“I told her as much,” Donovan replied, sitting opposite him in the wooden chair. He kept his voice and expression calm and detached. “Obviously she didn’t listen to me.”
“Glad to see that at least you have decided to be cooperative,” Lynch said in a tone ripe with sarcasm. “I’ve something to show you.” Reaching into the large pocket of his overcoat, he produced a manila folder. “As I told you in my phone message, we identified the body as being one Malachy Flynn, a high ranking member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, the Provos. A bad bunch who once had a lot of support in these parts.”
His pale eyes locking with Donovan’s, he slapped a piece of paper from the folder onto the coffee table, a grainy black and white image of a man. “Wanted by the Royal Ulster Constabulary and Scotland Yard for terrorist activities with intent to overthrow the government. Whereabouts unknown for over twenty years, and now we know why. These were his two closest associates.”
He laid two more photos next to the first, one an equally poor quality computer print and the other a mug shot. Pointing at the latter, he said, “Stephen ‘TheButcher’ O’Boyle, apprehended in Liverpool eighteen years ago. Died during a prison riot three years into his life sentence. The other, Conor McTeague, is still at large though he’s suspected to have fled to America about the same time Flynn went missing.”
Donovan had sat impassively throughout Lynch’s recitation, arms folded across his chest, but now the police inspector leveled a challenging glare at him and shoved the pictures closer. In the indistinct image of Malachy Flynn, Donovan could clearly see the features of the victim in his visions from two days ago. Drawing in a deep breath, he quickly slid his eyes away.
“I’m afraid all of this means nothing to me,” he said, returning the inspector’s hard stare. “And as I’m sure my sister already told you, my father was never in the IRA.”
“Quite certain of that, are you?” Lynch asked with a scowl. “Because I’ve reason to believe that thirty or so years ago, your father, Dermot O’Shea, worked as a mule for the Provos, moving weapons and explosives between Liverpool and Belfast. ’Twas believed the Provos dealt with international terror networks in America, Eastern Europe, and North Africa. Networks that still exist today.” The man’s eyes narrowed to slits in his fleshy face. “We authorities don’t like terrorists, no matter how many years ago they may have quit.”
Finding his hands clenched into fists, Donovan carefully loosened them and dropped them to his sides. “Are you saying my father needs to hire an attorney, Inspector? Or are reason and proof two different things?”
“Interesting you should mention proof,” Lynch said, slowly gathering up the pictures and placing them back inside the folder. “Twenty-five years ago, I believed your father played a part in your mother’s disappearance, which was also linked to a shake-up in the Provos.” He slipped the folder back into his pocket. “But I never could prove it, though I wasn’t alone in my belief.”
“Then you weren’t the only one who was wrong,” Donovan stated with dismissive finality. “Now unless there’s something more, Inspector, I think I’d better look into hiring that attorney.”
Lynch rose to his feet. “You do that, boyo, because whatever ’tis you, your sister, and your father are hiding, I will get to the bottom of it this time.” Then, as Donovan stood to see him out, the Inspector nodded toward the archway leading into the bedrooms. “Morning, Miss Powell.”
How long had she been standing there?
Donovan fought to keep his consternation from showing as he escorted Inspector Lynch to the door. Most likely she’d heard everything, not that it mattered. Shutting the door behind the man, he waited until he heard Lynch’s heavy tread on the stairs before he turned and wound his way back toward the couch. Rylie met him halfway.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her gray eyes regarding him warily. “I think I better get going.”
“No, wait.” He put his hand on her arm, but quickly dropped it with the instant flare of attraction. “Have a cuppa while I make sure your car is ready.”
She gave a little nod of acquiescence, though she still looked uncertain. Then she sat down on the couch to put on her shoes. Hurrying to the kitchen, Donovan plugged the teakettle back in and called Paddy Maguire at the BP. As he rang off, Rylie entered the room with her jacket and purse.
“Toast?” he offered, but she shook her head.
“I really should go.”
“Rylie, please—” he blurted, then looked away. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he wanted her to know this. “I told Lynch the truth. I don’t know anything about that IRA stuff, and I certainly don’t recognize those men.”
She reached up and cupped her small hand around his cheek. “Of course you don’t. No one expects a seven-year- old child to remember things.”
Relief and something more coursed through Donovan at her words. He turned his head to nuzzle her palm, but an odd spark in the depth of her eyes stopped him.
“But how old was your sister?” she asked. “And what does she remember?”
Chapter 8
RYLIE ATE A HUGE BREAKFAST CALLED ANULSTER FRY WHEN she arrived back at her B&B. Fried eggs, sausages, bacon, and that weird potato bread called farl—she could practically hear her arteries clogging as she wolfed it down. The only explanation she gave Mrs. Cooke for being gone all night was that her car had gone off the road and been stuck in the mud. Though the manager kept pressing her for more details, she didn’t mention anything about Donovan or being in Belfast. After polishing off everything on her plate, she hurried to her room for a hot shower.
She was still blow-drying her hair when Mrs. Cooke rapped on the door to tell her she had a phone call. Thinking it must be Donovan, but not wanting to ask, she unplugged the dryer and followed the older woman into the sitting room, where the handset lay on a side table. Self-consciously, she picked it up and said hello.
“Miss Powell . . . that is . . . Rylie, ’tis Sybil Gallagher.” The woman’s voice sounded unsteady. “I’m right sorry to bother you but I . . . I’ve no one else and I . . . I really need to talk to someone.”
“It’s nice to hear from you, Sybil,” Rylie replied, glancing at Mrs. Cooke from the corner of her eye. “I’m not doing anything if you’d like to get together. Are you in Belfast?”
“Ah, no.” Sybil seemed to pick up on the restricted nature of their conversation. “I’m at a public house in Portadown, the Red Branch. If you could meet me here, I’d be most grateful.”
Rylie asked Mrs. Cooke for a pen and paper and took down the directions. “See you soon,” she told Sybil in a bright tone she hoped didn’t sound too fake, and then hung up.
“A girl I met the other day wants to meet me for lunch in Portadown,” she explained, as if the B&B manager hadn’t been listening to every word she said.
An hour later, Rylie pulled her car into a parking space on the side of the building with “Red Branch” emblazoned in foot-tall letters across its gleaming white stucco. Meeting with Sybil Gallagher would give her a welcome reprieve from thinking about Donovan, their possibly shared father, and dead IRA terrorists.
However, she felt certain that Sybil’s topic of discussion would be her doomed affair with Professor McRory. Based on the other woman’s strained tone, Rylie thought the relationship was probably unraveling. And maybe her advice back at the O’Shea’s cottage had been a factor. If so, while she felt bad for Sybil, she wasn’t sorry she’d spoken up.
When she entered the pub’s cavernous interior, Sybil hailed her from a corner booth. Wearing faded jeans and an oversized black sweatshirt, Sybil’s face looked pinched and even more pale than usual. The freckles across her nose stood out in stark contrast to her pallor. Her eyes looked puffy and red, but she greeted Rylie with a wan smile and an air kiss next to both cheeks.
“Thanks so much, Rylie.” She stopped and bit her bottom lip. “I feel like such a fecking neddy!” She plopped down onto the padded bench seat. “That is, a fool. I
’m sorry I made you drive all the way here.”
“Don’t feel bad. I really didn’t mind.” Rylie reassured as she sat opposite Sybil. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t know.”
Sybil gave a nervous nod, her dull brown hair dipping into her eyes. She shoved it back and pointed at the battered fish fillet and pile of fries in front of her. “I was just having a bite. Care to join me?”
“No thanks, I only had breakfast a couple of hours ago.” Rylie sat back and looked around the vast, cluttered room while Sybil devoured the remains of her meal. All of the booths and more than a dozen of the heavy wooden tables were occupied with lunchtime diners.
“Sorry,” Sybil apologized again, between bites. “I’ve had a right ravenous appetite lately—” She broke off abruptly and scrubbed one hand over her eyes.
Rylie bit her lip then asked, “Is there someplace more private where we can talk?”
Sybil shook her head. “But I reckon if we went over to the town center or walked one of the paths by the river, no one would pay us much heed.”
After a couple more moments, Sybil stood and shrugged on her jacket. Rylie followed her out the door. Though the sky looked threatening, they walked the three blocks to the town center, where an impressive dark stone church dominated the landscape.
“Do you live here?” Rylie asked as they walked along a meticulously landscaped pedestrians-only shopping area. Sybil shook her head.
“My cousin does, but she’ll not be off work for hours yet. I came on the train from Belfast this morning after . . . ” Her voice faded away and a stricken expression etched her face.
Rylie guided her to an ornate metal bench where they sat down.
“You talked to Aongus this morning, didn’t you?” she prodded gently, though she was pretty sure she already knew.
Mutely, Sybil nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m pregnant,” she blurted then buried her face in her hands.
Rylie’s stomach did a queasy pitch and roll. Though she felt like throttling Sybil for her careless stupidity, she put her arm around her and patted her on the back.
“It’s okay,” she soothed in spite of a pounding rage growing in her veins. “You can tell me, Sybil.”
“Aongus wants me to get rid of it.” The other woman’s voice was a muffled whisper into her hands.
Of course he would, the asshole!
Rylie tramped down her urge to curse and patted Sybil’s back some more. After a dozen silent heartbeats, she raised pleading eyes to Rylie’s.
“Saints in heaven, Rylie! What am I to do?”
Keeping her voice even and unruffled, Rylie asked, “What do you want to do?”
“I—” She buried her face again. “I don’t know.”
Still fighting her righteous anger, Rylie pulled her arm away and looked around. People walking by seemed oblivious to them, so she asked, “How late are you?”
Sybil wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then looked up. “I’m not exactly sure, but not more than a couple of weeks.”
“Then you have some time.” Rylie tried to sound more encouraging than she felt. “Spend a few days here, or somewhere else, alone. Think things through and sort your feelings out before you make a decision.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Pulling a tissue from her pocket, Sybil blew her nose. “You must think I’m a bleedin’ idiot.”
“I think you’re human,” Rylie replied with a sympathetic shake of her head. “We all make mistakes, Sybil. Even me.” She gave a little snort of derision. “Especially me.”
Now there was the understatement of the year. She’d come to Ireland to find her father, and instead, found herself falling for a man who might be her half-brother. Except that he couldn’t be. She simply could not feel like this about Donovan if he were. She’d never felt like this about anyone. Not even Joel. Especially not Joel.
Sybil rose to her feet, still looking a bit shaky. “I can’t thank you enough, Rylie.” She bit her lower lip before she continued. “If you hadn’t mentioned about you and your boss . . . Well, I don’t think I could have told you, and I really needed to tell someone. You know?”
She did know.
“I’m glad I was here,” Rylie said honestly. “And if I can help in some other way . . . ” She stood and glanced at the row of shops behind them. “Is that a candy store? Perfect! Let’s go get some intensive chocolate therapy.”
Donovan stood outside the bank where his sister worked and waited for her to appear. He’d already contacted the county legal aid office and with their help located an attorney, and arranged an appointment for tomorrow. However, all during his various conversations and arrangements, Rylie’s questions about Doreen kept coming back to echo inside his head. He’d phoned his sister and told her they would meet when she finished work. Before he drove back to Ballyneagh, she would give him some answers.
Employees spilled outside in a rush to get home before the rain started up again. Doreen straggled out with the last few people, clutching her purse in one hand and an umbrella in the other, her black raincoat cinched tightly around her slim waist.
He lifted his hand and she hurried up to him. Though she wasn’t petite like Rylie, Donovan still needed to bend for her to kiss his cheek in greeting.
“Is anything else wrong?” she asked breathlessly, her blue eyes wide with worry. “Did that PSNI inspector come back?”
“No, Doreen,” he reassured, clasping her arm to guide her to the Morris. “We just need to talk.”
“About Da? And how we’re going to manage this business with the attorney?” She slid into the passenger’s seat, primly tucking her skirt around her legs. “Don’t worry, Donovan, I’ve already talked to Da to prepare him for tomorrow. Frannie O’Toole took me over on our lunch break.”
He circled round the car, got into the driver’s seat, and buckled his seat belt. “So what did he say, besides the usual cursing?”
Twin frown lines furrowed the pale skin between his sister’s dark brows. “Not much. I just didn’t want this to come as a total shock to him, that’s all.”
“He didn’t precisely seem shocked to me,” Donovan muttered darkly.
As he pulled the car out of the lot and onto the street, his sister slanted him a look. “Can this wait a bit, then? I planned to stop at the cathedral on my way, and Sean is due home early tonight. Perhaps if you stayed for dinner, then after we—”
“No, Doreen,” he interrupted sharply. “I want to talk now.”
“Donovan Joseph O’Shea!” she scolded. “Don’t tell me you believe for even one minute that our father might be capable of actually doing such a terrible deed.”
“Why not? You do.”
“What? I most certainly do not! Da isn’t a murderer!”
While his sister spluttered in outraged protest, he turned the car onto Lower English Street, and headed for St. Patrick’s. She wanted to go to the cathedral, then he would take her there.
Keeping his eyes on the road, he waited for her to take a breath, then calmly asked, “Maybe he didn’t kill the man, but what about this other IRA stuff? Lynch is right. Da worked for them, didn’t he?”
“Saints preserve us!” Doreen declared, crossing herself. “I won’t listen to such things from my own brother’s mouth.” He shot her a lethal glance. “Oh yes, you bloody well shall!”
She drew back, cowering from his sudden wrath, and crossed herself again. Reining his anger and frustration firmly in, Donovan guided the car up the hill and into the parking lot of the cathedral. He pulled into a parking space under a lamppost and left the engine idling.
Turning to face her, his voice was once again composed, but deadly. “Now spare me the theatrics, Doreen, and tell me the truth. I know Mum and Da argued. I remember that much, and I know you remember more.”
She stared daggers into him for a long moment before she sighed heavily. “All right, I do remember. They argued about money, and she didn’t want him to go to Liverpool a
ny more. At the time, I didn’t understand, but I suppose it makes sense now.” She stopped and bit her lower lip. Tears welled in her eyes. “He did it for us—you, actually. He said he had to get us out of there, away from the farm. I remember more than once hearing him say, ‘Whatever ’tis in those fens, ’tis harming you Moira, and our wee laddie too.’”
The Morris’s engine gave a wheezing strangled sound and died. Or perhaps the strangled sound came from him, Donovan wasn’t sure. He held the cool plastic of the steering wheel in a death grip as memories assailed him. Doreen had gone off to school and his mother was hanging wash on the twine strung like a spider’s web around the wooden clothesline pole. He had a long stick in his hand, trailing it after him in the dirt, making bigger and bigger circles.
Just-turned-five Donovan reached the edge of the fens, where he wasn’t supposed to go. But there were interesting looking rocks and bushes and Mum wasn’t watching. He used his stick to dig at some roots exposed by the recent rain. Something round was stuck to one of the roots. When he reached for it, a funny buzzing noise started up. He thought it might be bees, but he didn’t see any so he picked up the dark piece of metal and rubbed it clean on his shirtsleeve. One end of it looked like the head of a snake. Then he heard a different noise and saw two other boys close to his own age. They were dressed in funny raggedy clothes, but they were playing with sticks too, using them like swords to fight a pretend battle.
“That looks like me brooch,” one of the boys said, pointing to the object in Donovan’s hand, then nudging a silver circlet fastened on his shoulder. “I’m Hain, and this is my brother, Ro.”
“I’m Dony,” Donovan said, shoving the metal circle into his pocket. “Can you teach me to sword fight too?”
Playing with his new friends, he’d lost track of everything until he heard his mother scream. The next thing he knew she was picking him up off the ground and crying, “No please, not my baby! Don’t do this to my baby.”
The Wild Sight Page 11
