Authors: Kathleen Rowland
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“Explain it to me again, Finn.” Amy braced herself on the seat of the boat. “Why can’t this wait until morning?”
“It is morning,” Finn replied. “It’s after midnight.” He turned the wheel slightly to keep the bow on course.
“I get it.” She gave him a soft smile. “You’re sneaking up on the O’Rourke Clan.”
“Hope to. I told a CIA agent I would.” He drew in a breath and slowly let it out. “I can turn back.”
“Not on your life,” she said. Her husband had stamina. His endless pace to right all wrongs, and now to locate the Rourke’s for the CIA. “Where are they?”
“In Cobh.” He spelled it. “According to Papa, this is where the Rourke’s try to blend in.”
She asked, “They come here?”
“On vacations,” he said. “A couple of days ago Aidan bought a house on a canal with cash.”
On their red-eye, she’d read the entire tour manual. “County Cork nestles against Dublin.” Amy recalled it was also a waterside town where its streets climbed the steep slope of a hill, the top of which was crowned by an imposing cathedral with a carillon of many bells. “How will you know where to go?”
“Every Irish village has a church with a bell tower. Cobh’s will be silhouetted against the night sky. The Rourke house is on a canal, two houses south. Lights will be on. A mob family breeds night owls.”
She understood. “If they’re in business, someone is coming or going at odd hours.”
Minutes later the mouth of a canal came into view. A few hundred yards down the shoreline, she made out the dark outline of a bell tower rising over the treetops. “Now that looks haunted.”
“See any phantoms?” He asked.
“Keep joking, funny guy.”
He maneuvered the dory through the choppy water, created by lapping waves as they slipped into the canal.
She looked backward at the seaward side. The canal had little circulation, and the surface was brackish. “See the lily pads?” she asked.
“That means the water is just a few feet deep.”
She hoped their motor didn’t get stuck.
To the right a stone wall draped in vines slipped past. On the left, they puttered by trees and scrubs. Above, she heard the rasp of wings. She looked up to see bats diving for insects. “Just had to be bats.”
He chuckled. “Bat’s forelimbs are webbed into wings.”
Ten minutes later they reached a sandbar. Finn revved the engine and drove the bow onto the sand. Amy hopped out and dragged the dory a few feet higher. He joined her, staked down the bow line, and clicked on his flashlight.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He pointed to the right. They walked across the sandbar, and then found a thin path through the scrub. The conversation was sparse until, finally, they emerged onto a clearing. Finn said, “Grass is knee-high. There’s the house.
She tripped, and he steadied her. She looked down to see a block of stone peeking through the grass.
“Old foundation,” he said. Further up was a wrought-iron railing. The barrier separated a lawn shrouded by a century of growth.
She leaned down and squinted at a Plexiglas-enclosed plaque. “Cobh Historical Society.”
“Looks like Aidan Rourke bought a historical home. Almost in ruins, I might add.”
“It’s an out of the way refuge for them to shelter. A bit spooky.”
“The first glow of sunrise doesn’t dispel your unease?” he teased and then nodded toward headlights. “Let’s wait here. We can’t make our way to the house without being seen.”
“Good idea.” She stood with her hands on her thighs.
On full beam, the car turned into the long driveway leading to the stately home. The wind sent a tree branch to swaying. Someone went inside.
Finn dragged her gently to the grassy ground and then dashed to the parked car. Amy watched him snap a photo of the license plate.
A light went on, then off. The person came out and left in the car. Tail lights zigzagged around cars and disappeared beyond the cliff face.
Finn was back. “Whoever that was, he was sent to check on something.”
She said, “This is a remote place.” She could hear a radio playing from somewhere in the back of the house.
Motioning her to follow, he bypassed the threshold and walked toward a window. Together they looked in. Lights were on, and the place was a mess. She saw dust balls in the corner and stains on the wooden floor. Used as a drape, the sheet across the window was dirty. Overflowing ashtrays and takeout containers littered the sofa table. “The Rourkes need a maid service.”
“If they don’t have one, guess what? This is how gangsters live. They don’t tidy up,” he said.
Clothes were thrown everywhere, on the floor and across armchairs. “Too bad,” she said.
He pushed open the window. “Anyone home?”
No answer.
“Hello.” He called out again and then said, “I’m going inside.”
She walked behind him until he found the back door. She followed and sidestepped clutter to the kitchen where dirty dishes sat in the sink, unwashed pots cluttered the stove, and a garbage can overflowed. An empty bottle of whiskey had a half-filled glass beside it.
“The cigarette is still burning,” he said.
“There’s purple lipstick on it.” Amy went on high alert and screamed, “Mrs. Rourke?” She heard a moan. She called out again.
Finn followed the groan. His mother was sprawled over a sofa. Her limp hand rested over her neck. He ran toward her, tripped.
Amy looked down and saw the reason he’d tripped. A bloody sword lay on the carpet.
“I’m dialing 999.” He spoke into the phone. “Put me through to an ambulance service.” He calmly stated the address. Next, he sent a text message.
“CIA?” Amy sucked in a breath at the sight of all the blood and ran to a linen closet.
Finn took his mother’s hand from her neck.
Amy pressed a hand towel on her slashed throat. Fiona Rourke gasped. Gurgles came from her as she attempted to breathe while blood seeped forth.
Fiona grabbed his hand. “Son.”
Her bloodied fingers held to his sleeve as she tried to say something more. Finn leaned closer and tried to understand what she was saying. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Takbir. They came for us.” And then her grip went slack. Her head slumped. The gurgles and sputters stopped.
Sirens blasted outside. Looking out the window, flashing lights from a Garda police cruiser cutting through the darkness.
The first man to come inside, in casual dress, wore a military style haircut. CIA.
The Dublin police rushed to Fiona, now dead. The whole sight sickened Amy, and filled her with loathing and hate and horror. It touched something else as well, had stirred something unexpected. The Irish officers took the time to assess how Finn felt and what he was likely to do. The kind servants of the people treated Finn in a professional, helpful manner. They secured the crime scene, bagged the weapon, and found the bodies of Aidan Rourke, his two sons, Daniel and Connor, and nephew, Thomas, upstairs.
Finn showed them the photo he took of the license plate.
The CIA agent stood around and listened. “Donahue, this is a find. The license belongs to Abu Abaaoud. Won’t he be fuming when we walk up to his door!”
“I’m glad it’s useful.” Finn recognized the name as an advocate for Takbir prisoners.
Amy placed a hand on Finn’s arm. “We will see to funeral arrangements,” she said. “Vivienne and her cousins will get some peace of mind.”
“Good.” His eyes took on a glazed look, which she suspected was shock.
“Your mother called you son. That’s significant. She thought about you.”
He nodded. “Thank you for being here.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not now. Someday.” He dragged her into his arms.
“Keep it bottled up for as long as you like.” When she’d seen him holding his mother’s hand, she knew at one time they were mother and son.
He gave her an appreciative nod.
* * *
“Shared bathrooms,” Finn said. “I didn’t think about amenities when I booked this place.”
“Is the bath water ready?” she asked from the doorway. “I really need to freshen up.”
He tested the water and then stood. “Go ahead. I’ll be waiting outside when you finish.” “Finn, you don’t have to wait.”
“I do. Go ahead. Take your bath. I’ll stand guard.”
To his surprise, she didn’t argue. She passed him and went into the bathroom, then closed the door.
He stared at the closed door and slid a hand through his hair. He felt the shock of his mother’s words, like a ball of ice forming in his stomach. Takbir did this. He was lost in thought and slumped into a chair. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there before he heard the sound of the bathroom door open. He looked up.
Amy stood in the doorway. The light spilling from the room behind her painted her hair the color of butter. Her skin looked as smooth and pale as ivory. She wore a thigh-high shift of pink. The same glow from the bathroom making her skin look soft and beautiful made the shift transparent. The sight of her breasts, the roses of her nipples, had his breath backing up in his lungs and the front of his jeans growing tight.
He averted his gaze only to find himself staring at her shapely, bare legs.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked. “Sorry. That was a dumb question. You had the worst day.”
“I’m spent.” He held her hand as they walked down the hall to their bedroom.
She said, “Let’s just go to bed.” She
grabbed the upper corner of the sheets and blankets, folded them in a triangular fashion toward the center of the bed,
making it ready for him. She pulled off the throw pillows and piled them on a bench at the end of the four-poster bed.
“You’re sweet.” With his nerves still on edge, not to mention the hormones that kicked in, he faced her. Her mouth was a temptation all by itself. Wisps of hair curled around her face, slightly damp. The flowery scent of soap mixed with her scent. He felt vulnerable, and it didn’t matter that she knew.
She moved closer, slid her hand up his shoulders, onto his neck, and into his hair. When she pressed her lips to his chin, she said. “You saw your mother die. You’ve been through a horrific experience. Death has a crazy effect on a person’s hormones. Maybe it leaves us with a need to affirm life.”
The best way to do that was to prove to ourselves we are still alive.
She worked on the buttons of his shirt, her nails brushing his chest beneath. She kissed her way down his chest, pulled the shirt free. She reached for his belt buckle. “Loving is surviving, someway, somehow.” She linked her arms around his neck.
He cupped her face in his palm and stroked a thumb across her cheek. “I want nothing more than to make love to you, Amy.”
“That makes two of us.” She leaned in closer, her lips a breath away from his. “Let’s feel alive.”
ABOUT KATHLEEN ROWLAND
Book Buyers Best finalist, Kathleen Rowland, is devoted to giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes suspense with a sizzling love story sure to melt their hearts. Kathleen used to write computer programs but now writes novels.
She grew up in Iowa, where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and raced her sailboat on Lake Okoboji. Kathleen now happily exists with her witty CPA husband, Gerry, in their 70’s poolside retreat in Southern California, where she adores time spent with visiting grandchildren, dogs, one bunny, and noisy neighbors. While proud of their five children who’ve flown the coop, she appreciates the luxury of time to write while listening to characters’ demanding voices in her head.
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Find Kathleen Online:
Website – http://www.kathleenrowland.com
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/kathleen.rowland.50
Twitter – https://twitter.com/RowlandKathleen
Blog – https://kathleenrowland.wordpress.com
Tirgearr Publishing – http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Rowland_Kathleen