Fear Familiar Bundle (72 page)

"Keep that foot by the fire," the barkeep called to Mick as he saw him prepare to leave.

"Aye, not much else to do on a raw night." Mick pushed his money forward on the counter, picked up his cap and pulled it over his eyes as he stepped into the night. A blast of cold air almost made him turn back inside. He heard someone else follow him out.

"You need a ride, Mick?" a young man who'd been sitting at a table asked. He pulled his hat down lower and cast a glance at the closed door of the bar.

"Do I know you?" Mick questioned. He looked the neatly dressed young man over.

"I went to school with your son, Michael."

"Sure." Mick nodded and suppressed his sigh of relief. It wasn't a long walk to his cottage, but his foot was throbbing, and he was bone tired. Patrick had said another three nights of riding Limerick and he would bring him home. If only their luck would hold another seventy-two hours. "A ride would be nice, indeed."

"The red one," the young man said, pointing to the car.

Mick walked over to it, realizing that the man who'd offered him a ride wasn't a regular in O'Flaherty's. "I'm sorry but I can't recall your name," he said.

"Craig. Craig Murray." The young man stuck out his hand.

Mick took it. The palm was smooth. "Are you sure I'm not taking you out of your way?"

"Not at all." The man slid into the driver's seat and reached across to unlock the door for Mick. "Hop in. Won't take but a minute to drop you home."

Darkness had fallen heavy and thick, and Mick thought about the four-kilometer walk. When he felt better it wouldn't take half an hour, but tonight the wind was kicking up from the ocean, and his foot promised wet weather for sure. Still, he hesitated. There was something about the young man. His face was shadowed by a slight growth of beard, but his skin was smooth, as if he didn't normally allow himself to go ungroomed.

He was wearing a jacket and slacks. Nothing unusual. In fact, as ordinary as clothes could be. That was what was troubling. They were creased, as if they'd just come out of a store.

"Mick?" Craig asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Mick slid into the seat and slammed his door. When the motor was cranked, a seat belt slid across his chest and snugged him against the seat. He put his hands on it to hold it back.

"Newfangled things," Craig said. "Cars now have them so you don't have a choice to buckle up or not."

"Nice car." Mick noticed the newness, the expensiveness. It moved away from the curb without a sound.

"So, how are things at Beltene?"

There was a hint of something in Craig's voice. Mick turned to him to ask him what he meant. Before he could say anything at all, a heavy cloth was pressed into his face. A nauseating odor made him choke and gag. Over the edges of the cloth, as he fought to free his mouth and nose, he saw the pleasure in Craig's eyes.

Craig's hands were on the steering wheel and the car continued to move forward. Mick knew then that he'd been ambushed. Someone was in the back seat holding chloroform to his nose. He recognized the odor now, the sweet, sickening smell. He struggled, but the seat belt held him, as did the arms of the man in the back seat.

"My word, he's feisty for an old man," a voice said from the back seat. But the arms that held Mick were strong.

In only a matter of minutes, Mick's struggles ceased and he slipped limply back into the seat.

The grain spilled into the feed trough and Patrick stepped back. Eager for a bite, the weanling pushed forward and nosed into the bucket. Very gently, Patrick scratched the little one's neck. He was a beautiful baby with plenty of potential. One of Mick's favorites.

For a moment Patrick's worries about Mick were lost in contemplation of the young horse. As he started back to the barn, the weight of Mick's absence crashed down on him again. Where was the old man? He'd been absent last night when he went to feed and exercise Limerick.

He'd urged Mick to stay home and nurse his foot often enough, but never before had the old man heeded him. Mick's problems kept multiplying. As soon as he finished the morning chores, Patrick decided he'd check up on Mick. He had a terrible feeling that something was wrong.

In a matter of minutes he was striding across the fields toward Mick's. Normally he enjoyed the walk, but not on this day. He entered the cottage without knocking, and it took only a few glances around the house to ascertain that his friend was gone. He checked his watch. It was just after eight. He had a couple hours' worth of chores back at the barn, and then he'd begin to retrace Mick's steps.

T
HE TEACUP RATTLED
in the saucer, but it was the only sign that Catherine gave that Allan's visit was unexpected, and disturbing. He swept into the dining room just as she was finishing breakfast.

"Marmalade." Allan walked to her side, picked up a piece of toast and dropped a spoonful of the orange preserves onto it. "Homemade?"

"I believe Mauve made it." Catherine had to force herself not to show her irritation. Allan had apparently opened the front door and walked in without even knocking. He'd always been a bold man. "What brings you for a visit?"

"I came to see if you'd gotten a ransom note yet. After all, I did leave a considerable sum of money here with you."

"It's in the safe. Safe." Catherine smiled as she rose from the table. "Since I won't be needing it, I'd prefer to return it to you."

"Are you certain?"

She thought she caught a glimmer of distress in Allan's eyes, but his perfect mask covered it too soon for her to be positive. "What are you up to, Allan?"

"Making a profit. Having a good time." He gave her a careless smile and shrugged his shoulders. "You remember, don't you?"

"I do." The thought made her a little sad. Allan's charm was in his boyishness, his enthusiasm for life, but he was rapidly getting to an age where boyishness wasn't cute. "One thing about you, Allan, you're consistently consistent."

"There's something to be said for that." He brightened. "Now why don't we work out the details of our partnership? I'd love to own a piece of that stallion. You know, I have great faith in your ability to make this horse farm pay off. Even though you never cared for the bank, you always had a head for business."

"Thanks." Her smile was still touched with a degree of sadness. "Thanks, but no thanks. Limerick isn't for sale. Not a little piece or a big chunk."

"What if you don't find him?" Allan's sharp question was softened by another shrug. "I mean, what will you do? Will you lose Beltene?" He searched her face.

"Limerick will race, and he'll win for Beltene." She rose and moved away from the table. What was Allan's big interest in Limerick? Was it possible he was really trying to be a friend? "Let me get your cash, Allan. It was foolish of you to leave it. Help yourself to another piece of toast." She left him in the dining room as she hurried to the safe in her office. The briefcase was still there, just as she'd left it.

Still munching the toast, Allan met her in the hallway. "I don't mean to eat and run, but I do have an appointment."

"In Dublin?"

"No, in Galway." Allan kissed her cheek. "The wine selection leaves something to be desired, but the seafood is excellent. Truly excellent. Maybe you can drive over and have dinner with me one night. For old times' sake."

"Perhaps," Catherine answered. She had no intention of doing so, but she felt no need to coldly state her feelings. Allan was what he was, a handsome man with charming manners. He would not miss her visit; he was far too busy with himself to notice her absence.

Allan hefted the briefcase. "Catherine." His look was serious. "Just keep in mind that there are desperate people out there."

Chill bumps tingled along her arms, more at his expression than at his words. "What are you saying?" She couldn't believe Allan was threatening her. It was so out of character.

"Just a word to the wise. Circumstances can sometimes make people do things they wouldn't ordinarily. You know, desperate measures for desperate times." He smiled, but his eyes were cold. "If you get desperate for some money, you can call on me. If Limerick were my horse, I'd want him home where I could keep an eye on him. You never know what unethical people can do to an innocent animal."

"I'll keep that in mind, Allan. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run." She opened the front door. She didn't like what Allan implied. As she watched him walk down the sidewalk to the drive, she finally admitted to herself that she didn't like the idea that he was in Connemara at all.

Picking up her purse and keys from the foyer table, she went to her car. She hadn't fibbed about errands. There were several items she needed from the village, and her boots were ready at the repair shop.

Twenty minutes later she loaded her boots into the trunk of the Volvo and walked around to open the driver's door. Her gaze passed down the curving street of the village and stopped on the tall figure of a man paused in front of O'Flaherty's Bar and Grill. It was Patrick Shaw. At first she didn't believe it, but as she stared, she recognized him. His shoulders were stooped, as if he were bone weary, and he stood at the door as if undecided whether to go in or not. She checked her watch. It was eleven. By all rights, Patrick should be at the barn, working.

She got in the car and closed her door, feeling slightly guilty for spying. Seeing Patrick in the village during the morning hours, especially at a bar, was enough to make her look twice. In all of the things she'd heard about Patrick, drinking wasn't one of his weaknesses. If any man ever looked as if he needed a drink, Patrick did.

As she watched, he entered the bar. Instead of driving back to Beltene, as she'd planned, she settled down in her seat and prepared to wait.

I
NSIDE THE BAR
, Patrick checked out the interior. There were two men sitting at a table drinking coffee, newspapers spread before them. The barkeep was washing glasses. In the back there was the sound of someone working in the kitchen.

"What can I do for you?" the barkeep asked.

Patrick took a seat and asked for hot tea. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. An older man, walked with a limp. Mick McGuire."

"Old Mick. He was in here last evening." The barkeep smiled. "He didn't drink enough to go missing from work."

"I'm a friend of his," Patrick repeated, stressing the word friend. "I'm worried about him."

The barkeep put his cloth down and leaned on the bar. "What can I tell you?"

"When did he leave here last night?"

"Sammy was behind the bar, but I was here for a game of darts. There was some talk about this horseman— "

"Horseman?" Patrick's back straightened.

"Some old man had been in saying that Cuchulain was out of his grave and riding the roads on a big gray stallion. He said it was a warning to all Irishmen to remember the past, to remember the warriors, and to remember the time when the Irish controlled their own destiny. A regular rebel, he was, for an old man. Right vigorous when he got to talking. Yeah, whiskey and insurrection took thirty years off him." The barkeep laughed. "Old Mick got wound up a bit, telling everyone it wasn't real. I don't think anyone thought much about it except Mick and the old beggar who started the tale."

Patrick sipped his tea and realized that he hadn't eaten in at least a day. "How about a toasted cheese?"

The barkeep called the order to the back. "Mick drank his drink, talked a bit, and left. He said his foot was troubling him and he had a walk." The barkeep shrugged. "That's all I can remember. Sammy will be back at four if you're wanting to talk with him."

"The old man who saw this Cuchulain, was he here?" A bad feeling was beginning to grow in Patrick's gut. It had to be the same old man he'd run across on the Clifden sea road. How had such an old man made his way to O'Flaherty's? He could have hitched a ride. Even walked it in a night and day. But it was a long stretch for such an old, pitiful man, even if he was fueled by liquor and rebellion.

"I never saw him. Sammy gave him a drink and some food and he was on his way, as far as I know. You could ask around the village. He might be holed up in someone's barn, doing odd jobs. There's not much work to be had in these parts."

"Did you notice if anyone left with Mick?"

The barkeep picked up his cloth and absently dried a few glasses. "I couldn't say for sure. It was a busy time. There were several folks gathered around the bar, talking about Cuchulain and the old stories. I was over at the board." He nodded to the dart board across the room. "To be honest, I was playing for five pounds and my full attention wasn't on what was happening at the bar. There were just a few women and some talk." He laughed. "You know how that kind of thing goes in a bar. Some bawdy humor."

"I do." Patrick accepted the toasted cheese sandwich that the cook brought out from the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, but he had to eat. He felt as if his muscles were bending his bones, he was so tired. "Can you remember if there was anyone here but the regulars?"

"There's always one or two. Folks come to Galway and Clifden and somehow drift in here. We didn't have the traditionals playing last night, so it was more of the local people stopping by after work." His gaze roved around the room. "There were two men I didn't know. A younger man and one close to your age. Well dressed." As he talked, he grew more certain. "They were at a table beside the bar, just beyond where you're sitting. And they were listening to the talk about the horseman. They were interested, leaning forward."

Patrick felt his hopes begin to build. "Irish?"

"Couldn't tell. I didn't hear them talk, but they were comfortable in the bar. You know. They had an idea of what they were about. Not like the tourists staring around and all."

Patrick smiled. "You've a good eye for detail."

"It pays to look at folks. Trouble can start in the beat of a heart. I've learned to try to sniff it out, so I look the people over once or twice."

"Mick left alone, did he?"