Shiver of Fear (34 page)

He looked at her tucking a stray hair under the dark baseball cap they bought at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, his
eyes fierce. “Don’t do anything impulsive, Devyn.”

“Too late for that.”

“Okay, more impulsive.”

“I promise,” she said. “I won’t.”

“You said that last time.”

“And saved your ass,” she reminded him.

He leaned down, dipped under the bill of her cap, and kissed her. “I still haven’t thanked you for that.”

“I think you are right now.”

He gave her a boost up to the first brick that jutted out and watched from below as she scaled the wall. It wasn’t difficult;
with a few high steps, she managed to hoist herself to the top.

And then she couldn’t breathe.

He was next to her in a matter of seconds. “You okay?”

“Oh my God, Marc. I had no idea.” No map, no pictures, no description she’d ever read could do justice to the size and scale
of Milltown Cemetery. She hung on to the stone points at the top of the wall, and even in the darkness, she could get the
sense of how vast it was.

She’d read about Milltown. A hundred thousand graves. Miles and miles of graves. Tens of thousands, jammed together so tightly
the arms of crucifixes nearly touched. There was no order, no symmetry, no space. Just… death.

How would they ever find a woman who was shot and hiding out here?

Suddenly, this felt like a fool’s errand.

But Marc was already scrambling over the top, undaunted by what lay ahead. “I’m going to jump first,” he said. “Then you follow.”

She looked down warily. “Okay.”

He vaulted over the top and hit the grass on the balls of his feet, his knees bending to soften the impact. He turned to look
up, holding out his arms, but she stayed rooted in place.

So much for getting over her fear of heights.

“Dev, you’re a sitting duck up there. Jump!”

She nodded, biting her lip, and threw her leg over the top. Taking a deep breath, she pushed off, landing right in front of
Marc. He broke her fall and held her as they rolled to the ground.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She tested her legs—not broken—and stood with him. “I really hope she’s on the right side of this situation,” she
murmured. “Because if we’re risking life and limb to save a terrorist, I’ll…”

“What?”

“Use this freaking gun on her.”

He took her hand and stood up. “I’ll help you aim. Gimme the penlight.”

She handed him the small light they’d brought, and he flashed it to get his bearings.

“Based on that tourist map we had, about a half mile that way is the central area. The most famous IRA martyrs are buried
there. But this is the outskirts, and I think she’d go to the most remote possible place to hide.”

Around them, the graves were unkempt and thick with bramble.

“The paths are laid out in a grid,” she said as they crossed the grass to a narrow stretch of asphalt that cut through a section.
“At least they looked that way on the map in the rental car. But, Marc, this place is like a small country.”

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “All we can do is head forward and then we’ll come to an intersection, where she would
have had to decide to go straight, north, or south. My guess is she’s hiding, waiting for light.”

Or as dead as all the rest of Milltown’s residents.

They walked deeper into the cemetery, briskly, silently, and with each step, she could feel her heart fall like the leaves
that floated down from the trees with every light breeze.

“Spooky, huh?” she whispered.

“Fifty thousand graves, two hundred thousand bodies, many of them considered religious martyrs? Yeah, spooky.”

A gathering of oaks loomed ahead, surrounding a few graves that appeared somehow extraordinary. Important people, she supposed.
They paused at a break in the path, and Marc went in closer, the penlight beaming on name after etched name.

O’Neill. Bidwell. Saunders. McNett.

But no sign of Sharon Greenberg.

An animal cried, and another answered, while a breeze rustled the trees in time with their footsteps.

“My guess is she’d go as deep into the place as she could get,” he said. “Knowing that anyone following her would circle the
perimeter, not wanting to get lost.”

“And you could get lost here,” Devyn said, turning a three-sixty as she lifted the bill of her cap.

Something crunched under Marc’s foot and he stopped to look at it, freezing at the sight of broken safety goggles.

“Oh my God,” Devyn whispered, dropping to her knees. “These are from a lab.” She clutched them. “She was here, Marc.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, using the light to slowly scan the area. But all they could see was grave after grave, crosses and stones,
some high, some low, a row of matching flat stones, and a building that looked like a miniature cathedral.

From inside that structure, a soft, pained whimper floated over the air. Not an animal, a
person
.

The thick ground covering almost tripped Devyn, but Marc caught her and made it to the opening first. He held her back with
one hand, aiming a gun at the mini-monument.

Devyn’s heart walloped against her rib cage, her whole body taut.

The structure was virtually open, a half wall about four feet high that was topped with stone columns to support a roof and
a life-sized statue of the Madonna rising above it. The name “McGarry” was carved into the stone trim.

He lifted the light, spearing the darkness with a yellow beam that landed on a body, huddled in the corner.

The figure wore a blood-soaked white jacket and didn’t move.

“Is she…” Devyn couldn’t finish the question. It hurt too much to say the word. Had she come all this way to find her birth
mother
dead
?

Motioning for Devyn to stay back, Marc moved stealthily into the structure.

He kneeled next to the body, reaching toward the woman. Devyn approached slowly and dropped to her knees, speechless.

Marc brushed back the woman’s hair, revealing an ashen face. His fingers pressed for a pulse.

“Oh, please don’t be dead,” Devyn whispered. “Please.”

The woman’s mouth twitched, her jaw slackened, and very slowly, she opened her eyes, which were eerily silver and very much
alive.

“Rose?” she asked.

A tear rolled down Devyn’s cheek. “Yes,” she rasped. “I’m Rose.”

“I knew you’d come.” With one more breath, she closed her eyes.

“No!” Devyn cried softly. “No, you can’t die!”

“She’s not dead.” Marc carefully lifted the jacket to inspect her wound. “She’s hit in the arm, but it’s not fatal. We need
a tourniquet.”

Devyn grabbed her scarf, sliding the silk from around her neck in one easy move. “Use this.”

“Dr. Greenberg.” Marc turned her face gently. “Can you hear me? We’re going to wrap your arm.”

She moaned softly.

Devyn leaned closer, drawn to her mother’s face. “Sharon,” she whispered. “Please talk to me.”

Once again, Sharon’s lids fluttered and opened. “They caught me. Baird’s men… discovered me.”

“You work for the SIS?” Devyn asked while Marc gently took off Sharon’s jacket and wrapped the wound. “You infiltrated their
cell, didn’t you?”

She nodded slowly, and Devyn couldn’t resist a look at Marc. “We have to get her out of here.”

“We will,” he said firmly.

Oh, God, her mother was good! Good! The word felt solid and comforting in her heart, infusing her with energy and the will
to save this woman and know this woman and, possibly, love this woman.

Of course she was good. How could Devyn have ever doubted it?

“Let’s lay her down,” Marc said.

“Take me,” she muttered as they eased her body straight and covered her in the jacket.

“Shhh.” Devyn soothed her, stroking her hair, cradling her head on her lap.

“Royal… Victoria.”

They looked at each other. “The hospital,” Devyn said. “I saw a sign for it, maybe a mile or two away.”

Sharon nodded with great effort. “I can’t walk.”

“We’ll get you there.” Devyn reached for Marc’s arm. “Please, we have to do this.”

“We can’t go out the way we came in,” he said. “Are you sure you couldn’t walk with help?”

“No, no, hurry. They’re coming.”

“Who?”

“Baird.” With superhuman strength, she took a breath and clutched Devyn’s arm. “Don’t leave me, Rose. Please, don’t.”

Her heart folded in half. “I won’t, I promise.”

Sharon managed to shift her attention to Marc. “Do you… have a car?”

“Parked on Crescent,” he said.

“Find Curley’s.”

“The supermarket?” Devyn asked. “We passed it.”

“Park there and in the back… three paths… go up
middle one. Will bring you back here. I can make it down that hill.” They lost her again.

“Please, Marc, go,” Devyn urged.

He nodded, standing. “Stay in here, down behind this wall. Don’t make a sound. Give me your gun and I’ll rack it for you.
If someone comes near you, fire. Don’t ask questions, just fire.”

She handed him the pistol and he pulled back the slide, then set it right next to her. “Not a sound, not a move. Don’t even
talk, no matter how much you want to.”

“I promise.”

And he was gone, silently disappearing into the graveyard.

Very slowly, Sharon’s eyes opened and she looked up at Devyn.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Devyn just smiled, finally understanding the meaning of a consolation prize. She was completely…
consoled
.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “You can tell me later. Rest and conserve your strength.”

“Rosie Mulvaney.” She said the name like a sigh, a whisper, and for a moment, it sounded just lovely to Devyn’s ear. The right
name. Her
real
name. “You’re just perfect.”

“Don’t talk, Sharon,” she said softly, unable to fight the smile that pulled at her mouth. “We can talk later.”

“So much to say.”

Oh, God, there was. Tears threatened and her throat closed.

“Rosie Mulvaney,” Sharon repeated. “Will… take… a long time to find you.”

It did take a long time, Devyn thought, but didn’t
correct the poor woman. Instead she let the name play in her head.

Rose Mulvaney. Should she change her name to that? Because that’s who she was, Rose Mulvaney. Daughter of a brave, heroic
woman who risked her life to save others.

Devyn leaned back against the cool stone wall and closed her eyes, letting the sensation of warm contentment roll over her.
Marc would be back, they would get Sharon to the hospital, and when this was over, she’d go home with a small, but real, family.

Finally, after a lifetime of—

“Salam.”

Devyn jumped at the sound, her eyes popping open to stare into a pair of sharp and silvery ones, right over the barrel of
the gun. For a second, nothing processed.

Sharon. Standing. Aiming.

The other hand—with the wounded arm—to her ear with a phone.

What was she doing?

“All right, we can get this done now.” Her voice was strong, clear, and directed into the phone. “It’s a scrape. I can meet
you in ten minutes and deliver the very last thing you need, Malik. An American hostage.”

Icy fear and shock washed all Devyn’s warmth away. She just blinked in disbelief, sending a tear that had just formed in happiness
rolling down her cheek for a completely different reason. “Sharon, what are—”

“I had no intention of dying, Malik. But this person is totally expendable and impossible to trace. Frankly, she’s perfect.”

Perfect
. Devyn’s stomach turned.

“By the time they figure out who you have, you’ll be
halfway home.” Sharon’s gaze cut across Devyn, cold, mean, and heartless. “Name’s Rose Mulvaney. Oh, and get someone over
to Curley’s. A guy will be coming into the back parking lot in, oh, about seven or eight minutes. He’ll be looking for a path
that doesn’t exist. Take him down, and make it look political.”

Devyn tried to speak, but nothing came out. She felt pain. Searing, black, aching disbelief and pain.

Sharon winced as she stashed the phone into her pocket. “Let’s go.”

“How can you do this?” The words were barely a whisper. “I’m your daughter.”

“You’re a mistake I made. Get up.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m completing my suicide mission.” The barrel of her gun settled on Devyn’s forehead. “Only the suicide is going to be
yours
. Move it, Rose.”

M
arc squealed into the entrance of the deserted supermarket, pushing the little Ford Focus well beyond what the rental car
was meant to do. There were two cars in the lot, both dark, a few shopping carts, and no lights anywhere in the store. He
zipped to one side, his lights landing on a row of Dumpsters as he careened toward the back.

The grounds of the cemetery ended at a narrow alley behind the store, a nine-foot chain-link fence completely blocking access.

Where the fuck were the three paths?

Maybe there were no paths. Maybe she was delirious. Maybe she was mistaken.

Maybe she was Liam Baird’s lying little puppet. That gunshot wound wasn’t so serious.

He’d had no choice but to take the chance. Devyn wasn’t going to end her tearful reunion with a woman who’d been shot and
abandoned, so the only thing he could do was look for a way to get her out of there and to the hospital.

He threw the car into park, racked his pistol, and jumped out, peering into the shadows for a break in the fencing but seeing
nothing. Hustling into the darkness, he grabbed the metal and shook it as he ran, peering up the hill behind it. Jesus, there
were more graves there, as though they had to use every inch.

An engine rumbled in the front lot, getting closer. He stepped back into a recess of the building, flattening himself against
the side.

The car got closer, the lights shining across the lot; then they cut off and the car screeched to a halt. He inched forward
to see the car had blocked his exit, and his Ford Focus blocked the other one.