Now You See Her (35 page)

Marcy’s eyes shot through the crowds jostling for priority position, searching for any sign of Devon. She saw lots of young women, many with long brown hair, a few with sad eyes and prominent cheekbones, but none with the specific combination of features and attitude that defined her daughter. She checked her watch. It was still early. Devon had told her to be here at one o’clock—“Be in front of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral at one o’clock,” had been her precise words—and one o’clock was still twenty minutes from now. Which meant Devon probably wasn’t here yet, Marcy decided, her eyes continuing to flit from face to face as she pushed her way through the throng of tourists toward the massive front doors of the church. Devon was rarely on time for anything. How many times had she kept Marcy waiting to drive her to school while she dawdled in the bathroom? How many dinner reservations had they forfeited because Devon couldn’t decide what to wear? What about the time they’d missed the entire opening
act of
Swan Lake
because Devon had decided to take a shower at the last minute?

Marcy understood that Devon’s almost pathological tardiness had been due to her insecurity and was part and parcel of her illness. When Marcy and her daughter were finally reunited—not long, not long!—she’d make sure Devon got the help she needed. They’d find a doctor her daughter liked and trusted, one who would see to it she received the proper dosage of her medication. It was just a chemical imbalance after all, and once that balance had been corrected …

“Mother!” someone called, and Marcy spun around to see a young woman with long brown hair running toward her. “For heaven’s sake, Ma, how many times have I told you not to go wanderin’ off?” the young woman asked breathlessly, grabbing the elbow of an elderly woman to Marcy’s right.

Marcy saw that the woman wasn’t so young after all, that she was, in fact, probably closer to Marcy’s age than to Devon’s and that her mother looked frightened and confused, as if she wasn’t at all sure who this angry woman was.

“She’s not all there, I’m afraid,” the woman explained sheepishly in answer to Marcy’s stare. “Alzheimer’s.” She sighed. “The doctors keep encouragin’ us to take her to her favorite places, but every time we do, she just goes wanderin’ off. You’ve gotta watch her every damn second. She’s worse than my twelve-year-old.”

“Are we goin’ to meet your father now?” the older woman asked.

“No, Ma. Da’s been gone for more than ten years. You know that.”

“Gone for ten years? Where’d he go?”

“Don’t worry, Ma. I’m sure he’ll be home for supper.” She leaned toward Marcy. “He’s dead,” she whispered.

“He’ll be home for supper?” the woman’s mother asked hopefully.

“Yes, Ma. He’ll be home at six o’clock sharp.” The woman confided to Marcy in her next breath. “It’s weird lyin’ to your ma about stuff like this, but what the hell? It makes her feel good, and she won’t remember any of it later anyway.” She shrugged, leading her mother back into the crowd.

Marcy followed after them with her eyes until they were no longer visible. She checked her watch again. Still ten minutes to go, she thought, wondering if she was waiting in the right spot.

Be in front of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral at one o’clock
, Devon had told her.

But the church was enormous and “in front” could mean just about anywhere. Was she supposed to stand by the entrance or to either side of the imposing wooden doors? Should she stand close to the building or a comfortable distance away? Had Devon taken into account the sheer volume of visitors? Would she be able to spot her in the middle of all these people? What if Devon didn’t see her? What if she got tired trying to fight her way through the crowds? Devon had never been very good with crowds. What if she panicked and took off without making contact? Or what if she failed to recognize her mother? It had been almost two years since they’d last seen each other after all. I should have worn something brighter, Marcy thought, something that would make me stand out. She quickly removed her jacket, hoping the blue and white stripes of her shirt would be sufficient to capture her daughter’s attention. “I’m freezing,” she muttered into her collar moments later, putting her jacket back on. Again her eyes searched through the dense pockets of tourists that were almost as thick as the fog.

She was checking her watch again when her phone rang. Marcy reached inside her purse, retrieved her cell, brought it to her ear. “Hello?” she asked warily.

“Marcy?” Liam’s voice sliced through the dull mist like a warm knife through butter.

“Did you hear from Shannon?” Marcy asked, sneaking a worried glance over her shoulder. What if Devon saw her talking on her phone? What if she assumed Marcy was talking to the police?

“Not a word. I was thinking maybe I should give her a call—”

“No. Please don’t do that.”

“Just to see if she’s managed to contact Audrey.”

“I don’t think we should pressure her.”

“I wasn’t going to pressure her. I was just going to … Where are you?”

“What?” Marcy pressed the phone tightly against her ear in an effort to keep the persistent buzz of tourists at bay.

“Have you gone out somewhere?”

“No. I’m just in the lobby. There was another mix-up with my credit card,” she lied.

“Sounds like there’s quite the crowd there.”

“A bus full of tourists just arrived,” Marcy said, watching as a tour bus pulled into a parking spot across the street. Not quite a lie, she thought.

“So, the Hayfield Manor’s takin’ in tour groups now, is it?” Liam asked incredulously. “Guess the economy’s affectin’ everyone.”

“I have to go,” Marcy told him. “They’re waiting to talk to me.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come over, give you a hand?”

“Positive. Everything’s under control, and I don’t want to be responsible for you getting fired.”

“Thinkin’ of me then, are you?”

“I have to go,” she said again, trying not to sound too impatient.

“Okay, but if I don’t hear from Shannon in the next hour, I’m gonna call her,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Maybe even pay her a visit.”

“I really don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Yeah? You know somethin’ I don’t?”

“No, of course not. I’m just trying to think positively.”

“Okay, then. Positive thoughts it is.”

“Positive thoughts,” she repeated.

“I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” She quickly returned the phone to her purse, slowly executing a 360-degree turn. “Positive thoughts,” she whispered.

No sign of her daughter.

And remember—we’re watching you
, Devon had warned.

Was someone watching her now? Reporting on her every move? Had that someone seen her on the phone, warned Devon to stay away?

“Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.”

And not a word to that sexy young boyfriend of yours
.

Had whoever was watching her been close enough to overhear her conversation? Did they know she’d told Liam nothing?

Maybe I should have, Marcy thought. Maybe I should have told him everything. Then he wouldn’t be sweating out the fact that Shannon still hasn’t phoned. He wouldn’t be thinking of calling me again, possibly even paying me an unnecessary
visit. Oh, God. If I’m not careful, he’s liable to screw everything up.

Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.

“Excuse me,” a woman said from somewhere beside her. The accent was distinctly North American.

“Devon?” Marcy said as she turned toward the voice.

“Excuse me,” the woman repeated with a flip of her shoulder-length blond hair, “but we’re trying to get through.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.…”

“Some people are just oblivious,” Marcy heard the woman’s male companion mutter as they pushed past.

Marcy felt tears forming behind her eyes. “Not yet,” she whispered. There was still more than enough time for tears. Always plenty of time for tears, she thought, hearing the distant bells of St. Anne’s Shandon Church strike one.

“Don’t turn around,” a familiar male voice suddenly whispered in her ear.

Marcy’s breath caught instantly in her lungs.

“Start walking,” the voice instructed.

“Where’s Devon?”

“Keep walking. Straight ahead. Don’t look back.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see your daughter.”

“Why isn’t she here?”

“Keep walking.” A strong hand on the back of her elbow guided her through the crowd.

“Where is she?”

“Not far. You tell anyone where you were going?”

“No. No one.”

“Good. Keep walking. Head toward Sullivan’s Quay.”

“Will Devon be there?”

“Don’t ask so many questions.”

“I just want to see my daughter.”

“You will.”

They walked for several minutes in silence, a thousand thoughts swirling inside Marcy’s brain, like clothes in a dryer. Where was he taking her? Were they really going to see Devon, or was this some sort of trap?

A sudden pressure on Marcy’s elbow directed her to stop.

“Let me have your phone,” her escort directed.

“My phone? Why?”

“Just give it here.”

Marcy reached inside her purse and took out her cell phone. It was pulled from her hand before she had a chance to object.

“Don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore,” he said, tossing the phone into the nearest trash bin.

“But—”

“Keep walking.”

“Is all this intrigue really necessary?” Marcy asked as they approached Sullivan’s Quay.

“Probably not. But it’s kind of fun, don’t you think? Turn left at this next street.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Are you really taking me to Devon?”

“What else would I be doin’?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What were you doing that afternoon you ran me down with your bicycle?” Marcy spun around on her heel to look the young man directly in the eye.

“Tryin’ to get you to mind your own business,” Jax said with a sneer. “Obviously it didn’t work.”

“Devon
is
my business.”

The boy shrugged, causing audible crinkles in his bomber-style
black leather jacket. They continued walking for several more blocks. “Get in the car,” he said, stopping suddenly.

“What?”

He reached for the door handle of a small black car parked along the side of the street. “You want to see your daughter, don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

He pulled open the door. “Then get inside. She’s waitin’ for you.”

T
HEY’D BEEN ON THE
road for almost an hour, Marcy continuing to pepper him with questions, Jax continuing to ignore her, when he finally broke his self-imposed silence. “Stop lookin’ at me,” he said. “You’re givin’ me a headache.”

Immediately Marcy brought her eyes to her lap. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” Truthfully, Marcy hadn’t even realized she was staring. But her eyes had grown weary of peering through the fog trying to determine where they were, and she was starting to feel vaguely nauseous due to the constant twists in the road and the boy’s constant shifting of the car’s gears to accommodate them. She’d merely focused on the closest animate object she could find.

“Like what you see?” Jax asked, lips curling smugly toward a smile.

“Not really.”

He laughed. “I heard you had quite the sense of humor.”

“Really? Who told you that?”

“Who d’you think?”

Not Devon, Marcy thought, trying to remember the last time she’d made her daughter laugh. Their relationship had been defined by tears, not laughter. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“Is it far?”

“Far enough.”

“Will it take long?”

“Long enough.”

Marcy sighed with frustration. This is ridiculous, she thought.

“Might as well sit back and enjoy the ride,” Jax said, turning on the radio and then turning it off again when the accompanying static proved more loud and unruly than the traditional Irish music.

Marcy sat dutifully back in her seat and leaned her head against the headrest, returning her attention to the narrow road outside. They’d left the main highway about ten minutes earlier and were now winding their way south along the rugged coastline toward … what exactly? Where was he taking her?

She glanced surreptitiously in his direction, pretending to be rubbing her still-sore cheek. Surprisingly, the boy was handsomer in profile than he was face-on, the inherent laziness of his features less obvious, his nose and chin more clearly defined. Even his small dark eyes seemed less vacant, although maybe that was because he was concentrating so hard on the road ahead. Rain was now mixing with the fog, making the visibility almost nil.

“How long have you known my daughter?” Marcy ventured to ask as they drove through a welcome dry stretch of road some ten minutes later.

“About a year,” he answered, just as she’d given up hope of his doing so.

“How did you meet?”

“What difference does it make?”

“No difference, I guess. I was just curious.”

Another lengthy silence. Marcy noted a sign for Clonakilty, then another for Galley Head farther down the road.

“We met at this club called Mulcahy’s,” he said finally.

Marcy suppressed a gasp, wondering if he was toying with her, if his reference to Mulcahy’s had been deliberate, meant to provoke her.

“Understand you were there the other night,” he remarked, answering her silent question.

“Yes,” she said, not sure what, if anything, he expected her to say next.

“What’d you think of the place?”

“Interesting,” Marcy answered.

Jax laughed. “It is that.” He laughed again. “Not exactly your cup of tea, I would imagine.”

“Not exactly my demographic, no,” Marcy said, then wished she hadn’t when she saw the angry narrowing of Jax’s eyes.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Demographic? It refers to your age, marital status, profession … where you fit in socially and statistically, that sort of thing,” she said, trying to explain. The look on his face told her she was only making things worse.