said quietly, leaning in for complete privacy. “I’d like another room.” Because anyone could know their room number by now, and that was the last place they were going to go. Next to him, Devyn gave him a surprised look but didn’t question him in front of the clerk.
“Use the credit card you have on file, put the room under the name M. Burns, and give me a room key right now, just slide it across the desk, please.”
The young woman did as she was told, completely discreet.
He thanked her and stepped away, holding the envelope, hiding the key, and nudging Devyn toward the bank of elevators.
“Can I see it?”
“Not here. We’re being watched.”
He felt her small intake of breath, but she didn’t look around, just kept step with him. “How do you know?” she whispered.
“I just do.” He smiled, acting as though nothing were wrong. “We’ll be in the elevator in one minute. You can read it then. I know you’re dying to.”
Just as they reached the bank of elevators, another man approached, pressing the call button as Marc checked him out. Medium height, early twenties, classic Irish face and carrot-colored hair, seemingly not interested in them as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis and pursed his lips, blowing a silent whistle.
The bell rang and the doors opened, the entire car filled with white lace and the sound of giddy, nervous laughter, reminding Marc of the ballroom set for a wedding downstairs.
The bride had arrived.
Behind her, a photographer held up a camera, his shot of the bride aimed right at them. Marc nudged Devyn quickly to the left, trying to get both of them out of the picture, the flash momentarily blinding.
Someone called out, and a camera flashed again. Devyn and Marc stepped far to the side to let the bride out of the elevator, and she was instantly surrounded by a crowd, excitement rising up from the group.
He managed to get Devyn around them and into the elevator as the doors wobbled to a close, the bride and her spontaneous entourage blocking the other man who’d waited.
Marc leaned on the Close Door button, willing the rubber strips to roll toward each other. Just as the doors were about to seal shut, a hand shoved in between and forced them back open with a clunk.
Damn it. Tension coiled through him as the redheaded young man stepped inside. Marc purposely waited until the guy chose a floor. Four. Where their first room was.
Without hesitation, Marc stepped in front of Devyn, blocking her in the corner to press floor three. The young man took note of the floor but didn’t react. Then he turned, pinning his gaze on Marc, the challenge in his eyes sending Marc’s hand closer to the Glock hidden on his hip. The elevator was small, wood and glass—the worst possible place to fire a gun.
The car thudded to a stop at the third floor. Marc led Devyn out and away from the car, relieved when the door closed. He had to act, fast.
“Go to three-fifteen, and don’t move,” he said, slapping the card key into her palm. “Chain the door, and don’t stand in front of the door or window. Don’t let anyone in but me.”
Her eyes were saucers now. “Why?”
“Just do it, fast.” He gave her a little shove, nodding toward the sign that indicated where 315 was, just a few doors away.
The minute she was in the room, he jogged toward the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, reaching the fourth floor in seconds. He eased the door open silently and peeked around, just in time to see Red approaching 412, Marc’s room.
With a fucking key.
He inched out, ready to time his attack for the instant the other man had one hand on the card key and the other on the knob, but suddenly the guy stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a phone, reading it.
“Jesus,” he mumbled. “They fucking moved.”
Marc backed behind the door as the kid started toward him, holding the heavy metal door so it closed without making a sound.
Back in the stairwell, he pressed against the wall, deep into the corner.
If the door didn’t open in three seconds, he’d run downstairs and meet the elevator when it stopped at the third floor.
The door popped open loudly.
The man took a few steps down, completely unaware that Marc hid behind him. Then he stopped and took out a cigarette, obviously not in any hurry.
A match flared, bathing the shadows in an orange rush, the sulfur smell taking over, then a thick waft of cigarette smoke. Marc waited until the nicotine hit his brain, then moved silently behind the guy until his weapon touched the red hair.
“Jesus!” The man jumped and spun around, the cigarette flying as he grabbed for the railing to keep from falling. “Fuckin’ A, man.”
“Who you working for?”
His eyes narrowed at Marc. “The hotel.”
“Doing what?”
“Security.”
“Does that include breaking into rooms?”
“If there’s a problem.” He lifted his hands and backed up toward the stairs he’d just descended. “Back off, man.”
“Who sent you to four-twelve?” Marc demanded.
“Front desk. Guests moved—we need to be sure everything’s gone from the room.”
“So if we call the front desk right now, they’ll confirm that?”
“Of course they will.”
Marc held out his left hand, his right holding the pistol over the man’s heart. “Give me your phone. Take out a gun and I pull this trigger.”
The young man reached into his pocket and produced the phone.
“Put it on speaker and call the front desk.”
The man glanced at the phone but did nothing.
“Now!” Marc ordered.
He pressed one button; then his hands started shaking, obviously an act. He fumbled the phone and dropped it, looking at Marc.
“Sorry,” he said. “Let me get it.”
“Get this.” Marc slammed his knee up, nailing the guy in the groin and sending him straight backward down the stairs. He landed at the bottom, curled in half, moaning.
“Who do you work for?” Marc demanded, hustling down the steps to get in his face.
The phone lay next to his head, buzzing with a text. With the gun at the guy’s head, Marc picked it up and read it.
Did you deliver message to 412?
“What message?” Marc demanded.
He had seconds. Seconds to get what he could out of him, then he had to get Devyn. Someone else could know what room she was in.
Lifting his right hand, Marc smashed the gun into the man’s face, earning a low growl of misery and causing some pain but not nearly enough to knock him out. Under him, the other man writhed, one hand out to the right but smart enough not to take a swing at someone who pinned him with a gun.
“Who sent you?” Marc demanded, raising his hand again.
“I… I… don’t know. I swear to fucking God, I don’t know.”
The gun came down again, no easier this time, smacking flesh. “Next time I shoot it.”
“I swear… I don’t know the guy’s name.”
“He just texted you.”
“I took his money.” A bruise darkened over his eye, angry and red.
&nb
sp; “To do what?” Marc demanded.
“Tell her…” Blood oozed from a cut on his lip. “To leave.”
“Why?”
He looked terrified, tears building. “I swear to God, man, I don’t have a clue.”
“Give me a name.” As Marc readied for one more hit, the man’s arm came up, smashing the burning cigarette onto the back of Marc’s hand.
“I don’t fucking know!” he insisted over Marc’s hiss of pain.
He had no more time for this clown. “Tell him she got the message, and if anyone comes near her again, they’re dead.”
Marc gave him one more vile look, bending over to take the phone from the floor and the room key that had fallen next to it, then backed down the stairs, catapulting through the door when he reached it.
The hall was empty.
At 315, he rapped twice. “It’s Marc.”
No answer.
Son of a bitch, did they beat him here? “Devyn?” he called, knocking again.
Still no answer.
He glanced at the key he’d taken and stuck it in the reader, getting an instant green light and access. A master. Whoever wanted to warn Devyn had definitely infiltrated the hotel staff.
He pushed the door open, snapping the security latch. “Devyn!”
She peeked through the two-inch opening, her face bone white.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She closed the door partially, then opened it for him, stepping back to let him in. She held the envelope in one hand, a piece of paper in the other.
“What does it say?” Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
“Absolutely nothing. It was blank.”
CHAPTER 13
Sharon touched the switch and waited for the familiar flicker of milky yellow fluorescent lights to illuminate the two lab tables and glass-enclosed shelves that ran alongside the row of airtight coolers against the back wall of the room. The basement, not ten by twenty feet, had become her workplace for the past several weeks.
Stuffing her fingers into sticky latex gloves and pulling them tightly over the cuffs of her lab coat, she checked her mask, grateful that it not only blocked a deadly spore from finding its way into her system but also covered the distinct smell of wet earth that permeated the basement walls. From the cemetery, no doubt. So close to this house, so full of tens of thousands of dead Irish men and women.
Shiver of Fear Page 14
