Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  Damn. She’d pegged him dead on. Weary. Tired as hell. Hungry enough to eat airport fast food and tempted to accept her offer of a room with a bed. And dinner. How was a guy supposed to refuse all of that? He tried. “That’s very kind, but no thank you, ma’am. We’ve already made arrangements in Dungarvin. We’ll be leaving as soon as Powers gets back.”

  “But you’ll eat while you wait, will you not?” Rosie O’Banner had a delicious openness about her. When she cocked her head, her blue eyes twinkled with a dash of mischief, as if she dared him to turn her down one more time.

  It didn’t help that Jordan elbowed him and said, “I can always cancel the hotel.”

  “And I’ll just bet my last lamb in the meadow that you poor boys haven’t eaten all day now, have you, eh?” Mrs. O’Banner reinforced her argument.

  Eric’s stomach growled at the temptation within reach. Perhaps this out-of-the-way B&B would suffice for dinner and the night, but no more. In the morning, he was out of there. With Finn. For sure. “Thank you. We have travelled far today. A meal would hit the spot.”

  Oh, the smiling eyes this woman had been blessed with all but beamed at the chance to feed them. Like that was anything but more work for her. She reminded Eric of his mother out in Washington State and her willingness to serve others. There never was a crotchety child or a grumpy man she couldn’t get around with her endearing ways and lighthearted banter. Rosie had to be related, if not by blood, then by spirit.

  “Well, good. That’s settled.” She nodded to the staircase at her left. “First room at the top is open. You take that one,” she said to Eric then turned to Jordan. “The one across the hall from it is available as well. ‘Tis yours. Now call that stuffy hotel with its scratchy bedding and boxed meals, and cancel those reservations. You’re to be my guests for the night, and I challenge either of you to argue.”

  Eric relented. His charming host had quite a way about her. “One night will suffice. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Off with you and wash your hands then. I’ve just finished tomorrow’s stew and another batch of bread. I’ll have a table set with a hot meal and a hearty mug of Guinness for you before you’re back. Hurry along. Don’t dilly dally.”

  He had to smile. She’d won him over with food and a cheerful welcome. Him. A stranger with a gun. All the more reason he and Jordan couldn’t stay more than one night.

  They obeyed their charming hostess like two sons might have obeyed their mother. Eric took the door to the right of the staircase. He set his backpack on the floor next to the bed, and his stomach growled in anticipation of its first meal in nearly two days. He’d gone without food or sleep longer on black ops, but it always ended the same. He’d be comatose for a day or two, then hungry enough to eat anything not tacked down.

  The room was larger than he’d expected. Clean in a fresh breeze kind of way, the window was open and a gentle evening wind tossed the sheer white curtain panels. A patchwork quilt of all shades of blues and creamy whites covered the queen-sized bed. Braided rugs littered the polished wooden floor.

  Eric closed the window and deliberated doffing his shoulder holster as well, but didn’t. Instead, he covered the weapon with a light jacket to keep it out of sight. What Rosie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Setting his backpack beside the bed, he opened the side pocket and tugged out a flat metal case. Opening the tablet-sized item, he pushed his thumb to the one sided-hinge to lock it in place before he set it on his nightstand. And there she was, a dark-haired little girl with adoration for him in her brown eyes. Cheyenne.

  Eric pressed the pad of his thumb to his lips, then to hers. “I love you, Angel,” he whispered like he’d done every night since his world fell apart, “and I still remember.”

  Along with his daughter, his parents, Lara and Rex Reynolds smiled back from their own photo. And like it or not, so did Shea on her wedding day. God, she’d been a radiant bride. So full of hope. Love. All good things.

  The only other item in his portable shrine was the key to a Cape Cod style home on Vashon Island in the middle of Puget Sound, Washington. His and Shea’s first real home and their refuge until things got too tough. He hadn’t had the heart to sell it, so it waited—like him—for the day she came back. For now, a couple with seven kids rented it, which was good. It deserved to live.

  Tugging the photo that he’d found in Mikkelson’s flat out of his pocket, Eric slid it between Cheyenne and Shea’s photos. “Keep her safe for me,” he told his daughter. “If she’s already up in heaven with you, please tell her I miss her. Tell her I never stopped loving her. Give her a kiss for me.” His prayer. Every night.

  Brushing a quick hand under his eye, Eric let the silence between heaven and earth stretch. It had been so long since he’d seen or talked with Shea, maybe it was time to face the truth. She could very well be dead. He just wished he knew how and where or—if. A husband deserved to know something like that.

  Ending his one-sided conversation the way he had for two years now, Eric whispered what he’d once said to his sleepy child, “Goodnight, Angel. Sweet dreams.”

  Off he went to use the en-suite head. One glance in the mirror over the washbasin explained how his hostess had read him like a book. The man in the mirror stared back with definite black circles around his glassy eyes. The tired ass had hunger and exhaustion down to a fine art.

  He turned the faucet on and lowered his head under the cold stream long enough to revive him. Eric towel dried his face and spruced his short black hair into a few spikes until he looked halfway decent. The grumpy man in the mirror didn’t appear to be quite so dead by the time he hit the top of the stairs.

  Jordan’s cheerful voice could be heard below, bantering from one room to another with Rosie about the weather in Amsterdam. All conversation ceased when she hurried from her kitchen with a basket of steamy rolls in her hand.

  Eric crossed the cozy dining area with its tablecloth covered tables and wooden captain’s chairs, to where Jordan sat in the corner with his face in a steaming bowl of beef stew. Rolls dripping with melted butter lined his plate. He had a half-finished pint of what looked like ale in one hand and a spoon in the other. “Come on,” he said with a mouthful. “This stuff’s good. Dig in.”

  “You’d better hurry,” Rosie tossed over her shoulder on her way back to her kitchen. “There may not be anything left but crumbs and dirty dishes in another minute.”

  Eric took a seat with his hungry buddy, but faced the doorway, an old habit from active duty days. Rose might know how to cook, but he doubted he’d relish the fare as much as his buddy did. He’d lost the zest for life over two years ago. Mostly, he ate take-out or order-in. Cheap food. Fast food. He never sat in the kitchen or at the dining room table when he ate. Wouldn’t think of it.

  Oddly, one spoon full of the meaty broth encouraged another. His stomach calmed. He dipped his chin toward the aromatic aroma lifting from the bowl, and he settled down to all but inhale the tastiest and simplest fare he’d consumed in a long time. Chunks of tender, seasoned beef swam with carrots and baby red potatoes in a richly flavored broth. Yeast rolls, tender and warm. Creamy butter. A pint of Guinness that went down smooth and rich.

  By the time he finished, he’d polished off three bowls of stew and hadn’t spoken a word. There wasn’t time. As long as he’d kept eating, Rosie kept serving.

  At last, sated and comfortably full, he tipped back in his chair to watch Jordan sop a bread roll to the last speck of stew in the bottom of what had to be his third bowl, not that Eric counted.

  Dessert appeared in the form of a hearty spoonful of apple cobbler topped off with thick vanilla custard and a drizzle of cream. Eric eyed the tantalizing dish, not certain he had room for more, but that aroma...

  Maybe just one bite.

  Jordan made swift work of his, moaning and groaning that the dessert was too good to pass up. The guy had to have been born with a hollow leg. After smacking his lips, he stuck his elbows to the tab
le and eyed Eric’s plate. “You gonna eat that?”

  Eric lifted his fork, daring his buddy to make another move. “What do you think?”

  Decision made. Just like the stew and biscuits, after the first savory bite, Eric polished off the dessert. The apples retained a bit of crispness, and the custard added a hint of cinnamon mingled with another flavor he couldn’t identify. Rum? Irish whiskey? It was good, whatever it was. For a change, he’d enjoyed eating. His stomach didn’t complain, either.

  Rosie spied him licking his bottom lip after the last delicious morsel. “I have more if you’re still hungry.”

  He chuckled. “No, thank you, ma’am. I haven’t eaten this much home-cooked food in years.” Two years, one month and seventeen days to be precise. Shake-n-Bake chicken. Wild rice and buttered asparagus. Razzleberry pie with a dollop of vanilla bean ice cream. The night before we flew to Amsterdam. The last day of my life. And then they both left me…

  “You’re a mighty fine cook, Mrs. O’Banner,” Jordan declared, his chair tilted back and one hand on his full stomach, the other on the edge of the table. “Mr. O’Banner must be one happy man. Where’s he off to?”

  She blushed to the roots of her pleasantly graying hair. “I’m afraid he’s singing with the angels. I planted him over at Saint Peter’s twelve years back.”

  “I’m sorry.” Now it was Jordan’s turn to blush. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Never you mind.” She brushed his apology off. “’Twas the day before Easter he got it in his head to row out for a bucket of oysters all the way at Galway. Should’ve gone to Holy Saturday Mass like I told him to, but no. Tsk, tsk. He liked his chowder, and me? Well, I liked to make it for him, so off he went. When he didn’t come back, I took me car and went to find him. Poor Paddy. He’d had a heart attack. Hadn’t shucked a single oyster. Hadn’t even gotten into his dinghy. Just dropped dead on the shore under a clear, blue sky.”

  Eric took over for Jordan who’d gone redder than Rosie and looked to be ten times more uncomfortable. “That had to have been hard for you.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron. “Yes and no. Life is made up of a long line of comings and goings, like people in a queue at the church buffet. ’Tis the way of things, is all ’tis. Paddy went a tad earlier than I expected, but one day ’twill be my turn at the table. How about you? You’ve had your share of bad times. It was difficult, but you survived, didn’t you?”

  Her piercing question shot a spear straight to Eric’s heart. This woman seemed able to see inside him. He chose not to engage in her charming, but probing way. Some things were better left unshared. “When did Finn say he’d be back?”

  Rosie offered a sly wink as if she knew he’d dodged her inquiry, when she knew absolutely nothing at all and never would. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen. Just remember. We can nah share a sorrow we have nah finished grieving. Nor can we share joy ‘til we’ve learned the real cost of a smile. Life is hard, but ’tis the hardness of it that makes the goodness of it shine like a glimmer of sun breaking through a cloudy day. As for Finn, he didn’t give me a definite time. ’Tis dark now and another storm cloud has rolled in, so maybe soon.”

  Eric averted his gaze. Rosie had an uncanny insight and a glib tongue. He needed to avoid her.

  “What do you think?” Jordan asked. “Go looking for him?”

  “Stay.” Eric glanced at the rain hitting the window, typical for southern Ireland in spring. “Let him come to us for a change.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Shea had left Rosie’s cottage within seconds of her arrival. She’d no more than stashed her suitcase next to the dresser in her room before she’d advised Rosie that she was going for a walk, but to expect visitors. Mother had said another agent was with Eric, but Shea had forgotten the name.

  Professor Grover’s eyes widened to see her on the doorstep of his cottage. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’d fussed, sputtered a moment, then waved her inside. “Come in, child, it’s raining. Are you alone?”

  “I am, but I can’t stay long.” She entered quickly with one last measured glance to make sure she hadn’t been followed. Only when she was safely behind his heavy wooden door did she allow a deep breath of relief.

  His home was none the worse for wear considering his long absences to Amsterdam. Embers glowed at the hearth where a black cat lay curled on a golden velvet pillow. Yet the professor seemed caught off guard. Edgy. He reopened his door to peer outside.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  One bushy brow lifted. “No, I don’t get many visitors, that’s all. Let me look at you. What’s going on? You’re thinner. Have you lost weight?”

  This wasn’t the time to look thinner. Shea used her deepest Finn voice as she adjusted her very large paunch. “You tell me what’s going on. You’re the one who left without saying a word. Did you know Phoenix was killed right after you left? Gordie’s dead, too. They were beheaded. With a sword!” The words rushed out of her.

  He blinked in surprise. “Murdered? A sword? Oh, dear me, no. I hadn’t heard that, not that anyone knew where I’d gone. You see, my sister took ill. I rushed home, but she passed before I could get here. I’m... I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  Shuffling to the rocking chair by the fireplace, he shook his head and slipped out of his penny loafers. “To tell you the truth, I was so frazzled when I got the news about Eloise that I honestly didn’t think to tell anyone I was leaving. Once I got here…” He gestured at the room in general as he sank into the chair. “I’m sorry. I simply forgot about everything, but her.”

  Of all people, Shea understood how dazed a person could become after the death of a loved one. She crouched at his knee. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were dealing with a sick sister, nor her death. I wouldn’t have come, but now…” Her gaze shifted to the closed door behind her. “Do you know anyone who would want to murder Phoenix and Gordie?”

  “Murdered?” he asked again, squinting at her through the smudged lenses of his glasses. “What happened to you? You’re different tonight. Come, let me make you a cup of tea.” He seemed confused instead of upset at the deaths of his favorite students.

  Shea lifted to the chair beside his, confident that her padding was still in place. A knitted cream-colored afghan hung off the back of his chair, no doubt his sister’s. Maybe that was why this home seemed well taken care of. His sister must have lived here with him. She’d been keeping house for him while he commuted back and forth between Ireland and Amsterdam. How weird.

  “Professor. Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

  “Umm, what?” Stretching forward, he asked yet again, “What’s wrong with you?”

  Me? What’s wrong with you? Oh, hell on earth, Shea should’ve guessed. Her unibrow, the only item that had failed in the past, must be coming undone. Tentatively, her fingers ran over the perfect line of a long, furry caterpillar spirit-gummed over her own delicate brows. Nothing wrong there. She fingered the wart on her chin. Still in place. Her shaggy red wig was next, but it was as good as ever, hopefully as ugly.

  What was he seeing that she wasn’t? “Why do you think I’m different?”

  He squinted through his spectacles, his entire face wrinkling. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed the color of your eyes before. They’re quite lovely for a young man. What color are they? Green or turquoise?”

  Crap! My glasses. She patted her pockets, not sure where that part of her ensemble had gone. Talk about scatterbrained. “I must’ve lost my glasses. My eyes are greenish blue. Sometimes,” she admitted. And I’ll get another pair the first chance I get. Extra thick. Twice as geeky. So no one can see them. Especially not Eric.

  “Don’t worry about it. Come in and sit awhile, child. Tell me what you’ve been up to.” He leaned back in his rocker with his hands folded on his stomach. “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, hasn�
�t it?”

  She leaned in closer, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to absorb the awful news she’d just shared, and oh, by the way. I’m already in and sitting. “Professor. Are you okay?”

  He rocked forward and backward. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  Because you’re freaking me out. “Phoenix and Gordie are dead, but you act as if you haven’t heard me.”

  “They are? What happened?” His rocking chair squeaked on the forward thrust as he came to a stop. His lips curved with an oddly disjointed, lopsided smile that didn’t reflect any concern. He might as well have asked about the weather.

  She caught herself. There was no sense in repeating what he didn’t seem capable of understanding. Her professor’s appearance was different, too. His left eyelid sagged. His smile drooped on the left side of his face, too. Had he suffered a stroke? “Professor, you don’t look well. Is there someone I can call?”

  A crease narrowed between his brows. “Heavens no. Just sit with me. Sometimes grief is too much to take in all at once. It takes time to process it.”

  As she well knew. “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded in time to the sway of his rocking chair. “Yes. I believe I could eat.”

  Shea bit her lip, the hope of any explanation into the murders of her friends lost in the blink of an aged man’s eye. “I’ll fix something before I leave.”

  “But Finn. You must stay. You only just got here.”

  “I’ll be back another day when you’re feeling better.” She lifted from her seat, disappointed, but determined to do what she could.

  Considering his state of mind, his kitchen was quite orderly. She couldn’t locate the cat’s food dishes, but fed it anyway since the friendly beggar kept rubbing its long svelte body against and between her pant legs. Once the cat had its face in its bowl, she fixed toast and opened a can of noodle soup from the professor’s well-filled pantry.

  Someone must have helped him with the housework or there would’ve been more mess. While he ate, she contented herself with petting his cat. It all but scrubbed its furry face on her chin, seemingly starved for attention.