Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2)

by Cindy Brandner

  Jamie, as always, exuded a calm dignity, though she knew his show of strength was purely for Pat’s sake. This had devastated him in a way few would suspect.

  She wondered with a part of her mind that seemed to exist separately if Casey had received word, if he knew by newspaper or television what had happened to Sylvie. He musn’t know or he’d be here, and that meant either he wasn’t reading papers or watching the television, or that he’d left the country entirely.

  David Kendall stood to her left, blond hair combed smoothly in place, glancing at Pat now and again, though never enough to appear unseemly. He was hopelessly British, but exemplified all that was right with England and had displayed a courage of tempered steel in daring to come today. It was possible, the political climate being what it was, that he was risking his very life by being here. She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and he gave her a quick smile of gratitude.

  Father Jim, now saying the Rite of Committal, was bareheaded, brown hair flying wild in the wind, voice ringing through the rain like a deep, clear bell.

  Wherefore my heart is glad, and my spirit rejoiceth;

  my flesh also shall rest in hope.

  Thou shalt show me the path of life;

  in thy presence is the fullness of joy,

  and at thy right hand there is pleasure for evermore.

  She could not quite believe that Sylvie wouldn’t slip up any minute, squeezing in beside Pat, flyaway blonde hair tamed by the rain, apologizing breathlessly for her tardiness. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek; she would not cry, Pat needed her strength, not her tears. She closed her eyes for a minute, taking a breath to calm the grief that was clawing its way relentlessly up the back of her throat. And felt Casey’s presence there as surely as if he’d touched her. Her eyes snapped open and certain enough, there he was, a dark, windswept figure in a navy overcoat, face thinner than it had been three weeks ago, eyes as dark as she’d ever known them.

  She had to bite back a cry of welcome, even through grief and the dull miasma of shock, everything in her pulled toward him. He was looking at her steadily, face unreadable, though there was no hint of the softness his expression habitually wore around her.

  She flinched as the first clod of earth hit Sylvie’s coffin, breaking the gaze Casey had locked her in, feeling as though someone had stabbed her repeatedly in the area of her heart. Father Jim was speaking.

  “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Sylvie; and we commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her, the Lord lift up his countenance upon her and give her peace. Amen.”

  Pat stood, mud still clinging to his hand, and Father Jim began the closing words.

  “The Lord be with you.”

  Like the good Catholic children they all were, they responded with the all too familiar words, “And with thy spirit.”

  Father Jim bowed his head, a tremor in the strong bulge of his Adam’s apple.

  “Let us pray.” Together they all prayed the final communal words that would be spoken over Sylvie.

  Our Father, who art in heaven,

  hallowed be thy Name,

  thy kingdom come,

  thy will be done,

  on earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread.

  And forgive us our trespasses,

  as we forgive those who trespass against us.

  And lead us not into temptation,

  but deliver us from evil.

  For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory,

  for ever and ever. Amen.

  Suddenly she became aware David had laid his hand over hers, and that Father Jim was speaking the words that would dismiss the mourners.

  “The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, the great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant: Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight; through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever.”

  People were moving away from the grave. Pat was nodding mechanically as mourners filed past and offered their last words of comfort.

  She turned to Pat, painfully aware of Casey at her back. She squeezed Pat’s hand, and was rewarded by a small flicker of his mouth. His hand, however, was slack and unresponsive. She left the graveside and David, offering her his arm, walked her to the edge of the path that ran up toward to cemetery gate.

  Father Jim’s words of comfort for Pat floated toward her, mixed with rain and the scent of hothouse flowers.

  When she turned toward the car, Casey stood directly in her path. Close enough to touch and yet the distance between them now was greater than it had ever been. Despite the lack of emotion in his expression, she knew it was not coincidence that had placed him here. She crossed her arms firmly over her soaked coat, more in an effort to not give in to her longing to throw her arms about him than anything else. David silently slipped away, leaving them alone.

  His face had healed, the bruises faded now to pale ocher and watered green.

  “How are ye?” he asked, and the mere sound of his voice was enough to break the fragile reserve she barely had a hold on.

  She shook her head, biting down on her bottom lip as tears filled her eyes. “Don’t ask me that unless you’re ready to come home. Are you ready to come home?”

  His face was as miserable as her own. “No,” he answered and then again, “no, I’m not.”

  “Then don’t ask me how I am,” she said, voice cracking despite her best efforts, “when you bloody well know the answer.”

  He nodded, rain dripping in a steady stream from the ends of his hair into his eyes.

  “I never thought it would come to this with us,” he said so softly she barely heard him.

  “Nor did I,” she replied. She reached into her pocket for the one item she’d tucked there this morning, on the chance he would appear. She took his hand, flinching inwardly at his hesitation to her touch.

  Casey gazed blankly at the key she’d placed in his palm. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s the key to the house,” she said tightly.

  “I know what it is,” he said, taking a frustrated breath.

  “I thought you might need a place to stay. I’ll leave if it makes it easier for you—so you’re—” she took a deep breath, throat thick with unshed tears, “you should feel free to go home.”

  He shook his head, holding the key back towards her. “If yer not there, it’s hardly home, Jewel.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said, unable to hold back the tears any longer. They fell unchecked, mingling with the icy downpour that had soaked them both.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, “it’s habit.”

  She touched his cheek, smoothing the rain away from his lashes. He closed his eyes, allowing the contact for a moment. Then he lifted his own hand and gently pushed hers away.

  “Pamela I just—I can’t—”

  She shook her head. “It’s alright, I understand. You should be with Pat now.”

  They both looked toward the grave, the mounded dirt a slick hill of mud, and to the man that stood beside it, head bowed, rose petals wilting at his feet.

  She stepped off the path, away from Casey. She stood as he walked past, without another word or glance in her direction. He went to his brother, stood beside him, silent, knowing there were no words in the lexicon of human language that could comfort Pat now. Then Pat turned slightly in Casey’s direction.

  She saw Casey’s hand go gently to the nape of his brother’s neck, saw him pull Pat toward him. When Pat bowed his head to his brother’s shoulder and Casey’s arms came around him protectively, she turned away, unable to bear the sight of them any longer.

  Jamie waited by the car, face impassive as she appr
oached.

  “Home?” he asked, opening the door.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I have one anymore, Jamie.”

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Requiem

  YE NEED TO GO HOME.”

  Casey sighed, and turned the page of the book he was pretending to read. “I heard ye the first seven times man, I’m startin’ to feel a mite unwelcome.”

  Pat glared at him across the table where they both sat, the dinner Casey had prepared lying untouched between them. Since the funeral, Casey had stayed here with his brother, who had made it clear in all ways that he wanted him gone.

  “Ignore me if I’m irritatin’ ye so badly.”

  “Maybe it’s that I think yer a fool eejit,” Pat said flatly, “when my own wife is layin’ cold in the ground an’ yers is alive an’ well, an’ in need of yer comfort. Ye weren’t the only one who lost Lawrence, ye know. We all loved him. Pamela as much as yerself, I warrant. Or would ye rather leave the job of consolin’ her to Jamie?”

  Casey eyed his brother darkly. “Dinna throw that threat at me, I’ll not rise to it. I’m here to look after yerself, an’ to make sure ye neither drink nor starve yerself to death, an’ there’s an end to it. ‘Tis nothin’ to do with my wife or Jamie.”

  “Don’t be a fool Casey,” Pat said quietly. “He has always loved her.”

  “And she him,” Casey said with no little bitterness. “D’ye really think I need remindin’ of it?”

  Dark eye met dark and neither looked away.

  “Then go see her.”

  Casey shook his head. “No, I can’t just yet, seein’ her the other day was hard enough, an’ if I’m not ready to go home I don’t think it serves either of us to see the other.”

  “Are ye leaving her?”

  Casey wouldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “I don’t know Pat, I’ve not decided yet.”

  “It’s only yer decision to make?”

  Casey nodded, face grim. Pat knew instinctively that to say another word on this subject would be the same as sticking a knife into his brother.

  Pat sighed and took another tack. “Tis my life to do with as I please. I don’t much care if I die, as long as I don’t do it before I find the bastards that killed Sylvie.”

  “Well perhaps ye’ll forgive me if I do give a damn,” Casey said, rising to clear away the cold food.

  “It’s too late now anyway,” Pat said quietly, “it was me they meant to kill an’ as soon as they figure out how to do it they’ll come, might take a week or a month, but they’ll come.”

  “No they won’t,” Casey said, “ye can do yer healin’ in peace. An’ maybe if ye can stay clear of the Englishman ye’ll not have cause to worry in the future.”

  Something in Casey’s tone roused Pat from the fugue he’d been suspended in since Sylvie’s murder. He turned, watching his brother calmly fill the sink with soap and water, a tea towel slung over his shoulder, cuffs rolled up above his elbows.

  “What have ye done?”

  Casey didn’t answer at once, instead he started washing glasses as though they were talking of what groceries needed to be bought. When he did answer, the words struck ice to the core of Pat’s soul.

  “What needed to be done.”

  For the first time since Sylvie’s death, Pat felt something—utter panic and terror. “When did—was it by yer own hand?” He gasped for air, feeling as though someone had punched him hard in the chest. “How the hell did ye know who to look for?”

  Casey gave him a hard look. “Do ye want to know this? Because I don’t feel the need to talk about it.”

  Pat took in the look on his brother’s face, and read what lay below it. “No, I don’t want to know. But there’ll be others, they’d likely have talked.”

  Casey shook his head. “No, there’s nothing to trace back those men to you or David. No one in the pub in Drumintree has a memory of that night.”

  “Ye’ve been busy,” Pat stood, chair falling over with the sudden violence of his movement. Anger was flooding him, a sharp center in the midst of the leaden shroud he’d been in since Sylvie’s death.

  “Aye I have been, but now it’s done, I’ve tied up the loose ends an’ I leave it to you what to make of yer life.”

  “Just like that? Did yer wife have to take the pictures, man? Did she have to witness an’ record yer handiwork?”

  “It was yer handiwork I was takin’ care of, laddie, that’s what caused this whole mess in the first place. Oh Christ, I’m sorry Pat, ye know I don’t mean it.”

  Pat staggered back, anger swiftly drowned in guilt. “No, don’t apologize for tellin’ the truth. It’s my fault Sylvie’s dead, I know it better than anyone.”

  “Ye did what ye thought right, ye saved a man’s life, no one could have seen where it would lead.”

  “No?” Pat shook his head. “We’ve lived in this country all our lives, Casey, I more than anyone should have seen exactly what would happen. I was stupid an’ naïve an’ the price was Sylvie’s life. There’s no forgiveness or redemption for a mistake like that.”

  “So ye just throw yerself away? I think ye’d best face facts, laddie, ye’ve still a life ahead of ye an’ yer goin’ to have to make some tough decisions. Decide what it is ye can live with and what ye cannot.”

  “What of yerself, brother, what is it you can live with?” Pat spat the words out, the taste of them like blood on his tongue.

  “It’s who I am, Pat, I’m not made of the same stuff you are. I tried for a long time to be somethin’ else an’ it never worked. Yer the poetry in this family, an’ I’m the prose. When I see a need I fill it, finish the job so to speak.”

  “Yer talkin’ mad ‘cause of what’s happened to Lawrence. And I don’t know what’s taken place between yerself an’ Pamela, but ye need her now as ye never have before.”

  “Ye’ve no notion what’s gone on,” Casey said, tone indicating the topic was not up for conversation.

  “No I don’t, an’ I can see by the way the two of ye are that it’s no small thing, but I can tell ye that it’s not worth it, whatever it is.”

  Casey shook his head. “Ye could be forgiven for thinkin’ my judgement is clouded an’ that I’m not actin’ rationally, but despite all that’s happened I’m thinkin’ clear as I have in a very long time. I didn’t agonize over the decision to kill those men, Pat. I just did it. I promised Da’ I’d look out for ye an’ I’ll do what it takes to keep that promise.”

  “Listen to yerself,” Pat said, anger pushing out against the leaden shroud harder now, ripping at the casing he’d tried to shelter within. “Yer talkin’ like ye’ve taken some blood vow to protect me.”

  “I have,” Casey replied quietly. “What is a promise made to yer father if not that?”

  “Christ,” Pat breathed out, “ye frighten me.”

  Casey shrugged, face intractable. “If that’s the price I pay to keep ye breathin’ so be it.”

  Pat wondered when the transition had happened, when his brother had become this man—tall, broad-shouldered, with nothing of the boy remaining. Strong and ruthless when the necessity presented itself, capable of acts of violence to protect the ones he loved. The fact that he’d not been able to protect Lawrence would be eating him alive, yet nothing of it showed in his face. The years of pain, the time in prison, all the wars both public and personal, had not served to diminish him. Instead, the fires had refined him into this man who was both beloved and terrifying. His brother, and a stranger that he couldn’t fathom the motivations of.

  “It’s everything Daddy didn’t want for ye,” Pat said bluntly, “he’s likely rollin’ in his grave.”

  “No,” Casey said, “he’d not be surprised, he always saw what was within me. He knew me better than I did myself. He may have wanted different, but Da’ was a realist, Patrick, so he tried to equip me for what he knew I was, an’ where that might lead.”

  “And where is that? A life away from the woman you love, in exile,
for what? So you can be some sort of vigilante? It’s only romantic in movies.”

  “An’ how is it any different from what ye did for David? It was his life or theirs, did ye hesitate?”

  “No.”

  “Well, yer my brother, an’ there was no less I could do.”

  Pat nodded. Casey meant what he said, to his way of thinking there was no other option. “What now, man?”

  “We’re on the outside now, Patrick, killin’ those men has changed things for the both of us an’ that’s why I want ye to take this.” He fished an envelope from his pocket and threw it on the table in front of Pat.

  “It’s enough,” Casey said gruffly, “to take ye anywhere ye’ve a mind to go. I want ye to get clear of this godforsaken wee town.”

  “Where’d ye get this sort of money?”

  “I work an’ so does Pamela. We don’t do so badly, we’d a bit set aside. She wants ye to take it as well. I’d not have given it to ye without askin’ her first.”

  Pat stood, walked over to the desk in the corner of the front room, and took a long, thick envelope from the top drawer. He tossed the package to Casey.

  “What are these?”

  “Plane tickets to California—‘twas Jamie’s wedding gift to Sylvie an’ I. I’d told him beforehand that we planned to wed, an’ he gave me these a couple of days later. I’d not told her, I wanted to surprise her with it. I should have taken her six months ago.” He eyed the money that he’d yet to touch. “Seems everyone wants me to run away.”

  “Will ye go then?”

  Pat shook his head. “I know ye think I need to escape, but I cannot just yet. For now, I need to be here, where she was. Can ye understand that?”

  Casey sighed. “I understand, but I wish ye’d go anyway.”

  Pat pushed the money back toward him. “Take it back. Start that construction business ye’ve talked about. If I thought ye’d leave Belfast yerself, I’d say take it an’ run. As for me, for better or worse, my life is here.”