The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (6 page)

"Seems nice enough. Ask me again next week. We're hiking Elmore on Sunday."

"Oh? Mount Elmore?"

Another surprising piece of news. Apart from solitary walks around her thirty acres Conor had never expressed interest in any wider exploration, but then again Kate realized she'd never suggested showing him anything.

"Is Bobby going, too?"
 

Yvette had divorced her husband ten years earlier and Bobby Gilligan—a captain with the local fire department—was her longtime boyfriend.

"Nope, he's working." Yvette rang up the sale and handed over the mop. "Are you jealous? Because you looked a little bit jealous, just then."

"Don't get started with this."

"Not me. You started it. Sounds like you should get to know this guy better yourself."

"Enough," Kate warned. "You and Abigail double-team me with a matchmaking radar that never shuts off, and I haven't got time for it."

"No? When will you?"

"Yvette—"

"Okay, okay. I'm just saying. There's never enough time, so don't wait for that. Anyway, this Mount Elmore deal was Jigger's idea. I'll spend most of the day keeping track of him." Yvette handed Kate her change. "He's out back. Go say hello before you leave? He'll be disappointed if you don't."

Kate exited through the rear door and found Yvette's twelve-year-old son sitting at the end of the porch. His name was Andrew but he was universally known as "Jigger," a fitting nickname for the boy's special brand of excitable movement. At the moment he was unnaturally still, squinting at a guitar across his lap, but at the sight of Kate he beamed a smile of pure joy. He set the guitar aside and jumped up to throw his arms around her.

"Kate! I'm so glad to see you. I missed you!"

"Has it been that long? Well, I missed you too, honey-bun."

Kate lifted Jigger's slender figure with an affectionate squeeze. He was a sweetly handsome little boy, smaller than average for his years, with a tumble of blonde hair framing a pixie-like face.
 

His green eyes sparkled with a remarkably beautiful starburst pattern, and Yvette had once explained she'd known something was different about her son as soon as she'd seen them. At the age of two he'd been diagnosed with Williams Syndrome. The rare genetic disorder caused a range of disabilities, but they were often combined with unusual cognitive and verbal strengths.

Unique to this particular condition was an indiscriminately loving, empathic personality—a trait both endearing and worrisome. Jigger was as likely to offer a hug to a stranger as a friend, and this was an endless source of anxiety for his mother.

A deep affinity and aptitude for music was also common in Williams Syndrome children. With an arm around the boy's shoulders, Kate noted the string hanging loose from his guitar's tuning peg and the jumbled circle of wire lying on the porch floor.

"What's happening here, Jigs?"

"I broke a string," he said with a pensive frown. "The new string is all tangled up there. I made a complete mess of it. It was foolish of me, Kate. My hands don't work like that. I should have known."

Kate gave his cheek a friendly pinch. "Well, let's see what we can do."
 

They sat down together on the floor and Kate tackled the snarl of wire as Jigger described the demise of the string, including the song he'd been playing and the surprisingly loud noise as it sprang free. While listening to this intricate narrative she heard a movement behind them, and turned to see Conor coming out on the porch carrying a gallon container of murky brown liquid.

"Conor!" Again, Jigger leaped to his feet. Conor had just enough time to set the bottle down before the tow-headed bundle of love sailed into his arms.

"Oof—easy there, Jigger. Sure you'll knock the stuffing out of me one day." He rubbed a hand over the boy's tousled hair and winked at Kate. "I was told my services are required."

"I broke a string." Jigger trumpeted the news, his face buried against Conor's shirt. "Playing that song you taught me."

Kate held up the string. "Situation desperate. You're just in time. Is that teat dip? I thought we had cases of the stuff."

"Enough for two hundred cows, but sadly every bottle expired in January. I'm ashamed to say it took me nearly a month to discover. I ordered a new case."

"Good Lord. Jared didn't mention anything?"

"Not to me."
 

Conor dropped his gaze and Kate again wondered what on earth had happened between the two men. She'd offered to continue Jared's part-time arrangement, knowing his family could use the money, but after only a few days he'd phoned to say he wouldn't be back. In his slow, self-conscious manner he said he was needed at home but would be happy to help again "when the new fellow runs off on you like the others did." She'd been upset, worried about Conor having no one to orient him to the work, but he'd received the news with obvious relief and hadn't needed much orientation, anyway.

"Are you going to fix my guitar?" Jigger dragged him by the arm toward Kate.

"No, I'm going to show
you
how to fix it." Conor settled cross-legged on the porch, playfully pulling Jigger down with him. He accepted the string from Kate and glanced curiously at her new mop. "You walked all the way down here for that?"

"Easier when it's not pouring rain."

"
Och
, now that's a dirty dig." He laughed. "I'll run you back in the truck if you like."

"Sure. I can wait."
 

Kate rested against the railing and watched as he patiently helped Jigger with the guitar. When they'd finished the boy played a few chords, admiring their work. "What about your fiddle, Conor? You promised to bring it here. You said we would play together."

"Right, so. I did say that, didn't I?" Conor absently ran a thumb under his jaw. "Well, we've got the guitar for today, anyway. Have another go at the number I taught you last week."

"I've been wondering about your fiddle myself," Kate said later, when they were in the truck and headed back up the road. "Are you going to play us a tune sometime?"

"Ah, well." Conor stared ahead at the road.

"Maybe it would help," Kate ventured, darting a look at him. She thought he wouldn't reply, but after several seconds he looked at her and smiled.

"Maybe it would."

T
HEY
ARRIVED
BACK
at the inn and pulled up next to a black Chevy Suburban in the parking area.

"I can't imagine who that is." Kate looked from the car to the front porch, where two men in dark suits had appeared, badges clipped at their belts. Abigail was right behind, looking dangerously close to detonation.

"I think I can," Conor muttered. Switching off the ignition he rolled out of the truck and they walked together to the porch.

"Afternoon ma'am, sir. Special Agents Foster and Houseman." The taller of the two indicated himself and the man next to him with a twirl of his thumb. "We're from the ICE Office of Investigations. Are you Kate Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes." Kate frowned in confusion. "Ice?"

"Immigration and Customs Enforcement," the agent clarified. He looked at Conor. "And is this Conor McBride?"

"You don't have to answer," Abigail roared. "People have rights in this country. You don't need to say anything without a lawyer."

"Steady on, Abigail. It's okay." Conor nodded. "I'm Conor McBride."

The agent was already shifting his flat gaze back to Kate. "Mrs. Fitzpatrick, we had a call to the tip line in Williston indicating you've employed an undocumented Irish laborer for your farm."

"An undocumented Irish laborer." Conor gave a low whistle. "That has a menacing 'croppies lie down' sort of ring to it."

"But, he isn't even getting—"

"Kate."

Conor put a hand on her arm and she realized the mistake she'd almost made. Announcing that he wasn't on the payroll wouldn't help the situation. Exasperated, Kate clamped her mouth shut. She'd never thought to ask about his immigration status. Why had it occurred to someone else? Agent Foster began again in a lecturing tone.

"Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I'm sure you're aware employers who hire undocumented workers face serious penalties—"

"Before you go on trying to frighten her, you might want to check that I'm actually undocumented."

The authority and cold stillness in Conor's voice captured everyone's attention. The two agents glanced at each other and Agent Houseman spoke for the first time.

"Mr. McBride, are you inferring you are in possession of a valid H-1 or H-2 class work visa? There's no such evidence from my research."

"Nor would there be, but did you try typing 'green card' into your database? Do you want to head back to Williston and do that now, or shall I go collect it for you?"

Agent Foster seemed forcibly to resist an urge to look at his partner again. "Sir, if you could produce a permanent residence visa for us we'd appreciate it."

Conor took the stairs in two steps, stopping as he reached the front door. He skewered the men with an incredulous stare. "You're going to let me wander out of sight, now?
 
Have you ever done this before, for fuck's sake?"

"Houseman." Agent Foster jerked his head and the shorter man jumped to follow Conor.
 

Abigail came down from the porch and sidled over to Kate, speaking in a stage whisper from the corner of her mouth. "Seems like he's got this under control."

Kate almost laughed. "You think? My God, they'll be saluting him before it's done. Did you know he had a green card?"

Abigail shook her head. "I'd have bet money he didn't even have a birth certificate."

Agent Houseman re-appeared first. Nodding curtly, he trotted down the steps and presented the card while Conor followed more slowly, his face blank. He avoided looking at either Kate or Abigail.

"Thank you, Mr. McBride." Agent Foster handed the card back to him. "We'll run a background check just to cover the bases. I assume you don't mind?"

"Would it matter if I did?"

A flicker of interest passed over the agent's face but he left it alone, and catching the eye of his partner signaled their departure with a polite nod.

The three of them stood like mute sentinels, watching the Suburban reverse out of the parking area and coast down the driveway. Conor was first to break their motionless stupor as the car disappeared down the dirt road.

"Like a foot on the neck," he said cryptically.

Kate pivoted on her heel and headed for the house. "I'm having a drink. It's five o'clock somewhere."

6

I
T
WAS
A
DESULTORY
SCENE
. K
ATE
PLAYED
BARTENDER
, standing behind the mahogany bar in the corner of the dining room while her 'customers' sat on barstools in front of her. She mixed a gin and tonic for Abigail. For herself and Conor, she poured generous measures of whiskey into crystal glasses and slid one over to him. He dipped his head and accepted the drink, refusing to meet her gaze.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Kate put her untouched drink on the bar. "I'm the one to blame for this. I probably needed to register you or file a paper with someone."

Conor rolled the glass between his hands. "Of course you’re not to blame. I am. I'm a bloody fool for not realizing this would happen. Instead of helping I put you in an impossible position."

Abnormally quiet until this point, Abigail snorted. "Listen to the two of you, thrashing yourselves. Personally, I'd like a crack at the busybody who stuck his nose where it didn't belong and called Williston. That's whose fault this is and I've a mind to go tell him so."

"Jesus, don't." Conor looked up sharply at Abigail and she gave a mollifying grimace.

"Oh, I won't do it. Just blowing off steam."

"You're saying you know who called them?" Kate saw a glance pass between them. "Both of you do?"

"Well, we can guess," Abigail said. "Can't you, for God's sake? Jared Percy. He had the most obvious motive."

"Jared Percy?" Kate gaped at her. "What motive? I wanted to keep him on, I told him so. Conor wasn't taking anything away from him."

"I'm betting Jared thought he'd taken something."

Seeing the gimlet gleam in Abigail's eyes, Kate felt a flush spread over her face. "You can't be serious. He must be ten years younger than me."

"He's twenty-two." A wicked grin dimpled Abigail's cheeks.

"Okay, seven years." Mortified, Kate glowered at her and peeked at Conor. "Anyway, you're right. Neither of us is to blame. We didn't do anything wrong."

Conor studied his glass, looking as though he wanted to dive inside and disappear. "Unfortunately, that's not true." He drained his whiskey and set it down. "I've got to go over for the second milking but I'll be back in an hour. I need to talk with you, Kate."

"Are you going to leave?" She hated herself for asking the question, and for the plaintive note in her voice. Conor's brow contracted. He set the barstool neatly in place and stood with his hands gripping its sides.

"That will be up to you, I think. Before long those agents will finish their background check and they'll want to tell you what they found. I've got a criminal record, Kate. Not a very exciting one, for all the grief it's caused, but it's there in black and white for anyone to check."

I
T
WAS
CLOSER
to two hours before he got back to the house. After turning the cows into the pasture for the evening Conor walked a few miles up the dirt road, thinking there was something vaguely comedic about the situation if he could get up the energy to laugh. His new life hadn't lasted thirty days before being compromised by a jealous suitor with more imagination than he would have believed. As if he'd needed it, the fiasco was another reminder: he was an amateur at this game and he'd elected to play it on his own.

After being discharged from the hospital and before his brief trip back to Ireland, he'd collected the green card and passports promised to him but had rebuffed any further assistance. In retrospect it might have been wiser to accept, and if he'd had greater faith in the capabilities of those offering help maybe he would have considered it more seriously.