Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (41 page)

“I don’t want to fight,” Grace said, lowering her voice and glancing at her daughter, who had turned to look at them when their voices rose. “All I’m saying is that I don’t think you should chase after this... whatever he is. Adventurer.”

“I’m not chasing after anybody,” Karen said darkly, looking away.

“Probably because you don’t know where to find him.”

“I know where he lives. Saint Augustine, Florida.”

“Oh, so you’re planning to fly south for the winter?”

Karen shot her sister a disgusted look. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“What’s the problem? You don’t think he’s there, right?”

“I don’t think he spends a lot of time at home, no.”

“So what are you going to do? Sit around here staring into space like a catatonic?”

“I have not been sitting around!” Karen protested, standing up abruptly and letting her papers slip to the floor. “You know very well I’ve been trying hard to find a job, and I’m sorry if I can’t seem to get interested in all the suitable bachelors you’ve been parading through here during the past month. If I hear one more word about the stock market or insurance rates or municipal bond funds, I am going to throw a screaming fit at your next cocktail party and start pelting your neighbors with the hors d’oeuvres. Now leave me alone.” She stormed up the stairs and slammed the door of the guest room behind her, perilously close to tears.

It wasn’t long before Grace was tapping at the door. “Karen, let me in. Come on—I want to talk to you.”

Karen got up resignedly and opened the door, going back to sit on the edge of the bed as Grace followed her inside.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “The last thing you need right now is your sister giving you a bad time.”

“It’s all right,” Karen replied. “It’s just that I want you and Ken to see that arranging these little get togethers to find me a husband is transparent and embarrassing. I feel like the prize mare at a horse auction.”

“We were only trying to help,” Grace said in a small voice.

“I know, I know,” Karen said. “You think that if I could find a suitable husband I wouldn’t need a job or anything else. But Karen, I’m not like you. That didn’t work for me with Ian and it won’t work for me now.”

“But then what are you going to do?” Grace asked. “Employers aren’t exactly lining up to engage your services.”

“You noticed that,” Karen said dryly. “I guess I’ll keep trying, maybe go back to school for some further training. I’m not sure. But I’m certainly not going to rush into marriage to cure what ails me. I made that mistake once and I will never do it again.”

“All right,” Grace said flatly. “No more parties, I promise. You’re on your own. But if you need any help, just ask, okay?”

“I will. And thanks, Grace. I do know you mean well.”

Grace nodded and left the room, pulling the door closed quietly behind her. Karen rolled over on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, then remembered Linda’s letter and took it from her pocket, unfolding the scented pages to reveal the Englishwoman’s patrician scrawl. It seemed that Linda was doing a good job of enlivening the Sussex countryside, and when Karen finished her letter she was even more depressed than she had been after arguing with Grace. She felt sorry for herself for about five minutes, then dug in the drawer of her bedside stand for the list of job calls she still had to make. Preparing herself to deal with the blandishments of obstructionist secretaries, she lifted the receiver and dialed the first number.

* * * *

Karen was sitting in the kitchen after breakfast several days later when the phone rang. Ken was at work, the kids were at school, and Grace was making a second pot of coffee at the counter so Karen answered it.

“Hello?” she said absently, filling in the crossword puzzle on the back page of the newspaper.

“I’d like to speak with Miss Karen Walsh, please,” a female voice said. Startled, Karen didn’t respond for a second. The caller had an accent and she couldn’t place it immediately. Then she realized that the woman sounded like a relative of her father’s who’d died when Karen was small; the caller had a brogue.

“This is Karen Walsh,” she replied.

“Miss Walsh, this is Mrs. Schanley from Mercy Hospital in Belfast calling.”

“Belfast, Ireland?” Karen said loudly. The line was crackling.

“Northern Ireland,” came the crisp reply.

Karen’s mind raced. Did her father have any long lost family member who might have surfaced across the water and wanted her for some reason? She couldn’t think of anybody.

“Yes, what is it?” she said. The line calmed down suddenly and she could hear clearly.

“We’ve a patient here on the critical list. He’s in a bad way and seems to have no relations, poor man. He’s been in the intensive care unit since he was brought in several hours ago, and in cases like this we try to contact whoever the patient requests.”

“Yes?” Karen murmured, closing her eyes.

“Well, just before he lost consciousness he asked for you, miss.”

“Me?” Karen said faintly.

“He said your name and told me your address was in his wallet, and so it was.”

Karen’s fingers tightened on the receiver. “Who is it?” she whispered.

“A Steven Colter, U.S. citizen, miss. Resident of Saint Augustine, Florida, by his papers.” She pronounced the state Flo-ree-da.

“Is he... What’s wrong with him?” Karen asked shakily.

“Gunshot wound to the chest. We had a bit of trouble hereabouts last night, and he was mixed up in it somehow.”

Karen could guess the rest. “Did he say anything else?” she asked, swallowing.

“Yes, miss. Said you were to have his effects if he passed on.” The woman’s voice dropped an octave, took on a confidential note. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone else, if you take my meaning.”

“Is he dying?” Karen could barely get the words out.

Mrs. Schanley resumed her official tone. “I don’t know as to that, miss; it would be for doctor to say. There was massive bleeding according to my notes, but he’s a young buck, isn’t he, hale and strong.”

“Yes,” Karen agreed. Very strong, but in a moment of weakness he’d called for her.

“It would help if we had someone to consult about his case,” the woman said gently. “He’s right out of his head and may be that way for a good while.”

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Karen said firmly, making an instant decision.

“Will you take responsibility?” Mrs. Schanley asked eagerly, anxious to dump her problem in Karen’s lap.

“Yes, yes,” Karen said impatiently. “I’ll be on the next plane and I’ll sign anything you want.”

“Just as you say, miss.” Relief was evident in her delivery. “For my records,” she added, “what is your relationship to Mr. Colter?”

Karen thought for a moment. “Friend,” she said. Then she turned the newspaper she still held in one hand to find the blank margin. “What is your address there?”

“Mercy Hospital in Donegal Place. All the cabbies know it; you can come straight through from the airport or the quay.”

“And what is your position at the hospital?” Karen asked, scribbling madly.

“Oh, beg pardon, didn’t I say? I’m the administrative assistant here. You’ll find me on the first floor just forninst the admissions office.”

Forninst? Must mean nearby, Karen thought. “Thank you, Mrs. Schanley, thank you very much. I’ll be seeing you within a day or so.”

They said their goodbyes. As Karen hung up the phone she caught sight of her sister, who was frozen with the unfilled coffeepot in her hand, the water running in the sink behind her.

“Please tell me that wasn’t what it sounded like,” Grace said.

“It’s Steven. He’s been hurt in Belfast and I have to go to him.”

“Now wait a minute,” Grace said, reaching behind her to turn off the water. “Wait just a damn minute. You’re not going anywhere.”

“He doesn’t have anybody else, Grace,” Karen said, ripping off the corner of the newspaper page and putting the scrap into her pocket.

“For heaven’s sake, Karen, he doesn’t have YOU either. By your own admission you went out with him ONCE in Caracas, and now you’re ready to run off to Europe after him like some... camp follower. It’s insane.”

“I have to go,” Karen said stubbornly, looking around for her purse.

“I knew it,” Grace groaned. “I knew something like this would happen.”

“Grace, if you start up with that Billy Sykes nonsense again I swear I’ll tie you to the stove.”

“But Karen, Northern Ireland! The whole place ignites every night on the six o’clock news.”

“Grace,” Karen said briskly, “do us both a favor and stop watching the news.” She was rifling through her purse, looking for her bank book. “What time does the bank open? Nine o’clock? I have to get some traveler’s checks.”

“Are you going to use Dad’s money for this trip?” Grace demanded.

“What do you suggest I use? Wampum? The New York account is all I have. I’ll stop off at the bank on the way to the airport.” She punched the buttons on the phone for information. “I have to book the next flight for Belfast.”

Grace sank into a seat at the table, watching Karen. “This is a nightmare,” she said. “You just left Almeria and now you’re going to Belfast. Doesn’t this guy Colter ever hang out anyplace quiet?”

Karen put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at her sister.

“Grace, he may be dying,” she said quietly. “He thought he was or he never would have asked for me. I know that.” When the operator came on the line she took her hand away and spoke into the phone.

Grace fell silent. She listened to Karen dialing the airline and making the flight arrangements, mentally shaking her head. Karen would never change. Her marriage to Ian, which Grace had hoped would tame her wildly romantic nature, only seemed to inflame it. She was now more determined than ever to chase an elusive dream, bound up in her mind with this injured mercenary who had so clearly captured her imagination.

“Well,” Grace said as Karen hung up the phone, “I can see that as usual you’re not going to listen to me.”

“The flights to Aldergrove Airport outside Belfast don’t run too frequently, and the connections are bad,” Karen said, as if Grace hadn’t spoken. “The fastest way to get there is to fly to Liverpool and then take the ferry across the Irish Sea.”

“How very interesting,” Grace said sarcastically. “Ken is going to lose his mind when he hears this.”

“Then don’t tell him,” Karen replied.

“I think he’ll notice your absence, don’t you?” Grace said. “Where am I supposed to say you’ve gone?”

“Tell him I went to England to visit a friend,” Karen said piously. “That’s not a lie.”

“Except you’re not staying in England and the friend isn’t Linda.”

“Details,” Karen replied. “I have to get some clothes together. Where did I put that stuff that arrived last week from Almeria?”

“It’s in the basement,” Grace said, standing up. “Come on. I’ll do the laundry so you can pack.”

“You’ll help me?” Karen said, brightening.

“I can’t think of any way to stop you,” her sister replied darkly.

They went down the stairs to the cellar, and by early that afternoon Karen was on a plane out of Kennedy in New York to Liverpool, England.

She slept during most of the five hour flight and didn’t see much of industrial Liverpool, about which she knew nothing except that the Beatles had originated there. In the autumn dusk it seemed to be a gray, grimy city, filled with working class people and brick factories spewing black dust into the damp, chilly air. Karen took a cab directly from the airport to the waterfront, passing rows of long, low tenements where children played in the narrow streets or in the fenced, postage stamp yards. Laundry lines flying multicolored flags were strung from one house to the other like utility wires, and the factory wives gossiped over the barriers to their adjoining properties as they took in their wash. Karen looked around as they drove, absorbing it all, fascinated with this glimpse of life in a town she had never seen before and probably never would see again.

The docks were crowded at the end of the business day and she almost lost her way because, incredibly, she could barely understand the directions she was given. Although the people ostensibly spoke English, their accent was so thick it made her native tongue seem like a foreign language. She finally found signs saying: Belfast Ferry, Queue Up Here, and got in line behind a group of people waiting for the boat.

When the ropes were taken down and they could get on board, British policemen checked the papers of all the passengers very carefully, examining Karen’s newly reissued American passport with particular interest. When they held her aside and let the other travelers go ahead she knew that she was in for trouble.

“What’s the problem?” she asked as one of the harbor policemen picked up a phone inside his little booth and made a call.

“Just making a security check, miss,” he replied politely. “Not to worry.”

“But why the delay? I’m going to visit a hospital patient in Belfast and this is the last run of the day. Time is very important.”