Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (75 page)

“How many dead people did you photograph these last few weeks?”

“Touché.”

“Pamela, you know as well as I do that in any country there are always two histories—that of the politicians and the privileged and that of the dispossessed. In no way do the two histories bear any resemblance to each other. One survives to make its way into textbooks and the annals of history, the other dies with the people who lived it. The journalists aren’t here to tell the whole truth. They malign or cozy up to the IRA, depending how many atrocities they’ve committed in the last month, and when something comes along that’s sexier in the business of unofficial war, they’ll be gone. Ireland is but a season on the world stage,” he shrugged eloquently, “and it plays well on American television. It’s just that sometimes what my role is on that stage becomes a little unclear.”

“Do you ever think of just leaving the stage—walking off into the sunset—maybe with Belinda?”

He eyed her shrewdly, the firelight casting his face half in shadow, so that his expression was unreadable, though the undercurrent of despair was evident in his words.

“All the time, and yet I’m afraid I’m as much a prisoner of this country as your husband. We have different lines, but we’re playing much the same role.”

“Except you don’t seem to be illegally imprisoned at present,” she said, somewhat more sourly than she had intended.

“Do you wish that I were?”

“No, I’m sorry Jamie.”

“Likewise. We both seem to be in less than congenial frames of mind this evening.”

“Perhaps it’s that we seem unable to be less than honest with one another.”

He smiled. “Perhaps.”

“I think I’d best get back to bed.” She stood, the blanket no longer warm, but still a comfort against her bare legs.

“What you heard tonight—Pamela it goes without saying, you have to keep it to yourself. It’s not just me who would be in danger should any of that information get out.”

She looked him directly in the eye. “It does go without saying. It always has.”

THE MOON CAME UP LOW AND SMOKY over the hills, lending a spectral cast to bony tree limbs and the hunched shoulders of the surrounding hills. The light hadn’t managed to seep down to ground level, there shadows clustered thick as club moss. Pamela shivered. Despite several layers of wool and a stout pair of boots, the cold was insidious and seemed to have crept right into her marrow.

She’d parked the car some ways back, behind a hedgerow so tangled with drenched and withered fuchsia that there was no way anyone could spot it.

Now she crouched in a thick stand of wych elm, alternating between looking at her watch and forcing herself to not run back to the car as fast as her shaking legs would carry her. Underfoot the papery seed discs of the majestic trees rustled ominously. Every little noise struck at her nerve endings like an ice pick.

Had something moved in the undergrowth? It was hard to see, but yes, there it was again. She held her breath and peered, eyes watering with the effort to make some shape of the formless thing that slithered along the ground. A snake? No, this was Ireland, a snake hadn’t been seen here in hundreds of years. So not a snake. The movement flickered again and she leaned forward, hand going to the pistol she’d strapped to her ankle.

Just then, a hand came across her mouth from behind and an arm like an iron bar fixed itself across her back. She tried to twist out of the hold, but couldn’t budge the grip on her more than a hair’s breadth. The other hand slipped the pistol out of its holster.

She tried screaming but nothing more than a squeak managed to get past the cold leather against her lips. It was then she realized her captor’s finger was lodged between said lips and took a deep breath through her nose before biting down hard.

A muffled
‘ouch’
was the only reaction, though the one syllable managed, even through her panic, to sound familiar.

“Don’t yowl, I’m letting you go now.”

She whirled round as best she could from her undignified position. “You scared the hell out of me,” she said, voice sounding more relieved than indignant, however.

“You little fool, what did you think you were doing, sneaking out here on your own?”

The tide swept back toward indignation. “It’s my business what
I’m
doing here. What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“I believe you made a promise to Pat that you wouldn’t go off on your own.”

Damn Pat! He’d obviously told Jamie to keep an eye on her. She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. She was actually quite grateful for his presence. It wasn’t likely that anyone had seen him, Jamie was well versed in slipping in and out of places without arousing notice. When he wanted to, that is, at other times he seemed the epicenter of whatever universe he was moving through.

Like her, he was dressed in black from head to toe, the only spot of color on him the occasional flash of teeth as he spoke.

“Is he late?”

“Not yet,” she said, struggling to keep her teeth from chattering. “Don’t you even want to know why I’m meeting him?” she asked, feeling rather irritated at his smooth taking over of the situation.

“I assume it’s the next mile on your wild goose chase.”

There was really no response to
that
, Pamela thought, so she wouldn’t deign to give him one.

“Are you certain he meant here?” Jamie asked, the vertical crease in his forehead matching the frown on his face. “I don’t like this, it’s terribly isolated. Something feels wrong.”

She brushed spiderwebbing out of her face. “I’m not leaving. If this man knows anything I want to find out what it is.”

“Then we need to be somewhere we can hear him coming before he sees us.” Jamie eyed the byre that sat on a slight rise, in the quickly fading light. “There’s a loft,” he said speculatively, “that will have to do. Come on.”

They ran low and quick across the open ground, though Jamie, who’d the senses of a hungry jungle cat, didn’t sense anyone about.

The byre was a tall, narrow building with the loft high up and tucked toward the back. It was apparently used as a storage facility and not to house animals, for none of the usual ordure of sheep or other livestock tinted the air.

Jamie chose a small door at the side, with a large clump of lilac sheltering the opening. It opened easily and the two of them, after a last scan of the area, slipped in. The byre was built of gray fieldstone and was cold as the bowels of hell on this November night.

Jamie clicked on a narrow beam of light, casting it around, careful not to shine it near the small, thick-paned windows. There was no ladder, but large spikes stuck out at regular intervals from a beam that ran up the length of the wall to join with the roof joists.

“Up you go, test your weight with each one before you move on, though.”

Jamie needn’t have worried, the beam was stout and the spikes well fixed within it. She was up and over the lip of the loft in seconds. Jamie followed on her heels, clicking the light off as he came over the top into the piles of hay.

The hay smelled relatively fresh and was peppered through with timothy and clover stalks that lent a sweetish aroma to the dank atmosphere. The chill moonlight crept through an opening at the far back of the loft. Individual stalks of hay were delineated in silver, giving the impression that the two of them had landed in a frosty field. An impression that was helped along by the small puffing clouds each of them emitted every time they took a breath.

Jamie settled in beside her, well back from the edge of the loft, but close enough that if they lay full length on their stomachs they’d have a good view of the barn below. He tucked his light into a pocket and removed a flask. He handed it to her and said, “For the cold—we may need it if we have to sit here any length of time.”

They sat quietly, the small night sounds magnified in the hush. The bare branches of the lilac tree rubbed against the stones, creating an eerie moan that did nothing to calm Pamela’s nerves. The entire night had been created for spooks and chills, even down to the smell of dead vegetation and the lonely hooting of a barn owl somewhere in the valley below.

Jamie rubbed his hands together and then blew on them. “We’ll play a game. That should help pass the time.”

“Didn’t think to bring cards,” she said, somewhat snippily. Jamie’s coolness in the face of imminent danger had always been one of his less attractive qualities. Jamie wisely ignored her tone.

“Just a word game. Here’s the rules—neither less nor more than four syllables per line, each verse with four lines and each word beginning with the same letter, though we’ll allow for is, and, A and I.”

“Easier for some of us than others,” she grumbled, tugging her cap down farther over her ears.

“It’ll take your mind off your cold toes,” Jamie said unsympathetically, “I’ll even let you pick the letter.”

“Heavens,” she replied icily, “does your generosity know no bounds?”

“Cranky, aren’t we?” he responded back sweetly. “Now are you going to pick the letter or shall I?”

“I will, you’re likely to pick Z,” she said firmly, “just for sheer bloody-mindedness.”

“Alright then, give us a letter and a theme,” he said, and she could see his grin even in the dim light.

“ ‘S’ is my letter and our theme shall be—
‘The Seduction of Sally Scrimshaw
.’ Your turn first,” she said in a spirit of generosity.

“Stop batting your lashes at me,” Jamie said dryly, “it’s more effective by firelight.” He gave it no more than a moment’s thought and then let fly in a flurry of playfully enunciated tones.

‘Sidney Shawshank
Sorely sought sweet
Sally Scrimshaw
‘Sweetling’ said Sid—,”

Jamie broke off abruptly, “Over to you.”

She shot him a look that could be described as less than gracious, cleared her throat, and picked up where he had left off.

“Sagaciously speaking
Savory Sal,
Suitor-wise Sid
A scorcher is.’

“Too many syllables in the first line and I’ll have to take issue with suitor wise.” Jamie said with dubious scorn.

“Hyphenated,” she said triumphantly.

“What,” Jamie sighed, “would Dr. Johnson say?”

“I don’t see why he should have all the fun, I like to contribute to the English language every now and again myself.”

Jamie took a deep breath, flexed his fingers, and launched into the third verse.

‘Said superbly
Sauced Sally
‘Sweet Sir Shawshank,
Simply stated—’

“Oh not fair, feeding me half a line,” Pamela said, tucking a stray curl up under the fisherman’s cap she wore.

“Can’t take the heat darling, stay out of the kitchen,” Jamie replied blithely.

She arched a sooty eyebrow and launched into the next verse of their composition.

‘Solicitous
Syllables sir
Stir some silly
Sows to sighing,’

“Your turn,” she said gleefully, passing the flask back to Jamie as a welcome warmth began to bubble through her veins.

‘Sober Sally
Seeks solitaire
Solemn scion
Of solvency.”

“Oh very good you rat, an alliterative want-ad,” Pamela said laughing, taking the flask from Jamie’s flourishing hand and helping herself to a small slug. She eyed the rafters owlishly, seeking inspiration.

‘Scornful Sally
Succulent sylph
Scathing statements
Swell my sabre.’

Jamie took back the flask and pointedly put the lid on. “From glib to gutter in one small swallow,” he said sternly, “no more for you.”

‘Sir Sidney’ said
Spirited Sal,
Saddled supine
I shall not be.’

“O-ho,” Pamela crowed, “you’ve broken your own rules, forfeit the game.”

Jamie shook his head abruptly, index finger gone swiftly to his lips. Below there was movement. She couldn’t hear it herself but knew that Jamie, with his preternatural radar, did. Following his lead, she slid down into the hay until she was half on her side, as flat as could be managed with the hard mound of her belly in the way. She was careful not to disturb the straw, fearful that some vagrant wisp floating down would announce their presence.

She heard voices, deep tones, two men it seemed, approaching from the rear of the byre. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, the jollity and adventure of the last few hours suddenly lost in the prospect of serious danger.

Jamie held up two fingers, eyes narrowed in question. She shook her head very slightly and held up one finger. She was only expecting one man. Two men meant trouble. She could hear them clearly now, approaching the door, opening it and then a muffled oath as one of them stumbled over the threshold.

“
Hssht
,” the other hissed.

Her heartbeat was threatening to come out her ears, and she’d a sick oily feeling in the pit of her stomach. Below, the men were checking the perimeter of the barn.

The ground outside was too hard for them to have left a trace and yet she was quite certain the two men below hadn’t merely stumbled across this barn. She prayed they would stay below and wouldn’t feel the necessity to search the loft. The men had halted now, and seemed to be listening for something. She only hoped it wasn’t the sound of her pulse echoing off the stone walls.

An uneasy stillness descended. Jamie’s hand found hers in the straw and he kept a steady pressure on it, the touch of his skin calming her despite the fraught circumstances they now found themselves in. Below, the men shuffled slightly, though neither made so much as a murmur.

Then amongst all the held breath, she heard footsteps on the frosty ground outside. She closed her eyes, knowing there wasn’t a thing they could do to warn him. The leaves were hissing under his shoes, the thin coating of ice magnifying the noise of his footfall. A sense of heightened expectation drew the air tight around them, and she knew the men had heard the footsteps as well.

The side door creaked open, and for a split second the universe held still, poised on the edge of chaos—then all hell broke loose. There was a great deal of muffled thumping, a clear and querulous—“
What the fock?!
”—as well as other more colorful curses, as the man fought blind at the unexpected attack. There was a sickening thunk that Pamela instinctively knew was the sound of a revolver being cuffed upside the man’s head.