False Mermaid (31 page)

Nora studied his profile for a moment. “I hate to ask how you know all this.”

“Let’s just say I knew people who knew people, back when.” He glanced over at her. “All water under the bridge now.”

He took one last, long drag on his cigarette, and flicked the butt out the window. “Just read of a fella up in Ballina, done for smoking in his own fuckin’ cab—two hundred fifty euro of a fine. Did you ever hear the bate of that? The youngest has been at me to give them up. I’m trying, but it’s a devil of a thing to quit, you know? You never smoked, yourself?”

Nora shook her head. “Not in my line of work.”

“Your friends were saying—you’re a doctor?”

“Pathologist.”

“What, like those fellas on
CSI
?”

“Not exactly. I teach anatomy. But what I see on the dissecting table—well, let’s just say it’s incentive enough to stay off the fags.”

“Sweet Jaysus.” Sean Meehan pulled the half-empty packet of Majors from his pocket and stared at it for a few seconds, then pitched the whole thing out the car window.

They arrived just before noon at the Donovans’ place in Skerries. The house was part of a Victorian terrace that looked out over the Irish Sea. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead as they drove up the narrow street and parked outside. The house and the wall around the postage-stamp garden were painted in storybook colors, bright yellow and blue. The air was redolent of seaweed and fish, and the seawall opposite looked down over sand and rocks that would be covered with water at high tide, and were now furry with brown kelp.

Nora suddenly realized that Elizabeth had probably seen Ireland only in pictures. Would it seem foreign to her, or would she have some impossible memory of the place, a pentimento written in blood and bone? She thought of something Cormac had said to her once:
We’re made out of the water, the earth, the air of the places that fed our ancestors, quenched their thirst, the basic elements of the places that gave them life. Is it really so strange if we feel the heave and pitch of those places, even centuries later, in the vibrations of our atoms?

Saoirse Donovan met her at the door. “Oh, Nora, I’m so glad you’re here. Sean—thanks for bringing her along. Won’t you come in? Elizabeth is in the sitting room, Nora. I’ll let you go in to her while I make tea.”

Nora took her friend’s arm. “Is she all right, Saoirse?”

“She won’t speak to anyone but you, Nora. But I should warn you—” She hesitated, nervous.

“What is it, Saoirse? Tell me.”

“Last night she took a scissors to all that lovely hair—cut it all off, right down to the scalp. I feel so terrible, Nora—I ought to have kept a closer watch. I thought you should know before you see her. So it wouldn’t be such a shock.”

Sean Meehan frowned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Nora pushed through the door to the sitting room, her stomach heavy with dread. She found Elizabeth sitting cross-legged in the
front window seat, a large book open across her knees. As Saoirse had warned, the child’s long hair was gone, roughly chopped off. What was left stuck up in strange tufts and ridges. Her eyes, so like Tríona’s, so large and luminous. Now, with her hair cut short, they were almost too large for her face. Nora watched her niece’s gaze flick to the bandage on her head.

She felt an impulse to rush forward and fold Elizabeth in her arms. And yet for some reason she could not do it. Something in the child’s questioning, wounded gaze stopped her. They stared at each other for a long moment, each wondering what to say, what to do next, how to bridge the chasm of the last five years.

Nora crossed to the far end of the window seat, keeping a space between them. “You wanted to see me,” she said. “Here I am.”

Elizabeth closed her book and began playing with the laces on her shoes, pulling the bows taut, winding herself tighter and tighter—waiting and wishing, Nora knew, for that bad feeling in the pit of her stomach to go away. Only it would not go away, not ever, not completely. It would seem to diminish for a while, and then, for no apparent reason, would blossom anew, reviving itself like a living thing.

Nora put out a hand to still the fidgeting fingers. “I’ve missed you, Lizzabet—”

Her head lifted. “Nobody calls me that—not anymore.” The child was an injured animal, snapping at any hand that came near, even those offering aid. Although Elizabeth’s instincts told her to resist, Nora was more than ready. She had been anticipating this moment; dreaming it and dreading it every day for five years. At last, she pulled Elizabeth close, wrapping her arms around the thin shoulders, feeling the force of the silent howl caught inside. Words were not enough. All she could offer right now was fierce steadfastness, a promise never to let go. There were no tears, from either of them. Plenty of time for those, Nora told herself. They would come. She stroked Elizabeth’s hair, wondering how on earth they were going to get through this. There were practical decisions to be made, plans to be laid, as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did. She would not allow anyone to harm this child. And if that meant breaking the law, if it meant not seeing people she loved for a very long time, then she would do it.

But Sean Meehan was right. They had to go somewhere remote, a place no one would think to look. Then she remembered the way Cormac
had described his father’s house.
A very remote spot,
he had said.
I didn’t know places like this still existed.

She had resisted heaping her troubles on him; it didn’t seem fair. And yet what choice did she have, when there was so much at stake? She tipped Elizabeth’s head up and looked into her eyes. “Listen to me, Lizzabet. I think I know a place we can go.”

Frank Cordova slid over the threshold of consciousness. A few random ghosts seemed to lurk at the edges of his perception: there was the sweep of a leaf fan, the oppressive heat and dust, and that odd, sudden, thick-thin sensation he had felt as a kid, and had never been able to explain. The room was dark, and for some reason he felt exhausted, even though he was just waking up. He opened his eyes, vaguely aware that he was gripping a woman’s arm, but he couldn’t seem to feel his fingers. His legs were heavy, and there was a continual, low-pitched buzz in the back of his head. His mouth felt chalky. “What’s happening?”

“You’re in Regions Hospital. You’ve been sedated for a bit. I’ll call the doctor and let him know you’re feeling better.”

He raised his head slightly to look down at his legs. No cast. No bullet holes. So what was he doing in the hospital? He said to the nurse: “How long have I been here?”

She smiled. “You were admitted Thursday night—well, Friday morning, I guess, technically speaking. And today is Saturday—”

“Saturday? I have to get out of here.”

“I really think you need to speak to the doctor first—”

He tried to sit up. “You don’t understand. I’m working a case, and I haven’t got time—” He stopped speaking as fragments of memory began to stir again: Veronica’s teary face, the sound of ragged breathing, that horrible disinfectant smell, and an almost noiseless scuffle against a hard, cold floor. He knew then what he’d put off knowing in long hours of shadowy sleep. A spasm of anguish gripped him, and he knew that the strange dreams he’d been having were not dreams at all.

Chago.

There was nothing he could do to protect his brother. Not anymore. The room began to spin, and he lay back down on the bed, hot tears trickling into his ears.
Santa María, Madre de Díos, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte—
Now and at the hour of our death.

“Rest for a while.” The nurse began tucking the blanket around him
again. “Sometimes it helps if you just try to concentrate on breathing.”

He nodded, but as soon as she left the room, he tore the tape off his IV and removed the needle, applying pressure to stop any bleeding. He found his clothes in the cupboard, but his wallet, badge, gun, and cell phone were all gone—as were his car keys. He distinctly remembered driving to the ER after Veronica’s call. Picking up the room phone, he dialed his partner, and cut straight to the chase. “Karin, I need a lift.”

Her response was wary: “I take it you’re feeling better?”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t tell from her voice whether she knew about everything that had happened—although it was probably safe to say she knew a lot more than he did. That thought made him uncomfortable. “I’m at Regions. I need you to pick me up, right away.”

“Do you think that’s wise, Frank?”

“I don’t care if it’s wise. If you won’t pick me up, I’ll take a cab.”

“All right, all right—I’m down at the shop. See you in ten at the main entrance.”

He slipped down the nearest stairwell and made his way to the ground floor. Karin was already waiting for him.

“You sure you’re all right, Frank?” She was looking at his hand, still bearing the IV tape. “I had patrol bring your car back to headquarters the other night, but I can drive you straight home, if you’d rather—”

“I’ll be okay.” He turned to Karin. “It’s Saturday. What are you doing at the shop?”

“With you out, we were a little shorthanded, and we got a couple of new cases. Your friend Dr. Gavin drove her car off a bluff down at Hidden Falls Thursday night.”

Frank felt a sudden stab of fear. “Is she okay?”

“A little banged up—nothing serious. But she claimed it wasn’t an accident—she says somebody jammed her brakes.”

“And you don’t believe her?”

“Hard to say. We’ve got the car up in the garage right now. It looks like a water bottle just got loose and rolled under her brake pedal. No prints on the bottle but hers. We can’t prove a thing.”

Frank took in this new information. Peter Hallett might as well have left a signature. Jigger the brakes so it looks like Nora might have done it herself. Then she looks extra crazy, trying to pin it on him. “What’s the other case?”

“Hit-and-run yesterday. Homeless guy, maybe you knew him—Harry Shaughnessy?”

Nora drove northward and westward toward Donegal. She wasn’t used to thinking like a fugitive—never spent time thinking about how to avoid being noticed, how to communicate without being tracked. She had told no one where she and Elizabeth were headed from Skerries, not even Sean Meehan or the Donovans, whose car she’d managed to cadge. Even so, she knew they were far from safe. The authorities were no doubt searching for Elizabeth, but she didn’t dare turn on the news to find out. Peter would be just as adept at manipulating official opinion here as he had been at home. Donegal was at least far away from Dublin, but nowhere on the island felt secure.

She drove through the pastures of Meath and Cavan, sticking to secondary roads, winding through villages fluttering with county flags to support whatever team was headed to the next regional championship. As they wound around the small hills of Leitrim, carefully skirting the border—no need to invite official scrutiny by crossing into the North—the rain poured down, obscuring the view.

Elizabeth remained silent, eyes trained out the window. The child would have a terrible crick in her neck by the time they stopped. Occasionally, she would wipe the moisture from the glass, but the vapor from their breath only beaded up again.

What happened?
Nora wanted to ask.
Did you remember something? Did you just figure it out on your own?
She tried to reconstruct her own consciousness at age six, about the time she and Tríona and her parents had come to America. When did a person begin to emerge from that fantastical sea of childhood onto the dry land of adult existence? Elizabeth, now at eleven, was standing at the edge of that ocean, heels still in the water, already missing the pull of the surf. It was easy to feel clumsy and ungainly in the new world of adulthood; breathable air must feel thin and insubstantial compared to childhood’s all-enveloping sea.

Norea turned to her niece. “Shall we have some music?”

No response. Nora switched the radio on anyway, speeding past the
stations blasting bright commercial patter, finally landing on some traditional music, Raidió na Gaeltachta, the Irish-language station. Just what she was looking for. Not a word of English. No chance that they’d hear urgent updates about a nationwide search for a missing child. At least not in any language Elizabeth would understand. The tune ended, and the presenter began chatting away about the selection they’d just heard. Elizabeth’s head snapped around. She listened intently for a few seconds. “What is that?”

“It’s Irish. The language people speak here.”

Elizabeth considered for a moment. “I thought people here spoke English.”

“Well, yes—they do. But some people speak mostly Irish, especially in places like where we’re going.”

Elizabeth listened to the radio presenter again. “It sounds”—she spent a few seconds trying to dredge up the right word—“soft.”

Nora had to agree. Irish had always struck her as such an expressive, musical language, and she regretted not knowing more of it.

After four hours on the road, they were coming up on the outskirts of Donegal town. They stopped at a station shop and bought some anemic-looking sandwiches and crisps, apples and bananas, bottled water, and a few biscuits. Past Donegal town, the road wound down along the coast, and cut inland at Mountcharles. Elizabeth kept her face to the window. At Bruckless, it was time to take a break from driving. Nora turned off the main road, and headed down a quiet, wooded lane that led to a rocky beach. She parked the car at the edge of the wood.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s take our sandwiches down to the shore.”

Elizabeth looked skeptical, but followed her out onto a rocky peninsula that trailed out into Bruckless Bay. They sat on a pair of flat boulders and set out the sandwiches and drinks. The briny smell of seaweed filled the air—not the strong, rotting odor that sometimes came at low tide, but a cleaner, lighter scent. It was a mystery why some coasts were more malodorous than others. Nora pointed across the water to a house high up on the side of the hill. “See that house? It’s very like a place we stayed one summer when I was your age. Your mama would have been about six or seven.”