Shiver of Fear

  “What can I do?”

  “The job you were hired to do,” he said simply.

  “What about… her?”

  “We’re doing everything possible to take care of her.”

  Who was we? Take care of as in get rid of? Or take care of as in protect?

  But before she could ask any questions, the door popped open, and Liam looked like he’d done more than go to the bathroom. His eyes were bright as he entered, his cell phone in his hand.

  “We’re out of time.” He jerked his head to the door. “Get out of here, Ian. This woman has work to do. The buyer is ready, and we need to be, too.”

  When Ian left, without so much as a glance at her, she hung her head again, the fight slipping from her body.

  “You ready to give up, Doctor?”

  “I can’t do anything tonight.”

  “Then let me spell it out for you. I know who you called, Dr. Greenberg.”

  Her blood chilled, more at his tone than his words.

  “One of my men found the battery, and we traced your little text. Sent me right to her.”

  He was bluffing. He had to be.

  “So you better get to work, Doctor. And I wouldn’t make any mistakes, because if you do, if so much as one spore is lost or not purified correctly, that young woman dies. And trust me, I will kill her. And then I will kill you.”

  He turned to the refrigerator and flipped it open, so careless and stupid. “Let’s get started.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Or do you need more time to think?”

  Yes, yes, she did. He would kill Devyn, no doubt about it. But Devyn—Rose—might help her very own mother. So, she wasn’t in a self-imposed no-man’s-land after all. Her daughter was out there, and as long as she was alive, she could help Sharon. She would help Sharon.

  Fueled with hope, she slid off the chair. All she needed was a plan. “Let’s get to work,” she said, sounding much tougher than she felt.

  CHAPTER 19

  There were no notes lying around the streets of Enniskillen. No secret directions indicating where they could find Sharon or another clue, and after a long day of discovering nothing, frustration nipped at Devyn’s heart.

  Along with the fact that Marc had raised an invisible wall between them, starting with the moment they’d awakened, legs and arms entwined. She’d expected morning sex, another slam to her senses, and his mighty erection indicated that he expected the same thing.

  But with remarkable self-control, he merely left the bed and took a long shower, emerging from the bathroom fully dressed. While she got ready for the day, he spent the time on his phone, using its spotty Internet service to find out what he could about the town, still unable to get anything concrete on Padraig Fallon or the “notes” he told them to find.

  They set off to explore and inspect, barely touching except when they had to, the conversation strictly on the business at hand, not on each other.

  Disappointed but not surprised, Devyn followed his lead as morning shifted into afternoon and then into autumn dusk, and still they found nothing. Hungry and exhausted, they stopped at a café on the main drag, taking an outdoor table nestled on a corner. From there, they could look down the narrow street, up to a church spire in one direction and toward the monuments they’d just visited in the other.

  “Let’s eat,” Marc suggested. “We skipped lunch, and it’s almost noon in Boston. I want to try and reach Vivi. We still haven’t heard a word about what she found in Raleigh.”

  “Probably the same thing we have,” Devyn said, happy to take a seat at the outdoor table he’d gestured to. “Nothing.”

  While he dialed his cell phone, she glanced up and down the street, noticing an abundance of orange flags and banners, a sure sign Enniskillen was heavily Protestant and in support of England. They’d passed a few churches, including the one that dominated the skyline ahead of her, its dramatic steeple housing the bells that filled the winding streets of the town with monstrous, melodic chimes each hour.

  Along the road in the center of town that led to the church, two- and three-story slate and stone buildings were nestled so close you couldn’t slide a credit card between them. Most probably had been erected two or three hundred years earlier, then updated every few decades.

  “You are there, Vivi,” Marc said into the phone. “Why haven’t you called?”

  As he listened to her response, Devyn gave in to the urge to look at him, to study the way his strong, tanned fingers curled around the glass he sipped, the way he leaned back with ease, grace, and confidence, yet his dark gaze swept the landscape, always watching.

  And then those gorgeous eyes stopped on her and scorched her with a meaningful look… only she didn’t understand.

  What had changed between last night and today?

  He’d told her about his ex-wife. Laura. He’d put himself out on an emotional limb and she’d responded by…

  Burning Finn MacCauley’s phone number.

  In the light of day, it seemed a little like an overreaction. But last night, she’d been in abject misery, hearing the echo of his admission in her head as she tried to fall asleep.

  He put his own wife in jail for her crimes; he didn’t have any sympathy for lawbreakers. How could a man like that ever forget what she came from?

  And what about another man? What chance did she have of ever finding happiness if her name was irrevocably associated with one of the country’s most-wanted fugitives?

  So she’d burned the picture and felt guilty as hell about it.

  “A calendar? That’s all you found?” Marc’s smoky looked transformed to a quick shake of his head, and more disappointment wrapped around her chest.

  “We’re in Enniskillen,” he said, taking a sip of water, then repeating the name of the town. “It’s in…” His voice drifted, and she forced herself to stare at the church steeple instead of his mesmerizing face. “Really?”

  He suddenly sounded interested, leaning forward, switching the phone to his other ear. “Does it say anything else on that month? What is it, October?”

  The server came with sandwiches for them, so she ate while she listened and tried to make sense of his side of the conversation, reviewing the day.

  They’d combed the island town for clues but hadn’t found anyone or anything except shops, restaurants, apartments, and small businesses up there. No one appeared to even notice them, let alone give them some kind of cryptic message the way Padraig had implied.

  They’d roamed through the limestone buildings and narrow streets, seeking any kind of connection to Sharon, finding nothing. They’d even visited the monuments erected in memory of the people who’d died when an IRA bomb ripped through the heart of the city and changed its role in history forever. Plenty of anti-IRA sentiment, but no one stepped out from behind a bush in the gardens surrounding the area to announce they knew where Devyn’s biological mother was hiding.

  “There are actual letters marked on the days?” Marc asked, pulling a pen out from his jacket to write on a paper napkin. “Read them to me.” After a pause, he added, “Because you never know, Vivi.”

  She watched him write a series of letters, sharing a quick glance with her, his eyes looking a little excited about whatever his cousin had found.

  She swallowed hard as he set down his pen and rested his hand, and without thinking, she reached for him, closing her hand around his wrist, longing for that physical connection they’d had the night before, wishing so much that she’d met him under different circumstances.

  He didn’t even respond.

  “Anything else?” he asked, his tone impatient. “Are you sure, Vivi? Absolutely nothing?” A few beats, then, “Did Chessie find anything on Padraig Fallon?”

  Devyn pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

  “Keep looking and I’ll call you later. Text me anything you have.”

  He clicked off and set the phone on the table, tapping the napkin covered with letters.

/>   “What is that?” she asked.

  “She found a calendar in Sharon’s office, with pictures of Ireland. Northern Ireland, it seems.”

  “And?”

  “And August was the Giant’s Causeway, September was Bangor—”

  “It was?”

  He leaned forward. “And October was…” He tilted his head toward the street.

  “Enniskillen.” They said it at the same time, a little quiver waltzing down her back.

  “That is very weird, and oddly wonderful,” she said, then gestured toward the napkin. “And what is this?”

  “On most of the days in October, there was a letter written in pencil, lightly, in the corner of the date box.”

  “Oh?” Now that had promise. “Does it spell something?”

  “Not unless the message is made up of the same seven letters, A through G. Those are the only letters.” He took a bite of his sandwich while she read them.

  “Yeah, the only thing that—”

  “Finished, luv?” A red-haired waitress stepped up, reaching for her plate, just as a loud chime sounded from the church. “Jesus, they’ll deafen you, they will,” she said loudly, putting her hands over her ears in a dramatic gesture. “You can see—or hear—why we had a big fight about playin’ them bells all hours of the day and night.”

  “It’s beautiful to listen to,” Devyn said loudly as the next note rang. “Are they real, then? I know that so many church bells are really computerized now.”

  The young woman hooted and rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, yes, they’re real. We’ve got ten of ’em, all encased in new steel brackets that God only knows how we paid for, and now Enniskillen is one of only a handful of cities in Nor’n Ireland that can make the claim of having ten real bells. An honor, it is, if a noisy one.”

  Another note echoed over the sandstone buildings, rolling through the streets, a low, sad clang that hung in the ear long after a clapper hit.

  “They ring every hour, right?” Devyn asked, retrieving the napkin Marc had written on when the waitress scooped up the plates.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. Sometimes more, just for no good reason like someone sneaked up there an’ took a pull. If the church is open and Reverend MacIntyre is drunk—”she leaned closer to add a stage whisper—“which is as likely as not, ya know, well, then, ya can go right up there and hang on a rope. He’ll take money to letchya do that, too.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Devyn said politely.

  Marc leaned forward. “How many bells did you say there were?”

  “Ten. And each weighs over one ton and cost a bloody fortune. But we got one bell for each note in the scale, and three sharps, if you are one of those people who care. One of those… camp…”

  “Campanologist,” he supplied. “The study of bells.”

  The waitress laughed. “That’s it. I’ve heard that before, from tourists who’re just that. You’d have to go up there if you’re that interested.” She took the plate and nodded to some new customers. “ ’Scuze me, sir.”

  “Devyn.” Something in his voice reached into her gut and squeezed.

  “What?”

  He took the napkin. “Seven letters and look.” He pointed to the napkin. “That’s not a number sign—it’s a sharp.”

  “Like the notes of a scale.” The realization hit her as they both turned to stare at the spire as the last bell rang out and echoed over the city.

  “The notes of a scale,” he whispered, tugging the napkin out of her hand and fluttering it in front of her. “Sharon had these letters on the Enniskillen page of her calendar. Maybe we’re thinking of the wrong kind of notes.”

  A frisson of excitement fluttered through her. “You think the notes on her calendar are some sort of message? Like if they get played on the bells, the message is sent?”

  He helped her up and nodded to the church. “Let’s hope the reverend is drunk enough for us to find out.”

  The sense that Vivi hadn’t quite told him everything nagged at Marc, but the instant the pieces fell into place with the church and the bells, he felt better. The inaction and brick walls they’d hit all day had his blood simmering, along with the close contact with a woman he’d rather not respond to… but couldn’t help that he did.

  The renewed enthusiasm for their mission gave him a reason to hold her hand, then place a possessive arm around her shoulders.

  He blew out a breath of self-disgust but didn’t let go. Just do the job, Rossi. And move on. Quit rescuing, and work.

  As they turned the corner, the elaborate stone and stained glass of St. Macartin’s loomed large, a behemoth of a church topped by a lofty bell tower and steeple. He guided her to the path that led to the church’s front door and headed directly there.

  “I’m thinking you aren’t going to look for the rector to ask permission to go up there.”

  “You’re thinking right.”

  Inside, the air was cooled by the dark stone and stained-glass lighting, the lingering smell of wood polish and candle wax permeating the mustiness of a closed-up church.

  “Based on where the steeple is, let’s try this way,” he said, taking her to the far right side to an unmarked door. Marc turned the oversize knob, which clicked open effortlessly.

  “They’re pretty trusting,” she noted.

  “Or someone is expecting us.”

  She hesitated on her next step. “You think?”

  “I don’t know yet. Proceed with caution.” Inside, the stairwell was nearly pitch-black, dank with moldy air. He pulled her close but stepped in front to protect her from anyone coming down. “Single file, and watch your step.”

  They started up spiral stairs that were not even two feet wide, pie shaped and steep, stacked straight up a tightly curved stairwell. Close behind him, Devyn’s body tightened and he threw a look over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  “Who do you think we might find, Marc?” she whispered.

  “I’m considering all the possibilities,” he replied, giving her hand a squeeze. “Let’s get to the top.”

  Wooden stairs creaked underfoot, and the walls were made of centuries-old stone, cold and unforgiving. A bullet shot from above would ricochet like mad. At the top, he put a hand out to hold her back and he inched around to see where they were.

  The bell ropes hung in the middle of a small room, not twelve feet in either direction. Frayed, each had an embroidered badge dangling from the bottom bearing a letter, one for each note in the scale. And three sharps.

  Around the perimeter of the room, slender openings in the stone let in light and a cool breeze. Devyn walked to one, squinting out to the streets below. “Now what?”

  “Fallon said someone would meet us once we found the notes. Maybe that’s how Sharon met her contact over here. By playing these notes.”

  She frowned at him. “That’s all so cloak-and-dagger, Marc.”

  “Exactly. A spy network that communicates through the bells.”

  Her jaw loosened. “You think she’s a spy?”

  “Fallon moved like one,” he said, fingering the ropes that hung from the ceiling, strung through eighteen-inch holes. “I just have to figure out what order to play them in.”

  “Why not the order they were on the calendar? Did Vivi tell you what letters were on what days?”

  “Yes.” He turned and looked around the room again. “But I’d like to be sure before we ring the bells. We’ll only have one chance. There should be some kind of songbook here for a bellringer. Up on that shelf?”

  A stone shelf circled the room at about eight feet, too high for him to reach.

  “Lift me up and let me look,” Devyn suggested, walking to him.

  He closed his hands around her waist and hoisted her up, turning to give her a chance to examine the whole shelf.

  “There it is.”

  He shifted her to where she pointed and she reached, pulling out a tattered notebook. They started leafing through the handwritten pages.
/>
  No scales, no music, just a page for each song and a list of letters to play. But there were at least two dozen songs.

  “If we can find one that matches the notes on Sharon’s calendar, we’ll know we have it.” He took out the napkin as Devyn turned the pages and they compared the notes.

  “They’re all just hymns.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “Remember what the waitress said? Sometimes someone just plays a random song, in the middle of the hour? Probably not so random.” He shuffled through the notebook.

  They flipped through the pages and read the titles.

  “Rock of Ages.” “Be Thou My Vision.” “The Pride of the Parish.” “I Heard the Voice of Jesus.”

  “And look at this acronym,” he said, pointing to the title “Sinners Into Saints.” “SIS. The Secret Intelligence Service.”

  She looked up at him. “Is that the MI6? Like, James Bond stuff?”

  “More likely MI5, but it’s a fine distinction. They’re both British spies. Let’s compare the notes.”

  A hand to her mouth, she stepped back. “Sharon is a British spy?”

  “Or an American one helping them out.”

  “That would mean… she’s on the side of the… good guys.”

  He didn’t answer, comparing the notes on the napkin with the song book. “We have a match to every other day on the calendar,” he said, excitement at the find humming through him. “If you play the notes on the odd numbered days of October, you play this song.”

  “And then what happens?” she asked.

  He turned to her. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Do you think Sharon will come?”

  He shrugged. “My guess is someone from the SIS will show up.”

  “And lead us to her,” she said, reaching for the first rope. “Let’s play.”

  “No, no. You have to hide.” He pointed up to the bell tower. “It’ll be loud up there, but you’ll be out of sight, at least from someone coming up the stairs.”

  “Eeesh. Really?”

  “Go. Or the bells stay silent.”

  She looked up into the holes and made a face. “It’s a long way up.”