Darkfever
Page 10
“Maybe.” I snatched my card from his hand.
“What state in the South are you from?”
“Texas,” I lied.
“Indeed. What brings you to Dublin?”
“None of your business.”
“It became my business when you came into my establishment, inquiring about the shi-sadu.”
“So you do know what it is! You just admitted it.”
“I admit nothing. However, I will tell you this: You, Ms. Lane, are in way over your head. Take my advice and extricate yourself while it’s still possible.”
“It’s too late. I can’t.” His condescending high-handedness was making me mad. When I get mad, I dig my heels in right where I am.
“A pity. You won’t last a week as sophomorically as you’re bludgeoning about. Should you care to tell me what you know, I might be able to increase your odds of survival.”
“Not a chance. Not unless you tell me what you know first.”
He made an impatient sound and his eyes narrowed. “You bloody fool, you have no idea what you’re—“
“Somebody in here call a cab?” The bells on the door jangled.
“I did,” I shot over my shoulder.
Jericho Barrons actually made the faint beginnings of a lunge toward me, as if to physically restrain me. Until that moment, although aggression had charged the air and threat had been implied, there’d been nothing overt. I’d been aggravated, now I was a little afraid.
Our gazes locked and we stood a moment in that frozen tableau. I could almost see him calculating the importance—if any at all—of our sudden audience.
Then he gave me a faint sardonic smile and inclined his head as if to say, You win this time, Ms. Lane. “Don’t count on it twice,” he murmured.
Saved by the bell, I snatched up my bag of books and backed away. I didn’t take my eyes off Jericho Barrons until I was out the door.
FOUR
Communal bathrooms sucked.
I got my hot soup, but my shower was icy. Upon returning to The Clarin House, I made the unhappy discovery that apparently everyone in the inn waited until early evening to shower before going out for dinner and a night on the town. Inconsiderate tourists. The water was far too cold to endure washing my hair, so I phoned the desk for a six o’clock wakeup call when I would try again. I suspected some of the guests would just be getting in then.
I changed out of street clothes into a lacy peach sleep shirt and matching panties. That was another pain about communal bathrooms—you either got fully dressed again after your shower or risked a half-naked mad dash down the hall past dozens of doors that might pop open at any moment. I’d opted for fully dressed.
I finished unpacking the last of my luggage. I’d brought a few comfort items from home. I pulled out one of Alina’s peaches-and-cream candles, two Hershey bars, my favorite pair of faded and much-loved cutoff jean shorts that Mom was always threatening to throw away, and a small framed picture of my folks, which I propped against the lamp on the dresser.
Then I rummaged through my backpack and dug out the notebook I’d bought a few weeks ago, and sat cross-legged on my bed. Alina had always kept a journal, ever since we were kids. As a bratty younger sibling, I’d ferreted out many of her hiding places—she’d gotten more inventive as the years had gone by; the last I’d found had been behind a loose baseboard in her closet—and teased her mercilessly about whatever boyfriend she’d been mooning over, complete with annoying kissy-kissy sounds.
Until recently, I’d never written in one myself. After the funeral, I’d been in desperate need of an outlet and had poured out pages of grief into the thing. More recently I’d been writing lists: what to pack, what to buy, what to learn, and where to go first. Lists had become my anchors. They got me through the days. The oblivion of sleep got me through the nights. So long as I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing the next day, I didn’t flounder.
I was proud of myself for how well I’d blustered through my first full day in Dublin. But then, when bluster was all you had, it wasn’t so hard to paste it on over your real face. I knew what I really was: a pretty young woman barely old enough to tend bar, who’d never been more than a few states away from Georgia, who’d recently lost her sister and who was—as Jericho Barrons had said—in way over her head.
Go to Trinity College, talk to her professors and try to find out names of friends was number one on my list for tomorrow. I had an e-mail copy of her class schedule, listing instructors and times. She’d sent it to me at the beginning of the term so I’d know when she was in class and when my odds were best of catching her at home to talk. With luck, someone I spoke to tomorrow would know who Alina had been seeing and be able to tell me who her mystery man was. Go to local library, keep trying to track down shi-sadu was next. I sure wasn’t going back to that bookstore, which really pissed me off because it had been an amazing bookstore. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d been lucky to escape today. That if the cabbie hadn’t arrived at just that moment, Jericho Barrons might have tied me to a chair and tortured me until I’d told him everything he wanted to know. Buy boxes, bags, and broom to take to Alina’s place was third. That one was optional. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go back there yet. I nibbled the tip of my pen, wishing I’d been able to see Inspector O’Duffy. I’d been hoping to get his reports and retrace whatever route the Gardai investigation had followed. Unfortunately, that possibility was now on hold for a few days.
I made a short list of things I wanted from a local drugstore: an adaptor to charge my iPod; juice; and a few cheap snacks to keep in my room, then turned out the light and fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Someone knocking at my door awakened me.
I sat up, rubbing gritty, tired eyes that felt as if I’d just shut them seconds ago. It took me a few moments to remember where I was—in a twin bed in a chilly room in Dublin, with rain tapping lightly at the window.
I’d been having a fantastic dream. Alina and I were playing volleyball up at one of the many man-made lakes built by Georgia Power, scattered throughout the state. There were three near Ashford and we went to one or the other just about every weekend in the summer for fun, sun, and guy-watching. The dream had been so vivid I could still taste Corona with lime, smell coconut suntan oil, and feel the silk of trucked-in sand beneath my feet.
“What state in the South are you from?”
“Texas,” I lied.
“Indeed. What brings you to Dublin?”
“None of your business.”
“It became my business when you came into my establishment, inquiring about the shi-sadu.”
“So you do know what it is! You just admitted it.”
“I admit nothing. However, I will tell you this: You, Ms. Lane, are in way over your head. Take my advice and extricate yourself while it’s still possible.”
“It’s too late. I can’t.” His condescending high-handedness was making me mad. When I get mad, I dig my heels in right where I am.
“A pity. You won’t last a week as sophomorically as you’re bludgeoning about. Should you care to tell me what you know, I might be able to increase your odds of survival.”
“Not a chance. Not unless you tell me what you know first.”
He made an impatient sound and his eyes narrowed. “You bloody fool, you have no idea what you’re—“
“Somebody in here call a cab?” The bells on the door jangled.
“I did,” I shot over my shoulder.
Jericho Barrons actually made the faint beginnings of a lunge toward me, as if to physically restrain me. Until that moment, although aggression had charged the air and threat had been implied, there’d been nothing overt. I’d been aggravated, now I was a little afraid.
Our gazes locked and we stood a moment in that frozen tableau. I could almost see him calculating the importance—if any at all—of our sudden audience.
Then he gave me a faint sardonic smile and inclined his head as if to say, You win this time, Ms. Lane. “Don’t count on it twice,” he murmured.
Saved by the bell, I snatched up my bag of books and backed away. I didn’t take my eyes off Jericho Barrons until I was out the door.
FOUR
Communal bathrooms sucked.
I got my hot soup, but my shower was icy. Upon returning to The Clarin House, I made the unhappy discovery that apparently everyone in the inn waited until early evening to shower before going out for dinner and a night on the town. Inconsiderate tourists. The water was far too cold to endure washing my hair, so I phoned the desk for a six o’clock wakeup call when I would try again. I suspected some of the guests would just be getting in then.
I changed out of street clothes into a lacy peach sleep shirt and matching panties. That was another pain about communal bathrooms—you either got fully dressed again after your shower or risked a half-naked mad dash down the hall past dozens of doors that might pop open at any moment. I’d opted for fully dressed.
I finished unpacking the last of my luggage. I’d brought a few comfort items from home. I pulled out one of Alina’s peaches-and-cream candles, two Hershey bars, my favorite pair of faded and much-loved cutoff jean shorts that Mom was always threatening to throw away, and a small framed picture of my folks, which I propped against the lamp on the dresser.
Then I rummaged through my backpack and dug out the notebook I’d bought a few weeks ago, and sat cross-legged on my bed. Alina had always kept a journal, ever since we were kids. As a bratty younger sibling, I’d ferreted out many of her hiding places—she’d gotten more inventive as the years had gone by; the last I’d found had been behind a loose baseboard in her closet—and teased her mercilessly about whatever boyfriend she’d been mooning over, complete with annoying kissy-kissy sounds.
Until recently, I’d never written in one myself. After the funeral, I’d been in desperate need of an outlet and had poured out pages of grief into the thing. More recently I’d been writing lists: what to pack, what to buy, what to learn, and where to go first. Lists had become my anchors. They got me through the days. The oblivion of sleep got me through the nights. So long as I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing the next day, I didn’t flounder.
I was proud of myself for how well I’d blustered through my first full day in Dublin. But then, when bluster was all you had, it wasn’t so hard to paste it on over your real face. I knew what I really was: a pretty young woman barely old enough to tend bar, who’d never been more than a few states away from Georgia, who’d recently lost her sister and who was—as Jericho Barrons had said—in way over her head.
Go to Trinity College, talk to her professors and try to find out names of friends was number one on my list for tomorrow. I had an e-mail copy of her class schedule, listing instructors and times. She’d sent it to me at the beginning of the term so I’d know when she was in class and when my odds were best of catching her at home to talk. With luck, someone I spoke to tomorrow would know who Alina had been seeing and be able to tell me who her mystery man was. Go to local library, keep trying to track down shi-sadu was next. I sure wasn’t going back to that bookstore, which really pissed me off because it had been an amazing bookstore. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d been lucky to escape today. That if the cabbie hadn’t arrived at just that moment, Jericho Barrons might have tied me to a chair and tortured me until I’d told him everything he wanted to know. Buy boxes, bags, and broom to take to Alina’s place was third. That one was optional. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go back there yet. I nibbled the tip of my pen, wishing I’d been able to see Inspector O’Duffy. I’d been hoping to get his reports and retrace whatever route the Gardai investigation had followed. Unfortunately, that possibility was now on hold for a few days.
I made a short list of things I wanted from a local drugstore: an adaptor to charge my iPod; juice; and a few cheap snacks to keep in my room, then turned out the light and fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Someone knocking at my door awakened me.
I sat up, rubbing gritty, tired eyes that felt as if I’d just shut them seconds ago. It took me a few moments to remember where I was—in a twin bed in a chilly room in Dublin, with rain tapping lightly at the window.
I’d been having a fantastic dream. Alina and I were playing volleyball up at one of the many man-made lakes built by Georgia Power, scattered throughout the state. There were three near Ashford and we went to one or the other just about every weekend in the summer for fun, sun, and guy-watching. The dream had been so vivid I could still taste Corona with lime, smell coconut suntan oil, and feel the silk of trucked-in sand beneath my feet.
