Daegan opened one bleary eye and ran his tongue around teeth that were far from slick. His mouth tasted like the inside of a garbage can and his head throbbed. He’d drunk too much and then stumbled back here and... Turning onto his side, he saw her and his stomach curled in on itself. He nearly retched all over the bed. Bibi! Oh, hell, no! He shot out of bed and made a startled sound of panic as the seduction cr ept into his mind in glorious, horrifying, sickening images. Bile rose up the back of his throat and he had to fight to ke ep from losing whatever was left in his guts. He tried and failed to block out how once he’d given into her anxious ministrations, he’d lost all inhibitions. They hadn’t stopped at making love once, oh, no. Theirs had been one helluva drunken sexual marathon. Fool! Idiot! Stupe! What the devil were you thinking? The contents of his stomach churned again. If only it were all a dream—a nightmare. He couldn’t believe that he’d had sex with his cousin. Shuddering, he st epped farther away from the bed, putting distance between her warm, naked body and his and feeling a strangle-hold of guilt tightening around his throat. For the love of God, what had he been thinking? He’d made love to a Sullivan. Disgust scraped at his soul. Stark naked, he walked to the sink in the bathroom and saw his reflection in the chipped mirror mounted over the faucets. He looked worse than he felt, and yet it seemed to him that an invisible vise had clamped his head in its steely, unforgiving jaws and the pressure on his brain, as the vise was tightened, made him feel that he was about to explode. He had to be perverted for sle eping with her. D epraved. Abnormal. All of the above. A real sicko. And he couldn’t really blame the situation on the booze. He’d wanted Bibi. He stared into bloodshot, guilt-riddled eyes and sneered, “You stupid bastard.” He was no better than his monster of a father. Using and abusing women. Splashing water over his face, Daegan tried to think. He had about fifteen minutes to get to work, fifteen lousy minutes to figure out what he was going to do about Bibi as well as the rest of his life. He thought of their coupling and spat into the sink. It was as if once he’d crossed the forbidden threshold, he hadn’t been able to get enough. Her body welcomed him, and in his drunken state, he hadn’t even bothered with a rubber! “Goddamned fool,” he ground out. Grinding his teeth at the recollections that k ept picking at his brain, he quickly showered, hoping the hot water would erase the memories, knowing that he’d have to face her sooner or later. He stayed in long enough for the tank to drain and the temperature of the weak spray to drop. What could he say to her? What could he do? They would never be close again. Throwing on his brown, grease-stained uniform, he slowly counted to ten, ran fingers through his wet hair, and found the courage to open the bathroom door. A cloud of steam followed him into the living area where Bibi sl ept. The smell of stale booze, cigarettes, and sex filled the room, and he opened a window just as a train rattled on tracks not far away. It was still dark outside; not quite six o’clock, the air smelled early-morning fresh. The eastern sky was beginning to streak with the hint of dawn. Sooner or later he’d have to face up to what he’d done, but she appeared so peaceful and untroubled as she slumbered, as if the world couldn’t hurt her, that he didn’t have the heart to wake her and remind her that he, along
with Stuart and Collin, the three men she should have been able to trust, had used and abused her. Oh, Jesus, what was he going to do? He lit a cigarette from the pack she’d left on the file cabinet he used for a nightstand. Smoking silently, knowing he was already late, he watched the sun rise. He should rouse her, he supposed, but he didn’t. Instead he tucked the blanket under her chin, brushed a stray lock of hair off her cheek, then stubbed out the smoke and hurried downstairs to turn on the lights and start the pumps. He could take a break around ten, check on her, and tell her that last night had been a big mistake, that he hadn’t known what he’d been thinking, that he liked and respected her but couldn’t be her lover. He muttered an oath under his breath. Anything he could say sounded twisted and d epraved and trite. Locking the door behind him, he took a big, bracing gulp of air, then hurried down the stairs. Like it or not he had to turn his attention to the job at hand. A big tanker-truck was already waiting, the driver anxious to fill the underground tanks. The idling engine rumbled smoothly, exhaust filling the air with the heavy scent of diesel. Cupping his hands around the end of a cigarette he was lighting, the trucker disregarded the bold NO SMOKING sign posted near the front door. “Hey, whaddya think I’m doin’ here?” the driver said, clicking his lighter shut as he spied Daegan. A cloud of smoke rolled out with his words. “I don’t got all effin’ day, y’know.” “I’ll just be a minute,” Daegan said, unlocking the front door and snapping on the lights in the service bays as well as the rec eption area by the cash register. Ignoring his throbbing head and the fact that the thick stench of diesel was playing havoc with his sensitive stomach this morning, he searched for the invoice sheets for the gas that was expected to be delivered from the distributor, found a clipboard, and half ran outside. With the quick motions of someone who was familiar with his task, he unlocked the covers to the underground tanks. Soon gas was flowing from the truck through a huge hose. A car pulled into the pump area and the bell mounted over the door chimed loudly. Daegan dashed to help the first customer and tried not to notice that in the side lot, parked between a rusted-out shell of a Pontiac and a Volkswagen van that still sported a faded peace symbol and psychedelic art work, was Bibi’s Corvette—metallic silver that sparkled in the dawn and looked as out of place as a yacht in a moorage for fishing dinghies. “Fill ‘er up,” a familiar and grizzled face ordered as Daegan approached the driver’s side of the old Chevy wagon parked at the pumps. What was the old coot’s name? Preston? No, Prescott. Oliver Prescott, that was it. “Sure thing.” “Nice wheels.” Prescott shifted a match from one side of his mouth to the other as he gazed at Bibi’s car. “Yours?” Daegan slid a quick look at the Corvette with its gleaming finish, leather interior, and expensive tape deck. “I wish.” “You and me both.” Prescott laughed in a rasp until he began a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes and rendered it impossible for him to dig into his wallet to extract some bills. Finally, he was able to pay. “Well,” he said, handing Daegan a twenty, “you and me both can ke ep on dreaming about expensive cars and fancy women, eh?” Daegan’s mouth turned to sand and he thought about Bibi. What was he going to do with her? She hadn’t said what had happened to her earlier in the evening but he’d gathered that somehow she’d been humiliated by Stuart or Collin or both. No doubt she wouldn’t feel much better this morning when she remembered everything they’d done last night and realized that Daegan, too, had taken advantage of her.
That’s not the way it happened, he reminded himself but couldn’t help feeling guilty as sin as he made change for his first customer. He should have been in control. She’d come to him for comfort and ended up with sex. Shit, what a mess. By the time the mechanics showed up and he could break away, it was nearly eleven. Bibi was still in bed, the blankets drawn over her breasts, her eyes fixed on the stained ceiling tiles. Daegan felt like an intruder in his own home. All the flaws—the dirty windows, grimy, cracked floor, noisy heat register that hissed and chugged no matter what he did—seemed to mock him. What could he say to her? Nothing. They could no longer be friends. They’d crossed that barrier along with a dozen others when they’d let their bodies join in pure animal pleasure. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered, her lower lip quivering. “I know.” He couldn’t move, acted as if he’d been nailed to the interior of the door. “You shouldn’t have let it.” “I know.” “Damn it, Daegan, is that all you can say?” she demanded, tears filling her gorgeous eyes. “I’m sorry.” Blinking rapidly, she sniffed and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “Not half as sorry as I am.” “It won’t happen again.” “Damn right it won’t.” Her voice changed and she pursed her lips to each other as if fighting to hold herself together. “Do you know what they did to me?” When he didn’t answer, she turned to face him and the blankets shifted a little, showing off a hint of her cleavage. Daegan k ept his eyes focused on her face. “Stuart and Collin, did I tell you how they set me up?” “You didn’t say anything.” “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now,” she said, drawing her body into a sitting position, her expression dull as she held the flimsy sheet over her body. Shoving a hank of hair from her face, she said, “God, I need a cigarette. Hand me my purse, would you?” He did as she asked, d epositing the leather bag on the bed near her, and she scrounged de ep in the purse’s interior, drawing out a pack of Viceroys and lighting up. Shooting a stream of smoke in the air, she closed her eyes. “I’ve always had a crush on Collin.” “You don’t have to tell me this.” The less he knew of what went on between the Sullivans, the better. “Yes, I do.” She sighed wearily. “That’s why I came over here in the first place.” “No, Bibi, look, I don’t want to hear it.” “Well you’re going to. It’s the price you’ve got to pay for... for... for doing what you did to me.” He cringed, but stood his ground. What they’d done, they’d done to each other, but he felt too guilty to argue about semantics. “If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want! That’s the problem.” Her voice wavered again and he was afraid she was going to break down altogether, but she was made of stronger stuff this morning. She tucked her knees close to her and wrapped one arm around them, messing the sheet that was her only covering. “What I need right now is for you to understand why I was so desperate, such a basket case, last night.” “It won’t change things.” “But it’ll help me.” Smoke drifted from her nostrils. “We were alone, the three of us—Stuart, Collin, and I—for the first time in a long, long while. Daddy—Robert—” “I know who he is. We met.” “You have?” Questions darkened her eyes. “When?” “When he was convinced that I tried to kill Frank.” “Oh.” She hesitated and he thought for a moment that he might be spared. Instead she just shook her head, bit her lip, then k ept on talking. “Daddy threw a party at the lake house last night, the same kind he does every year when he and Mummy move up for the summer. It was a drag and Stuart, Collin, and I made ourselves scarce when all the guests arrived and started drinking. No one even missed us.” She smiled bitterly, but her eyes were brimming with unshed tears again. “We hid out in the pool house, where we drank some of Daddy’s booze and... got a little drunk, I guess.” She shoved a hank of hair from her eyes, and her brow furrowed in concentration. “Some of the details are fuzzy, but we were all having fun, then Stuart had to leave, to make sure that no one got suspicious and came looking for us. Collin and I were pretty well ripped already, and like I said, I’ve had a crush on him for a long time. I kissed him and he kissed me back and one thing led to another.” She stared at the floor. “I got the impression, I mean, I thought he wanted me. He, uh, he let me believe that he cared but...” She blinked against her damning tears. “I, uh, sensed something was wrong, that he wasn’t excited, that he wasn’t really paying attention to me, but I thought that if I... showed him how much I cared...” Her voice drifted off and she seemed to forget that Daegan was in the room. Her cigarette burned neglected in her fingers. “I, um, tried my best to arouse him but it wasn’t working, and then I knew what was wrong.” She took in a long, shuddering breath. “We weren’t alone.” A length of ash fell to the floor. Daegan didn’t move. Bibi didn’t notice. She wasn’t in the room any longer; she was far away, staring at the linoleum, but not seeing, reliving her mortification of the night before. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Stuart hadn’t really left. He was in the hallway watching us, observing every intimate detail, hearing every word and... and Collin knew it. He couldn’t perform because he was self- conscious, but they both were going to let me go through with it, both listened as I begged Collin to make love to me, watched as I... well, as I tried all sorts of tricks with my hands and mouth.” Tears slid down her cheeks and chin. “I was such a fool.” He lifted his empty hands and felt like a heel. Every male she’d trusted the night before had taken advantage of her, including him. “If I could change things, I would,” he said gruffly. “Me, too.” Tears rained from her eyes. “How can I ever face them again?” Her voice was so small, it broke his heart. She lifted the cigarette to her lips.
“You weren’t to blame.” Blinking rapidly, she sobbed. “I guess I’m a lousy seductress.” “Not so lousy,” he said, the irony in his words audible. “Oh, God, Daegan, and then you and I—” “I know, I know.” “How could they do it to me? How could I be so damned stupid and naive to let them use me for... for some kind of weird sport?” “Don’t blame yourself, Bibi. Collin and Stuart, they’re as much to blame. More. They used you. I—I used you.” “No, I think...” Her pretty face drew into a knot of concentration. “I think I used you.” She raised her eyes to his. “You tried to stop it.” “But I didn’t.” “I wouldn’t let you.” He felt a sad smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I could’ve been stronger. You didn’t rape me, Bibi.” “Oh, God!” She dropped her cigarette into an open beer can and hiccupped loudly, crying hysterically. He crossed the room and drew her into his arms. She flinched, but he didn’t let go, just whispered into her hair, telling her over and over again that things would work out even though he didn’t believe his hollow, soothing words. From that moment on, he knew he was damned. Forever. Her hair smelled of perfume and smoke and he held her until she was in control, until the hiccupping sobs subsided. He whispered platitudes. “Everything’s gonna be all right. It’s not the end of the world. You can put this behind you.” But he knew the words were all lies. “If only it were that easy.” She let out a long, tremulous breath then abruptly stiffened. “Let me go.” His hands dropped to his side and Bibi pushed him aside, as if suddenly his touch was foul. “This—this—everything—it’s got to stop. Got to,” she said, tossing off the covers, unafraid to let him see her nude again. He turned his head and she threw on her clothes, st epped into her shoes, and gathered her purse and keys. “I’m sorry, Daegan, about everything,” she called over her shoulder as she fumbled with the lock and let herself out. He heard her footst eps retreating down the staircase as she half ran to her car. But even as she dashed away, he realized that it wasn’t over. Far from it. This was just the beginning. In the keen insight that sometimes warned him of the future, he sensed that because he’d sl ept with his cousin and committed one of the most scorned taboos of all, he was in for the worst trouble of his life. Guilt stole after him all day. He k ept expecting to hear from someone, anyone connected with the family, and was jumpy, always looking over his shoulder as he loaded coal into several trucks. Nothing happened. The day was extraordinarily quiet, a cool summer afternoon with enough of a breeze to chase away the smog. After work Bibi wasn’t waiting for him. No one stopped by his apartment as he changed his clothes. Even his mother, who was shunning him in the hope that he would see the evil of his ways and return, didn’t break her silence.
By evening Daegan was able to breathe a little. He wandered over to Shorty’s, drank some beer, and won nearly a hundred bucks playing nine ball. Though his conscience still twinged with guilt, he figured things would work out; that sle eping with Bibi hadn’t been the end of the world. Or so he’d thought until, like the sharp crack of Satan’s whip, retribution lashed out at Daegan O’Rourke with all the fury of hell. Walking home from the pool hall that night, fists burrowed de ep in his pockets, the fingers of his right hand curled possessively around his meager winnings, he ducked through the familiar alleys that skirted the waterfront. There were only a few people wandering through the narrow streets and a thick fog had rolled in off the harbor. Hardly a light blazed in any apartment window. Even the hookers and pimps seemed to have disappeared. Maybe it was the fog, laying thick and cold along the shoreline, or maybe most people had more sense than he did. Probably a combination of both. A foghorn moaned in the darkness. Sidest epping garbage cans and puddles, he noticed a dog lying in a doorway. The animal let out a low, threatening growl. “It’s okay,” Daegan told the mutt, but the animal wasn’t watching him. His ears were cocked, his golden eyes fixed somewhere behind Daegan in the soupy darkness. The hairs on the back of Daegan’s neck raised. He picked up his pace. The dog let out a de ep bark and Daegan sensed rather than saw his attacker. Quick footst eps chased after him. Daegan started to run, but he heard the sound of rushed breath and felt a silent and deadly hatred oozing through the night. “You’re a dead man, O’Rourke!” The voice was familiar—smooth and polished with years of education. Stuart. Daegan’s muscles bunched reflexively. He smelled a fight. All of his lovemaking with Bibi flashed through his mind as he turned and Stuart, breathing hard, emerged from the mist. Wielding a thick black crowbar, he walked forward at a slow, determined pace. “Now, you listen,” he said, rage contorting his aristocratic features. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you and leave you lying in your own blood so that the pathetic beast back there can have a crack at you.” He thumped the crowbar menacingly against his free hand. Then, quick as a snake striking, he swung. Daegan ducked, but the bar connected, smashing his jaw with a sickening crunch. Pain screamed through his face. Blood spurted from his mouth. His legs wobbled. “You deserve to die, O’Rourke.” Crack! Another blow. Sharp. Fast. Daegan’s head snapped backward. His legs turned to jelly. He spun around and his head slammed into the cold concrete. The dog was in a frenzy, snarling and barking and creating a ruckus. “Stay away from her! You stay away from her!” Stuart kicked him hard in the gut. Daegan’s body curled into a ball. “Bastard!” Stuart roared. “You dirty, rotten, fucking bastard!” Stuart’s voice rose an octave. Daegan fought a sickening wave of nausea and looked up through eyes already swollen. In the darkness Stuart, his face distorted in a savage, brutal fury, towered over Daegan. Still holding the crowbar in one hand, he slid a deadly, thin-bladed knife out of his pocket with the other. “I should cut your black heart out right now! Bibi trusted you.”
“Yeah, like she trusted you.” Another vicious kick. Daegan’s ribs snapped. Pain, hot as liquid fire, shot through his chest. “I didn’t screw her!” Stuart screamed, waving the cruel knife high in the air. Its wicked, narrow blade glinted blue in the watery glow of the streetlamps. “Didn’t you?” “No way.” “It doesn’t have to be physical,” Daegan said, his head beginning to clear. His jaw throbbed, his ribs ached, but he was getting his bearings. “You can screw up someone worse by messing with her mind. That’s what you did to your sister.” “You don’t know anything.” Stuart lunged, the knife thrust forward. Daegan rolled to his right and onto the balls of his feet. “Don’t,” he warned thickly, through teeth that were soft in his gums. Blood drained from his mouth and his eyes were mere slits. “I’ll cut you to ribbons, maybe even fillet those illegitimate balls of yours.” “Try it,” Daegan suggested, ready for the fight. They were circling in the alley, Stuart’s Sullivan-blue eyes shining brightly, his lips tight over perfect teeth, his expression grim and dangerous. “You’re a fool, O’Rourke.” “Yeah, but I don’t play pe eping Tom while my sister’s making it with my cousin.” “You cocky little prick.” Stuart flew at Daegan, but this time Daegan was ready for him. With a sharp kick, he sw ept Stuart’s legs from beneath him, ducked the slice of the knife, and landed on his own feet. Stuart went down. The crowbar clattered from his hand, but he managed to hang on to his more deadly weapon. “Drop something?” Daegan asked, snatching up the metal bar and swinging it over his head. On his feet in an instant, Stuart warned, “I’ll have you up on charges.” “Fine.” Stuart’s blade swished through the thick night air, carving wildly, nicking Daegan’s ear. Blood gushed and Daegan swung downward, glancing a blow off Stuart’s shoulder. Stuart let out a howl of pain and fell to his knees. “Hey—knock it off down there,” a gruff voice yelled from a window three stories up. “Break it up. People are trying to sle ep!” The dog was barking like mad. Daegan threw himself at his cousin, grabbing Stuart’s midsection and hurtling them both to the ground. “Stop it, man,” Daegan ordered but Stuart sliced upward, the blade connecting with flesh. Daegan’s restraint fled. As Stuart uttered oaths and kicked, Daegan grabbed his wrist and pushed it backward until the knife clattered to the ground and the bones snapped. “Jesus Christ! I’m callin’ the cops!” the man in the window warned.
Stuart screamed in fury and pain just as Daegan connected, his fist slamming into his cousin’s jaw. He didn’t stop. As Stuart struggled, Daegan hit him again and again until Stuart stopped moving, just moaned in agony. Blood and bruises discolored what had once been even, patrician features and he lay face-up on the asphalt, his eyes rolled back in his head, his breathing raspy. Daegan’s rage dissipated as he realized what he’d done. “Oh, God.” Daegan stopped—his bloodied fist raised in the air. His own breath was quick and shallow. Blood was everywhere and Stuart looked as if he might be dead. “Shit!” Daegan grabbed the knife and snapped it in half over his knee. Then he dropped both pieces near Stuart’s form and ran to the nearest phone booth. His hands shook as he tried to find change in his pockets, then quickly dialed the police. “There’s been a fight, down by the docks, near... near...” Oh, damn, where were they? He tried to think, get his bearings, but all he saw was Stuart’s white face staring sightlessly up at him. “I think it’s by Taylor’s Mill on the waterfront. One of the guys is beat up pretty bad. He looks dead. You’d better send an ambulance.” Then he thought of the cross street and rattled off its name before slamming down the receiver, wiping away the blood with an old gas rag he had in his pocket and taking off at a dead run, covering the few blocks to his apartment. He’d have to go back, to turn himself in—to explain what had happened, how Stuart had attacked him for sle eping with his sister. Oh, hell, what a mess! With shaking hands, he poured himself a beer then saw his reflection in the mirror. His face was bruised and battered, his eyes blackened slits, his hands swollen, half his earlobe missing, and he could barely breathe, his ribs hurt so bad, and a de ep nasty scratch, where Stuart’s little knife had reached him, arched from his shoulder to his navel. As best he could, he cleaned himself and doctored his wounds using hot water, iodine, and strips of gauze. He’d have to deal with the police, and if they didn’t have him up on charges, which would be a miracle, he’d leave Boston. There was nothing left for him here. He’d lost Bibi as a friend by taking her as a lover. His mother had chosen Frank Sullivan over her only son and the rest of the family would despise him after Stuart was hauled to the hospital and named the bastard black she ep as his attacker—or worse yet if he died. Daegan’s life would be over, not that it was much of a life anyway. It was time to move on, head west. His only regret was Bibi, but she was better off without him. He’d sever all connections with this city, including his mother, his poor Irish roots, and his accent. In the West there were vast acres of land, room to move, a way of life so far removed from Boston that he’d erase every painful memory he’d ever collected. He was folding clothes into his old duffle bag when the police arrived. A detective and sergeant, both of whom looked like they’d been on the force for a hundred years, were still pounding loudly on his door as he yanked it open. The younger man, Detective Jones, was redheaded and nervous, forever popping his gum, but the older guy, Sergeant Claud Traskell, was calm, his baleful hound-dog eyes penetrating as he announced that Stuart Sullivan had been found near the docks, his body beaten practically beyond recognition, a hunting knife broken and left near his hand. His heart had been beating when the paramedics had gotten to him, but he’d died on the way to the hospital. Daegan’s legs nearly gave way. Panic took a strangle-hold on his throat as he read the censure in Traskell’s eyes. Dead? Stuart Sullivan was dead? Holy mother of God, no! Even though he’d told himself it was possible, he hadn’t been pr epared. He couldn’t believe that Stuart was dead—Stuart the golden boy, Stuart the heir, Stuart the great manipulator.
Grief and fear settled like lead on his shoulders. He clamped hard on his jaw, willing himself to appear stoic when inside he was falling apart. Stuart —dead? Leaning against the wall for support, Daegan only half listened as the sergeant read him his rights and clamped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. There was nothing he could do. Daegan O’Rourke was the Boston Police D epartment’s number one suspect in the murder of Stuart William Sullivan.
Book Three Kate - 1995