Shiver of Fear (26 page)

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.”

“You want to meet your mother?” He put his hand on her shoulder, meaning to give her a light push toward the door that led
to the belfry, but he held on to her instead.

“You play dirty.”

“Go up there and
stay
up there.” He added some pres
sure, inching her closer, fighting the urge to kiss her after his vow not to give in to the attraction. “No matter what happens
down here.”

“What if—”

“No,” he said sternly. “No matter who shows up, do not show your face until I tell you. Is that clear?”

She didn’t look happy but nodded. “You’re asking a lot of a woman who has a fear of heights and an impulsive nature.”

“Promise me, Devyn. You’ll stay quiet and hidden. Promise me.”

She started to smile; then it wavered, a little pulse jumping in her throat. “I promise.”

He gave her a hard look. “A promise is a promise.”

Something in her expression got to him, destroying his determination not to kiss her. He kept it brief, but kissed her. The
contact with her mouth only made him want more. “Go. Let’s turn some sinners into saints.”

She slipped into the small opening, and he heard her feet on the stairs, going up to the bell tower.

With his eyes on the page of letters, he closed his hands around the rope and yanked, expecting it to be a tougher tug than
it was, the strike of the clapper against brass vibrating the room with powerful sound.

As it lessened and nearly diminished, he pulled the next. Then the next. As the third F-sharp died down, a melody emerged.
And in the distance, he heard the slam of a door echoing up the stone chamber.

He reached for his weapon, turning to face the door and whoever was coming up. He yanked the rope again, hoping Devyn’s ears
could take the beating, because if it was loud in here, it was deadly up there.

And if his guest didn’t want him there, it could be deadly in here, too.

Two more notes and then silence. No footstep creaked the wooden stair, no one appeared around the corner, no pistol snapped
into firing position.

And then all hell broke loose.

J
ust when her head stopped ringing from the chimes, gunfire exploded in a wholly different kind of deafening sound. A shot
echoed, then another. And another. Devyn scrambled to the icy stone walls of the bell chamber, her heart hitting her rib cage
with the same ferocity as the clapper that just hit the bell.

Holy God, Marc was in a gunfight fifteen feet beneath her.

After the gunfire stopped, she remained frozen for a moment, waiting for a sound, a word, or some kind of exchange, but she
heard absolutely nothing below. Pressed against the rounded wall, Devyn blinked her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the
windowless turret. In the shadows, she could make out the shapes of the bells, not nearly as big as they sounded but made
of thick metal. Above her was one more story, accessible by a ladder bolted into the wall.

Dust tickled her nose and she covered her mouth; she
couldn’t give herself away. She jumped as another gunshot cracked, then a footstep scuffed, then nothing.

Questions screamed in her head, one louder than all others. Was Marc down there, dead?

A promise is a promise.

Fear for Marc’s life mixed with burning guilt. She’d destroyed information she’d promised to give him for helping her. And
here he was, risking his life, making her swear to save her own.

She breathed soundlessly, listening, waiting. At the next gunshot, she’d move. If there was another shot.