Night Of The Blackbird (31 page)

“It will be crowded to the gills,” she said worriedly.

“And I'll be delighted to be the center of attention in an authentic Irish-American pub,” he told her. “Trust me, we will survive it. And we'll drink to Ireland, and to America.”

Moira rose to join him. He reached for her hand.

The tall blond man was just outside in the parlor area of the suite, glasses low on his nose as he read from a file folder.

“Peter, we're going to escort Miss Kelly down,” Brolin said.

“With pleasure,” Peter assured him, setting aside his file and rising.

As he did so, Moira noted that his tailored suit covered a shoulder holster and gun. Brolin was certainly being protected, but she wondered if any amount of strength and firepower could stop someone who was really intent on murder, especially if—as she feared—they were willing to die to achieve it.

Peter opened the door for them, stepping into the hallway first. Brolin spoke casually about the weather. Strange, it had been so cold, so much snow that winter, ice on the walks, and now, suddenly, the days were warming, almost as if the heavens were bringing spring a few days early, just for Saint Patrick's Day.

“We're expecting a high in the sixties tomorrow,” Brolin said as they stepped into the elevator and pushed the button.

“That will be nice,” Moira replied casually. “It was a rough winter. Even in Manhattan, we had snow piled on the sidewalks.”

They reached the lobby and walked together into the center. Brolin made a point of kissing her cheeks.

“It will be wonderful to chat on camera with such a lovely young lady,” he said, his voice carrying to the registration desk and beyond. “I look forward to it. I have a few old tales I can tell on camera for you. And a few new ones, too, of course.”

“Thank you so much for your time, and thank you so much for agreeing to the interview,” Moira responded.

She thanked Peter and said goodbye, then headed for the large main doors. She knew without looking that they stood in the lobby and watched her until she was headed down the street.

As she went down the steps to catch the T to the pub, she was deep in thought regarding her conversation with Brolin.
So they knew.
There were several possible danger zones, but Kelly's pub was one of them, and they had known.

There was nothing for her to do. Everyone was warned. The Irish were watching; the American government and the police were watching. She had done all she could. Now all she had to do was watch out for herself.

And pray that her brother wasn't a terrorist.

And Danny…

She had to go about normally. Work, stay with groups of people, act as if she knew nothing, suspected nothing.

The wake was tomorrow night; the pub would be very busy. It would be busy tonight, as well. She had to help her father; that would be normal.

Tonight…tomorrow night.

Saint Patrick's Day.

She remained deep in thought.

And never noticed the man following her down into the bowels of the T station.

A
s she hurried down the steps to her train, Moira wondered again at the number of people. She had been on the South Side, a busy enough place and often filled with tourists, but it still seemed like a lot of commuters. She found a spot just behind the worn line on the pavement in front of the tracks, anxious to make sure she got on the train. As she stood waiting, she noticed movement on the tracks. A few rats running feverishly here and there. She wondered how many of them died, run over or electrocuted. She couldn't help feeling sorry for the creatures, even if their species tended to be disease-ridden and had carried the fleas that spread bubonic plague to Europe.

From the distance, she heard the arrival of the train. The crowd started to surge forward.

Suddenly it didn't seem like the natural surge of a crowd. She was being pushed.

“Whoa, excuse me,” a heavyset man behind her apologized, as he was pushed against her.

“Hey!” a woman at her side cried with alarm.

Moira tried to slide between them, realizing she was dangerously close to the edge.

“Who the hell is pushing?” another man cried angrily.

But as he spoke, there came another massive crush as someone at the rear tried to get closer, shoving everyone forward.

“Stop!” the woman screamed.

Another hard push nearly sent Moira flying. Grabbing at the coat of the man to her right, she kept from soaring over the edge of the platform, but the impetus at her back sent her sprawling.

Her lower body was on the platform.

Her upper body hung over it.

She lay breathless and stunned. She noticed the rats again. Scampering around at a maddened speed.

Of course. The train was coming. Trying to rise and looking the tracks, she saw the nose of the vehicle bearing down on her with the speed of lightning.

“Back off!” someone from the rear shouted with furious authority.

She desperately tried to gain her balance.

“Jesus!” breathed the woman at her side.

The fat man was down, reaching to get hold of her legs and help her as she struggled to get on the platform.

“Back off!” she heard again, and then there were more hands, grabbing her, angling for a good grip. She was lifted off the platform.

The train whizzed by her, groaning and screeching as it came to a halt, the nose a hundred feet beyond her. She felt the wind it created on her face, so close that it was like facing a twister. Her hair tangled before her eyes. She swept it back, blinking, balancing, turning into the hands that still held her so strongly.

“Danny!” she gasped with shock.

His hair was as windswept as hers. The look on his face was dark and strained. His teeth were clenched.

“Are you all right?” the heavyset man asked, catching her arm. Despite her brush with death, people were still pushing around them to get on the train.

“Fine, fine.”

“You shouldn't be allowed on the streets,” Danny muttered.

“Don't get mad at her because other people are so rude,” the woman gasped.

Danny didn't seem to notice the people around them, either those brushing by to get on the train or the two who had risen to her aid and now her defense.

“You could have been killed,” he said.

“You could have killed her,” the big man said.

Danny turned and stared at him. Whatever the man saw, he didn't like. He hurried past them to get on the train.

“You tell him where to go, honey,” the woman said, stepping on the train, as well.

Moira was shaking too badly to move, to do anything other than stare at Danny. What the hell was he doing there?

She'd fallen on the ice. And he had been there.

She'd tripped—or been pushed—in the pub, and he'd been there.

And here…now…

How could one man orchestrate such a mob scene?. How could he zero in on her? Any one of the people close to the edge of the platform might have been killed.

“Moira, are you all right?” The question didn't seem to be voiced with concern. He was still angry. Maybe she wasn't supposed to be all right.

She pulled away from him. “Yes, thank you. I'm fine. I'd just as soon get off this platform, though.”

“Let's go out and get a cab.”

They exited the T station. She tried to keep from shaking, from giving away any of her thoughts or feelings. He had taken her arm again. She wanted to scream and wrench away from him. But that wouldn't be acting normally. Since he was holding her, he could surely feel her shaking. That was all right. She might have been decapitated. Or sliced cleanly in half.

It would only be normal to be shaking.

They came to the street. The sun was blazing. Danny still held her arm as he shook his head with disgust. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he breathed. “Where were the T attendants? There should have been someone down there, stopping that kind of mob crunch.”

She looked at him. “It all happened in a matter of seconds,” she said.

“There should have been someone there. In fact, a report should have been filed. And people should have been arrested.”

“Which people?” she asked, staring at him. “There's no way to tell who started pushing and no one to arrest.”

He didn't answer but took her elbow, hurrying her along the main street. “I guess the best place to get a cab is over by the aquarium,” he said.

“Danny?”

“What?”

“How the hell did you happen to be in that T station?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“That should be obvious.”

“Because you think I'm in danger? Not just ‘Shut up and don't speak Gaelic' danger but real danger?”

“You seem to be having a lot of strange difficulties these days.”

“All explainable, of course. A slide on the ice, tripping over my own purse, which I had somehow lost and not seen by the bar. And now…a crowd in a subway.”

“You could have been killed.”

“Yes, this time. But you were there to save me. Pretty incredible.”

He cast her a sideways glance. “You think I would push you under a train?”

“I didn't say that. I just said it's incredible that you were there. How in God's name would you think to look for me at that T station?”

“Well, let's see. No one knew where you were, but your mother was talking earlier this morning about Brolin wanting to talk about an interview with you. That's his hotel.” He pointed.

“How did you know that?” she inquired.

“I read the newspaper. The entire city knows where he's staying. I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes. Neither did you.”

“Your timing was convenient.”

“My timing was heaven-sent. That fat man would have had you both in the gulley in his gallant efforts.”

“Hey, he was a stranger who was trying to save me.”

“Right. A good man. But also an incompetent one.”

They were nearing the aquarium, and as Danny had suggested, there were plenty of cabs. He started to hail one, then hesitated. “Do you want to go back? Do you want to get a drink somewhere first?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I have to get back. I have work to do.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Work must go on.”

He lifted his hand, flagged down a cab. Moira slipped into it; Danny followed. “So what's your plan?”

“My plan?”

“You said you had work to do.”

“Yes.”

“So…what's on your taping schedule for what's left of today?”

She didn't have a schedule, but as she stared at him blankly, she came up with one. “I'm going to be out of the city.”

“I thought your show was on how Boston celebrates Saint Patrick's Day?”

“Actually, my plans have changed. But it's great that you're here, Danny. In Boston. I'll be able to leave for the rest of the day and know that you'll be here with Dad. He's going to need a lot of help today. The morning was hard for him, making the arrangements for Seamus.”

Danny fell silent. She felt his presence so close to her in the cab. He still looked just like the man she had known for so many years. Tall, straight, striking in his long leather coat, hair smoothed back, face somewhat taut, eyes enigmatic as he trained them out the window on the scenery they passed. She saw his hand where it lay on the seat between them. The long fingers, neatly clipped nails. He had powerful hands. Watching his hand where it lay, she was tempted to reach out and touch it. She bit her lip. She knew him far too well in that regard. His shoulders appeared broad in the coat. He had an exceptional build, lean, wiry, not an ounce of fat on his frame. He possessed a very strong jawline and striking features. Those eyes, hazel, not hazel, amber, gold. In the cab, she could breathe in the scent of his cologne. She knew what lay beneath the clothing; the problem was she hadn't really known the inner man. It chilled her to think what he must still feel in the lonely dark of night. He had watched his father and sister shot down. That would surely create a wealth of bitterness in a man's heart. He had to want revenge. How far was he willing to go to take it?

He turned and stared at her suddenly, as if reading her mind. “I wish you would trust me,” he said quietly.

“I do.”

“You're a poor liar, Moira. You always were.”

“There's something going on, Danny, and we both know it.”

“Isn't it a pity we don't know more?”

“I think you
do
know more.”

“And I think there's a lot you're not telling me.”

“There's nothing I could possibly tell you, Danny.”

He turned his gaze to the window again. In another few minutes they were outside the pub. Danny paid the driver, and they exited the cab.

“Thanks,” Moira said briefly, heading for the door.

“For the cab ride, or for rescuing you from dismemberment?” he asked dryly.

“Both,” she murmured, and escaped through the doorway to the pub.

The dining area was still half-filled with the end of the lunch crowd. Liam was on his stool, with Eamon leaning on the bar from the opposite side. They smiled and waved as she walked in; she still thought that her father looked terribly sad, and older today. He was going to miss Seamus so much.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, daughter. Everything all right?”

She nodded, coming to him, hugging him. “And you? How are you holding up?”

“Well. Very well. You know, it's best to talk to people. And talk about people. And keep moving, keep going.”

“You're sure you're all right?”

“I'm where I should be. Working. And with friends. My friends, Seamus's friends.”

“Moira Kathleen,” Liam said, “don't y'know? That's the way of the old Irish wakes. Sitting with the one passed on, right by the coffin, lifting pints as we gathered round, just talking. The waking and the funeral have never really been for the dead but for those left behind.”

“Of course, Liam.”

“We should have had two nights of waking, Eamon,” Liam said.

“Seamus told me what he wanted, and wrote it down, as well. I'm following the man's wishes, Liam, nothing more.” Eamon turned his attention back to her. “If you have work to do, Moira, you go ahead and do it.”

“Dad, I'll be here with you tonight when it gets busy,” Moira said. “But may I borrow the car? I'm thinking of taking a camera up the coast a bit, to Salem. Tomorrow I've got to edit and get the main tape out, then coordinate with Michael and Josh regarding the live feed we're going to do of the parade.”

“He's called twice,” Eamon said.

“Who?”

“Michael. Best give him a call.”

“Can I use your desk?”

“Of course.”

Moira went into her father's office and sat behind his desk. She wasn't sure that what she was doing was right—perhaps she should remain at the pub during the afternoon, as well. But she really needed to get away. Danny would be at the pub.

And Patrick…

Well, it didn't seem that anyone ever really knew where Patrick would be.

She put a call through to Sally Adair at the Magik Maiden, her friend's shop in Salem. Sally answered, delighted to hear from Moira and glad that she was coming up.

“But are you sure? I read in the paper today about your old friend Seamus. This must be a hard time for you.”

Harder than you can imagine,
Moira thought.