The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (26 page)

"Ah, go on. You're joking." Conor darted a suspicious squint at her, but Kate's eyes held the road without faltering.

"Not joking. Nope."

"They believed it? That some fella was wandering 'round the golf course of a posh resort—in the dark—jacking deer?"

"These are people who never leave the city. If it's north of New Haven they call it wilderness. The idea of rampant, plaid-wearing men shooting off guns isn't a stretch for them."

"If you say so." Conor studied her profile before adding, "What about Jigger? You said your sister brought him home. Have you seen him?"

Kate adjusted her hands on the steering wheel, locking them down at ten and two o'clock. "I went to Yvette's on Sunday night, but Jigger had already gone to bed and I haven't had a chance to go back yet." Kate turned to him, a touch of defiance in her face. "I told her everything, Conor. Oddly enough I didn't mind lying to my family, but I thought Yvette deserved the truth. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, but I'd do the same again."

He took in this confession thoughtfully. Although the idea of having more people familiar with his past—and now, present—troubled him, she had a valid point, and Yvette's reticent nature was a safer bet than that of the combustible Abigail. As Conor's silence continued, Kate's defiance wavered.

"Are you angry?"

"No. Of course not." Tentatively moving his hand to her thigh he added, "Are you?"

Kate looked surprised. "What? Angry? No. Did I seem angry?"

"I wasn't sure." He smiled. "Makes me a bit nervous but I understand why you told her. Her son got shot at; she didn't deserve to have that explained with a lie." After a slight pause, he changed the subject. "I don't know why, but Frank apparently thinks we're out of danger, at least for now. I hate to admit it, but I'd still feel safer if I had my gun. Do you have any idea what happened to it? Did someone from the hotel security staff take it?"

Kate shook her head. "They didn't know you had one. I never told them."

"Didn't they see it, though?"

"You blacked out for a minute, and before anybody came I threw it off the bridge into the brook."

"You threw my gun into the . . . " Conor trailed off, staring at her. Having just escaped kidnapping or worse, and in the midst of a chaotic situation, she'd had the instinct and presence of mind to do exactly what he would have done. "The police must have searched around the bridge. They probably found it."

"Maybe, but I heaved the thing pretty far upstream, into the weeds." Kate glanced at him, enjoying his reaction. "We can get to the resort in an hour and a half. Do you want to find out?"

"I do," he admitted. "How did you know?"

"I guess I'm a mindreader."

"I guess so." Conor watched the slow spread of her incomparable smile and moved his fingers over the velvet nap of her corduroys, letting them slide to the inside of her leg. "What am I thinking now?"

M
AYBE
THEY
'
D
COME
back too soon to expect any cathartic release from a return to the scene, but Conor was surprised by his aversion when Kate turned the car onto the hotel's access road. Surrounded by the rust and lavender hues in the landscape, the building loomed like an unsettling mirage beneath an overcast sky. After she'd parked they both sat, seat belts still fastened, riveted by the intermittent ticks of the cooling engine.

"I feel like throwing up," Kate said. "I'm not actually going to," she added in response to Conor's wide-eyed glance.

"No, I get it, believe me. Do you want to wait here?"

An obligatory suggestion, predictably refused. Much like ripping off a Band-Aid Kate pulled the key from the ignition. "Let's go. We'll need to come back some day with smudge sticks or something. I spent most of my summers here growing up—it means too much to me."

They skirted the main entrance, following a service road past the tennis courts that looped around the southern end of the resort and straightened as it ran along the brook. The golf course was deserted, as was the lawn of the hotel, and although a few guests moved on the back veranda, none were lingering long in the chilly air.
 

They had a spirited discussion over which of them would venture into the icy ankle-deep water, an argument that lasted longer than the search itself. Kate prevailed, and after kicking off her shoes she rolled up her pants and darted into the stream some distance from the bridge. After a few minutes of searching in the weeds on the opposite bank she returned with the dripping Sig-Sauer hidden under her sweater. While she was putting on her shoes, Conor wandered onto the bridge. He stopped just below the apex of the arch, guessing at the approximate spot where he'd pinned Jigger beneath him. Everything looked so different in daylight.

His side was healing quickly, but had been extremely painful for several days. At one point he'd removed the bandage himself to inspect the source of his discomfort. He'd been startled by the extent of the injury—a long, neatly stitched furrow running through a collage of lurid bruises— and amazed to have been so oblivious when the shot hit him.
 

Conor rubbed the toe of his boot over the surface of the bridge. The cement showed no trace of blood now, but he remembered his madness in seeing the dark splash pooling beneath him, and remembering experienced some echo of it again.
 

Were the heavens satisfied? A bizarre, mind-warping reenactment and a claw-like rip along his chest—would it serve as a worthy penance? Would anything? He thought about the legend of a secret chord, a tone so perfect and true it could melt the heart of God. He'd offer it up and play for all he was worth, if he only knew how to unlock its mystery.

Behind him, Conor heard Kate step onto the bridge. She hesitated, but walked forward when he looked over his shoulder with a rueful smile.

"I won't ever understand how it feels." She came closer and slipped a hand into his. "Nothing I can say or do will make it better, but I hope I can help make it bearable."

Conor bent to her face, giving her lips a lingering kiss. "That's not true, actually. You do make it better, and that makes everything else bearable."

He wrapped his arms around her. If a secret chord existed, the mystery lay beyond the limits of his art, but she was the living expression of what it represented—the tonic note that gave the discordant cadence of his life a place to resolve and rest. He held her tight, afraid she might somehow slide from his grip, and while kissing her slipped a hand under her sweater and removed the gun. A sad self-awareness sank in as the weight settled in his palm like an old familiar ache. Nothing could be unlearned, or undone. This was who he was now, and until the heavens decided otherwise, this was who he would be.

S
OUND
ASLEEP
FOR
most of the ride back, Conor reacted in typical fashion when a hand prodded him awake. He launched himself at the windshield in a half-conscious burst of adrenalin. Functioning as designed, the seat belt locked and snapped him into place, which in turn set off his lingering cough. Kate looked both amused and concerned.

"I was afraid that might happen. I almost left you here to wake up on your own." When his thunderous fit had subsided she added, "Should I be worried about this?"

"Lung-clearing therapy. You'll get used to it." Conor laughed at her stare of alarm. "Relax. I'm only messin'." He unwrapped one of the maple candies from his pocket, tossing it into his mouth, and seeing her suddenly tender expression he gave Kate a questioning smile.

"Nothing." She shook her head. "Just glad to be home. Let's go in through the kitchen so Abigail can fuss over you. I know your low tolerance for pampering but try to be patient. She's been bottling it all week in anticipation."
 

"Does she know—ehm, have you told her . . . ?"

"That I have a new boyfriend?" Kate grinned, blushing up to her eyebrows. "Not yet. I haven't figured out how to tell anyone without sounding like a teenager."

As predicted, Conor had not quite breached the doorway before Abigail was steaming toward him. He managed to take the brunt of the impact on his right side, swallowing a yelp of pain while she held him in a crushing embrace and erupted in tears.

"A bit melodramatic, isn't it?" he teased, but then realizing she was crying in earnest he kissed the top of her head and rocked her gently. "Sure it’s all right, don't cry, darlin'. I'm after returning from the brink, will you destroy me now with tears?"

Once she'd calmed down, Conor meekly submitted to her closer examination and fretful remarks about his coloring (hospital gray), and weight loss (admittedly significant). The scrutiny complete, Abigail pressed him into a seat next to Kate and served tea—sweet and strong, just the way he liked it—along with a bowl of hot apple crisp, swimming in cream. It was good to be home.

They lounged in the bucolic homecoming atmosphere for only a few minutes before Abigail's apologetic grimace brought them to earth. "I suppose I'd better tell you. The British are here again. Frank Murdoch checked in about two hours ago."

This time Kate fell into a choking spell, while Conor lowered his spoon and carefully placed it next to his empty bowl. He nodded for Abigail to continue.

"I told him you were expected back any time, gave him tea in the library, and then he went up to his room. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, but he wanted you to come get him as soon as you got here."

Hasn't slept in a week
, Conor repeated to himself. Not like Frank to appear tired and disheveled, and that did not bode well.

25

T
IRED
AND
DISHEVELED
PROVED
AN
UNDERSTATEMENT
. When Frank opened his guest-room door it was clear he'd just been roused from sleep. In a t-shirt and a pair of dress pants he must have pulled on quickly, he appeared exhausted almost to the point of illness. Whether from a desire for privacy or out of bleary confusion, he did not invite Conor into the room.

"I'm not sure I care for your looks," Conor said by way of greeting, reprising an old joke between them. Despite his exhaustion, Frank received the jibe in good spirit, smiling.

"You, by contrast, are a sight for sore eyes."

"Glad you approve." Conor affected a slight bow but then dropped the banter. "Sorry to wake you, only Abigail said you wanted to know when we got back. Are you all right, Frank?"

"Pretty well, for what's left of me." In weariness the agent's voice slipped, betraying his heritage more effectively than any ease with Irish poetry might. Conor had occasionally discerned vestigial hints of this accent, but never had it sounded this distinct.

"Jaysus, you've a brogue on you like a Ballybay shopkeeper. That alone says you must be knackered. Do you want to wait and talk in the morning?"

His face growing pink, Frank cleared his throat and straightened. "No, quite impossible," he said, British inflection firmly in place. "I'll need to leave early. Just give me half an hour to shower and change. Where shall I join you?"

"One floor up. Will I have a bracer ready? Seems as though you could use one."

"By all means. Laphroaig, if you have any. I'd suggest one for yourself and Kate as well."

Conor didn't move from the doorway. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so, Conor. In a way I never anticipated."

When Frank arrived in Kate's living room, he'd changed into a green cashmere sweater and camel-colored trousers. He appeared somewhat restored and acted more like himself, which made dealing with him in this setting all the more disorienting. He greeted Kate with affection and a continental kiss on both cheeks, then they gathered around the coffee table where the Laphroaig waited. Conor didn't much like scotch, but that seemed beside the point. He poured out a generous slug for each of them and sat on the couch next to Kate, while Frank took the chair to their left.
 

Kate reached for Conor's hand. She seemed sad, and a little nervous. "I have to confess, I think I know what's coming. Frank had me go through some photos at the hospital—"

"Kate," Frank interrupted gently. "Best to wait, I think."
 

He had two manila folders in his lap, and after swallowing half the contents of his glass he slid the first of them over to Conor. "This is the photo Kate pulled from the others I showed her." He flipped open the folder. "She identified Ciaran Wilson, the figure in the middle, as her attempted kidnapper. The man to his right she identified as her husband's cousin, Phillip Ryan."

Conor stared down at the photograph. "I don't understand. That's impossible. It doesn't make any sense."

Kate put a comforting hand on his knee. "I thought so, too. He seemed like such a—"

He jerked from her touch, a wild panic shuddering through him. "How could he seem anything to you? You didn't even know him."

"No, not the way you did. I realize it's hard to think of Phillip as—"

"For Christ's sake, Kate! This isn't Phillip. This is my
brother
."

Kate glanced at Frank, looking suddenly worried. "Conor, Thomas is dead."

"Of course he's dead!" Conor surged to his feet. "He's under a pile of rocks by a Kashmir roadside. I buried him myself. So how could you have met him? What the fuck is going on?"
 

He took a fumbling step away from the couch and Frank rose to grip his arms with unexpected strength.

"Conor, stop it at once. Your reaction is understandable, the stakes for you are enormous; but you are an MI6-trained operative and however personally excruciating it might be, this is an operational briefing. Now, get your emotions under control, because there's more to come."
 

The order had its intended effect. Sitting down, Conor drew a long breath. With a hand still clasped on his shoulder, Frank placed the second folder in front of him and briefly tightened his grip.

"The wizard."

Conor sat motionless, his eyes following Frank as he returned to his seat. He'd watched countless moods pass across that aristocratic face, but had never seen it contain such an aspect of . . . grief? Dread mounting, he reached for the folder.