Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (87 page)

“But—” Casey protested, but Jamie shook his head, knowing the words before they were spoken.

“You can’t, she’s the first place they’ll look. I believe that Joe Doherty has her shadowed twenty-four hours a day. It’s likely she doesn’t breathe without him being informed of it.”

“Jaysus, I’d no idea. The fockin’ bastard, when I lay hands on him he’ll wish to Christ he’d never even been conceived, much less born.”

“That’s as may be,” Jamie said acerbically, fine golden eyebrows raised slightly, “but you’ll find it easier to accomplish your goal if you’re actually alive, so for now Belfast is entirely off limits to you. Understood?”

Casey nodded, trying to contain the mulish stubbornness rising up in him, knowing it would show only too clearly on his face. “How long?” he asked, feeling his chest tighten at the thought of even another day without Pamela. He didn’t feel as if he’d breathe proper again until she was in his arms and he could see and feel for himself that she was safe and whole.

“As long as it takes to straighten this mess out,” Jamie said curtly, and then softened his tone slightly, “a few weeks at most, no longer.” Casey noticed for the first time since the man had entered the glade how tired he looked. Though he was, as always, impeccably dressed, shaved and alert.

“Jamie, just how worried should I be about Joe Doherty?”

“Frightened out of your wits,” Jamie answered sharply, “he wants you dead, you must have realized that by now.”

“Aye,” Casey answered wryly, “the attempted drownin’ was a fairly clear hint. Though I can’t see why my hide is worth any more to him than a number of others on the street.”

“It goes higher than Mr. Doherty,” Jamie said.

“I thought it might,” Casey said, unable to suppress a shiver up his spine at this confirmation of his fears. “How high?”

“You’ve heard of an exclusive little club, I’m sure, its members culled from all walks of life. Government officials, corporate heads, industrialists, academics and all the way on down the line to career criminals.”

“I’d heard rumors,” Casey said uneasily, thinking he could use another shot of the brandy-laced tea. “But it’s never been confirmed.”

“There’s thirty or forty of them,” Jamie said, “at present. They’ve got hired assassins, so called death squads, which are soundly supported by certain policemen, who provide armed escort for them in and out of the target areas.”

“Ye know this for a fact?” Casey asked harshly, feeling a trickle of ice run through his veins.

“I do.”

“Jaysus, if they ever found out...”

“I’d be dead,” Jamie bluntly finished the thought Casey had left hanging in the air, “however I’ve safeguards in place, even the man who reports to me doesn’t know who I am.”

“I’d heard there was a list,” Casey said, lungs tight with held air.

“There is,” Jamie replied calmly.

“Have ye seen it?”

“I have.”

“Am I on it?”

“Yes, you are,” Jamie said quietly.

Casey took a deep breath, searching for the courage to ask the next question. “An’ my brother, is he on it?”

There was a long and dreadful silence that stretched across the space between them giving Casey his answer before Jamie spoke the words.

“He is.”

“Oh God,” Casey said, as his knees buckled and he sat gracelessly on the damp ground.

Jamie was beside him in an instant, placing a small flask in Casey’s hands and saying in a harsh voice, “Take a drink. Only one, though, you’ve got to drive. I am doing everything in my power to ensure your safety but in return you have to keep a clear head and not do anything foolish. Pat’s safe for now.”

“Where is he?” Casey asked hoarsely, the aftertaste of the whiskey like hot blood on his tongue.

“He’s home with Sylvie. I managed to get him a pardon for crimes he never committed, but nevertheless it constituted a get out of jail free card,” Jamie said.

Casey nodded, knowing it was the best that could be managed under the situation. Had he thought it would have gotten him released, he too might have been tempted to confess to any number of crimes he had not committed.

“This little committee, ye say they’ve thirty or forty. Do ye mind me askin’ how many ye’ve got on yer own team?”

The pause that ensued was painfully long. Casey took another swallow off the flask before Jamie could stop him. “Christ man,” Casey whispered grimly, “don’t tell me yer alone.”

Jamie eyed him benignly.

“Would ye say somethin’?” Casey finished a little desperately.

“You said not to tell you,” Jamie said in an annoyingly composed voice.

“Jaysus, Mary, Joseph an’ the little green men, would ye give a man another drink?” Casey said in an explosion of breath.

“No,” Jamie replied sternly, capping the whiskey firmly and sticking it in his own pocket. “Now up on your feet, you’ve got to get going,” he helped Casey to his feet with more force than the dazed Casey thought was strictly necessary. He then held him by the elbows until Casey’s knees stopped wobbling.

“Why are ye doin’ this?” Casey asked, taking the bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Doing what?” Jamie asked, face suddenly a cool mask.

“All this,” Casey gestured with one large hand, “savin’ my skin, arrangin’ cars an’ boats an’ hideaways when ye know,” Casey tried to catch Jamie’s eyes, “that a man in yer particular position can afford no mistakes. Is it for her?” he asked, though the question stuck in his craw like an indigestible lump.

Jamie’s gaze shifted only slightly but it was enough to tell Casey what he wanted to know.

“You’d best go, you’ve a long day ahead of you,” Jamie said, once again in perfect and enviable control of his expression and tone.

“Aye, thank ye man for all ye’ve done,” Casey said awkwardly.

“Think nothing of it,” Jamie quipped lightly as the morning’s dull light gilded his hair a dark gold, painting an airy crown about his head.

“She once said ye were like a prince in a fairytale, a dream in the darkness.”

“Did she? Well it’s not the most unflattering comment I’ve been handed,” Jamie said, and Casey saw he’d unnerved the man, even if only slightly.

He continued on as if Jamie hadn’t spoken. “Yer always runnin’ about savin’ everybody else, but ye can’t save yer ownself, can ye? Do ye always do what’s right even when the cost is so high, man?”

Jamie sighed and Casey saw he was considering one of his pretty obfuscations that he was so used to dealing out to the world, but then he smiled wearily, his mask dropping for the first time that morning.

“It’s a character flaw; one rather gets into the habit of playing Prince Valiant after awhile even when one finds the role tiresome. Now you’d best go, time’s a-wasting.”

Casey started for the road, then turned, walked back, and put his hand out. “Thank ye,” he looked directly into Jamie’s eyes, “for everything.”

“You won her fair and square Casey; you don’t owe me thanks for that. She chose you.”

Casey nodded. “Aye, she chose me, but only after you let her go. I think I’ve some small idea what that cost ye.”

“Do you?” Jamie asked lightly, but his smile was more strained than it had been only a moment before.

“I do,” Casey said, “an’ I am thankful to ye for it.”

“Then take better care of yourself, would you? In case,” Jamie spoke softly but there was a steely thread ribboning under his words, “I’m not there to pick up the pieces next time.”

“Aye, I’ll try,” Casey said turning and walking toward the rising day. He hesitated on the edge of the circle of trees and looked back, but Jamie was gone, disappearing into the mist like the prince of a long forgotten fairytale.

Nevertheless, Casey whispered the last words he’d not said, “Aye man, I do know, for I love her too.”

INISHMORE, NORTHERNMOST OF THE ARAN ISLANDS, was by nightfall shrouded in the thick pea soup of Atlantic fog. But the little fishing boat knew every rock and crevice of her coastline and put to without incident in a sheltered cove.

Casey stood blind on the rocky shore, feeling a steep fall of rock above him and the icy breath of the Atlantic directly behind him. Between the devil and the deep blue sea, he thought, shouldering his bag purposefully, he’d take the devil every time. He began the treacherous climb up the rocky slope that he could only just make out in the heavy darkness.

Twenty minutes later he stood upon the barren sweeping plateau that was Inishmore. Two hours out of Galway Bay was a land beyond the point of memory, a land of stone and silence. Of wind and rock and the cry of birds caught forever between sky and sea.

Casey shivered. Even blinded by dark the island felt indescribably ancient, a land where the stone gods still ruled from their violent perch. The man on the boat had said to go directly up the cliff and he couldn’t miss the cottage. Certain enough, ahead of him was a tiny flickering light, disappearing in and out of his wind-whipped vision. He walked quickly over the low rock walls that fragmented the land again and again into tiny plots, across a landscape as tree shorn as the moon, towards a dubious and fragile sanctuary.

He came round the back of the blasted stone walls, glowing dimly with whitewash, and in the salt-lashed air he tasted the faint tang of peat smoke. Someone had left a fire burning and he hugged his arms tight in the anticipation of the warmth and his first decent sleep in months.

The door was open, its black latch freshly oiled. He pushed it and went in. Low ceilinged and thick-walled, the cottage was snug, holding off the wind and rain. The roof was thatched with reeds set in wire, done in the traditional manner, but replaced recently. Small, thick-paned windows distorted his reflection and threw it back at him. There were two rooms, the larger one for both cooking and company, and the smaller for sleeping. A double bed, piled high with thick quilts took up most of the space in the smaller. He slid his bag off his shoulder and sat down on the bed with relief, feeling the incredible luxury of a thick mattress beneath him. He was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and decided to worry about food in the morning. There’d been a good load of coal in the corner, he’d bank up the fire and it would keep the place snug until dawn.

He went back into the other room, knelt down on the floor, and smoored the fire securely, leaving enough space for the air to feed the flames. It threw a terrific heat and he considered just laying down beside it and passing out when a sudden gust of air pulled a ribbon of flame from the slumbering coals.

He turned quickly, hand automatically reaching for the nearest weapon even as he sprang upright. His right arm was raised, iron poker in hand, ready, poised to strike and then just as swiftly dropped as he saw who stood, framed by night, in the doorway.

“Jewel,” he said hoarsely, in disbelief, in welcome, in uncertainty.

The door stayed open but she didn’t move, her face beaded with rain, her hair wild with wind and water. A single glance told him she’d been out wandering the crumbling limestone cliffs with her usual disregard for safety and he wanted to shake her for it, even as he fought the urge to crawl across the floor on his knees to her.

“I—I didn’t expect you for a few more days,” she said, a vicious gust of wind blowing her hair about her face in a cloud of wet curls and pushing fretfully at her clothes.

Casey walked over, reached around her, and shut the door. “I didn’t know ye were goin’ to be here at all,” he said quietly. Of its own accord, his hand reached out automatically to help her with her wet things, and then hesitated. Would she welcome his touch? He didn’t, at present, think he could bear it if she flinched.

“It’s alright,” she said in a low voice, “you can touch me, I won’t break.”

“I might,” Casey replied, feeling lightheaded and giddy suddenly, as if he were made of something clear and translucent that would shatter with the slightest breath or touch.

“You’d better sit down,” she said, tone brisk as she stepped away from him and retrieved a rough wooden chair.

He sat and watched as she removed her coat, hung it on a peg behind the door beside his own and then, stepping back outside the door, filled the kettle from a pump in the front yard. She brought the kettle in and hung it on the cast-iron hook that was mortared over the fire.

“You need to eat,” she said firmly, and began taking things down from the tiny cupboards— cup, plate, scones, cream, jam, sugar, milk, whisking back and forth from the table in a flurry of wet hair and damp clothing.

“How’s the laddie?” he asked, swallowing over the hard lump that was forming up high in his throat.

“He’s fine, he’s with Jamie for now.”

Casey nodded, the awkwardness between the two of them so palpable that it seemed an entity of its own in the room.

“I’ve got stew in the cold cupboard out back,” she said, making once more for the door.

“Don’t,” he shook his head, “the scones will do, I only need a bite, I’m damn near too tired to chew.”

“I’m sorry.” She stood nervously by the door, looking like she wanted no more than to flee back into the night. “I should have thought. Do you just want to get to bed then?”

Casey smiled wryly. “Aye, I’d like nothin’ better, but I don’t want to go alone, an’ I think yer not ready even to lie beside me, much less anything else.”