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

by Cindy Brandner

  It was a stupid thing to say, and she knew it as soon as the words left her lips. Davison opened his mouth to retort, but it was just then that Tomas came through the door, saving her from whatever the man had been about to unleash upon her. Tomas’ red face and bristling brows seemed to Pamela the most beautiful sight she had seen in a long time.

  He came to the point directly. “I’ll have twenty minutes alone with her, or ye’ll answer to the Chief Constable.” This was no idle threat. Even the top man ignored Tomas Egan at his own peril.

  He put a piece of paper on the table in front of Davison. “Read that please.”

  Pamela attempted to scan the letter before Davison picked it up, but she had spots dancing in front of her eyes and couldn’t make out anything more than the letterhead. She did, however, note how pale the man went as he scanned the letter’s contents.

  Tomas sat down beside her and glared at Davison. “Are ye plannin’ to charge her? Because if not, ye’ve held her far past the point of legality. Trust me when I say ye’re on shaky ground here, an’ ye know it.”

  “No, I am not going to charge her,” Davison said with remarkable calm. She suspected it was not the legality of the situation so much as the contents of the letter in front of him. Or at least the signature which accompanied said contents.

  “You are free to go, Mrs. Riordan,” he said and stood. He gave Tomas a hard glare which was about as effective as giving it to a brick wall and then left the room. She waited for the door to close, and then blurted out her biggest worry throughout the last twenty-four hours.

  “My children, they said they put them in care, Tomas.”

  “No, they did not.” He looked affronted at the very notion. “Conor ran back in the house an’ bolted the door. Yer wee lad is smart as a whip, an’ called Gert and Patrick while the police were draggin’ ye out to the car. Gert got to him before the policewoman could get the door unlocked. Pat took the two of them up to Jamie’s house, figurin’ that was the most secure place for them to be right now.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she breathed out, feeling like she might collapse with relief. If she knew her children were safe, she could manage anything, well almost anything. Knowing the police did not have them, nor had they been shuttled into care where she might never be able to get near them, reduced their leverage over her greatly.

  “Patrick wanted to come here the minute he had the children safe, but I forbid him bein’ that he was ready to rip someone apart with his bare hands. He won’t be able to keep a cool head; I was afraid he’d get himself in a heap of trouble if he came through those doors. He has a fine, black temper on him, the boyo does. Jamie flew back from New York the minute he was told. He’s fit to be tied, let me tell ye, ears have been ringin’ in Stormont an’ Westminster these last twenty-four hours.”

  She nodded. She was glad Tomas had managed to head Patrick off at the pass, because once his temper was roused, he might, indeed, kill someone. Jamie might, too—he would just be more discreet about it.

  “Are ye all right, lass? Ye look terrible peaky.”

  “I’ve got a bad headache, that’s all,” she said. The bright spots had moved out into her peripheral vision and she was starting to feel distinctly woozy.

  “I’ll have ye out of here within the half hour. I’m only sorry it took this long, the bastards have blocked me at every turn.”

  Knowing that Tomas had things well in hand shored up her fragile reserve. She merely sat and waited, alone in the interrogation room, sipping at the cold tea Davison had left behind.

  True to his word, Tomas had the paperwork done and was escorting her out through the doors twenty minutes later. There was a line of police, loosely gathered, with a deliberate air in the waiting area where they knew she had to pass through. She understood it was meant to be a threat. They didn’t like Tomas, and they didn’t like that she’d been waltzed out of here without so much as a by your leave. This wouldn’t be the end of it, but she had faith that Tomas could at least prevent further episodes like this one.

  She was hazy with exhaustion, but she held herself ramrod stiff as she walked out the doors. Tomas’ face was nearly purple with suppressed fury.

  “Hold yer head up until I get ye to the car an’ we’re clear of here. Do not give them the satisfaction of what they’ve done to ye. There’s a least a half dozen of them watchin’ out the door.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to actually speak. At the very least she would break down into tears, or she would indeed get sick in front of all those bastards. Tomas was right, she would not give them the satisfaction, and there was at least one of them whom she knew would get pleasure from her pain as he had these last twenty-four hours.

  “Come on, lass, just a couple more minutes an’ we’ll be away from here. I’m goin’ to take ye straight to Jamie’s.”

  Once in the car Tomas barely closed his door before driving off and away from the station. “Here, have a nip of this.” He handed her an ancient silver flask and she took it, uncapping it. She took a hearty slug, knowing she needed the fortification if she was to get through the next half hour without melting down into a puddle of hysteria. It was brandy, good brandy, though the quality was wasted on her at present. It could have been rotgut moonshine for all she cared, but it did warm her belly and gave her a sense of regaining control over her limbs. The outside world looked surreal to her, everything outlined as if it was a slide in a View-Master and that the viewer had added an extra dimension, acidic colors and a sepia-toned edging to the trees, cars, buildings and roads. She realized she was swaying in the seat and leaned back into it, in an attempt to further shore her nerves. She just wanted to see her children, reassure herself and them that all was well.

  “Tomas, was that letter—was it from the Prime Minister?” she asked, still wondering if she had been hallucinating in her compromised state.

  “Oh aye, it was,” he said grimly, “apparently he owed yer man James a favor.”

  She laughed out loud, sounding slightly unhinged even to her own ears. Tomas shot her a sideways glance of concern. “Of course he did,” she said, and laughed again. Tomas gave her another look and then he too, laughed.

  Jamie was waiting outside for them, Isabelle in his arms, Conor running down the drive the minute he heard the car. She was out of the car before Tomas even brought it to a full stop. She knelt down and swept her son into her arms, so grateful for his small solid warmth that she could have wept but knew she must not, lest she frighten him. She stood, Isabelle already reaching her arms out for her, and took her baby and hugged her tight. She buried her face in Isabelle’s shoulder, breathing in all her baby scents—talcum powder and a freshly-laundered romper and the pureed apples someone must have fed her for breakfast.

  “Come inside,” Jamie said briskly, “let’s get you a bath and a decent meal. A large drink wouldn’t go amiss either, I’m thinking.”

  She nodded, still not looking up from Isabelle’s shoulder. Jamie put a hand to her back and guided her into the house, and just the touch of his hand made her want to weep. She was safe now.

  Two hours later she felt somewhat restored to herself. She’d had a bath and a good meal and had held her children long enough that both had become decidedly wiggly. Now she was tucked up on the old squashy sofa in Jamie’s study with a drink in hand. It felt like pure luxury to be clean and wearing freshly laundered clothes, even if they were pyjamas. There was a fire in the hearth and the study was warm.

  Jamie was sitting across from her, an untouched drink on the table beside him. He looked almost as exhausted as she felt. “All right, Pamela, if you feel up for it, I think you’d best tell me everything that went on these last couple of days.”

  She nodded, even though the movement set off a crackle of pain through her head. She recounted all of it, from the police arriving in her yard to Tomas finally springing her from their clutches. Jamie’s face remained impassive as she told her story but his left hand was white with tension. Wit
h Jamie she had long ago learned to watch his hands and not his face to know what was truly going on with him.

  “Jamie, it was awful. My head hurt so badly, I couldn’t give coherent answers half the time. Mostly, I was so afraid for Conor and Isabelle,” her voice broke a little and she put her drink down, worried for a second that she was about to throw up on the priceless Oriental rug that covered the study floor. She put her head to her knees and Jamie moved to sit beside her. He put a hand to her back and rubbed it up and down the length of her spine. It felt as if the last two days were closing in over top of her, drowning her in fear and anxiety.

  “It’s all right, they just wanted to put the fear of God in you and see if they could rattle you.”

  “Well they did that,” she said, looking up at Jamie and then promptly putting her head back down as a wave of dizziness swept over her. “Jamie, they think I had something to do with your uncle’s death. You know I didn’t, but they made it clear they wouldn’t mind framing me for it.”

  “They won’t. I truly think they just wanted to scare you and I’m sorry they managed to do even that much. If it came down to it, Pamela, I’d take you and the children and flee the country. No one is going to separate you from your babies again. I promise you that.” His voice was grim, and she suddenly realized how terrible these last two days had been for him as well.

  “I’m sorry, Jamie, what a mess this is. I hate that it has come to rest on your doorstep.”

  “Don’t apologize to me, not for this, not ever.” His tone was fierce, and the look in his eyes frightened her a little. He was furious, not with her but with what had happened. She didn’t think even Jamie, with all his resources, could fix this, though.

  “I’m glad to be here,” she said, “I don’t think I could have managed to go home tonight. I hate to admit this, but I just don’t feel safe there anymore. It breaks my heart because when Casey was there, it was a sanctuary where I did feel safe and happy at the end of each day. Now I jump at every noise and check the locks three times before I go to bed, as if doing it three times will somehow put a magic spell on the house and everyone in it, so that we’re safe until morning.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Pamela. If anyone deserves to have a home that’s safe and sacred, it’s you.”

  “For a moment, I did have it. I know how fortunate that makes me.”

  She shifted a little and realized something had caught Jamie’s attention. He was staring at her shoulder. She turned her head and saw that a deep purple bruise had flowered out along her collarbone.

  “Pamela?” he said, and the anger in his voice was palpable. So much so that she shrank back a little.

  “One of them grabbed my shoulder, that’s all. You know I bruise easily, Jamie, it’s not…it’s not a big deal,” she said shakily.

  He stood and walked over to the windows and then after a moment he turned and walked back to where she sat.

  “It is a big deal. The thought of someone touching you in anger like that…” His lips were in a narrow straight line and he looked like the only thing that might soothe his feelings at present was if he could kill someone with his bare hands. He took a deep breath, and with a force of effort, smiled. “We’re meant to get snow tonight, so I think it’s best that you are here anyway. You’re safe now, Pamela. No one is going to come near you again, not on my watch. Gert packed up some clothes for you and the children. The animals have all been moved here, and Montmorency has even taken to Finbar. I can’t insist, obviously, but I think it would be best if you stayed put until we understand exactly what’s at the bottom of this.”

  “Thank you, Jamie.”

  “For the love of Christ, Pamela, do not thank me either. It’s my fault you’re in this mess.”

  “It is not. How on earth can you think that, Jamie?”

  “It is, that dead bastard was my uncle, after all.”

  She laughed, and Jamie turned in his pacing as though he would reprimand her.

  “What may I ask is so funny?”

  “Nothing,” she said, flapping a hand at him. “I’m a little hysterical, I think.” It was true she suddenly felt dizzy and slightly breathless. She hoped she wasn’t going to have a complete meltdown now that she felt secure.

  “I’m sorry,” he said and came over to where she sat and pulled her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder. It was a relief to be held, to breathe in his scent, which had long reassured her. The tension began to go from her muscles, the tiny groupings in her neck and shoulders, and then the larger ones along her spine. She was terribly tired, and her head was still aching despite the food and tea.

  “I’m afraid, Jamie.”

  “I know you are, but I’m here and I won’t allow anything more to happen to you.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The Transitory Nature of Butterflies

  PAMELA AWOKE IN THE MORNING to a world transformed. It had snowed during the night and with the snow had come the strange and ephemeral peace that was often its companion. She’d had a restless night, punctuated with nightmares and the headache, which even Shura’s remedies had not been able to alleviate.

  Jamie went out of his way to make certain nothing worrisome came her way throughout the day. The children were happy to have her back but were more concerned with getting out into the fresh snow to play. This seemed, to her, a very good sign that this incident hadn’t harmed them too much.

  Tomas came by in the early afternoon and stayed for tea. Her headache steadily worsened as the afternoon wore on, and she had trouble answering his questions, as she couldn’t seem to focus on more than half of what he was saying. He left soon after, casting her a worried look, and saying he would be back in a couple of days, as they had a great deal more to get through.

  He left just as the early winter sun was sinking, setting Jamie’s study afire with a lavender and gold glow. The detritus of afternoon tea still lay on the low table between couches. Pamela’s cup was mostly untouched, even though it was the jasmine tea she loved best. Maggie had made it especially for her, but she hadn’t been able to drink more than a swallow or two. She was alone for the moment as Jamie had walked out with Tomas. She knew there were things they wished to discuss further, and did not want to do so in front of her.

  She got up from the couch and went to one of the long windows that looked out into the small garden that sheltered the study from the worst of the winter winds and summer sun. The snow was glazed in a palette of watercolor paints, from mauve to lavender to a deep grey that was like the feathers of a goose. She rested her forehead against the window, the chill of it a relief to her aching head. Movement caught her eye along one of the branches of the oak which stood in the center of the garden. She squinted to better see and was surprised to find it was a butterfly. It was a gorgeous celadon, its wings picked out delicately in a nimbus of frost. The poor thing would die out in the snow. It seemed odd to her that it had found its way here on such a cold day.

  She opened the window she stood next to. There were clasps on all of them so that a person could easily step out into the garden without going through the house. She had long suspected there were reasons other than a want of solitude for this. The chill air hit her skin like a wave of water and she walked out into the snow to get a closer look at the butterfly. Her vision was oddly acute, as though everything was magnified. The folds on the oak bark seemed like they were layered, crevice upon crevice, and she could almost see the years numbered there, telescoping back through time until the massive tree was merely a newly-hatched sprout breaking open an acorn. A snowflake drifted down in front of her and she put out a hand so that it landed on her palm. Winter now and what was liquid had become something different, transient, striving toward unity with the cold. There were more than a billion molecules in this delicate twelve-sided star in her hand, which was already melting and transmuting into a silver sphere of trembling water. Water, ever moving, falling, cascading, streaming, flowing, always yearning to be somewhere el
se much like humans.

  The butterfly was picking its way daintily along the branch, snow capping its delicate feet, and the colors of the sunset shone through the fragile wings, washing the pale green in drifts of purple and crimson. An old poem, one which she had loved as a child, floated through her mind and so she spoke it aloud to the butterfly.

  “You’ve come each morn to sip the sweets

  With which you found me dripping

  Yet never knew it was not dew

  But tears that you were sipping.”

  A memory came to her with the strange bits of lucidity which had punctured the grey fog of the afternoon. She remembered seeing monarchs on the bark of eucalyptus trees in California one year, moving in their great rustling ribbons, clustering for warmth and life. Her father had stopped the car and they’d stepped out, careful to keep their distance so as not to frighten the butterflies. On the ground at her feet was a lost wing, just one, stripped of its scales, translucent and torn. She had picked it up, marveling at its weightlessness and at the beauty it held still, even though broken. Around her the very air had trembled with the flight of the butterflies like living flame born on updrafts of autumn air.

  “They live such brief lives,” her father said, “they have always seemed to me half sunlight, half shadow, for the shade of their ending is on them even as they emerge from the chrysalis, and their life is a frenzy to eat and mate before they die. Some only have days, others weeks, and a few very rare ones, months.”

  “And then they fly north in the spring,” she said, having learned about the monarch’s immense migration in school.

  “It will be their great-great-grandchildren that return next fall,” he said.

  “How do they know their way?” she asked.

  “No one knows,” he said quietly. “Their understanding of certain things is much greater than ours.”