The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (3 page)

"Do the lifeboats cost extra?"

Kate laughed. "A trout brook runs next to the house on this side and empties into the lake. It'll roar on for another week while the snowmelt comes off the hills. I'll give you the tour in the morning."

She placed the key on the bedside table and turned on the lamp. The bed was an antique four-poster, and on the opposite wall a marble mantle with brass sconces framed a fireplace. In front of it a matching set of armchairs and a low glass table sat on a braided rug, completing the picture of a comfortable attic hideaway.

Conor dropped his soggy duffel to the floor as though glad to be rid of the weight, but was gentler with the bag on his shoulder, which Kate realized was a soft-sided violin case. He set it down on the window seat next to the bed, and while he was stripping off his wet jacket and peering down at the brook she took the opportunity to examine him more closely.

He stood several inches taller than her—a little over six feet, she estimated. Although disheveled and in need of a bath and a shave, nothing could disguise the essential fact: the man was exceptionally good looking. Kate somehow hadn't expected that, but thought it a nice reward for her generosity toward Phillip Ryan.

He also appeared painfully thin and exhausted. In the midst of a yawn Conor turned and caught her staring at him. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat again and sat down on the window seat with a grunt.

"Sorry. Sort of a long day."

"Of course. My exit cue." Kate hesitated, concerned by his wan appearance. "Can I bring you something to eat? Or at least some hot tea? It sounds like your voice is going and I don't want you getting pneumonia again on the first night." A flush warmed her cheeks as Conor stiffened, his face sobering into watchfulness. "I apologize. I shouldn't make light of your illness."

"No, don't worry." He flashed a cautious smile. "I didn't know Phillip told you. I'm fine, though. My voice just always sounds like it's going." He pulled at the t-shirt under his V-necked sweater, revealing a scar below his Adam's apple, about the length of Kate's little finger. "Emergency surgery. Kept me from suffocating so I can't really complain, but the old vocal cords got a good scrape."

Fascinated, Kate tried not to stare. "Does it hurt?"
 

Conor inclined his head, appearing curious as well. "Funny how everyone asks that. No, it doesn't hurt." After a short silence he added, "I'm not hungry but I'd love a cup of tea, and I could do with a shower."

Kate gave him some time to shower and get settled before returning with the tea tray. She knocked on the door he'd left ajar, catching a whiff of shaving cream and sandalwood soap as she entered. Without its layer of dark stubble Conor's face looked even more pale and tired. He'd changed into a black t-shirt and jeans, and was studying the fireplace with a thoughtful expression. She lowered the tray, which connected sharply with the glass table. He jumped at the rattle of china and teaspoons.

"Sorry about that." Kate straightened. "The fireplace works, and we've got more wood if you feel like dragging it up the stairs. Now, I'll get out of here and let you get some rest. Leave everything outside after you're finished and I'll pick it up in the morning. I'm at the end of the hall if you need anything." She had a hand on the doorknob when Conor called her back with a question.

"What else did Phillip tell you? About me, I mean."

"Not nearly enough." She grinned, but then remembering, grew serious. "He said your mother died recently. I'm sorry."

He frowned and colored slightly. "Thank you."

"And that you'd sold your property in Ireland."

"Uh-huh. Anything else? I didn't know you had such a long chat about me."

"We didn't chat," Kate said coolly. The conversation was beginning to feel like an interrogation. "We corresponded by email. I still have the messages if you want to read them."

Seeing her irritation, he dropped his head. "No, of course not. I was only curious."

Kate relented, smiling, but before closing the door stuck her face back into the room. "While we're on the subject I should be asking what Phillip told you about
me
. I guess I can wait until morning."

T
HE
DOOR
CLOSED
with a soft click, and Conor stared at it for several seconds before turning away.

“How about—'she's deadly feckin' gorgeous'—Phillip might have told me that about you but he didn't, thanks very much.”

He returned to the window seat and unzipped the insulated violin case, removing the suede-covered version inside. Then, as though unpacking a set of nesting dolls, he opened the second case to lift out the violin itself. After confirming the instrument had survived the trip uninjured he put it back, fingers brushing over the scroll in shy apology. The last time he'd played had been while standing in a field behind his farmhouse, offering up a traditional air for his mother on the last day he'd seen her alive. That was less than a year ago, and he'd been an entirely different person. What kind of sound would his hands draw from the strings now, after the things they'd done?

Setting the violin aside, Conor took a pocketknife from the duffel bag and reached again for the insulated case. He sliced along the seam near the bottom, and with two fingers dug inside to retrieve first, a pristine Irish passport and then a U.S. permanent residence visa—a "green card." Tossing both on the window seat he bent to the travel-stained khakis he'd dropped on the floor. From the back pocket he took another Irish passport, this one stippled with airport security stickers and still damp.

He thumbed through the pages, remembering the carefully disguised fear he'd experienced each time he presented it—in Cardiff, Stuttgart and Belgrade among others, and finally on the US-Canadian border. For the past ten days, his circuitous route and modes of transport had not really been poor planning but a combination of meticulous technique and dumb luck.

At the fireplace, he marveled at this further instance of good fortune. He quickly assembled paper and kindling, and put a flame to the pile with a long-handled lighter he took from the mantelpiece. Once the fire was burning high and hot, he cast a final glance at his photo and tossed the passport into the flames. It ignited in a burst of light and the cover writhed and curled like a living thing as it melted.

"Good night, F. James Doyle," he whispered. "Rest in peace."

Maybe he was foolish to risk using his real name in this new life, but watching his globetrotting alias shrivel into cinders, his spirits rose. It felt good to be Conor McBride again.

Backing away from the fireplace he dropped wearily into an armchair and reached for the teapot, still hot under its leaf-patterned cozy. He drank off two cups and tried to ignore the craving for a smoke—a habit recently surrendered—then leaned back against the chair and promptly fell asleep.

I
T
BEGINS
WITH
A
BOY
offering flowers, and he's always a stranger.
 

When he's awake he wonders why he doesn't recognize him, why his sleeping mind can't retain the knowledge of who he is and how the scene ends—but he never remembers. He greets the boy as though seeing him for the first time. A Hindu child. Thin, stunted, dressed raggedly, smiling up at him with a flash of white teeth, cupping a cluster of marigolds in two small hands.

Don't take the flowers, dammit.

Why not?

You know why . . .

In a featureless void, the boy beams at him. He smiles in return, reaches to pick out one of the dark orange blossoms . . .
 

Now the child disappears, and he is standing in a darkened flat. The one he rented in Dublin. The one Thomas helped him move into on a Saturday afternoon, when everything on the truck was wrapped in plastic because of the bucketing rain. His brother is gone. The flat is empty.

He stands in the living room holding a Walther semiautomatic pistol in one hand. He's sweating, shivering, and somebody is pounding on the door.
 

"Conor, open the door, now. There's someone wants to see you."

"Is it Frank? Tell him I won't go."

"God love you, it isn't Frank."

The door swings open and his mother stands there with the boy, her hand on his shoulder.

The small, cupped hands are lifting again and he finally recognizes him—but too late. The snow-covered pine trees in the background come into focus, the forest explodes, and the gun grows hot in his hand.

Conor bolted to his feet, heart rate still accelerating as he forced himself down to the edge of the chair, sweeping the room with a disoriented stare. He hadn't yelled this time. At least, he didn't think so. Holding his breath he listened, and exhaled. No, he probably hadn't yelled. He looked over at the clock on the bedside table and groaned. Wide-awake and wired like a watch spring at two in the morning. He rubbed a hand over his chin and squeezed his eyes shut. God, he wanted a cigarette.

3

M
ORNING
ARRIVED
WITH
A
FRESHLY
WASHED
QUALITY
; the dew could almost be wrung from the air and sipped. Vaporous bundles of fog crouched on the pastures, and a breeze stirring the curtains of Kate's bedroom brought in the loamy smell of softening earth and everything that had crumbled into it the previous fall. She breathed in the aroma with a shiver of pleasure. Spring's grip was established and strengthening daily.

She went to the hallway of the guest bedroom and stopped short as she rounded the corner. Empty. No tea tray left outside for her. Annoyed, Kate considered giving a sharp, housekeeper's rap on Conor's door before shrugging off the irritation and heading downstairs. An aroma of coffee and warm cinnamon wafted up the staircase along with the sound of voices from the kitchen.

"Careful now, don't drip on the edges. It bakes on like concrete. Nice and—whoa! Too full."

"Are you sure you want me doing this?"

"You're managing fine, and if a little work scares you, stay in the dining room and don't be poking around back here."

"I'll try to remember that."

Kate swung through the door to find Conor standing at the stainless steel prep counter, pouring batter into muffin tins. A completed batch sat in a basket on the marble-topped island in the center of the kitchen, and with a pinch of remorse she noted the teapot and mug she'd delivered to his room were drying in the dish drainer.

"New trend, Abigail? Make the guests cook their own breakfast?"

As the clatter of the tea tray had startled Conor the previous evening, her abrupt entrance prompted a nervous, involuntary jerk in his shoulders, sending a splash of batter across the counter. Abigail spun to face Kate, smirking.

"Fine, very funny, but you should have warned him. Anyone lurking in my kitchen is fair game. I found him prowling around the cupboards when I got here this morning."

"Prowling." A muscle moved in Conor's jaw, but his face was unreadable. "I was only looking for the dish soap."
 

As he wiped up the spill Kate tried to judge the effect of this first, unfiltered dose of Abigail Perini. People exhibited varying reactions to her theatrical chef. Correctly anticipating when to laugh and when to apologize was a skill she'd sharpened out of vital necessity. "I hope you at least got some breakfast before she put you to work?"

"Breakfast!" Abigail bellowed cheerfully. "I should say he's had breakfast! Sausage, eggs, three rounds of toast and a big pot of tea. We'll go broke trying to keep this one fed."

"Abigail," Kate pleaded.

"I'll admit he needed some persuasion to get beyond the tea, but eventually he found his appetite."

"I don't think I'd much of a choice." Head lowered, Conor was again focused on the flow of batter into the muffin tins. Kate raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Abigail, who responded with a wink.

"I'm going down to inspect what's left of the pickles. You're in charge." The kitchen door swung on its hinges as she exited and Conor gave a low whistle.

"Here endeth the lesson."

Kate tossed up her hands. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. She came with the place when I bought it."

"Like a poltergeist?"

"Exactly." She was relieved to see a grin steal over his face. "Actually, I wish I had half as much energy as she does. We have a sous-chef who covers breakfast when the inn is open, a young Somalian man who just graduated from the culinary school, but most mornings Abigail shows up anyway. Her husband, Dominic, is our dining room manager. He'd never get a hot meal if he didn't work here. She's right, I should have warned you, and honestly Conor, you don't have to finish those."

He was lifting the muffin tins with careful concentration. "Oh, I think I do. It's as much as my life is worth getting off on the right foot with that one."

Maneuvering around the prep counter he darted a wary glance at the rack hanging above him. Like a deranged wind chime it was ornamented with whisks, ladles and other obscure tools Kate couldn't even identify. This was the central hub of Abigail's kitchen and she suffered few amateurs in her domain. Kate had to smile, watching Conor gingerly slide the tins into the oven. He clearly was off on the right foot already.

When he returned, he slid the basket of muffins in front of her and pulled forward a stool, inviting her to sit. "Cinnamon chip. She says they're your favorite."

"You could have a future in this business. You've got a flair for hospitality."

"It's genetic. Now . . . coffee?"

"Oh all right, cut it out. This is my job. Here, sit down."
 

She went for the coffee pot and Conor sat on the stool, his reserve softened by a hint of laughter. Kate glanced at his profile as she poured. If anything, he was even better looking in the full light of day. His dark eyes were gleaming but still shadowed in fatigue. She took a seat across from him.