In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4)

by Cindy Brandner

  The rally wound up with speeches and with a rousing rendition of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. There were certainly plenty of smiling eyes today, Pamela thought, ignoring the pain in her knee to shoot off the rest of her film, catching as much as she could of the day. The sound of twenty thousand voices raised together, in one accord, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back, wondering why she could cry for this, and yet not for her husband.

  Father Jim came up then, face flushed from the warmth of the day, a middle-aged woman beside him who immediately bent over to have a look at her knee. She had treacle brown hair and a no-nonsense sort of manner to her, as if she were pressed for time.

  She took in Pamela’s dishevelment as well as the blood still leaking from her knee. “Ye’ve a nasty cut there, did ye take a tumble?”

  “I did, or rather someone helped me to,” she said. She had the oddest feeling the man had knocked into her on purpose. She still felt uneasy that she hadn’t been able to see his face and she thought that too had been purposeful.

  Father Jim bent down and looked at the knee. She was starting to feel rather conspicuous. “It doesn’t need stitches,” he said, “but it will need to be cleaned out with alcohol and bandaged up. I can take you back to the car and fix it up for you, I keep a kit in there. Apparently, when you’re around I ought to be packing it on my person.”

  “I’m all right, really I am,” she said. “I can fix it up when I get home. It’s little more than a scratch.”

  He gave her a somewhat dubious look. “Just be sure that you do, you don’t want an infection.”

  He stood up and gestured to the woman at his side. “Pamela, this is Bettina Edwards, Bettina, this is Pamela Riordan.”

  She shook the woman’s hand. This was the housewife who had started the petition and had gotten much of the momentum going. She looked a tiny bit flustered, and well she would for much of the press here today would want to interview her, and she would need to be both inspirational and on point which was no mean feat.

  “It’s wonderful what you’ve done here,” Pamela said, gesturing around to the crowd now milling, some departing and some staying to drink in the atmosphere, heady as champagne, in a city that was too used to violence and darkness.

  “I had to do somethin’, I’m well tired of this shite—the bombs an’ the guns an’ scrubbin’ blood off the pavin’ stones. When wee babbies aren’t safe to walk home with their mother, it’s turned to madness, it has then.”

  There was a loud noise just then and the three of them jumped in startlement. There was always the fear of a bomb anywhere that people gathered in numbers greater than two or three. It was merely a car backfiring.

  “Ye see, we need to stop it. It’s like we’re livin’ in an earthquake zone, waitin’ for the next thing that will rip the ground apart beneath us. It’s why I had to do somethin’.”

  “Well, I admire it, pulling all this together. The city needs a movement like this one.”

  The woman shrugged. “War is a downhill run, peace is rollin’ a rock up a hill, but it’s worth it if the end result is a better world for the next generation. Ye ought to join us. Father Jim tells us ye were part of the civil rights movement a few years back.”

  “Did he?” Pamela asked, directing a glare in Father Jim’s direction.

  “It would be good to have some young blood along for the ride, give it some thought.”

  “I will,” she said, and found it wasn’t just a politeness she was uttering, but that it was something that appealed to her. They said their goodbyes then, for there were reporters lined up to talk to the woman and Pamela was happy to escape their scrutiny and slip away to her car, exiting the city ahead of the mass of people.

  The drive home was quiet, the roads, once she got out past the limits of Belfast, nearly deserted. Her knee was throbbing, but other than the unpleasant encounter with the strange man, it had been a good and productive day.

  Pamela thought about what the woman had said, and wondered why it was that peace was so hard to achieve, and once achieved, so terribly hard to hold. She thought back to those heady days when she had been involved in the civil rights movement. She had been on the periphery and not in the midst of it like Patrick, but it had been very exciting, and they had believed for a brief and shining moment that it was possible, that the future could arrive and be welcomed, even here in the Six Counties. She had liked Pat from the very first moment she had met him, and felt warmed in the glow of his friendship and his revolutionary spirit. And then, of course, she had met Casey, and that had been that, as the saying went. Unlike his brother, Casey had not been a man of peace, he had a warrior’s nature and spirit. She should not have been so immediately attracted to him, as he had, in some ways, represented everything she was against. From the first moment they had set eyes upon one another though, it had been the end of rational thinking for the both of them. He had let go of his rebel life; he had changed so many things for her and the children and in the end, it seemed, it had caught him up in its terrible net anyway. The past was like that here, it walked a few paces behind always, and if you so much as paused to look back, it caught up and its shadow fell over you and everyone you loved.

  As she turned off the main road to head down the narrow lane that led to their house, she realized that she felt strangely tranquil. Father Jim had been right, it had been good for her to witness an event so positive and filled with the possibility of change. She thought about what the woman had said, and considered that it was something she might do. It would be nice to be a part of something good, something that could change the future for her children, and give them a better life.

  She pulled into the drive, slowing down to a crawl. Hope was like a fishhook in her heart sometimes. Hope that he would be there, even if there was no earthly reason to believe he would be. Hope was a strange thing, both a reason to get out of bed in the morning and a prison without doors or windows—some days one thing, some days the other, or at times changing from moment to moment. She wondered if she would always feel it for Casey.

  Something fell from her pocket as she got out of the car. She frowned down at it, and then leaned over to get a better look. She reached out to touch it and then gave a small cry as something sharp pricked her hand. She bent down, careful not to get too near the thing. It was a doll, her own face in miniature looked up at her. She stepped back from it, a feeling of revulsion rippling through her body. How on earth had the thing wound up in her pocket?

  She bent over and looked more closely at it. The doll was stuck through with blackthorn twigs. That was what had pricked her finger. The thorns had been placed with the sharp end out, just barely so they weren’t noticeable until you pricked your flesh upon them. She felt slightly sick just looking at it, for it was clearly meant to resemble her. She shuddered, she would go inside and get gloves and then burn the horrible thing in the fire.

  It had to have been the strange man; he must have put it in her pocket when he knocked into her. But why? She left the doll on the ground and half ran to the house, wanting to get inside and lock the door behind her. While she was digging for her keys, she saw something wedged into the door frame. She frowned; she’d had enough surprises this afternoon already.

  It was a big envelope, thick and silver-grey. It was the sort in which invitations to posh events usually arrived. Several of the sort landed on Jamie’s desk on a regular basis. She took it, wondering at who had dropped this off. Odd that they had left it here on the porch, rather than the front door, which was the door visible when you came into the yard.

  She went into the house, which was unnaturally quiet without the children. Finbar walked over to her and sniffed her pant leg, and then growled low in his throat, his nose to the fancy envelope. She put her camera bag on the table, her skin prickling with apprehension. She put the envelope on the table, too, realizing that she’d smeared blood across it from her finger. She went to the sink and washed her hand and then got the bandages down from the c
upboard above the Aga. Between the blank envelope and the blackthorn dolly in the yard, she was entirely spooked.

  “Horse feathers,” she said out loud to relieve the tension of the strange silence that wrapped the house in this uneasy feeling. She opened the envelope and pulled out the thick paper it held. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out, before unfolding the paper. She cried out like the paper had suddenly scorched her hand and let it drop to the floor. Finbar continued to growl at it, his hackles rising high on his back.

  He looked up then just as she heard a noise from the upstairs, as if someone with a lame foot was dragging it across the floor. Finbar’s growl turned to an agitated bark and she ran up the stairs before she could consider the wisdom of it, Finbar streaking past and ahead of her.

  Her bedroom window stood open to the late afternoon, the breeze blowing the curtain in so that it rippled and waved like a ghost caught in brambles. The window had been closed when she left the house—closed and locked. She felt a ripple of pure fear, cold as ice water, go down her spine, the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck quivering.

  She heard the sound of a motor and froze until she recognized it. She looked out the window her heart hammering so hard she could feel her pulse in her ears and temples.

  A car was coming down the drive; she recognized the shape and color of it flickering through the leaves. Jamie, it was Jamie, thank God. She ran down the stairs like she had wings instead of feet. Finbar was already at the door, his body a shimmer of wagging tail and clattering paws. He knew the sound of Jamie’s car and was, like everyone else with a pulse and blood in their veins, entirely besotted with the man.

  She opened the door before Jamie had even brought the car to a halt and Finbar shot out, barking half hysterically. She wasn’t aware of crossing the yard, but suddenly she was in Jamie’s arms, trembling with relief.

  “Hey, hey,” he said, holding her close and rubbing her back. “What’s happened?”

  “I think someone was in my house when I was gone.”

  “Where are the children?” he asked.

  “With Gert, I was at the peace rally this afternoon.”

  “Good. I’m going to go in and look around, you go check that the telephone is working and if you still have that ancient pistol of yours, make sure it’s loaded.”

  She did as she was told, checking the locked cupboard where she kept the rifle Noah had given her as well. She checked the phone, happy to hear the reassuring hum of the line. The pistol was where she always kept it, tucked far back in the highest cupboard in an ancient tea tin. She checked over every inch of the downstairs, but nothing appeared to be missing, nothing was out of place. She glanced up the stairs, making certain Jamie was still occupied. Then she pulled a chair over and checked the package at the back of the narrow cupboard. The money was still there, as was the check. She shoved it back behind the tiny door, and got down from the chair to find Jamie standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking at her quizzically.

  “Jesus!” She put her hand to her chest. “Did you float down the stairs?”

  He didn’t bother replying to this. “I shut and locked the window and I made certain all the other windows were secured, too. There’s no one up there now, though I think you’re right that someone was before.”

  “You do?” she said. She had been hoping that she was wrong. That maybe she hadn’t closed the window and the wind had blown it open, despite the fact that it had been an uncommonly still day.

  “Is anything missing?”

  “No,” she shivered, “I wish there was, because I could chalk it up to a simple robbery.”

  Jamie didn’t reply, but stepped over to where the paper she had flung down in her panic earlier had drifted under the table. He picked it up, read it and looked at her.

  “Was this in the house when you got home?”

  “No, it was in an envelope wedged into the door frame,” she said. In the fear of an intruder she had forgotten the envelope and the hideous message it contained.

  “Have you gotten anything like this before?”

  “No,” she said, “that’s the first.”

  “Do you have a bag I can put it in? I’m going to have someone look at it.”

  She fetched him a bag, glad to have anything to do, rather than look at the paper he held by one corner, an expression on his face like she had not seen in very long time. She was relieved he was taking it away from the house.

  He tucked it in the bag, careful to only touch it by one corner, and then locked it in the glove compartment of the Bentley. She waited for him on the doorstep, unwilling to go back in the house without him.

  “I have to go get Conor and Isabelle,” she said as he neared her. Her teeth were chattering despite the warmth of the evening.

  “I’ll take you,” he said. “You’re not going on your own.”

  He double-checked the lock on the door and looked up at the windows of the upper floor, as if he half expected to see a face peering back down at him. She didn’t like it when Jamie was rattled, being that very little got under his skin.

  “We’ll take my car,” he said, “go, get in.” He tossed her the keys and then went to her car to retrieve the baby seat. She was just unlocking the door when he said, “What’s this?”

  She looked over. Jamie was looking down at the ground, his brows drawn together and the vertical crease in his forehead sharp. He bent down and picked up something, holding it up to the light to see it properly. She had forgotten the doll in her momentary panic. Now it seemed even more ominous than it had at first, considering all that had happened in the last half hour.

  “A man knocked me down at the march. I think he must have shoved it in my pocket when he banged into me.” She hugged herself, the memory of the man’s chilly touch still there on her skin.

  Jamie turned the doll over, handling it carefully to avoid the thorns.

  “Pamela.” He was looking at her with the oddest expression on his face.

  “What?”

  “The hair on this thing, isn’t just real hair,” he said, “it’s your hair.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” she said, for what must have been the tenth time in the last hour. She was talking in a low tone, barely more than whispering for Jamie had taken her to pick up the children and they were home now, door securely locked and the entire premises, byre and shed included, thoroughly searched and secured. She shuddered. “It would have to mean that someone was in the house cleaning out my brush before I cut my hair off. But whatever for?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but it does seem to be your hair.”

  He had untangled a few of them, very carefully, from the doll’s head and she had watched with ice forming in her veins as each long and quite curly hair came off the doll. It had to be hers, or someone who had incredibly similar hair to hers before she had chopped it off.

  “It just seems so strange and…” she trailed off not wanting to put her fears into words.

  “And what?” he looked up, his eyes sharp with worry.

  “Well, it almost seems like something the Reverend would do—just something strange and creepy, using my hair as a way of letting me know he’s been in my house.”

  “The Reverend?”

  She could feel Jamie’s tension rise at the mere mention of the man.

  “Well, he’s been awfully quiet since you arrived home. Which seems a bit odd, don’t you think? He has to be festering over his inability to weasel his way into your companies using Julian.” She removed a pot of potatoes from the stove and drained them, then set to mashing them with a bit of butter and milk while Jamie broke up leftover salmon and added some garlic and a few spices to it. They were making dinner together while the children played. Gert had tended to her knee, exclaiming over the state of her clothes. Despite Pamela’s protests that it was only a scratch, Gert wasn’t happy until it was cleaned and bandaged. She had asked them to stay to dinner, but Pamela didn’t want to arrive home in t
he dark, and so had declined.

  “Yes, it’s odd, though I was just hoping he had given up.” He met her look with a rise of his brow. “I know that’s naïve, but is it too much to ask for a cessation of intrigue and strange happenings?”

  “It would appear so,” she said, deftly stepping around him to fold the potatoes in with the salmon. Jamie made the salmon patties while she dealt with the vegetables and tea, stopping now and then to remove various articles from Isabelle’s mouth, much to the baby’s outrage.

  She mashed up some carrots and added a tiny bit of butter and salt to them for flavor and then put the mixture in Isabelle’s bowl to feed her. Much of it would likely end up on the floor or in Isabelle’s hair but as long as even half of it made its way to her belly it would be a triumph. She put Isabelle in her high chair, always a battle royal as she took about as kindly to being strapped into it as a bear might to being chained in a fighting pit. She sat down with her, putting the cooled carrots within Isabelle’s reach, as well as a mound of mashed potatoes. While she usually attempted to spoon feed her, Isabelle preferred to touch her food and then put it in her mouth one not-so-dainty bite at a time. It was messy, but more effective than spooning it in only to have it spit back out.

  With Isabelle happily occupied with her food, Pamela ate her own. She was shocked to find she was hungry. All things considered, it wouldn’t have surprised her if she hadn’t been able to choke down a bite. With Jamie here, though, they were all safe for the moment and she could relax a bit. She always felt like it wasn’t possible for any kind of harm to touch her or the children when Jamie was near.

  Both Conor and Jamie ate well and even split the last salmon patty. Men, she thought, looking across at the two of them, it took more than home invasion and ill wish dolls to put them off their food.

  Isabelle, a mess of carrots and potatoes, needed to go directly from the table to the tub. Jamie nevertheless lifted her out of her seat and didn’t so much as flinch when she put her potato encrusted arms around his neck. Pamela ran her a bath, and was tempted to put her in it, clothes and all, she was so mucky. The front of Jamie’s shirt was a mess. She bathed Isabelle while Jamie cleaned the kitchen with Conor keeping up a steady stream of questions which Jamie answered with great patience.