The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (10 page)

"Is the site working yet?" Darla called out breathlessly from the registration desk—for the third time in an hour. The young woman was kindhearted, but she fixated on the smallest crisis with ghoulish urgency. She also had an insatiable appetite for gossip and tiresome questions. The mere hint of her approach could make Conor disappear like a skittish house cat.

"Not yet." Kate emerged from her office. "Don't stress, though. I'm not. Do you know where Conor is?"

Darla sucked her breath over her teeth and bit her lip. "He seemed really distracted when I got here and then he ran off so I never had a chance to talk to him." She cocked her head—a quick, bird-like movement—and frowned in concern. "Is everything okay? Nothing's wrong, I hope?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Darla," Kate said patiently. "He must be around somewhere. I'll find him."

After searching for him in his room, the barn and his practice studio, Kate found Conor crouched in the garden tying up tomato plants. With a jackknife clamped in place between his teeth he hiked his chin in silent greeting at her approach, and continued working.

His t-shirt and jeans were covered in dirt, but with a Phoenix Feeds cap shading his eyes and perspiration accentuating the muscles of his tanned arms he appeared even more eye-catching than usual. Kate took in the view with an appreciation she'd lately discovered was no longer quite as disinterested. Only when she drew closer did she notice the pinched distraction Darla had mentioned.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, unconsciously mimicking her young housekeeper.

He took the knife from his mouth and glanced up at her. "Fine. Why? Hand me the string, will you?"

"You look sort of hot and bothered." She handed the spool to him. "I think you're working too hard. You should take a rest."

"Don't you be starting on me as well." He shot her an abashed grin, softening the retort. "One house physician is all I can handle. How was the flower sale?"

"I got some great deals. Thanks for holding down the fort. Darla is staying late so we're clear for our picnic. She and I met C. Eckhard von Hahnemann earlier, and his friend Leonard. 'Professor C'. What a character. I've never seen anyone like him."

"Yeah." Conor scowled, cutting a length of twine and shuffling to the next plant. "Quite the force of nature."

"You don't like him?" Kate studied him, trying to understand why he was so abnormally grumpy. "I thought you would enjoy talking with them—him being a conductor and Leonard a pianist."

"Primarily harpsichord," Conor corrected, a pitch-perfect imitation of the young man's pedantic tone. He shrugged. "Conductors make me nervous. I generally steer clear of them outside a concert hall."

"Uh-oh. I didn't know that." Kate braced herself, anticipating she was about to make his cranky mood even worse. "I invited them to join us tonight with Yvette and Jigger."

Conor pivoted on his heel, giving her a hard stare. "You're joking me."

"He said he wanted to hear you play." Kate plucked at the twine around one of the plants in front of her. "I told him we were hiking up to the pond and you'd be playing later, and they were welcome to come listen. I'm sorry. I should have asked you first, but I just thought—well, I guess that's the trouble. I wasn't thinking."

"Never mind about it." Conor lifted her fingers from the plant and gave them a squeeze. "I don't think they'll come."

"Why not?"

"Because I think Professor C has something else in mind." Conor released a long breath of weariness. "I apologize for raising this tedious issue again Kate, but did the two of you talk about me when he rang to book the room?"

"Of course not." Kate's eyes widened. "He didn't call. He booked through the website, back when it was working, that is. He knew you were here? Do you know who told him?"

"I've a pretty strong hunch."
 

The obvious next question hung in the air between them. Avoiding it, Conor lifted the bottom of his t-shirt and wiped his face, peering down at the result. "I look about three-quarters dirt, don't I? Have I time for a shower before we go?"

Y
VETTE
AND
J
IGGER
arrived while Conor was showering. Once he was ready he shouldered the backpack containing their picnic—allowing Kate to carry his violin—and they started out for the pond. Kate and Yvette walked slowly, chatting about perennials, but Jigger stepped out at a quick march across the long field behind the inn. Conor stayed close behind him, happy to be diverted from an unproductive train of thought.

He'd know soon enough if the enigmatic Professor C wanted something other than a recital from him, so he pushed the mystery aside to concentrate on the immediate prospect of dinner and music, and kept an eye on the retreating figure in front of him.

Jigger had already reached the edge of the field where a tractor road began. The route wound steeply up through the woods, ending in a wide hilltop meadow with a spring-fed pond at its center. As the boy disappeared into the trees Conor jogged forward.

"Don't get too far ahead, Jigs," he called. "The water's not running away from you."

He signaled to Kate and Yvette then started up the path, catching glimpses of the bobbing, fair head through the trees. After a few minutes of climbing he came around a loop in the trail and found Jigger squatting in the dirt twenty feet ahead. His compact figure was lit by the fractured sunlight bending around the surrounding branches and leaves. Before he could speak the boy stood up, turned to him, and extended his cupped hands with a delighted, radiant smile.

Like a switch being thrown, Conor was hit with a salivating panic he was helpless to control. He felt himself collapsing—stomach hollowed out, heart hammering. With blood roaring in his ears he stumbled to the nearest tree and swung an arm around it as his legs gave out. He slid down the slender trunk as though slipping down a fire pole and landed hard, hitting the ground with a gasp.

In almost every circumstantial way, the boy in front of him was not at all like the child haunting his dreams. The two shared nothing in terms of culture, condition or physical resemblance, but in the space of an instant they had fused into one. One pair of hands extended in offering, one innocent smile of welcome and pleasure, one small bundle of fragile humanity. The same bass-line theme repeated with a slight variation. Like a chaconne.

For most of his life Conor had been immersed in the canon of his mother's mystical philosophy, one that saw porous borders between worlds and understood many things passed over them, in both directions. He couldn't dismiss the waking replication of a dream as mere coincidence. He recognized a portent when he saw it.

Groggy and still disoriented, Conor became aware of Jigger, frantic on the ground next to him, fluttering hands patting him everywhere.

"Please tell me what it is, Conor. Does it hurt somewhere? It looks terrible. Oh, it looks like it hurts. Can you breathe? Are you going to throw up?"

"Yes, I can breathe, and no, I'm not going to throw up." He came sufficiently to his senses to pull the boy into an embrace and prevent him from bursting into empathetic tears. "I'm all right. Sorry for scaring you, boss. It's the heat, maybe. I went bleary-eyed for a second and I think I tripped on a rock. See it, sticking up over there? How did you manage to miss it?"

He was still resting by the tree with Jigger at his side when Kate and Yvette appeared. They registered the scene slowly and then hurried forward.

"What's going on?" Kate looked down at them. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Got a bit doze-y for a minute." Conor held up a half-emptied bottle of water. "I probably haven't drunk enough today. I'm re-hydrating."

She exchanged a glance with Yvette, who extended a hand to Jigger and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, hon. Let's blaze the trail and these two can catch up."

Before they were out of sight Kate hunkered down in front of him, lightly resting her hands on his knees. "Okay I'm worried, so cut the shit. You're white as a sheet and you've been acting weird today. What is it?"

Conor took a pull from the bottle and began a reprise of his excuse, but then stopped. He put his head against the tree and closed his eyes. "I'm not sure. Never happened before. A sort of flashback, I guess. I can't . . . I'm sorry, but I can't tell you more than that."

Another half-truth, another apology. He wondered how long it would be before he'd exhausted her patience for this, but apparently she could endure a little more. He felt her grip on his knees tighten—the only sign of her frustration—before she dropped her hands.

"All right, how can I help? Do you want to go home?"

He opened his eyes. "Jaysus, no. I'm starving and I've lost half my weight in sweat. I want a swim and I want my dinner. What color do I look now?"

"A little pinker." Kate shook her head, laughing a little.

"See? You've helped already." Conor pulled himself up and adjusted the backpack. "Let's go. Don't forget the fiddle."

When they reached the place on the trail where Jigger had been standing, Conor bent to pick up—not a marigold blossom but the small skull of a squirrel. He pocketed the brittle totem, and they continued up the hill.

10

J
IGGER
PLANTED
A
FOOT
IN
THE
CRADLE
OF
C
ONOR
'
S
interlaced fingers, who launched him up and out of the water. He arced above the pond with a cheerful roar, splashing down under the watchful eye of Yvette, stationed within reach. For such a light spirit Jigger's body was remarkably lacking in buoyancy. No matter how much he thrashed and spluttered he sank every time—exactly like a cannonball.

The scene had repeated itself a dozen times, but the players performed with such gusto it continued to be entertaining. Kate watched from her perch at the end of the dock, envying the boy's exuberance, not to mention his disregard for the pull of gravity. Her gaze wandered past Jigger to the wooden raft floating farther out in the middle of the pond. Rocking with the turbulence created by all the activity it seemed to be nodding an invitation, taunting her immobility. She looked quickly away and ran a hand over the front of her bathing suit—a flattering black one-piece, as dry as the paintbrushes in her studio. The irony did not escape her. Two neuroses, same symbolic characteristic.

Since the day her husband had drowned—six years ago this week—she hadn't ventured into any body of water deeper than a bathtub, but in more recent years with every visit to the pond she tried to conquer the phobia. She never got far before fear caught up to her, slithering along her nerves like venom, freezing her limbs in place until her whispered surrender relaxed them enough to allow a retreat.

She had a long history of such failures, but had reason to hope for a different result tonight. The anniversary of Michael's death had come and gone two days earlier. For the first time, half the day had passed before Kate remembered its significance, and when she did, she waited for the crippling sense of loss and panic that always followed. To her surprised relief, it didn't come. She'd felt a startled catch in her throat, but nothing more. If the grief cycling through her like a chronic illness was at last loosening its grip, she hoped its related symptoms might recede as well.

She'd set out that evening determined to force the issue, but her demons were too clever for any direct assault. They were practiced in the art of avoidance, and the incident on the trail with Conor provided a convenient diversion. Instead of forcing herself down into the water she continued sitting on its edge, thinking about him, wondering where his demons came from and if he'd ever tell her.

When she looked up again Yvette and Jigger had scrambled ashore to head for their picnic site while Conor lingered behind. She'd been alarmed by how shaky and ill he'd appeared earlier, but the horseplay with Jigger had revived him. Sleek as a seal, with his wet black hair sculpted against his head, he swam toward her and stood up as he neared the dock. Kate made an effort not to stare. She assumed the hefting of forty-pound milk buckets held the secret to abdominal muscles most men only achieved with a gym fee.

Oblivious to the new sort of distraction he was causing, Conor waded forward and stopped in front of her. "We're coming to the end of August. Might be the last time we get up here this summer." He angled his head, leaving the question implied but unspoken.

She nodded, acknowledging the hint. She'd confessed her fear of water to him during their first visit to the pond earlier in the summer, but had not revealed the source of her phobia. He'd accepted her silence with tactful understanding, never mentioning the topic—even indirectly—until now.

Lifting her foot, Kate kicked a few drops of water at him. "Between the two of us we'd keep a therapist busy for years."

"No argument there."

"Listen, I'm not trying to pry and this is only a suggestion, but I know one if you're interested."

"So, we're back to me, now?"

Kate laughed, dropping her eyes again. "I did go to him myself for a while."

"Did it help?" Conor asked.

"Not much," she admitted. "That might have been my fault. He's supposed to be very good, and of course trustworthy. Maybe you could tell him things you can't tell me."

"Kate." He came closer and put a hand on the dock. "I hope you aren't thinking I don't trust you. You couldn't be more wrong."

"No, no, I understand. I only meant . . . well, it would be sort of like the confessional. Oh, I know a priest too, that might be better? He wasn't much help, either, though."

"Ah, that's grand, isn't it? You want to saddle me with all your cast-offs."
 

Smirking, he pushed away and swam back to the middle of the pond, but soon returned. He came up out of the water below her and Kate's breath stuttered at the unexpected pressure of his palms against the soles of her feet.

"I shouldn't have been flippant," he said softly. "I do appreciate the offer. How about we skip the priest and the therapist. Maybe we can help each other. We could start now, if you like?"