grandson just to ke ep up appearances. It hadn’t occurred to him then that the kid might just be the last of the line, so to speak. Van Horn drew hard on his cigar and let out a puff of sweet, aromatic smoke. He feigned interest just to ke ep the old boy talking while taking a mental inventory of the Persian rugs and flintlock rifles locked behind the beveled glass doors of the gun case. Was that a Renoir mounted over the fir eplace or a good fake? “You don’t know the name of the couple who adopted him?” “No... I... well, my wife was alive then and my son had just passed away, but we thought there would be more grandchildren. Legitimate ones. Beatrice hadn’t married, of course, not yet, she was still pining for that sailor—Roy Panaker his name was...” His voice trailed off, as if weary from years of disappointment. “How about the lawyer?” “Dead. Tyrell Clark. A ladies man with a gambling problem, or so I was told. He was an associate with our firm for a while, didn’t get along with some of the partners, and struck out on his own. Always a little on the shady side, Clark eventually got himself into a mess with the IRS and debtors. He popped off not long after the adoption.” Robert’s mouth pinched into a little frown. “His practice—what little there was of it—was sold by the government to one of Clark’s competitors, a man by the name of Millard Kent. I’ve tried discussing this with him, but his firm is a little more r eputable than Clark’s was. No one’s talking. I wonder if there are any files.” His cold eyes turned to Van Horn. “Sometimes in a case like this, if everything isn’t exactly on the up and up, it’s better if there isn’t a paper trail.” “But the couple had to sign documents, get the kid a birth certificate, go through the proper channels...” Sullivan lifted a shoulder and sipped from his drink. “I’m sure there are loopholes in the process that we can dig up. It shouldn’t be too difficult because Tyrell had more than his share of trouble with the bar—his work wasn’t always exactly on the up-and-up. He was never disbarred, mind you, but he left our firm with his tail between his legs because he came close.” “Yet you chose him to handle the adoption.” Robert scowled at the remains of his drink. “For just that reason,” he admitted with a long sigh. “I didn’t ever want some bastard grandchild showing up on my doorst ep with his hand out. I saw all the problems my brother Frank had with one of his, so I thought—and now I realize my complete and utter snobbery about the situation—anyway, I thought I wanted the kid to disappear. He was a cancer, a blight on the proud Sullivan name, you see.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s funny how your perspective can change when you’re facing your maker.” Neils chose to ignore Robert’s statement on his own mortality. It didn’t have any bearing exc ept that he didn’t want the old boy to kick off before this deal was done. “The parents are probably going to fight you.” “Who cares? The way I see it, they were lucky enough in the first place to adopt the boy. Now it’s time for him to come home—to his rightful spot.” “Which is?” “Heir, of course.” “How does your brother feel about this?”
“Frank?” Robert made a scornful sound. “Frank’s never understood about family, about right of succession, about the responsibility that comes with our station in life. In fact, he’s always enjoyed the privilege of wealth, but oftentimes has acted... well, common, for lack of a better word.” “He’ll find out.” “I know. I plan to talk to him later in the week. But the less you in volve my brother and his family, the better.” “Does your daughter know about this?” Neils asked, wondering at the old man’s power trip. Arrogantly superior, Robert Sullivan believed that he was right and everyone else was wrong, just because he’d been born first in line. No, that wasn’t right; according to his notes, there had been an older brother who had died before ascending to the Sullivan throne. His name— William or Charles or something very British. “Beatrice.” Robert’s frown de epened as he left his cigar to burn in a crystal ashtray. “Yes, she knows I’m hiring someone, but it’s best to leave her out of this as much as possible. She didn’t want the baby then, doesn’t want him interfering with her life now. Really, she’s quite upset about it. Doesn’t understand why I can’t just let Frank and his boy, Collin, inherit everything.” “She’s not in line?” Van Horn said, lifting his eyebrows. “She’s a woman.” “So what if there were no sons?” Van Horn asked, disbelievingly. This was nearly the turn of the century, for God’s sake; no one believed all that women-are-inferior-garbage today. “Having no sons,” Robert said succinctly, “would be a problem— basically unacc eptable.” “I’d think Beatrice would be fighting tooth and nail for her own interests” “Unfortunately, she’s not interested in the family business or assets. She’s content to collect a check every month and never question where it comes from.” He sipped his brandy, set his snifter on a nearby table, and removed his glasses. Polishing the lenses slowly with a monogrammed handkerchief he’d drawn from his breast pocket, he said, “Remember, this arrangement is best left between you and me. Beatrice and I have already talked. I can’t just show up with her child one day and not pr epare her, but ke ep her in the dark as much as possible. I’ll handle Beatrice.” The old man’s jaw hardened. “Does anyone know where Roy Panaker is?” Neils prompted. “Not to my knowledge.” Robert was suddenly impatient. “You’ll have to find him, of course. Set the ground rules. I assume it will be necessary to pay him off, but rather than making him rich, it would be better to dig up a little dirt on him, something unscrupulous you can use to bribe him and ke ep him in line, so that there’s no way he’ll risk exposure if he ever finds out about the boy.” “He hasn’t been interested yet?” “Probably has no idea, but I’d like to be reassured that he won’t be a problem.” Neils nodded, as if everything Robert was saying was commonplace, that bribery and invasion of privacy didn’t matter—which they didn’t—it was just the magnitude of Robert’s request that blew him away. “When that time comes, if it comes, when you have to talk to Beatrice, let me know. I’ll arrange a meeting, but it’s best that you don’t contact her. There’s no telling what she’ll do. Unfortunately, Mr. Van Horn, my daughter isn’t very stable.”
A secret meeting. What could it be about? What did Robert Sullivan and Neils Van Horn discuss within the walnut-paneled walls of Louisburg Square? Royce didn’t have all the details, damn him. The butler was too discreet to press his ear to the door, too afraid of losing his highly prized title of head servant in Robert Sullivan’s household. The damned hired help. You paid them through the nose, and still they only passed on the bare essentials, information that could be easily soaked in while removing dishes or setting a fire. But Royce did r eport that Robert Sullivan had dined at home with a man named Neils Van Horn, a private investigator and not a professional of the stature Robert Sullivan usually hired. “Let’s just say his overcoat was a tad frayed at the cuffs,” Royce had said. A tattered coat and boots with holes, for God’s sake. Royce had actually spied black spots on the soles when Van Horn had the audacity to prop his feet up on the oxblood leather furniture. Feet up as he’d burned through one of Robert’s Havana cigars. Something was in the air... power swirling, spinning in a fierce maelstrom. And Robert was behind it, manipulating and twisting, always the mastermind, always the ruthless patriarch. Well, he wasn’t going to proceed unchecked. The old man had to be watched. Carefully watched. Robert Sullivan had overst epped his boundaries one too many times. One more bold st ep, and he would have to be stopped.
Chapter 5 Daegan O’Rourke propped the phone between his head and shoulder so that he could bang on the splintered window sash to pry the damned thing open. Right now the phone was one of the few things that worked in Eli Mc Intyre’s old cabin, and if Daegan was going to stay here, he had his work cut out for him just making it livable. Which he would have to do, if he was going to stick around here until he met the Summers kid and figured out if the boy was the one. “Okay, Sandy,” he told his old friend from grade school. “What do you have for me?” “Your information panned out.” Though he was miles away, back in Boston, Sandy’s gravelly voice sounded close and familiar. “Looks like old Robert has engaged the services of one Neils Van Horn, a two-bit private investigator with a r eputation for chasing a buck and bending the ethics of the profession.” So Bibi was right; Robert was looking to dig up some old dirt. “Van Horn is not the sort of guy a man like Robert Sullivan usually employs,” Sandy went on. “Makes you wonder what Robert wants Van Horn to do.” He’s looking for a male heir, Daegan thought. A way to sink his claws into some innocent kid, a total power trip. “No doubt Van Horn’s been hired for something slimy and underhanded,” Sandy went on, half-joking. “You got that right,” Daegan said. Sandy Kavenaugh’s instincts had always been on the money. During a stint in the military, Kavenaugh had done some intelligence work, then, once his hitch was over, had opened his own private detective agency. It was Sandy who’d checked up on Daegan’s mother, Mary Ellen, whom Daegan hadn’t had contact with in years, as well as ke eping an eye on the Sullivans, watching each and every one of them, including Bibi. As far as Daegan was concerned, none of them could be trusted. “Want me to see what I can find out about Van Horn?” Sandy asked. “See if you can get wind of what he’s doing for Robert Sullivan,” Daegan said as he stared out the window toward the Summers place next door. “And ke ep your ear to the ground for any mention of an illegitimate heir to the Sullivan fortune. Seems my cousin Bibi had a kid some fifteen years ago, and there’s something brewing about finding the boy now and naming him in the will.” “Imagine that? Some kid could be a secret millionaire,” Sandy said. At what price? Daegan thought, brushing away a cobweb as he turned toward the bedroom. “I’ll see what I can find on the kid and get back to you,” Sandy said. The kid. As Daegan hung up, he felt his jaw clench at the notion that the kid living in the neighboring ranch could be the one he was looking for... his son. The idea of having a son was still fresh and uncomfortable, like a new boot that was a little too tight and pinched at the toes. He’d never seen himself as a father; never planned to have any children. And never, never would he have let a kid of his grow up without a strong male influence. But the worst of it was Jon’s mother. Kate. More intelligent and wary than he’d expected and far more attractive than he’d hoped, there was something about her he found damnably intriguing. Probably because she was forbidden fruit—that was his problem with women. The ones that were off-limits were the most fascinating. His own personal curse. He’d make sure the attraction passed, but wished he knew what to do with her.
In the bedroom he paused and frowned at the stained mattress lying on the floor. Nearby was a half-full bottle of rot-gut whiskey, a carton of cigarettes, and a couple of copies of Playboy magazine. Looked like someone was having himself a party. An ashtray that had the irregular shape and mottled coloring to suggest it had been made in some kind of crafts class was filled with butts—several different brands. Daegan smiled. Y ep, the old Mc Intyre ranch must’ve become the local clubhouse for juvenile delinquents, one of which might well be Jon Summers. Good. If the kid was trouble, his job would be easier. He walked outside again and a low growl emanated from beneath the dusty floorboards of the porch. Bending on one knee, Daegan peered below into the darkness and found a half-starved dog lying in the shadows. Teeth bared, steady eyes trained on Daegan’s throat, the mutt let out another rumbling warning. “That’s no way to treat the new tenant,” Daegan admonished softly. “Come on out of there.” The hound didn’t budge, just snarled. “Great.” That’s when he noticed the metal dishes—mixing bowls tucked into one corner of the porch. One was half-full of water, the other was empty. “Someone taking care of you, boy?” The dog didn’t respond, just cowered, looking at Daegan with yellow, distrusting eyes. Standing, Daegan stretched and stared at the barren acres. The only house close by was the Summers place, located on the other side of a stand of pine. Other neighbors could have made it their mission to take care of old Mc Intyre’s dog, but Daegan had a gut feeling that either Jon Summers or his mother was seeing that the mutt didn’t starve or dehydrate. Just the break he needed. “I think you and I are gonna be good friends.” And what about the boy? Is he gonna be your good friend, too? Or is he going to end up hating you for the rest of his life? Kate waited impatiently for her sister to answer and glared at the clock. Almost three here, nearly six o’-clock in Boston. Laura would be getting home from work and Kate wanted to talk to her sister in private, before Jon got home from school so he wouldn’t overhear any of the conversation. “Come on, come on,” she said, pacing by the kitchen window and stretching the phone cord as she walked from one end of the kitchen to the other. Laura, who worked for the state, had access to all kinds of legal documents. Births, deaths, prison records. Kate had never asked a favor of her sister before. Even though she’d been tempted a hundred times to find out the true identity of Jon’s biological parents, she’d resisted asking Laura to look up the information. Whether she felt she was crossing an ethical barrier or because she was just plain chicken to find out, she didn’t know. But things had changed now that Jon had begun asking questions about his father. She needed to find out the truth in order to protect Jon. The recorder picked up on the fourth ring. “Hi, you’ve reached Laura and Jeremy. We can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d leave a message after the be ep...” Kate waited impatiently, then asked her sister to call. Now that she’d decided upon a course of action, she was anxious to set it into motion. Slamming the receiver down, she told herself to remain calm. Nothing had changed. Yet. Kids had bad dreams all the time. Pouring the final cup of coffee from this morning’s pot, she sat back down at her desk to read the last of twenty-five essays she had to correct for her class in the morning. She rubbed her eyes and was reaching for her reading glasses when she heard the rumble of an engine. Peering through the lace curtains, she expected Jon to appear. Rather than waiting for the bus, he’d probably caught a ride with someone, a kid with a car and hopefully a driver’s license. He was starting to complain that taking the bus was a drag and only for babies.
A beat-up once-green pickup lumbered up the drive and Kate recognized it at once. Daegan O’Rourke, the stranger who had fixed her tire, stretched out of the cab and she felt a warning increase in her pulse. Tall and lean, a cowboy type in faded jeans, dusty blue shirt, and rawhide jacket, O’Rourke made his way to the front porch. What could he possibly want from her? She’d thought of him a couple of times since he’d insisted upon helping her—there had been a raw sexual energy about him, a hidden strength of character that made it impossible for him to take no for an answer. She hadn’t wanted his help, but he’d practically shoved it down her throat, and rather than seeming ungrateful, she’d let him change the damned tire. So what was he doing here? Whatever it was he was peddling, she wasn’t interested. Contrary to popular belief, the last complication she needed in her life was a man. As she watched him climb the st eps, his boots ringing on the old planks, she noticed the determined cut of his jaw, the blade-thin mouth, the harsh planes of his face. He looked like a man with a mission and she knew instinctively that somehow it in volved her. Normally she wouldn’t have thought a thing about opening the door to him. Every once in a while someone stopped by to ask for directions or with car trouble, but today, when her nerves were already stretched thin from worries about Jon, she was suspicious, and as he rang the bell, she opened the door but stood on the other side of the screen. His eyes met hers through the mesh and a quick smile lighted his face. “So you’re my neighbor.” His voice was a de ep drawl, his tanned face all blades and angles honed from hours in the elements. Gray eyes studied her without a trace of warmth. “How about that?” “Neighbor?” she r epeated. Hitching a calloused thumb in the direction of the ranch next door, he said, “I’m renting the Mc Intyre place.” Kate felt a little catch in her breath and told herself she was being silly. She had nothing to fear from this man, no reason not to trust him. He’d helped her, for crying out loud, changed her flat tire. She should be grateful that someone was going to live in Eli’s place and ke ep it up. Empty buildings often attracted a bad element. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that this man was the last person on earth she wanted living next door. He carried with him no air of satisfaction that usually came with ranching. No, this man was restless; a thrum of energy seemed to hide beneath the tanned skin that stretched over the strong angles of his face. All Jon’s talk had unnerved her, that’s all. Relax, Kate. She opened the screen door. “How’s the tire?” he asked. “Back on the car. I must’ve run over a screw somewhere. George, down at the station, found one lodged in the tread, though I can’t imagine where I picked it up.” “So it could be fixed?” “Yeah, I guess I lucked out.” He hesitated, then rubbed his chin. “I guess it’s my turn to ask a favor,” he said, shifting from one leg to the other. “I’m having a little trouble myself. I was wondering if I could use your phone to call the tel ephone company. They were supposed to send out a guy this morning, but he never showed.” Some of the tension in her muscles drained. You’re losing it, Kate.
“Sure. I’ll go get it.” She should have just asked him inside, but she was still nervous. Even though he seemed honest enough, she didn’t know him. And there was Jon’s prediction to consider—trouble or danger coming their way. “I’ll just be a minute.” In the kitchen, she picked up the remote, and as she passed by the front closet, she reminded herself that her grandfather’s rifle was tucked in the corner, unloaded, but a weapon nonetheless. As if she needed one. Face it, Kate, all Jon’s talk has got you wound tighter than a top and now you’re jumping at shadows. Her heart raced a little and she silently called herself a fool. This wasn’t the city, for God’s sake, and this guy certainly wasn’t an ex-prisoner from somewhere in New England. He spoke with a western twang, dressed as if he’d been born in a pair of rawhide boots, and probably had never seen the eastern shores of the Mississippi. O’Rourke was propped against the railing, his dark hair showing streaks of red in the afternoon sunlight. “Here you go.” She handed him the receiver and his jaw slid to one side. He was probably amused by her caution. He inched his wallet out of the back pocket of his faded jeans and found a card, then punched out numbers and waited. “Hold,” he mouthed, then hit another number. “I hate these things.” Grumbling under his breath, he k ept punching, finally stopped and looked at her with steely eyes guarded by thick black eyebrows. “It would help if they’d just connect me to a real person instead of a machine and tape recording—” His head snapped up. “Hell, yes, I’m here. Look, I’m expecting a man to come and hook up my phone... what? Oh. Daegan O’Rourke and I live...” He turned his back to her and concentrated on the phone call. She couldn’t help studying his backside—shoulders broad enough to stretch the seams of his jacket, trim waist, narrow hips. His jeans were worn and dusty, his boots needed polish, the heels worn down, the back of his neck tanned from hours in the sun. He was frustrated, raking a hand through his hair as he spoke, but there was nothing sinister about him. Nothing suspicious. Just an angry restless man trying to untangle the red tape surrounding Eli Mc Intyre’s place. “Well, if it’s the best you can do, then it’ll be fine,” he said, his voice edged in irritation. “I’ll expect him in a couple hours.” As he faced her again, his gaze caught hers and his lips turned downward in agitation. He handed her the phone. “Everything okay?” He made a sound of d eprecation in the back of his throat. “Looks like the cavalry’s decided to come to the rescue after all. Thanks.” “No problem...” She heard the bus. The growl of the huge engine was distinctive, and for the first time in her life, she hoped that Jon had caught a ride from another kid and was cruising around town. She didn’t want him showing up while O’Rourke was still here, though she didn’t really understand why. She wasn’t so lucky. Glancing at the road, she caught a glimpse of the mustard-colored school bus flashing through the thicket of scrub pines at the end of the drive. Gravel crunched as huge tires slowed and the doors whooshed open. Jon, backpack slung over one shoulder, loped through the play of shadows on the rock driveway as the bus lumbered away. Houndog, who had spent the better part of the afternoon waiting at the mailbox for Jon, barked wildly, darting through the woods and flushing out pheasants and grasshoppers in his path. “Hey, Mom, guess what?” Jon called before spying the truck in the drive and the man on the front porch. The smile on his face, a smile she hadn’t seen in days, evaporated when his gaze landed full-force on O’Rourke. “Who’re you?” he asked.
“This is our new neighbor, Daegan O’Rourke. My son, Jon.” Her lungs suddenly constricted painfully. Daegan offered a hand, but Jon ignored it. “What’s he doing here?” “Jon,” Kate said sharply though she knew, he, too, had a million questions, all tied into his nightmares. “Mr. O’Rourke just came by to use the phone. He’s moved into the Mc Intyre place and his isn’t connected yet.” Daegan leaned against a post supporting the roof. “And you must be the guy who’s been stopping by and taking care of old Eli’s dog.” The color faded from Jon’s face and a wary look settled in his eyes. “Jon?” Kate’s eyebrows inched upward though she shouldn’t have been surprised. Jon had been taking more than his share of long walks lately. He missed the old man—the only grandfather type he’d ever known. “Have you been over there?” “No harm done,” Daegan cut in, his gaze never leaving her son’s face. “Someone needed to look after the hound.” “Yeah, old Roscoe wouldn’t leave after the funeral and so I—” “You didn’t tell me,” Kate said, learning more about her boy each day and wondering how she would ever retrieve the reins of control that continually slid through her fingers. “You would’ve called animal control,” Jon accused her. “The dog’s old, Jon,” Kate said softly. “And vicious.” “And he doesn’t deserve to be put to sle ep! Just because Eli died doesn’t mean that Roscoe—” “It’s all right,” Daegan said. “You can ke ep comin’ over and seein’ him if you want. To tell you the truth, the dog won’t have a thing to do with me. I think he’d just as soon rip my throat open than lick my hand.” Jon’s eyes narrowed. He looked from his mother to Daegan again, as if expecting some kind of conspiracy. “You mean it?” “Hold on...” Kate interjected. Right now, with the frightening visions Jon had been having, he needed to stay close to home. And she wasn’t sure she could trust this stranger. Not yet O’Rourke offered a hard smile. “I bought some dog food in town, but Roscoe—that’s his name, right?” Jon nodded slowly. “Old Roscoe won’t go near it. Acts like I’m trying to poison him.” He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I bought the wrong brand.” “He doesn’t like anybody.” “Great,” O’Rourke said sarcastically. “Just what I need. Another headache.” “You’re gonna ke ep him?” Jon was suspicious. The cowboy lifted a shoulder. “If he doesn’t die on me or take a chunk out of my leg first. Maybe you could come over and show him that I’m okay.” “I don’t know,” Kate said quickly. This was all happening fast. Way too fast. “I don’t think—” “Oh, come on, Mom, please.” Jon was suddenly pleading. “Something about this doesn’t feel right—” O’Rourke straightened and rubbed one shoulder. “Well, it would help me out. I think Jon might’ve left some of his things over at the house.”
Jon froze and he looked at the ground. Hot color washed up the back of his neck. “What things?” Kate asked, bracing herself. These days it seemed as if her son had another life—entirely s eparate from her own. She couldn’t imagine what kind of stash Jon was hiding from her, but she was certain she was about to find out. “Well, I just assumed they were his. A jackknife and a comic book or two, deck of cards, that kind of thing. No big deal. It’s just that I’m cleaning things up and I didn’t want to throw out anything valuable.” Jon lifted his eyes slowly, studying the man before him. “Tell ya what, Jon. I’ll save them for you, and next time you come over to see the dog, you can pick ’em up. Fair enough?” Kate watched as Jon’s eyebrows flattened into one thoughtful line. “Fair enough.” Daegan extended his hand again, and this time Jon took it, his gaze locking with the uncompromising stare of their new neighbor. “Good.” For a second Jon just stood there shaking O’Rourke’s hand then quickly yanked his fingers away and his voice was the barest of whispers when he asked, “Who are you?” “I told you. My name’s—” “I know what you said.” Jon’s nostrils quivered and a breeze lifted the hair that fell over his eyes. “But you’re lying. Who are you and why are you here?” Kate’s muscles flexed. “Jon, Mr. O’Rourke—” Her voice gave out as she saw her son back up a st ep and lick his lips nervously. The hairs on her nape lifted in sudden premonition and her insides turned to mush. Oh, God, no. “You killed someone,” Jon said, his voice shaking, his color bleached away by fear. “You killed someone, didn’t you, someone you cared about!” Daegan held the boy’s gaze steadily, didn’t even flinch. “What the devil are you talking about?” “There was a fight and you... oh God, you... you...” Jon blinked hard as he sometimes did when the image he was seeing began to fade. Daegan shook his head. “Believe me, Jon, I’ve never killed anyone in my life. Not even when I was in the army.” Was this child really his? Were the eyes staring so intently at him O’Rourke eyes—Sullivan eyes? What would happen if the kid ever found out the truth? “Where’d you get a notion like that?” he asked, and refused to be sucked into the emotional whirlpool that threatened to drown him. Jon swallowed and st epped back, nearly tripping on the porch. He rammed his hands into the back pockets of his baggy jeans. “I, um, don’t know, I just—” He shrugged and Daegan felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. The kid just knew? In that second Daegan was convinced that Bibi hadn’t been lying; not only did the boy bear a resemblance to the Sullivans, he also had the gift, that special little touch of ESP that had been floating along Sullivan bloodlines for centuries, long before the witch trials, all the way back to Dublin and rumors of black arts. Not everyone in the family possessed it; sometimes it skipped an entire generation, only to show up later in a grandchild or niece, those with the right combination of Sullivan genes. This kid, the product of a union between first cousins, had been cursed or blessed, d epending upon your state of mind. Daegan loathed the gift himself; it had brought him nothing but trouble.
The feelings were always there, just under the surface, ready to remind him that he was, in fact, a Sullivan. Though that special intuition had helped him when he’d been a tracker, he’d just as soon he never experienced that tingling sensation of reading someone else’s thoughts again. “Sometimes Jon... he has premonitions,” Kate said, her fingers working nervously on the antenna of the phone she still held in one hand. Her demeanor had changed and she looked at him as if she were staring at the very devil himself. Wariness darkened her amber-colored eyes. “Well, this time he’s wrong.” He needed to ease her mind in order to ke ep up his charade. If she doubted him, his job would be all the more difficult. “I was in a fight once, with a cousin of mine—a bad fight.” Jon’s expression didn’t change. “He’s dead.” Kate’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Is it true?” No reason to lie. “That’s right, but I didn’t kill him.” A small, sharp sound es caped her and she covered her mouth with one hand. “The police thought you did.” “They were convinced otherwise, Jon.” Daegan rammed stiff fingers through his hair. “It was all over a long time ago.” Daegan offered a smile he didn’t feel, trying to set Kate at ease, then reminded himself that he had a job to do, one that had to be accomplished swiftly. Besides, this woman wasn’t as lily-white as she pretended to be; she was in on the adoption scam from the get-go. Now, it seemed, she really cared for her boy, hadn’t done a half-bad job of raising him, but she’d still walked on the wrong side of the law—a side that was familiar to Daegan. Whatever bonds existed between this woman and boy, they were secondary in importance. At least for now. He just wished he could wash his hands of this mess. He wondered how he was ever going to tell the boy that he was his father, that he didn’t know Jon had existed for nearly fifteen years, that the kid was a product of a forbidden and unloving union? How was he going to explain about an obsessed and dying grandfather, one of the richest men in Boston, a man who had now determined to change the course of the boy’s life forever, a man who didn’t take no for an answer? “This sight, does it help you see into your teacher’s grade book?” Daegan asked, trying to change the subject. Jon didn’t crack a smile. “I wish.” Kate laughed nervously, her gaze never leaving Daegan’s face. If he’d ever hoped to gain his trust, he’d blown it by letting the kid touch him. He inclined his head. “Thanks for the use of the phone. I’d better go back and see if the guy from the tel ephone company is really going to show up.” His gaze settled on Kate’s for just an instant, long enough to see the questions in her eyes, long enough to feel like a heel for what he was about to do. The boy, not so much as a glimmer of a smile in his eyes, glared at him. Daegan felt a great rending in his soul as he realized his son—the only kid he’d ever bring forth on this earth—not only distrusted him but probably hated him as well. And if he didn’t yet, he would soon. He loped back to his truck and climbed inside. Through the open window, he yelled, “Anytime you want to come over and pick up your things and see that poor excuse of a dog, you’re welcome.”
Jon didn’t answer. He shifted slightly, placing his body between Daegan’s pickup and his mother, as if he sensed a threat from Daegan, a threat to Kate. “Hell,” Daegan muttered under his breath. No matter if the adoption had been dirty, this woman and boy cared for each other and they faced the world together alone. Just like he had with his own mother. He backed out of the drive and wished to high heaven that he’d never laid eyes on Bibi Sullivan or the rest of the damned family. But it was inevitable that they’d met. To Daegan, in his youth the wealth and glitter of his father’s other life had constantly drawn him, like the pull of the moon on the tides. Daegan had been doomed from the second he’d learned that he was Frank Sullivan’s bastard son, and because of it, a life of privilege and wealth would be dangled in front of his nose like a carrot, only to be yanked away. He’d come a long way from Boston, a long way from the scared little boy he’d once been...
Book Two Daegan - 1968-1990
Chapter 6 “He’s... well... I don’t know how to put this delicately, Joanna. Mary Ellen O’Rourke’s boy is... he doesn’t have... there’s no man in the picture, if you get my drift. I’m afraid he’s illegitimate... a bastard.” Sister Evangeline, on the other side of the glassed partition, slid a guilty glance in Daegan’s direction, and he, not quite six at the time, realized immediately that the ugly word referred to him. After having dared utter the profanity, the good sister quickly crossed herself and turned her attention back to the secretary, a lay-woman who was struggling to fill out Daegan’s admittance forms. The nun reminded Daegan of a vulture as she hovered in her dusty habit with the frayed hem. A rosary dangled from a pocket hidden de ep in the folds of her voluminous black robe, and her hands, covered with age spots, fingered the worn beads anxiously. Most of the whispered conversation between the two women drifted into the rec eption area, and Daegan’s mother, sitting next to him on the bench polished by the rumps of truants and worried parents, fiddled nervously with the strap of her purse. She was wearing her best dress, black with white polka dots, and a black hat perched at an angle on her head; her long red hair had been pinned into something she called a French twist, and she’d been extra careful with her makeup, forgoing her favorite cherry-red lipstick for a faded coral. Across the room, above another bench, was a crucifix, large and life- like, and Daegan concentrated on Jesus’s crown of thorns and the painted blood that dripped down his gaunt, serene face. Near the window was a clock, the pendulum unmoving, as if time stopped once a potential student passed through the vestibule of St. Mark’s Elementary. The slow-paced clacking of typewriter keys stopped completely. “So then who’s the boy’s father—?” the gray-haired secretary, bending over ancient keys, asked. “She didn’t say.” “But if there’s a problem at school and I can’t reach her—?” “She gave a friend’s name, it’s here, listed on the form. Rindy Du Bois.” The sister’s voice again, frigid and superior. Daegan looked through the glass to stare at her pale face and tall, draped body. Her skin, wrinkled already, was further furrowed by the tight wimple that hid so much that not even a strand of her hair showed. Maybe she was bald. She seemed to feel his gaze and he saw it then, a little window into her mind, that opened suddenly to him. Devil’s spawn, she said wordlessly and returned his open- faced stare with an imperious glare. He shuddered and his mother whispered, “Don’t stare. It’s not polite.” “She hates me.” “No, babycakes, she’s just trying to help.” Mama patted his hand, but she looked nervous—the way she did when Frank called to tell her he wasn’t stopping by. Daegan knew better. His “sight” wasn’t complete, and he couldn’t read minds, but he caught glimpses of people’s true feelings. He had been able to do this for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t tell his mother about Sister Evangeline’s thoughts because the one time he mentioned being able to see what people were thinking, Mama had slapped him hard across the face and told him that he was never to mention it again. People would think he was crazy or possessed by demons or something very bad. And it wasn’t as if he could look into everyone’s thoughts or that it happened all the time.
Now, she stroked the side of his cheek. “You just do your best in school, honey, and everything will be all right.” “Miss O’Rourke,” the sister’s nasal tone was commanding, her hands folded piously as she stood in the doorway between the secretary’s room and the rec eption area. “If you could give Mrs. Bevans your insurance information, that sort of thing, I’ll take David down to—” “Daegan,” his mother said. The sister’s eyelids settled downward for a second, as if she was gathering her imminent patience. “Of course, Daegan. I’ll take him down to the classroom so he can meet the other children. You know, school started last Monday.” “I—I know; we were out of town...” Her voice faded away as if she knew how feeble her excuse sounded. She was lying, Daegan knew. They hadn’t been away; she had just been fighting with his father again. She’d wanted Daegan to go to the other private school and Frank had refused to allow it, wouldn’t pay for it, so they were here, at St. Mark’s. “Well, you’re back now and Daegan’s already behind in his lessons. Come on, son, I’ll show you to your room. Sister Mae will be your teacher.” She sw ept out of the room and Mama bent down and kissed him on his cheek. “Don’t you worry,” she told him, her smile wobbly as she squeezed his hands. “St. Mark’s is one of the best schools around and you’ll make lots of new friends.” Daegan wasn’t sure he believed her as he took in the dark wood walls, yellowed linoleum floors, cold benches, and glass windows with wire threaded through them. To him, the school was a prison. “You be good for the sisters,” his mother ordered softly. “I’ll be back to pick you up when you’re done today, so you won’t get lost. Now, run along.” Clutching his lunch pail, he took off after Sister Evangeline, who, after rounding a corner, paused in front of a scratched wooden door. Inside the room, kids were already seated at wooden desks on runners that were bolted to the floor in perfect rows. Each desk with its slanted top was full. Not an empty one in sight. Students in navy and green uniforms twisted their heads to look at him as if he were a curious animal in the zoo. “Sister Mae, this is Davi—Daegan O’Rourke, the new student I told you about.” “Ah, yes, well, he’ll have to sit at the table in the back of the room until we can come up with another desk—or... no, Daegan, why don’t you share a desk with... uh... Lucas... Lucas Bennett... there, Luke B., raise your hand.” Luke, a short freckle-faced kid without any front teeth scowled as he halfheartedly waved at Daegan. With Sister Evangeline sh epherding him, Daegan squeezed into one side of the chair. “Be good and pay attention. I want no trouble out of you,” the vulture-nun whispered. “There we go.” Sister Mae seemed pleased, her plump face flushed as she smiled. Duty done, Sister Evangeline slipped piously out of the room. With a warm smile and bright eyes behind her rimless glasses, Sister Mae insisted that everyone greet her new charge. “Come on children, let’s welcome Daegan. Everyone.” Daegan wanted to drop through the floor. “Hello, Daegan,” the class said in somewhat distorted unison.
“You can meet everyone at recess. All right, class,” she added, her gaze all-encompassing once again. “We were starting to learn the alphabet... how many of you can recognize this letter?” She pointed to a tagboard alphabet strung across the top of the blackboard. A hand shot up. A girl in the front row with springy curls and a smug little smile slid glances to either side of her, checking out her academic competition. “Amy?” “That’s a G,” she sang confidently. “I hate Amy Webster,” Lucas grumbled. “She’s a stuck-up snot.” Daegan smothered a grin and decided maybe Lucas wasn’t so bad after all. “Very good... and this one?” Sister Mae pointed again and Amy, waving frantically, practically peed her pants trying to gain Sister Mae’s attention again. Daegan’s mind wandered. The room smelled of chalk and floor wax and oil from Lucas’s dirty hair, but the teacher seemed kind and so he tried to pay attention, as he’d promised his mother he would. “You’re lucky, you know,” she’d told him the morning after her fight with Frank about where their son was to receive his lessons. Her eyes had been red-rimmed, her voice lacking conviction. “Not every father would pay for his son’s education in a private school.” Daegan wasn’t too young to know that Frank Sullivan didn’t give anything away without exacting a price. That’s the way it had been since the first time he’d laid eyes on his father. Daegan hadn’t asked at the time, but he couldn’t help wondering just what it was his mother was expected to give for her son to attend St. Mark’s. School turned out to be okay, though as he grew older, he came to understand the full meaning of being branded illegitimate, being the only kid in his class with such an ugly distinction. Everyone had a father and a mother, exc ept for Derrick Cawfield, whose dad had been killed—crushed by crates of frozen fish that had slipped off a crane while he’d been working on the docks. Daegan, the new kid, had been teased at first, his lunch stolen, spiders put in his desk, taunts hurled in his direction until he proved that even though he wasn’t as large as some of the kids in the class, he could use his fists as well as anyone. He suffered two bloody lips and a black eye, but gave as good as he got, and soon he was acc epted and the bullies turned their attention and jeers to Max Fulton, a thin boy who’d been born with only one thumb. His left hand had four fingers and some kind of freaky- looking stump. Max was embarrassed about his deformity and k ept his hand hidden under his desk a lot of the time. He never missed an answer in class, received A-pluses on every paper he ever turned in, and was the teacher’s pet, much to Amy Webster’s dismay. The entire class, including Amy, hated Max. Daegan was just glad someone else was taking the heat. As Daegan grew, he understood more about his position in the world— or his lack of it. His father came and went in the dark hours of the night and seemed a mystery to Daegan. Though his mother insisted that Frank Sullivan was a wonderful man, a good provider, and handsome as the day was long, Daegan didn’t believe her. Too often after Frank had spent several hours in her bedroom, she’d ended up crying as he left and every so often Daegan noticed bruises on her arms and neck. Once she even had a black eye, but she didn’t blame it on Frank Sullivan. Instead she claimed she’d been clumsy and bumped into a door. Daegan didn’t believe her. Out of a sense of morbid curiosity, Daegan wanted to know more about his father and his family, Frank’s legitimate children. Daegan spent hours watching the Lincolns, Mercedes, and Rolls Royces drop off their precious cargo at the private school only a few blocks away. Though both institutions were overseen by the same bishop, there was a definite line drawn between the haves and the have-nots, the factory owners and the workers. Nowhere was the social chasm more visible than the stoplight between St. Mark’s Elementary School and Our Lady of Sorrows, a
newer brick building built a little higher on the hill, closer to the church and therefore, Daegan reasoned, closer to God. Which was all just as well, he decided, as the years clicked by, because the farther he was from God, the better. On some Sundays as the church bells chimed, he sneaked up to Our Lady of Sorrows, climbed a big elm tree that shaded the parking lot, and viewed the chauffeured car as it rolled to the front entrance. Daegan always hoped for a glimpse of his father—the man who never saw his mother in the light of day, a tall man with broad shoulders, stiff spine, and copper-colored hair. A man who had never, not even in his late-night visits, ever once slid more than a disgusted glance in Daegan’s direction. His children—real children—were always with him as was his wife, a small woman with a flat chest and lines around her mouth that suggested she didn’t smile often. Maureen was never without a wide-brimmed hat that shaded her face, dark glasses to hide her eyes, and a fur coat wrapped around her slim figure. Mama said Maureen Sullivan drank all the time and could barely sober up to stumble into the church on Sunday mornings. The kids, two girls and a boy, looked more like their mother, all blond and pale, than Frank, whose complexion, Mama said, reminded her of Tony Curtis. Frank’s other children, with their polished shoes and expensive clothes, were serious, never talking or laughing together. As the family walked along the sidewalk to the church, they didn’t touch or even speak, but at the doorst ep, with a quick, sharp command from Maureen, Frank’s legitimate children linked fingers and Frank, frowning distastefully, took Maureen’s gloved hand in his without uttering a word. Daegan wanted to puke. So fake. The girls, Alicia and Bonnie, wore perfect dresses with matching hats, and Frank’s boy, Collin, was always dressed up in little suits and bow ties. Daegan told himself he was glad he wasn’t one of Frank’s real children, glad he didn’t have to have a woman like that bossing him around, glad he didn’t have to wear a stupid-looking tie and prim little suit... but he would have liked just one ride in the shiny car. Just one. Once, when Frank paused to stub out his cigarette beneath the elm, Daegan screwed up the courage to spit on him, hitting him square on the top of his oiled head. Hardly daring to breathe, Daegan then cowered behind the elm’s thick trunk. “Damn birds,” Frank growled as Daegan smothered a smile and prayed to God he wouldn’t be seen. He hazarded a peek and grinned to himself as Frank wiped his shiny hair with a monogrammed handkerchief. Hucking spittle at Frank was as close to communicating with his father as Daegan had ever come. Each time Frank planned a visit, Daegan was warned by his mother to always feign sle ep, never speak to Mr. Sullivan, and never, ever open the bedroom door, no matter what he heard. He hadn’t been able to stop, though, not when he’d heard his mother moaning and crying one night, whimpering as if she were in excruciating pain. Biting his lip to fight his cowardice, Daegan had climbed off the sle eper sofa, walked boldly across the tile floor, and pounded on the locked door. All noise, crying, sniffing, growling, and squeaking of the mattress, suddenly stopped. The apartment became immediately still exc ept for the constant drip of the kitchen faucet. Daegan’s knuckles hurt and he was about to reach for the handle of the door when he heard a round of obscenities. Daegan froze. “Dumb little shit,” Frank sputtered, the bed making noise again. “I guess it’s time to teach that kid a lesson.” “Frank, no—” his mother cried. “He’s just worried about me. That’s all.” “Well, he’s bothering the hell out of me.”
“He’s just a little boy.” Then more loudly, “Daegan, honey, babycakes, you go back to bed. Everything’s okay. Go on, now.” Daegan could barely swallow, his mouth was so dry. If he were brave, truly brave, he would open the door and try and protect his mama from whatever Frank was doing to her. “I hate him lurking around—spying on us, looking at us with those damned eyes. He needs to know how to behave, and for Christ’s sake, don’t call him anything so sissy as babycakes. You want him to grow up into some kind of fag?” There was a jingle of keys and buckles and Daegan imagined his father, with his bulging arm muscles, reaching for his belt. “No!” Mary Ellen whispered frantically. “Oh, Frank, no—please, don’t hit him, please—” Daegan’s throat turned to sand but he didn’t give up his vigil and pounded again. “Mama?” he croaked. “Dumb little bastard. I think it’s time he learned who his father is—how I should be treated, that I pay for that goddamned school he goes to and this shithole of an apartment!” “No, no, no!” She was panicking, her voice breathy. “Come on, honey, he’s quit pounding on the door, hasn’t he? He’s probably already asle ep.” Daegan, his mouth tasting foul, backed slowly away. “Here, let me make you feel better,” she said in a voice that was low and whispery—an ugly voice Daegan didn’t want to think of as belonging to his mother. It made her sound nasty. “That’s better, baby. Come on, I’ll make you feel good.” Again the sound of buckles jangling. There was silence for a heart-stopping moment. The drip continued. Outside a cat cried, then the hoarse whisper of Frank’s voice. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “You know how to do it, don’t you? Damn, but you’re good. I don’t think I can hold back—oh, kitten, oh God.” A long slow groan followed, almost as if Frank Sullivan were in some kind of severe, but ecstatic pain. “What you do to me... oooh... that’s it. More, more, more. Take more. That’s it, baby. Ke ep doin’ me. That’s iiiiit.” The back of Daegan’s legs collided with the sofa. His jaw worked. Squeezing his eyes shut until they hurt, he fought the hot tears that burned against his eyelids. He should do something, anything to save her from having to act this way. Then it hit him. His mother was doing it for him. Because she loved him. How many times had she told him that she was saving her money so that he could have a better life, so that he wouldn’t have to work twelve-hour days huddled over a sewing machine doing piecework at a big factory like she did—not that he would, of course. The men didn’t sew. They had higher-paying jobs filling boxes, stacking crates, loading trucks, but he—Daegan O’Rourke—would have better because she willed it so. He was, after all, Frank Sullivan’s son. The blood flowing through his veins was a wealthy shade of blue. Shaking, Daegan crawled back to the fold-down couch that served as his bed. Above the cushions a picture of John F. Kennedy was hung reverently next to a portrait of the Virgin Mary with her arms spread wide, a halo glowing around her head. Daegan huddled under the blanket, his head pushed into the pillow as he tried to block out the sounds of rutting from the bedroom. Fists clenched, he concentrated on the noises of the city—horns blaring, tires spinning, people laughing and yelling from the tavern beneath their apartment, the low belch of a foghorn from a ship in the harbor, the scratch of mice in the walls, anything, anything but the moans of pleasure and pain that erupted from the
bedroom. Feeling like a coward, he tried to sle ep and woke up later to hear his mother pouring a drink. They—his parents—were standing in the kitchen in the dark, the lights of the city allowing enough illumination so that Daegan, even through nearly closed eyes, could watch them. Frank was standing behind her, his head was bowed into her shoulder, his arms firmly around her waist, pulling her buttocks tight against him. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier—about the boy.” Never did Frank refer to him by name. “If only you’d love him.” Her voice had that forlorn, world-weary tone Daegan had come to hate. “I’ve tried to, Mary Ellen, really I have. But he’s so different from my other kids. I’m not much good with them, either.” “But Daegan’s special.” “Probably. So are the others. Christ. It’s all so goddamned complicated.” She twisted in his arms and handed him the drink. “He needs a father, Frank.” “I know, I know, kitten, but it can’t be me.” “He’s your flesh and blood.” “So you say.” “You know it. He looks just like you.” A pause. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You love me, don’t you?” she wheedled and there was a weighty pause that nearly broke Daegan’s heart. “You know I do.” “Let Daegan know you care.” “I—” He slid a glance over at the divan and Daegan squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how.” “But you know what it’s like. Your father—” “Was a self-centered son of a bitch. We addressed him as sir; he never smiled. Since I was third in line, I didn’t count much—not even when William was killed. He sent me to boarding school at six and in the summers I was away at camp.” “So you know how it feels to be ignored by your father.” “Listen, baby,” he said gently and Daegan chanced opening one eye a crack. “You have to understand something. No matter what I feel about you —or the kid—nothing’s ever gonna change.” He kissed her on the neck and shoulders before sliding the strap of her negligee downward and pressing his lips to the top of her breast. Daegan nearly threw up. Why did she let him touch her that way? Why? “I want you to marry me, Frank.” “I’m already married, you know that.” “Divorce her.” “I can’t.” “You don’t love her.” Another breathless, silent heartbeat. “What’s love got to do with marriage?”
“Frank, please—” “She’d take me to the cleaners, Mary Ellen.” “You’d still be rich and we could be together.” “You just don’t get it, do you? This”—he motioned broadly to the apartment and Daegan—“isn’t what it’s all about.” He glanced around the dingy room and scowled. “I’ll get you a better place.” “I don’t want a better place. I want you.” “Oh, baby, quit dreaming, would ya? I’ll try to be nicer to the boy, get you into a bigger apartment, but I’ll never divorce Maureen.” “But I love you.” There were tears in her voice, and Daegan cringed. “That’s why I ke ep coming back.” “But you sle ep with her.” “Not much. I already told you, we have s eparate bedrooms. Most of the time her door is locked.” “And when it isn’t?” “Then I go to her. She’s cold as a fish, just lays there like a statue, her legs spread, her eyes shut, her mouth turned down at the corners, but she thinks it’s her duty to sle ep with me once in a while. I don’t really get it, but I do it.” “I wish you never touched her!” “Do you? Why don’t you show me how much?” She giggled. “Again?” “That’s why I come here, baby.” Lifting her off her feet, Frank carried her into the bedroom and kicked the door shut. Daegan hated the nights his father came visiting, detested feigning sle ep at the sound of Frank Sullivan’s heavy tread and the smell of smoke, whiskey, and cologne that followed the big brute of a man into the apartment. Daegan always knew when Frank was coming over. The apartment was cleaner than usual, and he was told to do his homework quickly and eat a hurried meal of macaroni and cheese and creamed corn while his mother spent hours getting ready, listening to Frank Sinatra records, wearing her best dress, nylon stockings with seams up the back—the kind Frank liked— and heels that elevated her four or five inches. She washed and set her red hair, then worked feverishly plucking her eyebrows, and applying foundation, rouge, lipstick, and God only knew what else from a dozen jars and tubes. When her hair was combed just right and her earrings in place, she splashed perfume over her neck and shoulders, all because Frank was coming over to spend a few lousy hours in her bedroom humping her and drinking whiskey before leaving as quickly as he’d come, slinking down the stairs and driving off in his Jaguar to the three-storied house on the hill to his wife and real children. His mother didn’t like Frank’s wife. “Maureen Smythe—a snob, let me tell you. Oh, she gave Frank a son, but the boy’s not strong and handsome like you—takes after her side just like those two snot-nosed daughters with pale skin and pinched faces. But me... I gave him a beautiful son who looks like him,” she’d said proudly despite the tears standing in her eyes. “A strong, beautiful, good son.” Daegan hated it when she called him beautiful, hated it even worse when she reminded him that he was Frank Sullivan’s bastard. He wasn’t even sure being good was all it was cracked up to be. Being good was a helluva lot of
trouble and not much fun. By the time Daegan was in the seventh grade, Lucas Bennett was already shoplifting records from the local store and some of the kids were making out. Sandy Kavenaugh, a tenth grader who lived in a dingy apartment on the other side of the alley, bragged that he’d gotten all the way to third base with Kristy Manning, but then the girls always fell for Kavenaugh. It didn’t take long for Daegan to discover that walking on the right side of the law wasn’t all that exciting. At eleven, he started stealing cigarettes and smoking them with his buddies in the littered baseball field behind St. Mark’s. By the time he was twelve, he was swiping hub caps while carousing at night and had already sampled from the priest’s stock of wine in the sacristy when, as an altar boy, he was supposed to be cleaning up after service. The temptation of sin was opening to him as he reached adolescence and he was embracing every minute of it. During lunch break in the eighth grade, he was lucky enough to slip into the cloak room with Tracy Hancock—a tenth-grade girl with pillowy breasts as big as cantaloupes. He’d kissed her with his open mouth, felt her lips part eagerly, and had thrilled when his tongue had touched hers. She’d nearly sucked it out of his mouth and he wondered how much farther she would go. He took a chance and she started breathing fast and didn’t slap his hands away when he felt her up, his fumbling fingers reaching into her stitched cotton bra and grazing soft, willing flesh. Her nipples felt like warm little buttons and his cock was so hard it ached as it strained against his fly. He couldn’t think, just moved with her, and his mind was blazing with the images he’d seen in a tattered copy of Playboy that Sam Crosby k ept hidden in his backpack and loaned out for a quarter a night. Tracy panted in his ear. He pushed up her sweater and tore at the buttons of her blouse, anxiously shoving the white fabric away with his sweaty hands so that he could look at her breasts—and they promised to live up to their r eputation. Pale skin with a faint webbing of blue veins just beneath the surface. Her face was red, her mouth open, her eyes glazed as he rubbed a hand right over her bra. “More,” she whispered anxiously, writhing on the floor. He was afraid he might come in his slacks. Impulsively he’d kissed her collarbone and she moaned, her legs wrapping around his middle. Then, with thick fingers, he unlatched her bra and saw the famous Hancock boobs in all their glory. Huge and white, with little pink nipples that stood proudly at attention. Heaven. He was in heaven. She arched upward, inviting him to touch her even more, proud of the biggest bra size in all of St Mark’s. They felt so good. They filled up his hands as he rubbed. “Good, that’s good,” she whispered from the back of her throat. So hard he felt like he was about to explode, he started kissing her and tasting her and licking at her nipples. With a soft moan, she started moving her hips against him, practically begging for it as he suckled. His blood was pounding in his ears, his crotch aching. Oh, God, were they going to do it? Right here in the cloak room with nuns in the lower hallway and pictures of Jesus hung near the door? He reached under the waistband of her skirt, felt her shiver in anticipation, and touched a warmth so divine he thought he might die and go to heaven. Tracy’s fingers worked at his fly. Oh, God, oh, God, oh—the sound of leather scraping against wood caught his attention. Footst eps. Coming fast and hard. Tracy didn’t seem to notice, she was sprawled beneath him, her legs in knee-high stockings spread wide. Instinctively, he yanked her sweater down, hiding her tits. There was a sharp, judgmental gasp as the hangers and coats parted with a whoosh. “What’re you doin’...?” Tommy Shoenborn, a needle-nosed little kid with a big mouth and dirty fingernails who was still praying he’d go through puberty someday, had come searching for his parka and found them panting and
groping on the floor of the closet. “Oh, my God, oh my God, oh my God! Sister Clare! Sister Clare!” Tommy, a suck-up from day one, stared down at them. “Daegan and Tracy are fornicating!” Daegan scrambled to his feet, grabbing Tommy by his collar and shoving him up against the wall. “Shh! Say a word and I swear I’ll kill you.” Tracy, red-faced and mortified, slapped Daegan soundly, her boobs swaying deliciously before she reached under her sweater, hooked her bra deftly, and tossed her hair away from her face. “Stay away from me, Daegan O’Rourke,” she said. “If you ever try that again, I’ll send my brother after you!” She shouldered her way past the coats and a gaped-faced Tommy and Daegan. His first sexual experience had cost him. Pitying, r eproachful looks from the nuns, extra homework, his hands whipped with the pointer until they bled, and about a million whispered rosaries, all acts of contrition to seek forgiveness for his sins, but with each “Hail Mary” he uttered, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God for allowing him a chance to touch the spectacular Hancock breasts. In a vain attempt to restore her tattered r eputation, Tracy had never even glanced his way again, but the girls at St. Mark’s had been intrigued. Already a curiosity because he was a bastard, Daegan had gained a certain fascination. The girls had all thought he was naughty and seductive, and with his new prestige as a nasty boy interested in sex, he’d become suddenly popular. Only a few prim and proper girls hadn’t openly wanted to experiment with him. The boys had been awed that he’d actually touched Tracy’s nubile body and wanted intimate accounts of the size, shape, and texture of her boobs. Derrick Cawfield, a kid with freckles the color of his short hair, swore that he beat off every night just thinking about the twin pleasure mounds. Even Sandy Kavenaugh, older and the most sexually advanced of all the boys Daegan knew, was impressed. Sandy made it his personal mission to try and feel Tracy up and give her a hickey on one of those incredible tits. Daegan’s teachers were concerned, and the flashes of insight he caught from them told him that they thought he’d never amount to anything. Beneath Sister Clare’s patient smile was a thought that bothered him. Poor dear. He can’t help himself. Its a shame he was born to such a loose woman. Such a smart boy, but so willful. Sister Evangeline was worse. Should never have agreed to let him enroll. A bad seed if there ever was one. Devil child, born to a slut who sle eps with a married man. If it weren’t for the money Frank Sullivan offered for a new gymnasium, I’d expel him on the spot. God would understand. This one, Daegan O’Rourke, is a child of Satan. And Tracy Hancock was no better. Though she never outwardly gave him the time of day again, he saw a glimmer in her mind as she wondered what it would be like to go all the way with him. Daegan’s teachers began advising his mother that he was wandering down the treacherous and painful road of sin. Sister Mae glowered at him—though he thought she had a curious twinkle in her eyes; priests, after punishing him with a paddle, counseled him on the temptations of the flesh and gave him extra duties around the school, along with long prayer sessions where, on bent knees, he was supposed to be begging the Father’s forgiveness, but Daegan had never regretted his experience with Tracy for one second. As Daegan entered high school and fought against his ever-present lust, the entire situation with his father became too much to bear. He saw Frank Sullivan for the useless son of a bitch he was—a spineless coward who made him
sick. Too old to pretend that he didn’t know what was going on in the bedroom, Daegan left before each of Frank’s visits. His mother always protested violently, having some screwed-up idea that they—the three of them—were some kind of pathetic family, but he just grabbed his worn leather jacket and ignored her pleas as he slipped outside, turned up his collar, and climbed down the stairs past the back entrance to the Cat O’Nine Tails Tavern. He’d rather hang out at pool halls and beer joints even though he was underage than listen to his mother and his jack-off of a father go at it. Those years he worked a little, stole a lot, and swore that if he ever met Frank Sullivan in the light of day, he’d beat the living shit out of him. Matter of fact, he looked forward to the opportunity. Daegan met his cousins for the first time when he was just shy of eighteen. Though he’d known of them for years, seen them from a distance, he wasn’t certain that they’d been told about him when one night, out of the blue, Beatrice approached him. It was near Christmas and he was hanging out at one of the pool halls in South Boston, smoking and telling disgusting jokes, wishing the owner, Shorty O’Donnell, didn’t know he was underage so that he could order a beer. The heater rattled as it pumped hot air from vents dark with smoke and grime. Above the sounds of laughter and scratchy Christmas music coming from a tiny radio near the window, he heard the door open. A bell jangled announcing a new player—a potential patsy. A whoosh of cold air rushed into the room, and even though he was poised over the shot, he swore he heard, How could anyone stand to be in here for more than two seconds? He missed the shot and looked up. “Would ya look at that?” one man whispered. Another, the guy with the droopy eye and tattoo of a skull on his arm, let out a long, appreciative whistle. Heads all around him swiveled. Eyes slitted. Beatrice didn’t fit in the cavernous room. Wearing a fur-lined jacket, kid gloves, and matching boots, she didn’t look a thing like the rest of the few women who frequented Shorty’s. They usually hung around their boyfriends, wore short leather skirts or jeans, sucked on suds, and smoked silently. Their hair was teased, their makeup on the thick side, their teeth not close to being even for the most part. Beatrice Sullivan’s patrician looks reeked of blue blood and money. She spied her cousin and sauntered up to him. “So you’re Daegan O’Rourke,” she said as he leaned over a pool table marred by neglected cigarettes left burning throughout the years. “That’s right.” He made the shot indifferently though his heart was really racing. Why had she come looking for him? The spit in his mouth dried up. The cue ball smacked into the number seven ball, which ricocheted into the corner pocket. He moved around the table, using the chalk, never meeting her eyes, as if he didn’t give a damn that she’d obviously followed him. What did he care? A lot, he realized with a sick jolt. He cared a whole lot more than he should have. “I’m Beatrice. Everyone calls me Bibi.” “I know.” He was starting to sweat. The pool cue slipped in his hands. “We’re related.” He made a d eprecating sound in the back of his throat. “Not really.
Look, I’ve got a game to play. There’s money in volved. You want something?” “How much?” “What?” “How much money’s in volved?” For the first time in his life he tried to look into someone’s mind and failed miserably. As he’d matured, his ability, the one he’d cursed so violently, had weakened. “Why?” “I’ve got something more interesting to do.” “I’ll bet, baby,” a thick-headed guy with a flattop yelled. “How much?” Daegan thought about the five bucks he had riding on this game. Nothing to her. A fortune to him. “Enough.” “Leave it.” “Sure,” he said sarcastically. As he tried to make his next shot, she leaned her hip against the table, directly in his line of view. Her skirt was wool, her legs long, and she looked as out of place here as a five-carat diamond in a bucket of gravel. “I think we should talk.” “Why?” “Family matters.” He raised an eyebrow, cast her a drop-dead glance, and said, “I don’t have much family.” “You’ll have less if you don’t lose the attitude.” He straightened and folded his arms over his chest, pinning his cue stick between his T-shirt and forearms. “I’m busy.” She laughed. “This is how you spend your nights?” “I’m asking again. Just what is it you want?” Her gaze slid around the room, to the other men who were gawking at her openly, like hungry wolves around a wounded lamb. “We should talk in private.” “This is as private as I get.” “That’s not what I heard.” A wicked little smile played upon lips that glistened a soft shade of pink. A chorus of “Whoas” swelled around him. “Maybe you heard wrong.” “I don’t think so.” “Look, Beatrice—” “Bibi.” “I don’t see any reason to—” “Have it your way. I’ll be in the car.” She checked her watch and Lefty O’Riley, a pickpocket at the next table, greedily eyed all seventeen jewels.
“You’ve got ten minutes.” Leaving a cloud of perfume in her wake, she strolled out of the pool hall and the clicking of cue balls stopped. Everyone in the building watched her rump sway as she made her way outside. “Hell,” Daegan growled, glancing at the bills laid flat against the corner of the table, then tossed his stick to the guy he’d been playing and followed her. “Hey, you can’t walk out on a game!” Bill Schubert called. He didn’t r eply, just snagged his beat-up leather jacket off a hook near the door and swung outside, where the winter wind ripped through him like a chain saw. His boots crunched on snow that had fallen, half melted, and refrozen. Several men had gathered near a fire that crackled in a trash can, warming fingers that poked through tattered gloves, their bodies wrapped in long coats, their collective breath fogging the air. A car, a big black Cadillac with smoky windows, was idling in the loading zone. The back door was open. Waiting. Exhaust clouded from the tail pipe and strains of “The Little Drummer Boy” floated from the interior. I knew he’d come, she said without speaking. He jabbed his hands into his pockets and crossed the sidewalk. The distinct impression that he was going to make the single worst decision of his life tonight and there wasn’t much he could do about it nagged at him. Bibi and whatever she had planned was waiting. For him. About to change his life. Daegan took a de ep breath, decided he didn’t have much to lose anyway, and ducked in the buttery soft interior of the Cadillac.