Clean, clad in soft pajamas and given a cup of warm milk, Isabelle fell straight to sleep. Pamela carried her back down the stairs with her, not wanting the children on a separate floor from her tonight.
She had brought downstairs a pair of pajamas for Conor too and ordered him to the bathroom to change into them. She would have to supervise the brushing of his teeth and the washing of his face, for while Conor was fiercely insistent on doing these things himself, he wasn’t terribly thorough about it.
She settled Isabelle on the couch on a quilt and covered her lightly with a thin flannel blanket. Like Casey and Conor, Isabelle ran warm all the time. Jamie was seated on the floor, where he had clearly been playing trains with Conor. He looked relaxed, green gaze focused on a series of knots in the string of Conor’s yo-yo, which he was patiently unpicking.
“So what’s the bit you’re not telling me?” he asked casually, flicking her a glance.
“What makes you think there’s something I’m not telling you?”
“Well, isn’t there?”
She sighed; sometimes Jamie’s preternatural percipience was more than a tad annoying.
“The man that knocked me over when I was at the march? It could have been an accident, only somehow it felt deliberate. I think he meant to knock me down. He helped me up and his hand was cold, unnaturally so, because it was so warm today. I felt like I couldn’t wipe his touch off me afterward. I couldn’t see his face, because the sun was right over his shoulder in my eyes.”
She glanced over at Conor, knowing that he often had the acuity of a bat just when she most wanted him not to listen. He, however, was blissfully absorbed in his trains once again, his pajama buttons askew and his face most certainly not washed.
“Remember the night when the house where Casey and I lived burned down, and he thought I was dead for a bit?”
“Yes,” Jamie said, “I don’t think I’m likely to ever forget that night.”
“Well, when the man reached down to help me up I had the same strange sensation I had that night when the Reverend came in and killed Constable McKoughpsie.”
“What sensation?”
A faint line of unease crossed her face. “I don’t know, it’s fear, but it’s an absence of feeling too, as if he’s a void. When he touched me that night I felt like he was taking something from me, trying to fill something in himself, like he’s not complete.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I can explain it properly beyond that.”
“I think what you’ve said covers it,” Jamie said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay here for the night. I’ll kip on the sofa and keep an eye out. I don’t want you alone tonight, you won’t sleep a wink. Kolya has plenty of minders at home,” he said, before she could protest.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said, “I’m grateful.” She was, too, she would still be nervous as a flea on a griddle, but at least she wouldn’t be terrified.
Conor was thrilled to have Jamie stay for the night. He went upstairs and returned a few minutes later, laden down with five books, two blankets and two pillows, determined to set up for the night on the rather small sofa with Jamie. Pamela attempted to dissuade him, but Jamie just shook his head.
“I don’t mind, it will be cozy down here with the lot of us.”
It turned into a lovely evening, despite the fear that was still knocking at the back of her heart like a tympan drum. They made a nest on the floor of blankets and pillows and an old mattress Pamela dragged down from the attic. Instead of reading to him, Jamie told Conor stories from his own imagination, which were lovely and far more entertaining than most books. Conor fell asleep that way, with Jamie’s voice still weaving its tale over and around him, securing him into the safe land of story. She felt the spell of it too, and was yawning by the time Jamie’s voice came to a halt, the tendrils and airs of that far bright land he had brought into being here in the homely space of her kitchen still wound round about her.
Jamie sat, the firelight gilding him, his face in repose, though there was still a line of tension in him, visible now that the children had fallen asleep.
“Any news regarding Casey?” he asked, and the bright land burst like a bubble on a thorn.
“No, nothing,” she said. “I have my regular meetings with the police, during which they tell me nothing of use, or they actively harass me. Here at home, I get ten phone calls a week now, instead of the thirty I was getting at first. I’ve only been approached by one psychic claiming to know where he is this month—San Francisco, in case you’re wondering—and only one person has implied that he likely left me for another woman and another life. All in all,” she said bleakly, “things are looking up.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Of course you should, you’re one of the few who still does.”
She yawned widely enough that her jaw cracked. The events of the day had caught up to her while Jamie had woven his tale. She realized he had done it in part to distract her, so that she might relax enough to sleep tonight.
“I swear Jamie, you have some sort of Sandman effect on me.”
He quirked a brow at her. “A man could perceive that as an insult.”
She laughed. “James Kirkpatrick, you know better than that. You are the least boring man on the planet.”
“Perhaps it’s only that you feel secure,” he said.
“You do make me feel safe, Jamie. I don’t often thank you for it, but you do.”
“You don’t need to thank me for it,” he said quietly, looking down to where Conor was sprawled next to his leg, breathing so deeply that she could hear the outrush of air every time his chest rose and fell.
“I do—need to say thank you. I don’t know how I would have managed these last months without you.”
“I’m only glad you didn’t have to.”
“Sometimes I think it’s some strange universal juggling act; once you were found, I lost Casey, when I had him here and safe, I spent every minute worrying about you. I can’t have you both it seems.” She flushed suddenly realizing how her statement sounded. “I’m sorry that came out wrong.”
He reached over and took her hand. “It’s all right, you can say whatever you need to. Surely you know you don’t have to censor your words with me.”
“I do know that and I’m grateful for it,” she said.
The ticking of the Aga and the soft hiss of the fire, the breathing, even and deep, of the children and the tiny snore of Rusty who was curled up, nose to tail, on the back of the sofa were tiny tympanic notes of ease. Despite all the strange and outright frightening things which had happened today, she felt oddly calm. It was due to the man sitting next to her, she knew, and she felt a flood of gratitude for the forces that had seen fit to bring him home.
“Jamie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m awfully glad you’re home.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“So am I.”
It was late, Jamie thought, maybe four o’clock. The darkest hour was always the one just before dawn. He had dozed off and awakened to Pamela asleep, warm and limp against his arm. He could feel the soft crush of her body all along him. He took a breath in and leaned back a little. She tipped over further, into his lap. Her short cropped hair had begun to grow out a little, though her neck was still bare and left her terribly vulnerable looking. It wasn’t only in looks, she was terribly vulnerable. He didn’t like her living here with the children; the location, while undoubtedly lovely, was too isolated. Anything could happen, and no one would hear a thing—not gunshots, not a scream, not a cry for help.
He eased out from under her, placing a pillow beneath her head and covering her with the blanket from the back of the couch. Finbar looked up at him from his position by his mistress’ side, dark eyes alert. Jamie tucked Isabelle in by her mother. He smiled down at her. Her small arms were thrown above her head in the abandonment of baby sleep, cheeks flushed with warmth. Conor was
curled up on the floor in a mess of blankets, most of which he had already kicked off. Pamela was deeply asleep too, the low light of the fire casting her in gold and shadow. There was a fine pucker to her brow which told him she had carried her worry along with her down into the land of Morpheus. Asleep, with those fierce burning eyes closed, she looked more fragile than ever. He was afraid for her and angry that he seemed to have so little help or comfort to offer her.
He clicked his tongue at Finbar, and the dog rose quickly, careful not to disturb the humans arrayed around him.
“Come on, boy, let’s go do the rounds.”
Outside it was still with that strange hush which seized the earth as it waited for dawn, as if everything—every rock, every bird, every creature of the forest floor and pasture—held its breath and waited for that first pale finger of dawn along the horizon to exhale and begin the slow movements of those first hours of the day.
He could see well enough to make his way around the yard without a torch. He checked on Phouka first, who rolled one eye and snorted at him sleepily. Paudeen didn’t even bother lifting his small, woolly head, apparently of the opinion that if it didn’t worry a high-strung horse, it wasn’t going to worry his unflappable ungulate self. He checked the shed, and found it locked and dark and without, he thought, any rebel occupants this night. Pamela thought he didn’t know about the bolthole program she was running for PIRA boys on the run, but she was wrong on that score. She was a grown woman, though, and she had made her deal with the devil. When she had told him she would walk through the gates of hell to find Casey, he knew she meant it. It was up to him, as her friend, to make certain the burns she sustained weren’t permanent.
He walked the perimeter of the tree line, moving in and out, branches brushing against the top of his head, Finbar off ahead, snuffling the ground. It was a warm night and the air felt like milk on his skin.
In his mind, he saw the letter; he could close his eyes and it would be imprinted there like a brand, crimson and smoking. It had been written in blood, the letters oddly tidy despite that. It meant someone had collected blood enough to fill an ink pot and then used it while it was still fresh to write the words. The letter had been to the point, but you only needed so much space to call a woman a whore and threaten her with gruesome death along with an attendant bible verse about loose women and their downfall. It had unsettled him deeply and he could well imagine how frightened Pamela must be. The letter had a decidedly feminine feel to it, and he was almost certain a woman had written it.
Regardless of who had written it, the letter needed to be taken seriously, and it was down to him to find out who was behind it. The police weren’t going to pay it much mind, and a few had made it clear to Pamela already that they weren’t inclined to help her. Between Casey’s PIRA connections, Patrick’s court cases and her own history with the civil rights movement, every odd was stacked against her in regards to police assistance. He was going to have to pull in some favors to get what he needed, but it seemed a small enough price to pay, even if he had promised to never ask his intelligence colleagues for another thing as long as he lived. The question remained—was someone merely trying to frighten her, or did the person intend to follow through on their bloody threats?
Not for the first time he felt angry at her absent husband. Because he had disappeared she would stay here in this house waiting for him on the chance, however slim, that he might one day return from the land of the missing. If he believed in fairies, he would be certain Casey had been whisked away by them. That’s how complete the lack of information was, there was nothing to be found, not a whisper, not a hint, not a glimmering trace left in the air.
Finbar sensed it first, the change in the air around them, a disturbance in the dark. Jamie put his hand lightly to the dog’s ruff, which was standing up stiff as porcupine quills. He stepped back into the pool of darkness under the heavy branches of an elm. There were men in the woods, not just one, but a few. They were moving stealthily, but not perfectly silent. Finbar was growling low in his throat, a steady hum that threatened to escalate into a full-on fury of barking.
He had a good idea about just who these men were, and thought it was best if he revealed himself before someone took a shot at him. He stepped out into the open, and without warning found himself face down on the ground, his arm twisted up behind his back and a light in his eyes so bright it obliterated the world around him. Someone was kneeling on his back and he was having trouble breathing. He felt a surge of panic. In front of him he saw high walls, dripping with water and darker substances and he felt his own heart high in his chest, surging at the back of his throat. With one part of his mind he knew it wasn’t real, he knew he wasn’t trapped in that damn horrible room deep in the heart of the USSR, but the other part of his mind saw it, felt it, heard the endless hammering questions and felt the anticipation of pain, applied with skill and leisure. For that part of his mind it was more real than the trees before him, and the whicker of Phouka in the byre and the barking of Finbar which seemed to come from a great distance.
“What the hell are ye doin’ roamin’ around here at night?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Jamie said. He felt the cold prod of a rifle muzzle at the base of his neck.
“Let him up,” said a voice. The man eased off his back and let go of Jamie’s arm. He stood, the light still bright in his face, though not aimed into his eyes anymore. A man walked into the light.
James Kirkpatrick was not a man to bow before any other man’s authority but he always recognized it when he saw it. He had never met him face-to-face, yet the resemblance to Kate, especially the eyes, was too marked for this to be anyone other than Noah Murray.
“Take the gun off him,” Noah said. “He’s a friend of Mrs. Riordan.”
The gunman moved back from him, and Jamie stepped away toward the house, making it clear he stood between its occupants and this group of thugs. Finbar moved with him, his hackles still up and his growling down to a low hum.
Jamie heard the door open behind him, and Pamela came out, his coat pulled on over her nightgown, but her legs and feet bare. The men all looked at her and he saw her suddenly as they must. The pale light was like lilac smoke against her skin, the long bare legs and the too large coat making her appear little more than a young girl, her eyes wide with worry. She looked like a woodland creature, a dryad escaped from a man’s erotic yearnings, made flesh here in this lonely dooryard. He wanted to tell them not to look at her for she was too vulnerable to take the weight of their gazes, and the thoughts that lay behind them. He wanted to hit each and every one of them. Noah Murray, he simply wanted to kill.
“What’s going on out here?” she asked, her voice taut with fear. She took in Jamie’s state, his dishevelled clothes and hair and the dirt on his face and hands.
“I don’t know,” Jamie said, “perhaps you could ask your friend Mr. Murray. I was just checking to make sure no one was about and found these men roaming your property.”
“If ye’re goin’ to have overnight company,” Noah said, addressing himself to Pamela, “perhaps ye could warn me ahead of time, so I don’t accidentally shoot one of them.” His tone was polite, if hard, but there was an edge to it that communicated something else entirely. He wasn’t happy to find a man here with Pamela.
“Jamie is here because I came home to find someone had been in my house when I was away,” Pamela said. “Your men must have missed that.” There was a sharpness to her voice that carried to the man at whom she looked. She’d always had a foolhardy amount of courage. She was more than equal to this man, though, of that Jamie was all too aware.
Noah looked around at the men behind him and Jamie felt a twinge of sympathy for them. He didn’t think any of them were going to have the ability to make mistakes in the near future. Noah looked back at Pamela and something flickered in his eyes, a pure blue flame, there and then just as quickly doused by force of will.
“I’ll talk to you later
,” she said, drawing herself up and somehow, even with bare feet and clad in a rumpled night gown, managing to look like an empress.
“Ye needn’t worry, it won’t happen again,” Noah said, and nodded to her before walking off into the rising morning with his men.
Inside, it was quiet, the children still asleep, the morning sun sifting slowly in over the windowsills, and the fire died back to ashy coals. Jamie felt suddenly very tired, the adrenaline had petered down to random jolts in his blood, and he realized he had only slept briefly.
“Jamie?”
He looked up. Pamela was staring at his hands, concern writ large over her face. He grasped his hands together, realizing how badly they were shaking. It happened sometimes, usually he could hide them, or leave the room when he felt the tremoring begin. Only Vanya had noticed until now. It had been the memory—rising up unexpectedly and vividly—the memory of blood and pain, and the point, narrow and unknown, where the mind finally broke. He had come far too close to knowing where that line was in his own mind, and sometimes his hands remembered that knowledge.
“When did they start shaking like this?” she asked quietly.
“In Russia.” She looked up at him sharply, but forbore to continue her questioning. Russia was for him still a closed door, one he dared not open for fear of what might come through. She seemed to understand this instinctively and so she did not ask that which he could not afford to answer.
She pulled his hands between her own, at first just holding them still and then slowly massaging them until they were as warm as her own, as if her blood had flowed through the chill veins of his body and provided him with respite. The tremoring ceased as quickly as it had come.
“Sit down, Jamie. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 38
