would keep watching, too. He’d seen the man who had sat by himself at the rear table before. The man wasn’t all that good at what he did. A man came into a pub and interacted if he wanted to go unnoticed. Still, Daniel was convinced that the man he was looking for was going to be someone he had never seen before. Someone who shouldn’t know him, either.
Unless, of course, it turned out to be Patrick.
“You’re slowing down, boy,” he told himself, setting the last glass on the wooden ledge behind the bar. Maybe he hadn’t taken so long. The pub had stayed open late that night.
Kelly’s didn’t always keep the doors open until one, though sometimes, on a Saturday night, the pub was known to be open until two. It all depended on the clientele. On what was happening. The kitchen closed at ten, but if a hungry soul wandered in after that hour, someone could usually be found to scrounge up some food. Kelly’s never changed. From the time Daniel had been little more than a kid, he’d been coming here. Eamon was a good man. A hard worker and a lover of mankind. No harm should ever come to Eamon or anyone in his family.
The phone began to ring. Danny picked it up. “Kelly’s,” he said automatically. Then his fingers tensed around the receiver.
“Kelly’s,” he repeated. He hesitated, then added, “Where Blackbird plays.”
“Blackbird?” a deep-throated, husky voice inquired. Male or female?
“Yes, Blackbird,” he said firmly.
“I—” the caller began, then, “wrong number,” the voice uttered harshly. And that was it.
The line went dead. Not the wrong number, he wanted to shout.
Then he heard a slight clicking sound.
The phone had been answered by someone upstairs, as well. Had the caller paused because two people had answered? He hit star sixty-nine on the phone. The number came up as unavailable.
With a sudden fury, he hurled the rag he’d been using across the bar. He shook his head and, gritting his teeth, opted for a shot of whiskey before bed. He swallowed it in a gulp. Damn, but it burned.
He walked through the office and storeroom to the stairs leading to the home above. At the top, he checked the door. Locked.
In the bar, he suddenly bolted out the front and ran to the side, taking the stairs two at the time. The outside door to the residence was also firmly locked, although anyone with a real intent to get in and a talent for breaking and entering could jimmy the bolts.
He went down the stairs, into the pub, to his allotted room.
He took a hot shower, then slid beneath the sheets and comforter. He flicked on the telly. CNN. The world was in bad shape. Violence flaring in the Middle East. In Eastern Europe, a terrible train wreck, the fault of an antiquated switching system. The weather taking a gruesome toll in South America.
Then the news reporter, who had just given a grim tale regarding flooding in Venezuela, put a smile on her face and began talking about Saint Patrick’s Day. She showed a cheery scene in Dublin, crowds in New York, then a brief interview with the Belfast politician, hailed worldwide, who was en route to Boston to help celebrate with the Boston Irish.
The news continued. Dan stared at the picture on the screen but didn’t hear much more.
It was a very long time before he slept.
5
The house seemed quiet when Moira left her bedroom the following morning. She saw that Colleen was just ahead of her, walking down the hall to the kitchen.
She followed her sister. “Good morning,” she murmured, as they entered the kitchen together. Her mother had evidently been up already; coffee had been brewed in the automatic coffeemaker, and a pot of tea sat on the big kitchen table, as well. Her brother was up, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper.
“Top o’ the morning to you,” Colleen returned, eyes rolling as she turned them on Patrick. “And you, brother, dear. You’re looking well-rested for a man who spent half the night playing—”
“With the band.” Moira interrupted in horror, amazed that Colleen would make any reference to the fact that they’d been outside his door the previous night. She slid into her old chair at the table and cast Colleen a warning glare.
“Playing with the band,” Colleen repeated. “That’s exactly what I was saying,” she continued, glaring at Moira, eyes wide with innocence and mock indignation.
Moira felt like hell. She hadn’t fallen asleep until three or four. And then, perhaps out of force of habit, she’d found herself wide awake and unable to pound her pillow into any semblance of comfort when she’d realized she didn’t have to be awake so early this morning. She did have things to do, of course. Michael and Josh had done their work well. Permits to tape the parade and the goings-on in various areas of the city had been procured. But she needed a plan of action, and she needed to pretend that she had been on it from the moment she had hung up after talking to her mother and making the decision to come to Boston.
Patrick looked at them both, slightly puzzled. “I feel just fine, thanks. Colleen, you look all right, but Moira…hmm. Trust me, you don’t look as bad as you sound. Wouldn’t do, would it? Can’t have bags beneath your eyes that stretch to your chin when you’re on camera, now, can you?”
“Great. How come Colleen looks all right but I merely look better than you think I feel?” Moira asked him.
Patrick grinned. “You’ve had this shell-shocked look since you arrived,” he told Moira.
“Has she?” Pouring coffee, Colleen turned to study Moira.
“If you’re going to turn that cup-filling ritual into a day long event, perhaps you could let me go first,” Moira said.
“Give her the coffee—she needs it,” Patrick said.
Moira glared at her brother. “How come you’re saying that?”
“I heard you tossing around all night.”
“Me!” Moira protested. She stared at Colleen, and suddenly she couldn’t help it; she burst into laughter, and Colleen followed suit.
“What’s the inside joke?” Patrick asked, eyes narrowing as he looked from one of them to the other.
“Well, we were trying to be discreet…” Colleen began.
“But honest to God, surely, that old bed frame hasn’t created such a noise since…well, probably since Colleen was conceived,” Moira said.
Patrick’s heritage was instantly visible as his cheeks flamed a brilliant shade of red.
“You two are full of it,” Patrick managed to sputter. “How rude. I mean, this is our parents’ house….”
“Hey, we’re not chastising you,” Colleen said, retrieving the coffeepot from Moira.
“No, we’re simply happy—”
“For
