A reason to kill, p.11
A Reason To Kill, page 11
She turned away, almost as if she was dismissing him, and headed to the back stairwell without adding anything.
“I’ll give you a call.”
“You do that.” Her movements seemed to gain urgency and she ran up the service stairs.
~~~
Devlin headed toward the bridge that would whisk him back to a slightly saner world.
Several times on the drive down the Garden State Highway the road blurred. He hunted his sunglasses. When he couldn’t find them, he slammed the glove compartment in irritation. He looked in the rearview mirror; his blood shot orbs stared back. No way did he dare show up at office looking like this. He turned off the Garden State on to the New York Thruway. Then took a cut off ramp before he got immersed in city traffic, and headed out to Westchester.
His stomach growled. Had they even bothered to eat? That was nuts. He could remember the ribs at the shack Andrea told him was open all year. He’d have to try it again when he could taste food. The whole weekend was surreal. Right then he swore off the two new things he’d tried this weekend—white cocaine and black women.
Tom Devlin had enough ways open to hell— he wasn’t adding to them.
Chapter 20
New York, 1976
Ann Ryan moved quietly, a well-practiced trait that she learned from her mother. A mother, who impressed upon her daughter early in life, that no matter how beautiful, an obnoxious and loud female was never tolerated in proper society.
Her mother had groomed her to be the ‘perfect wife’ and Ann had disappointed her. It was the late sixties when she went off to college, and young ladies were hunting more interesting and lucrative careers than wife and mother. Ann had taken law but when the opportunity came to practice it she had failed badly. Since she wasn’t forced into the labor market by need of money, she had convinced herself she lacked the personality necessary to function on equal footing with men and played at her career choice while contemplating an early marriage. That too had seemed to escape her; the opportunities had been there but the fellows hadn’t met her standards.
She stood on the veranda of the O’Neill estate and watched Michael patrolling the walkway as the car came up the drive. The man behind the wheel must have spotted Michael, for he never drove that slowly.
Ann Ryan loved Michael O’Neill since she was eleven and he nineteen. The gulf seemed insurmountable. So she had packed him away in her heart but continued to judge other men by this idealistic character that couldn’t exist.
More the pity, Ann wasn’t blind to the real Michael. As she grew up she had watched him flit from one relationship to another and had been thrilled when each one ended. Last year Ann had returned from a junket around Europe to find Michael still unmarried. To her delight, Michael noticed she wasn’t a child anymore.
Ann smiled but there was no humor in her face. ‘Children are easily handled’, her mother had said. Mama should spend a few weeks with Deirdre, she thought. Good lord. A few hours and she’d be pulling her hair out. No, maybe not, maybe she could handle the little girl. Ann wished her mother had taught her something useful like how.
Ever since the party Deirdre had ignored her; treated her like she didn’t exist—and it hurt. If the child was just being her nasty self, Ann could have coped. The girl went to the housekeeper for anything she couldn’t manage. She kept her bedroom and playroom doors closed and ignored Ann’s requests to enter. Michael promised they would talk to Deirdre today. They would discuss their plans together so Deirdre would understand it was going to be the three of them from now on.
That night. Michael had come home late and requested they have dinner in the den. When he returned from his shower, wearing his dressing gown, Ann knew Michael was obviously looking forward to a pleasurable night. As she left to fetch their meal he said, “If anyone but you comes through that door I’ll shoot them.”
Taking the clue from that declaration, Ann changed. She washed off the bit of day makeup. Arranging several curls on her forehead gave her an impish look, added the short red silk negligee, she hoped had some trampish appeal. When you were five foot one, with narrow boyish hips, and breasts as skimpy as the padding in your bra, it was difficult to look sexy.
She made the detour though the kitchen only to become upset to find the housekeeper was preparing their tray. “Stella, I told you I would take care of that myself.” Ann’s self-consciousness about her outfit made her tone sharp.
The large woman answered in her slight German accent. “Wasn’t no bother. TV stinks tonight.” In her late forties, Stella was full-bodied but there was nothing flabby about her. The natural blonde hair was streaked lightly with white—she would never struggle with gray. Her face bore no signs of wrinkling and while her stern features rarely gave hint to a smile there was a rough attractiveness to the face.
Michael kidded Stella that she was a ‘Hun’ and it didn’t bother her. Ann figured the housekeeper was gay. She was always half-expecting Stella to make a pass at her.
As Stella turned with the tray, Ann saw her eyes shifting up and down. She was openly appraising her body beneath the inadequate outfit. Ann wanted to say, hope you’re enjoying the view. She said, “Thank you.” and took the tray.
When Ann returned the artificial light in the den was replaced by the glow from the fireplace. A soft instrumental came from hidden speakers. Michael had set the table up in front of the hearth that now gave off a scent of apple wood. He’d adjusted the twin lounge so it faced the fire he’d started, and installed himself on the left side of the lounge with his head back and his eyes closed. He appeared so completely relaxed that for a moment she felt like an intruder.
The radiance from the flames cast a golden sheen over Michael’s fairness and made his ginger hair sparkle with its own fire. He was big but not with the bulkiness of excessive weight. A supple, loose-jointed machine, his body was created in the image of some ancient god. She had the urge to kneel down and adore him. She wondered what it would feel like to walk around in that magnificent flesh. To wield all that power. To never be afraid. His lashes flickered like tiny flashes of light and his eyes opened. His lips parted in a teasing smile. “Aye, my lady Ann is dinner then served?”
“Aye, my Lord, and it’s a fine feast I’ve prepared.”
She set down the tray. Before she could straighten, he rose and came up behind and caught her waist between his hands. He spun her around lifting her feet from the floor so their mouths could meet. At such times Ann could lull herself with the belief she really mattered to him. He loved her.
“There are two men in Michael,” Shelia Connors had told her. “If you are lucky like I was you’ll find the right one.”
Ann’s arms encircled his chest. She drew tightly against him and felt their hearts beating in tune. Michael loves Ann, Annie loves Michael…and that was last night.
They’d made love, made plans, and life was perfect. But now it was today and he told her to wait on the veranda. “Wait here for a minute—let me talk to the kid first,” he had said.
Wait Ann—wait like the insignificant creature you are. She had suppressed an instant flash of anger, as she tried to convince herself Michael was simply setting the stage to make things easier.
Michael was determined to keep his daughter from going to her grandfather’s for Easter. Deirdre was just as determined to go. He had been fighting with the little girl for days. Ann had no difficulty over hearing for neither ever bothered to lower their voice. Now she watched as he confronted Deirdre when she exited the car that returned her from school. Ann barely listened to their repeated nonsense. Then she heard Michael offer. “You’d like Ann for a mother. I’ll marry her.” And a lump formed in her throat. Last night he’d also said he would tell the brat—not ask her permission.
“Why?” Deirdre’s tone was sulky.
“I thought you liked Ann?”
“I do—sometimes.” Deirdre was swinging her leg so that her foot kept hitting the flagpole. Ann could see the child was making her father nervous which Deirdre seemed to enjoy doing. Just that morning, Ann caught the girl rubbing the mark he’d put on her cheek, the night of the party, with a kitchen scrubby to keep it red. She watched as Deirdre deliberately presented that side of her face to her father. Then fingering the area he’d slapped days before, Deirdre asked, “Why do people get married?”
Ann knew most men were no good at explaining things of that nature to little girls but still she heard Michael try. “Lots of reasons. Love. To raise a family.”
“You mean have kids?” Deirdre’s leg continued to swing; the white of the saddle shoe was streaking black.
“Kids,” he agreed.
Still making a point not to actually look at him, Deirdre said, “You’re not married. You got me. I’m your kid.”
“You had a mother, baby.”
“I never saw her.”
“I’ve explained before how she died.”
“Can I die?”
“Why in hell would you want to?”
The girl had switched to swinging the opposite leg. Ann shrugged and thought, At least now the shoes would match.
“How come you had a girl? Why am I a lousy girl?”
Obviously taken by surprise, her father laughed and said, “Sorry about that.”
Ann knew he’d taken the wrong approach. Sorry didn’t cut it with the little brat and laughing at her always put her on the offensive. Why hadn’t he allowed her to take part in the conversation? She might have prevented that angry pout on Deirdre’s face.
“Wasn’t my choice. I’m glad you are a girl.” O’Neill held out his arms but his daughter ignored the gesture. His arms fell heavily to his sides.
Deirdre’s hands had become fists, pounding into her hips. “When can I go ‘ome?”
“Damn it! Girl, this is your home.”
Ann was tempted to interrupt but Michael surprised her. His angry tone dropped into a disgusted drawl as he said, “School lets out Wednesday. You can leave in the afternoon.”
Standing on the veranda, Ann suppressed an urge to scream. The features of the little girl running towards her wore a look of triumphant. “Annie, Annie,” Deirdre yelled. “I’m goin’ ‘ome.”
Michael turned and stalked off. Ann felt a dull ache creep up between her breasts. A sad smile surfaced on her face as she wondered if the pain came from her breaking heart. Deirdre didn’t want her as a mother. Michael would be disappointed that moving Ann into his home hadn’t made a difference.
Chapter 21
New York, 1976
All the way in from the Jersey coast, Thomas Devlin had kept the air-conditioner on high trying to prevent the stink of boozy sweat from invading the car and turning his stomach. Every few miles he told himself, better to freeze than chance puking and ruining the car.
He flicked the control and his garage door rolled up. He spotted the car parked in it and cursed. “Damn!” Not Shelia! She was the last thing he needed right now. He didn’t recognize the car but it was spanking new and expensive. And not too many people had a key to his house. Suddenly work looked appealing and he almost backed out of his own driveway.
The inside door opened and Ann Ryan stood there with a questioning frown on her face. With a sigh of relief, he finished parking his car.
“When did you buy a Mercedes?” He asked as he followed her inside.
“My birthday present from Michael. Oh, God, Tom where have you been all weekend?” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I’ve been calling and—”
“Easy.” He slipped his arm around her waist and kissed the top her head. “I had business out of town. What so terrible happened?”
She pulled away, rescued a plastic trash bag from the parlor floor, and headed for the kitchen. He glanced about rather missing the mess he’d left behind on Friday and followed her. “Ann, why do you clean up? I hire someone to do that.”
“Well, she must have gone on strike. Not that I blame her with the way you trash the place.”
Why didn’t it ever occur to her he liked to find things where he left them? “You look ready to bawl. What happened now?”
“Deirdre is going to Ulster for Easter.”
He watched as she finished stacking the dishwasher. He didn’t believe he owned that many dishes let alone dirty ones. He shrugged and offered, “The kid always goes to her grandfather’s for holidays. Except for Mike, most of their family does.” His system started crying for moisture. “You should be grateful. You’ll get a break.” He opened the refrigerator and did a double take.
“You had mold growing in there. Do you ever buy food? I swear—cheese with green strips and dried out tomatoes; a hotdog that was petrified. Of course you could have scraped the shelves and made several meals. Let me have one of those.”
He handed her the bottle of water and grabbed another. She slumped into the kitchen nook and he sat down beside her. “Okay, tell big brother what’s wrong.”
“Michael had me make all these plans for Easter vacation. The three of us were flying to Rome so the girl could see the pomp and ceremony at the Vatican. You would think she’d be ecstatic over a trip like that. Not Deirdre. She wants to go home. She’s been bugging Michael since the party. She has used those couple of marks he put on her to run a guilt trip you wouldn’t believe. So guess who won.”
Devlin chuckled.
“It’s not funny. Not a damn bit funny.”
“Hey, don’t get spooked, luv. I was just picturing what the little minx was doing to the big bad guy. You have to admit the idea is funny. So the two of you will have a nice time in Rome without the pest.”
“Are you dense? Do you honestly think he will go now? It’s his daughter Michael wants. Somewhere he got this crazy notion that if Deirdre inherited a ‘mommy’ she would drastically change into the little darling he pictures her as. It’s never going to happen.”
“Not in this lifetime.” Devlin patted her hand. “Ann, I warned you when Mike first started coming on that you were playing with fire.”
“Suppose you don’t. Let see.” She held up one hand and started bending the fingers. “Shelia—”
“I’m different.” His hand gripped hers before she continued. “I’m a taker too. I don’t expect fairness in relationships. I watch my ass so I don’t get reamed. You try to pretend you’re a user like the rest of us. But you’re too soft lass. It’s the commitment, the love you want. You’ll never find it with Mike.”
“He loved Shelia.”
“Maybe so. I wasn’t around then so I can’t judge. Maybe love’s a onetime thing with Mike.”
“And with you?”
“Good heavens, Ann, you don’t think I love Shelia. Please…spare me.” He groaned.
“What about me?”
“Aha, the wench is trying to chain me to a commitment made in a weak moment. I have weird feelings for you girl. Love? My own brand I guess. You’re nice having around. I don’t feel uptight with you. Shucks, you clean my house.” He laughed as she swatted him. He ducked when she tried again.
She slumped back in the chair. “Hell, Michael’s more romantic than you. At least he can say ‘I love you’ with a straight face.”
“He warned me off you, did you know that? Like to break my damn arm.”
“He did?” Her eyes told him she wanted to believe him.
“Don’t sell yourself cheap, Annie. You’re too good for Mike. But if you want him make him pay big time—like the ring and the vows bit. Now shove on out of here. I need a few hours sack time.”
“I see. Those sick eyes. Some weekend business? Do I know her?”
“Ask me again when I’m recovered enough to remember who she was.” He headed for the wonderful smell of clean sheets. Ann always changed his bed. “You can join me if you like but I won’t be much good.”
“Take a rain check. Maybe in ten or twenty years when you grow up. Go sleep little boy. Mommy will finish up and lock herself out.”
He stood in the doorway, and fought an urge to start pitching things. This wasn’t his bedroom. Ann must have spent a half a day in here; he wouldn’t locate his underwear for a week. Normally, he tossed his clothes on the chair at least until the next morning. But for several days after a visit by Ann, he felt compelled to hang up his jacket and trousers and deposit shirt and socks in the hamper. A shame to yank that nicely made bed apart. Ah, what the hell, bed’s for sleeping. God, did he need sleep—about three full days. He crawled between the fresh smelling sheets. He really needed to hire a steady domestic. The monthly over haul by Merry Maids didn’t cut it.
The water running outside announced Ann was cleaning the winter muck off the patio furniture. A job he’d been putting off for weeks. Weeks; he had heard that cocaine remained in the body for weeks. Maybe if he drank gallons of water, he could piss it out quicker. He’d check that out. The sound of Ann doing her thing was soothing; it reassured. If the damn drug, that had made sleep nearly impossible for three nights, caused him to stroke out, she might hear his cries of pain…
Chapter 22
Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1969
The cell was cold. It stank of sweat and urine.
“Strip!” they ordered.
Stiff with fear his hands wouldn’t cooperate.
“Strip! Taig! You damn well better move. Take your bloody clothes off.” A fist exploded against Tom Devlin’s chin and he staggered. Someone grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head forward. A bent knee drove up into his belly and vomit spewed from his mouth. A glob of spit splashed against his cheek.
“You’re all right an IRA man—a fuckin’ piss ‘ed.” The spitting man snickered.
Another kicked out. Sensing it coming; Tom twisted and caught the force on his hip. A shove sent him crashing face first into the iron bars, splitting his lip. He swallowed blood.
“Strip!”
