“Sorry, I . . . I dropped the mobile,” Donovan mumbled into the device. He turned aside and took a step away.
Someone touched her arm, and Rylie jerked around to find Sybil standing next to her. Behind her, Donovan carried on a low but intense discussion.
“Appears the two of you are leaving.” Sybil inclined her head in Donovan’s direction.
“I guess so,” Rylie acknowledged, listening to another few terse comments of Donovan’s one-sided conversation. “Can you give the others our apologies?”
Sybil nodded, then shifting her weight from foot to foot, she stuck out her hand. “If I don’t see you again, safe journey Miss . . . Rylie.”
Rylie bit her bottom lip as she exchanged an awkward handshake with the other woman. “Thanks, and I’m sorry about what I said.”
“’Tis no matter,” Sybil intervened a little too quickly. “You were only trying to help.” Then she looked over Rylie’s shoulder and nodded. “Mr. O’Shea.”
Without waiting for any replies, she turned and hurried back toward the cottage. Rylie regarded her half-brother, who still looked pale and tense.
“That was my sister,” he explained, tight lines bracketing his mouth. “She’s very upset, and I promised her I would talk to our father before the police show up.”
Our father. Rylie was certain he didn’t mean to include her in that phrase. Nonetheless, she was included, whether Donovan and his sister liked it or not.
He pulled the keys from his pants pocket and she held out her hand.
“Let me. You’re in no shape to drive.” Then before he could refuse, she added, “This is my car. Don’t make me throw a fit in front of our buddies over there” She nodded toward the two police officers getting into their van.
Smart guy. He believed her threat, for he tossed the keys at her and muttered, “Fine.”
While he slumped in the passenger’s seat, she adjusted the driver’s seat and rear view mirror.
“Do you remember how to get back to the pub?” he asked sulkily. “Drop me there and I’ll take the Morris.”
The police van pulled out of the yard and down the dirt driveway. Rylie started the car, put it in gear, and followed.
“You can probably walk faster than that old heap can run. I’ll just take you to the care facility.”
“Absolutely not!” Outrage flooded his voice and face.
“Look, Donovan,” she cut in. “I already know the name of the place, so I’m going to find it anyway. Do yourself a favor and chill out.”
He spluttered helplessly for a moment, and then shot her an atomic fusion glare. However, his voice had all the warmth of nuclear winter as he spoke between clenched teeth. “Fine and dandy.” He fumed for several long moments while Rylie steered the car along the rutted track. Finally, he spoke again. “When you reach the main road, turn toward Dungannon.”
Crossing his arms, he slouched down and stared stonily ahead. If he wanted to give her the silent treatment, Rylie didn’t care. She was on her way to see her biological father face-to-face. She might not confront him, but at least she would see him. The enormity of the situation was beyond her ability to process, much less put into words.
Most annoying little git he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. Rylie Powell won the prize, hands down.
So why did one touch from her get him all hot and bothered? A right feckin’ mess, to borrow Michael Carmody’s phrase. And the longer he stayed in Ireland, the worse everything grew.
Now this latest, a dead man with a kitchen knife still in him, and his own mother’s kitchen the only one within miles. It didn’t take The Sight to put that one together. The last thing Donovan needed was Rylie and her outrageous paternity claims added to the mix, but here she was.
After almost an hour of driving, the city came into view and he directed her to follow the signs to the hospital.
“I don’t expect there’s any chance you’ll wait outside, so I’ll tell you this only once,” he ground out. “You shall be seen and not heard.”
She shot him a sidelong glare. “I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t behave like one. Or I’ll bodily remove you and have you barred from seeing my father. And don’t think I won’t.”
“Why are you acting like this?” she demanded, equal amounts of indignation and hurt in her tone. Then her voice dropped, “Do you think Dermot killed that man?”
“No.” His denial sounded too quick for even him to believe. He took a deep breath, “But if the news upsets him half as much as I suspect, then I’ll not have you heap one more thing on him.”
A string of conflicting emotions crossed her pretty face. Pain lingered in her voice, “Look Donovan, I didn't come here to hurt anybody. I just want to see Dermot O’Shea, talk to him, ask him why.”
The hospital looming ahead on their left stopped him from replying. She turned the car, and he directed her down two streets and over one more. “Holy Family Board and Care” proclaimed the black letters on the side of the single-story building. She eased the car into a parking space opposite the front door.
Feeling guilty, Donovan cleared his throat, “I’m sorry. I’m only trying to protect my father.”
“I understand.” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. She got out of the car and followed him inside.
Perhaps when she saw what a nasty old bugger Dermot could be, she wouldn’t be so insistent. The thought cheered Donovan as he strode down the hall, the ever-present smell of disinfectant and urine assailing his nostrils. His father’s room was the third on the left, facing the parking lot. At the moment, he had no roommate, one small thing for which Donovan could be grateful.
One of the nurses gave him a nod of recognition.
“He’s just finished his lunch,” she said.
Rapping on the door, he shot Rylie one final warning glance. She looked tense, both hands clenched around the strap of her purse.
“Da,” he called, and poked his head in the door.
Dressed in blue and white striped pajamas and a beige robe, Dermot sat in the half-upholstered chair beside his bed. His eyes widened in surprise as Donovan stepped into the room, and he struggled to purse his lips.
“Boy?” he questioned, using his abbreviated name for Donovan. However, since the right side of his lips didn't coordinate well with the left, it came out more like “boh.” With his good left hand, he grappled to pull his tray table closer and reached for the spelling device he used to communicate. His right arm hung limply at his side as he manipulated the stylus on the device with his left.
By the time Donovan reached him, the screen read, “Wrong?”
“Yes,” Donovan confirmed. “I’m afraid something is wrong.” Before he finished speaking, the word “who?” flashed on the screen. “Don’t worry, it’s not Doreen.”
“Nuh.” His father grunted and shook his unruly head of white hair at the same time. Then he pointed the plastic stylus at Rylie, who stood motionless beside the door.
“She’s just a friend who drove me here.” Donovan positioned himself so that he blocked his father’s view of Rylie and vice versa. “Listen to me, Da. You remember the archeologists who were digging on the old place? Today, they found a dead body in the fens.” The old man’s eyes widened in horror and Donovan quickly added, “A man’s body, dead for at least twenty years.”
Though the look in his eyes lessened, Dermot’s grip on the plastic stylus remained tight. The image of a hand plunging a knife into the man’s stomach flashed through Donovan’s mind.
Donovan took a deep breath, “He was stabbed to death. There was a knife still sticking in his ribs, a kitchen knife.” He saw the knuckles on his father’s left hand whiten. “The PSNI are investigating, of course, and they want to talk to you.”
“Nuh!” Dermot spat, the left side of his face twitching in agitation. He made a series of grunting and gurgling sounds while he punched at the communication board. “FECK PSNI” flashed on the screen.
D
ropping his voice low, Donovan urged, “Da, if you know anything about this, you’d better tell me or Doreen straight away. Seems to me that knife probably came from Mum’s kitchen, and the police are likely thinking the same.”
Visibly more distressed by the moment, Dermot’s grunts grew louder and red splotches mottled his features. “DONT SPEAK UR MUM” flashed on the screen, followed by “U DONT NO.”
Shaken with memories, Donovan felt his own face heating up. “Just because you never told me doesn’t mean I don’t know.” He bent down nose to nose with his father and uttered what he’d never dared before. “People whispered for years that she ran off with another man.”
“Nuh!” Dermot cried, rearing backward in his chair, his mouth twitching with fury. “Eee-jit!” he finally managed to fling out, then another string of nonsense syllables.
“Donovan!”
He jerked around at the sound of his name, wiping his father’s spittle from the side of his face. He’d forgotten all about Rylie, who had witnessed the whole unpleasant scene. She took a step toward him, her gray eyes wide in her tense face.
“Boh!” Dermot shouted at him, and took a swipe at his arm. “WHO?” demanded the screen, then “OUT.”
Close enough to read the angry demands on the communication device, Rylie extended an unsteady hand toward the old man. “I’m Rylie, Jennifer’s daughter . . . ”
“Ow!” Dermot shouted, a vein throbbing in his forehead.
Before anyone could react, the door of the room flew open and a stout, middle-aged nurse bustled inside.
“What’s all this then?” she demanded, her eyes raking over the three of them. She stepped between Donovan and Dermot and laid a firm hand on the old man’s left arm. “Calm yourself now, Dermot.” She cast a stern glance at Donovan. “Mr. O’Shea, I’ll not have you upsetting your father, so I must ask you to leave.”
Dermot shook off the nurse’s hand and launched out a string of unintelligible sounds. His father’s verbal abuse was nothing new, and Donovan had more than a fair guess at what he was saying. Old anger thrummed inside him.
“There’ll be a sight more than me here disturbing him,” he retorted, hands clenched tightly at his sides.
“Not today, there won’t,” the nurse declared. “Now out with the pair of you.”
“Please, ma’am,” Rylie’s voice squeaked like a small child’s. “May I have just a minute with Mr. O’Shea—Dermot O’Shea?”
The nurse gave her a skeptical look. “Are you a relation?”
Rylie drew in a deep breath and her chin jutted out in defiance. “I’m his daughter.”
“Nuh!” shouted Dermot while the nurse’s eyes went round with surprise. “Nuh! Nuh! Nuh!”
“Is this true, Mr. O’Shea?” the nurse gasped at Donovan, ignoring Dermot’s protests.
“So she claims,” Donovan’s tone sounded harsh to his own ears. “Though I can’t imagine why.” His father never failed to push his buttons, make him lose his hard fought control, lash back. He couldn’t stop from adding, “But why don’t you ask him? He ought to know his own flesh and blood.”
More half-comprehensible invectives came from Dermot.
“That will be enough!” The nurse had evidently reached her own boiling point and shook her finger first at her patient, then his son. “Come back tomorrow, if you can behave better than a pair of snarling beasts.” She herded Donovan and Rylie to the door and bellowed, “Tommy! Put Mr. O’Shea back in bed whilst I get him a sedative.”
Awash in guilt and self-loathing, Donovan stumbled down the hall and out to the car. Behind him, Rylie fumbled with the keys and dropped them on the ground. Instinctively, he bent to retrieve them, and so did she. As they both reached, he saw that her hand still trembled. Looking up, he saw her eyes brimming with tears, and felt even more despicable.
“I’ll drive,” he said, pulling the keys from her grasp.
She didn’t protest, just shuffled to the passenger door and got in. He slid into the driver’s seat.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
He was truly sorry he’d let her come along. Sorry she’d heard those ugly family secrets. Sorry she’d seen him provoked and losing control.
But he wasn’t about to try and tell her any of that, so he just repeated, “Sorry.”
Rather than going back the same way and having to backtrack through Dungannon, Donovan took the road east toward Portadown. Rylie didn’t question him. In fact, she hardly seemed to notice anything. The few glances he stole in her direction, she was wiping her eyes with a tissue, or staring mutely at nothing. He only hoped that once they reached Ballyneagh, she would be sufficiently recovered to drive herself back to her B&B.
When he turned off the main road to head north, it started to rain. While Donovan mused on the uncanny parallels of weather and mood, the large intermittent drops increased to a downpour. Soon, he was forced to slow the car to a crawl over the pothole filled country lane. Then a loose flock of sheep forced him to stop altogether.
As he fumbled with the windscreen defroster, Rylie spoke at last. “Why did you lie?” She was peering out the fogged window, not at him. “Dermot did kill that man, and you know because you have The Sight.”
Donovan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he replied. “No, The Sight or whatever ’tis I have doesn’t work that way.”
She turned and looked at him. Her eyes, red from crying, searched his face for answers.
Reluctantly, Donovan continued, “I know the man was stabbed, but I don’t know who he was, or who killed him.”
With a little nod of acknowledgment, she accepted his explanation, but she wasn’t finished questioning him, even though she glanced nervously away. Donovan beeped the car horn to urge the last of the sheep off the roadway.
Clearing her throat, Rylie spoke again, “Do you think your mother left because she found out about my mother and me?”
He paused for a heartbeat before he said, “No, because my father is not the same Dermot O’Shea as your father.”
She moistened her lips, “Did The Sight tell you that?”
“No, but I know it’s true nonetheless.” Then he cut off her protest by adding, “Just like I know my mother is dead. Somewhere in the fens.”
Chapter 5
THE RAIN DECREASED TO A DRIZZLE BY THE TIME DONOVAN parked the car behind the pub. The remainder of the drive had passed in strained silence, and he was glad it was done.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Rylie announced, as he handed her the keys.
Together, they dashed the short distance from the car to the back door of the pub and went inside. While Rylie disappeared into the WC marked Ladies, Donovan’s growling stomach reminded him that they’d missed lunch and it was now tea time. He ducked into the pub’s kitchen and grabbed two thick wedges of potato farl from the tray inside the fridge. Gruff laughter from the main room told him that eating there would be far too public. Stacking both hunks on a single plate, he nuked it in the microwave for a minute before he slipped back out to the vestibule.
Rylie stood at the foot of the stairs, her hair free from its ponytail and freshly combed. She’d put on some of that mauve lipstick, too.
“You must be hungry,” he said, holding up the plate. “Come upstairs and I’ll fix us a cuppa.”
The smooth skin around her gray eyes looked a bit puffy, but her wide mouth curved into a half-smile. “Thanks, that’d be great.”
However, her voice sounded about as wrung out as he felt. She followed him up and into the kitchen, where Donovan placed the plate on the counter, put water in the electric kettle and plugged it in.
“I’ll just go and wash up,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Turn on the telly if you’d like.”
He hit the knob on the radiator as he headed into the loo. This day had been one ordeal after another. And unfortunately, it wasn’t over. Once his sister learned of his row with Dermot, she would be calling to give him a good tongue-lashing. Not that he didn�
��t deserve it, but he certainly didn’t relish the idea.
After washing and drying his face and hands, he went back into the sitting room. Rylie’s purse and hooded sweatshirt lay on the floor beside her, while she lounged on the couch, chewing on a large bite of the potato bread. Two plates and forks sat on the coffee table.
She swallowed hastily. “Sorry I didn’t wait, but I was starving.”
“Not a problem.” Donovan hadn’t noticed before how the long-sleeved black T-shirt she wore clung to her slim torso and molded around her breasts. His sudden pang of hunger had nothing to do with his stomach.
He hurried into the kitchen to brew the tea. By the time he came back, carrying a tray with two mugs, the teapot and some McVities Digestive cookies, he’d reined in his rebellious libido. Rylie, who had polished off her portion of farl, scooted over and patted the sofa cushion beside her. He set the tray down, then seated himself before he filled the mugs.
“Here you are, tea straight up.” He reached for his own plate. “Do you take your coffee the same way?”
“Actually, I like something called a Cappuccino Blaster from this little place down by Santa Monica pier called Jabba’s Java Hut.”
Donovan chuckled. “How very Hollywood,” he said between bites. “So you live in Santa Monica. And what is it you do, acting?”
She gave him a big eye roll while she chewed a McVitie, then took a gulp of tea before she replied. “I’m a dental assistant.”
“Ah, that explains the lovely smile then.”
Blushing a bit at his compliment, she finished off her cookie then picked up another. “That and three years of braces, followed by four of retainers. What about you? Where in the States do you live and what do you do?”
“First, promise me you won’t laugh.”
He shoved the remainder of his food into his mouth while she held up two fingers and murmured, “Scout’s honor.”
After he swallowed, he took a sip of tea then admitted, “If you must know, I live in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and I’m a CPA.”
Rylie gave a half-snort and quickly covered her mouth. “You’re kidding, right?” she mumbled behind her fingers. “I’d never kid about something so serious.” Donovan crossed his arms and tried to look severe, but his mouth quirked in spite of his best effort. “No, seriously. My Aunt Fee’s husband, Uncle Isadore, founded one of the biggest accounting firms in Philly and I work for him. Cherry Hill is a nice little bedroom community just across the way in Jersey.”
The Wild Sight Page 6
