Now You See Her

TWENTY-FIVE


WHAT TIME IS IT?” Marcy asked Liam, shielding her eyes from an unexpected burst of sunlight as they exited the garda station.

“A little before noon.”

“What!” She glanced at her own watch for confirmation. “How is that possible?”

“You’ve been at the station all morning.”

Marcy shook her head. Half a day gone already. Hours of her life disappearing without warning. Her daughter no closer to being found. “They think I’m crazy,” she said morosely.

“Yeah,” Liam said with a smile. “I think they might.” He raised his hand to flag down a passing cab. “Hayfield Manor Hotel,” he told the driver as they climbed into the backseat.

“Thanks for coming down.”

“No thanks necessary.”

“Did they give you a hard time?”

“Nah. I’m tough.”

Marcy settled back against the taxi’s black leather seat, trying to ignore the awful gnawing sensation in her stomach that reminded her she hadn’t had anything to eat in almost twenty-four hours. “What sort of questions did they ask you?”

“Same as last time. How we met, why I’m helping you, whether I believe you, what I know about last night …”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth.”

“Which is?”

“That I don’t know a damn thing about last night, that we met in the pub where I work, that you’re convinced you saw your daughter, and that I’m trying to help you find her because a) I like you, and b) yes, I do believe you.”

Marcy smiled. “Thank you for that.”

“No thanks necessary,” he said, as he’d said earlier. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were plannin’ to do last night?”

“Because you’d already told me not to do it.”

“Fat lot of good that did.”

“It was stupid.” Marcy admitted it. “Although not quite as stupid as going to the O’Connor house this morning.”

“True.”

She shook her head. “I’ve lost all credibility as far as the police are concerned.”

Liam nodded. “I think that last bit about the plan to kidnap the O’Connor baby might have tipped the scales.”

“I guess it sounded pretty weird.”

“Did you have to tell them the idea came to you in a dream?”

Marcy expelled a deep breath through barely parted lips. I’m an idiot, she thought. “So what do I do now?”

“You?” Liam asked, raising his voice loud enough to attract the attention of the taxi driver, whose eyebrows arched noticeably higher in his rearview mirror. “You do nothin’. Do you hear me? Not a bleedin’ thing. Unless you want them to lock you up and throw away the key.”

“But what if I’m right? What if something happens …?”

“Then it happens. They certainly can’t say they weren’t warned.”

“Do you think they’ll at least talk to the O’Connors?” Marcy asked hopefully.

Liam shrugged. “Don’t think it’s high on their list of priorities.”

“Would you talk to them?” Marcy asked after a moment’s pause.

“Me?”

“Somebody has to warn them.” Marcy saw the look of resignation that flitted across Liam’s wondrous green eyes, the look that told her she might have lost her credibility with him, too. “Unless, of course, you don’t believe me …”

“It’s not a question of whether or not I believe you.”

“What is it a question of?”

“I believe you saw your daughter.…”

“But?”

“But to go from that to thinking she might be involved in some kind of nefarious plot …”

“Kind of tipped the scales for you, too, did it?” Marcy asked, throwing his earlier words back at him.

Liam sighed. “These are the facts, Marcy: You overheard a one-sided conversation on a rainy night outside a noisy after-hours club, and then you had a crazy dream.…”

“Which explained everything,” she said vehemently, then stopped. She was too tired to have this conversation again. Besides, he was right. Just as Christopher Murphy was right. And Colleen Donnelly. And John Sweeny. And Judith. And Peter. Hell, everyone was right. She really was crazy.

“Okay, look,” Liam was saying. “What the hell? In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll talk to the O’Connors.”

“Really?”

“As soon as they get back. Nothing’s going to happen ’til then, right?”

“They had to delay their plans,” Marcy concurred. “What will you say to them?”

“Don’t know. Guess I’ll have to think of somethin’.”

“I’ll go with you,” Marcy said eagerly.

“No. You’ll stay put. Do you understand? You’ve done quite enough. You won’t budge from your hotel room. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed,” Marcy said reluctantly.

“Is that blood?” he asked suddenly, staring at her sleeve.

“What? No.” Marcy pretended to be noticing the bloodstains on her sweater for the first time. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It looks a lot like blood to me.”

“Well, it isn’t. I must have brushed up against something.” Marcy hated herself for lying to the one true friend she had. But admitting it was blood meant explaining what had happened with Kieran, and there was only so much stupidity one man could be expected to stomach without running, screaming, for the nearest exit. “I’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days now. I really should stop and pick up some new things,” she said, realizing they’d just passed the Merchant’s Quay Shopping Centre. “Can you stop here?” she asked, tapping the driver on his shoulder.

“Marcy, for God’s sake, what are you doing?” Liam asked as she opened the door and jumped out of the cab. “Marcy, wait up!”

“I’m fine, Liam. Really,” she called back at him, knowing how insane she must appear. “I just need some new clothes,” she added, watching as he scrambled to pay the driver. “You don’t have to babysit me,” she told him when he finally caught up to her inside the entrance to Marks and Spencer.

“Actually, I do,” he told her.

“What do you mean?”

“I promised the gardai I’d keep an eye on you,” Liam said sheepishly. “It was the only way they’d agree to your release.”

“Oh.”

“Is it so awful,” he asked, “havin’ me around?”

Marcy studied his beautifully chiseled face, losing herself momentarily in the unabashed intensity of his gaze. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” he said, tilting his head, his lips moving slowly toward hers.

Marcy realized he was going to kiss her again. In the middle of the day, in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, in the middle of this stupid, awful mess, a beautiful young man fifteen years her junior was going to kiss her.

And this time she was going to kiss him back.

Maybe she wasn’t as crazy as everyone thought.

“Hold on a minute,” Liam said, his soft breath teasing her newly closed eyes.

Instantly she felt him pulling away from her side and she opened her eyes to see him moving toward the tall glass doors of the entrance. What was he doing? Where was he going? What was he looking at? she wondered, her eyes racing after his. “What is it?”

“I thought I saw …”

“Audrey?” Marcy felt the color drain from her face as her body began to sway, preparing to take off running in any direction with a simple nod of his head.

“No,” Liam said quickly, putting his hand on her arm, as if to steady her. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Who did you see?”

“I thought it was that man you were with, the one I saw at your hotel.…”

“Vic Sorvino?” Marcy pushed open the heavy door, her eyes pummeling their way through the crowded flock of Saturday afternoon shoppers. “You saw Vic?”

Liam backtracked. “I don’t know for sure it was him. Shit. Now you’ve got me seeing things.”

Was it possible Vic was still in Ireland, Marcy wondered, that he hadn’t caught the next flight to Rome after his brush with the police? And if he was still in Ireland, if he was still right there in Cork, if he was, in fact, at this very minute, in the Merchant’s Quay Shopping Centre, then the next logical question was why. What was he doing there? Was he following her?

Why?

“I don’t see him,” Liam said as Marcy’s eyes continued to sweep the mall.

Marcy agreed seconds later. “No.” She took a series of deep breaths in an effort to control the too-rapid thumping of her heart, stopping when they made her feel dizzy and lightheaded.

“Are you all right?” Liam asked. “You look a little pale.”

“Excuse me,” a woman said, pushing past them into the store.

“I really need to find some new clothes,” Marcy heard herself say, her voice coming from somewhere outside her body, as if she were a ventriloquist’s doll, unable to function without someone pulling her strings.

“What do you need?” Liam asked, taking a final look around before guiding her past the rows of confectionery treats toward the women’s-wear section at the back of the large store.

I need to have my head examined, Marcy thought. “Everything,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, casting wary glances over her shoulder for any sign of Vic Sorvino, she approached the sales counter, her arms loaded with two pairs of pants, one black, one khaki; two T-shirts, one white and one beige; a blue-and-white-striped cotton blouse; a navy peacoat; some socks; a new bra; a pair of pink-and-white-flowered flannel pajamas; and half a dozen pairs of Calvin Klein panties. “That should do me,” she said, handing the items to the flame-haired, gum-chewing salesclerk.

“You don’t want to try any of them things on?” the girl, whose name tag identified her as Sissy, asked.

“No. I’m sure they’re fine.”

Sissy cracked her gum, as if to say, “Suit yourself,” then began ringing up the items. “There’s no tag on this one,” she said accusingly.

“Oh, sorry,” Marcy apologized, accepting that this was somehow her fault.

“Hey, Adeline,” Sissy called to a young woman who was walking by. “Can you do a price check for me? This lady lost her tag.”

Marcy protested. “I actually don’t think there was one.”

“There’s always a tag,” Sissy said with a roll of her bored brown eyes.

“Eighty-eight euros,” Adeline shouted back several long minutes later.

Sissy entered the appropriate numbers into the computer. “That’s six hundred and forty-four euros in total,” she announced between snaps of her gum. Marcy handed over her credit card to be swiped. “There seems to be a problem with your card,” Sissy said seconds later.

“What?”

“It’s not going through.”

“That’s impossible. Try again.”

Sissy dutifully ran the card through again. “Nah. It’s not acceptin’ it. Sorry.”

“I don’t understand,” Marcy mumbled, her dizziness returning.

“Is it possible you forgot to pay your bill?” Liam asked.

“No. Peter takes care of that. And he’s always on time. He’s positively anal about it. Not a day early, not a day late. It’s like a mantra with him. He says that the credit card companies charge interest from the first second you’re late, so there’s no way he’s going to let them make interest on his money by paying them early. Just as there’s no way he’ll let them earn interest by being late. So he’s always exactly on time,” she said, feeling her knees grow weak. She understood she was babbling but was unable to stop, as if it was only the sound of her voice that was keeping her upright.

“Marcy,” Liam said, “are you okay?”

“Do you have another card?” Sissy was asking. “Otherwise, I’ll have to ask you to step aside. There’s other customers waitin’.”

“Here.” Liam handed his card to the salesclerk. “Use this.”

“No.” Marcy protested over the sudden ringing in her ears. The bells of St. Anne’s Shandon Church, she thought, amazed at their power. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’ll pay me back as soon as you get this straightened out.”

Get what straightened out? Marcy wondered as the ringing grew louder. My credit? My daughter? My life?

“If you’ll just sign here,” Sissy told Liam. Marcy noticed the salesgirl’s hand brush up against his as she pushed the itemized bill across the counter.

“I don’t understand,” Marcy was muttering as he signed it. Except she did understand. She understood all too well. Peter, alarmed by her recent actions, had cut off her access to her credit cards. The ringing in her ears grew more intense. “Can’t somebody please turn off those damn bells,” she cried as the ringing reached a crescendo and the room began spinning out of control. In the next instant, her knees gave out. The last thing she saw before she fainted was Liam reaching out to grab her before she hit the floor.


SHE WOKE UP to the sound of knocking.

“Who is it?” Marcy sat up in bed, quickly orienting herself to her surroundings. The leaded windows and delicate, apricot-colored walls told her she was back in her room at the Hayfield Manor Hotel. The clock on her bedside table announced it was almost six o’clock, although she wasn’t sure if this meant six in the morning or six at night until she looked closer and saw the p.m. in bold red letters in the bottom right corner of the clock’s square face. Okay, so early evening. Which might account for the stiff, vaguely familiar pink-and-white pajamas she was wearing. Where had they come from? And six p.m. seemed rather early to be in bed. Was she sick? What had happened to the rest of the day?

“Room service,” called a voice from outside the door.

Marcy threw on the white terry-cloth robe that lay stretched across the foot of her bed and stepped tentatively onto the ivory carpet, her bare toes gripping its thick-piled surface with the intensity of a woman clinging to the side of a mountain. I don’t remember ordering anything from room service, she thought.

“Where would you like me to set this up?” a man asked as she opened the door, then wheeled the cart into the center of the room before she had a chance to respond. He was about thirty, with auburn hair, a nose that was thin and long, and lips that were surprisingly thick. His white jacket was at least a size too big for him.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” Marcy said.

The young man quickly checked the bill. “Room 211?”

“Yes, but—”

“Steak, medium rare; baked potato, butter and sour cream; mashed carrots,” he said, lifting the silver covers from their platters with such a dramatic flourish that Marcy found herself taking an involuntary step back. “Plus a Caesar salad to start and some sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Also bottled sparkling water.”

Marcy was about to protest that she hadn’t ordered any of those things, but the delicious aroma of the steak plus the very thought of sticky toffee pudding made her reconsider. “You can set it up right here.” She indicated the side of the bed.

“If you’ll just sign this chit,” he told her.

If you’ll just sign here, she heard Sissy say to Liam.

When was that? How long ago?

Marcy scribbled her name on the appropriate line, adding a generous tip. Let’s see Peter try to do something about that, she thought as the young man headed for the door. “Peter,” she whispered, a vague memory rubbing itself tantalizingly against her brain, like a cat against a bare leg.

“I’m sorry?” the young man asked, stopping. “Did you say something?”

“No. I just remembered …” Peter had cut off her access to her credit cards. When? Why? “It’s nothing.”

“Would you like me to send someone up to close the curtains?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

He nodded. “Just wheel the cart into the hall when you’re done.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Enjoy your meal and have a good night.”

Marcy closed the door after him, then plopped down on the bed and tore hungrily into her steak. When was the last time she’d eaten?

When was the last time you had something to eat? she heard Liam ask, his face looming above hers. When? Where?

Marks and Spencer, she remembered, the hours she’d misplaced suddenly returning to her in a frenzied rush: the morning taxi ride to Adelaide Road; the empty O’Connor house; the nosy neighbor; the police; the garda station; Liam; the visit to the mall; Vic Sorvino; shopping for clothes; the mix-up with her credit card; the awful ringing in her ears; losing consciousness; waking up to the sound of Liam’s voice. When was the last time you had something to eat?

He’d insisted she have a bowl of soup before escorting her back to her hotel and tucking her into bed. “Here,” he’d told her, handing her a small white pill.

“I can’t believe I fainted—again.”

“Put this under your tongue,” he told her.

“What is it?”

“It’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” she’d argued, her voice weak and unconvincing.

“The hell you don’t. Look, I have to go to work and I don’t want to spend the rest of the day worryin’ about you. I’ll have room service send up something for your dinner. In the meantime, get some rest. You don’t want to be half-dead when we find your daughter, do you, now? So do us all a favor and take the damn pill.”

“I took the damn pill,” Marcy said now, remembering.

Then she wolfed down her steak, her baked potato and mashed carrots, her salad and her sticky pudding, drank the entire bottle of sparkling water, and finally wheeled the cart into the hall, climbed back into bed, and fell sound asleep until morning.