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  * * * *

  Although Sean was worried about his mother, he knew she would be all right. Her attorney would argue diminished capacity or—most likely—temporary insanity. Since abused women received no special privileges in the state of Georgia, she would be found guilty of manslaughter. Of that, Sean had no doubt. She would be sentenced to Milledgeville, the state mental hospital. How long she would remain there would be up to the judge, but Sean doubted it would be for life.

  At least he hoped it wouldn't.

  Gripping the suitcase, he turned to the door and stopped. He thought of the other motel room door he'd stood at earlier that day.

  Then he thought of the lies he and Bronwyn had told.

  And hoped there would be nothing to come of those lies.

  * * * *

  Bronwyn had been quiet all the way home from the police station. Her parents had been equally silent. When they turned into the driveway, she knew the reprieve was about to end. But when her mother spoke, her words surprised Bronwyn.

  “It's late,” Deirdre said. “Why don't you take a shower and go to bed, Bronnie. We'll talk in the morning.”

  Bronwyn looked to her father, sitting rigidly behind the wheel. At his curt nod, Bronwyn opened the door and got out.

  * * * *

  “Are you sure about this?” Deirdre queried her husband as she watched her daughter enter the house.

  “As sure as I have ever been about anything.” He was staring straight ahead, his hands kneading the leather steering wheel cover.

  Earlier, while en route to the police station, they had discussed what must be done. Deirdre had initially argued against her husband's plan, but in the end, she had agreed—Bronwyn must not be allowed to throw her future away on a boy like Sean Cullen.

  “Go on,” he said. “I'll be in, in a minute.”

  “About Neal Hesar...” When Dermot turned to look at her, she shrugged helplessly. “I didn't mean to insult you.”

  “I know what you were doing, DeeDee,” he said, his voice tight. “You also know how I feel about the man.”

  “Don't you think it would be better to assign him to Mrs. Cullen's case anyway?”

  “I certainly can't treat her, given the circumstances, can I? It will have to be Hesar, charlatan that he is!”

  There had always been bad blood between the two men. Both had grown up in Albany; both had attended Harvard medical; and both had courted Deirdre Siobhan Brell while she was a sophomore at Radcliff. Even though Dermot had won Deirdre's heart and hand, Neal Hesar was still a sore point in their relationship. It was unfortunate that both men had found work in the same hospita,l for their ongoing antagonism often landed them on the carpet before the institute's board of directors. Since neither was willing to leave the job and settle elsewhere, the battle seemed destined to continue.

  “If the bastard would only take that job with Wynth Industries!” Dermot fumed.

  “Why don't you? It would mean a huge salary increase and—”

  Dermot pounded the steering wheel. “I'm not going anywhere. Let Hesar take the damned job!”

  Deirdre clamped her mouth shut. They'd had this same discussion numerous times since the offer from W. I. had been extended to Dermot from Dr. Brighton Wynth, the Executive Director of Operations. She felt Dermot was being irrationally stubborn, but dared not tell him.

  “Who the hell wants to live in Iowa, anyway?” he snapped.

  “I wouldn't mind. I like the snow.”

  He glared at her. “Well, I don't!”

  Knowing further talk would make Dermot only more determined not to accept W. I.'s offer, she opened the car door. “You're sure you want to go through with this?” she asked, wanting confirmation once last time before setting his plan into motion.

  “Yes.”

  Without another word, she got out of the car and went into the house. When she walked past the laundry room and into the kitchen, she heard the shower going upstairs. Showering before bed was a nightly ritual Bronwyn had established at an early age. The habit annoyed Deirdre, herself being a morning shower person. But the nightly routine was something that seemed to relax Bronnie and help her sleep better.

  It also took a long time.

  Her jaw set, Deirdre climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom. In her bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet. She pushed aside several pale orange medicine bottles until she found the one she was looking for. She shook two tablets into her hand and returned the bottle to the cabinet.

  Dermot was closing the laundry room door when she returned to the kitchen. He barely glanced at her as she took the mortar and pestle from the shelf where she stored spices.

  “Grind them as finely as you can,” he instructed.

  Deirdre dropped the tablets into the mortar. With more force than necessary, she began to crush the 100-mg. tablets of secobarbital with the pestle.

  He poured her a glass of soda pop and brought it to her. As Deirdre reached into the silverware drawer for a spoon, Dermot poured some of the soda pop into the mortar.

  When no residual flakes of barbiturate could be seen floating, Deirdre took the glass upstairs and exchanged it for the glass Bronwyn always took to bed with her each night. Though it was another one of Bronnie's rituals that annoyed Deirdre, tonight, she was thankful.

  * * * *

  Dermot lifted her to a sitting position as Deirdre knelt on the opposite side of the bed and placed a robe around her shoulders. He helped to thread her arms through the sleeves, then laid her down, rolled her toward him so Deirdre could pull the robe over her flanks. After rolling her onto her back, he tied the robe's sash around her waist and put the fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet.

  As Deirdre finished packing, Dermot gently lifted Bronwyn into his arms and carried her downstairs. The door into the garage stood open, as well as the back door of the car. Carefully, he placed his unconscious child into the back seat, put a pillow under her head, and shut the door. He opened the trunk and waited.

  * * * *

  Deirdre brought two bags into the garage. There would be time later for Dermot to pack additional items, to send them on to their destination, but for now, they had enough to sustain them for a few days. She also knew they could always buy more.

  “You have the passports?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her birth certificate?”

  “Yes, I have everything we will need.”

  After putting the bags in the trunk, and shutting it, he looked at his watch. “The plane should be ready to roll when we get there.”

  Deirdre did not reply. There was nothing to say. She went to the passenger side and got in.

  “We are doing what is best for our little girl,” Dermot said.

  She remained silent as he cranked the car, pushed the button on the garage door opener, and put the car into gear.

  “Everything will be all right,” he told her.

  And still, she said nothing. Her mind was not on what they were doing, the right or wrong of it. Her mind was not even on her lovely daughter lying so still and peaceful in the back seat. Her mind was on the young heart she knew would break, and—for a reason she could not explain, though she sought hard to do so—she wondered why Sean Cullen's feelings should matter to her at all.

  CHAPTER 11

  The hearing went exactly as Sean sensed it would. Though he had argued with her against it, his mother waved a trial by jury and agreed to a bench hearing. After hearing the evidence, studying incriminating pictures of a dismembered Tymothy Cullen, and listening to several experts convey opinions on the temporary insanity of the defendant, the judge looked at Dorrie Cullen with pity, but found no reason not to find her guilty of manslaughter. Though Sean was certain the judge's empathy was genuine, it had not been allowed to sway Bible-belt belief in the sin of murder.

  “Yes, Dorrie Cullen had been abused throughout her entire married life. Yes, her husband was a vile, violent man, whose cruel tendencies spread to his son. Yes, he deserved to b
e punished for the terrible things he did to his family, but he did not deserve to pay for his crimes with his life.”

  The judge's words rang in Sean's ears. He sat behind his mother, separated from her by the thick wooden rail. He kept his attention on the back of her head, his gaze passing over her graying hair and the meek way she held her neck. Occasionally, he'd look away, watching the observers. He had denied himself the privilege of listening to the thoughts of his mother's peers—he really did not want to know what they thought of her...or him. Their gazes shifted to him now and again and, when they did, he felt like a microorganism plastered between two slides of glass under a microscope. He saw pity directed at him, which hurt more than the openly hostile stares of some of the spectators who had come to witness his shame.

  His scrutiny shifted to Bobby Thompson's younger brother, Jerry, sitting opposite him across the aisle. Thompson smiled nastily, cocking a chin toward him in acknowledgement of his attention.

  Sean delved into the thoughts of the burly junior varsity football player, but there was no hint of Bronwyn's whereabouts in that murky, masturbatory mind. Entering Thompson's head was like slipping into the semen-stained pages of some vile pornographic magazine. It made Sean queasy, and he withdrew, feeling soiled by the contact.

  He turned in his seat, searching for some other face behind which the knowledge of Bronwyn's disappearance might be imparted. But there was no one he recognized. A light sweep of the room picked up only stray thoughts of how tragic was the trail and how frail the defendant appeared. He frowned, and was about to turn around when a single word brought him bolt upright in his seat: "Seannie."

  He surveyed the room, seeking the mind that had whispered the word. He searched each face—some looked away as though he had caught them doing something obscene; some looked back at him as though they feared he might be about to cause a commotion; most simply stared.

  No face revealed the culprit.

  Deciding the worry about Bronwyn and his lack of sleep—her disappearance two months earlier had caused his mind to play tricks on him—he slumped in his seat, although his body stayed as tense as a coiled spring. He felt sweat between his shoulder blades, and a cold, clammy sensation in the small of his back. He shifted, the feeling not quite painful, but not comfortable, either. He rubbed at a sudden throbbing over his right eye.

  The judge's words brought Sean's head up.

  “Where she will be remanded for a period of not more than fifty, not less than ten years.”

  Sean frowned. Remanded where? He had not heard.

  “Milledgeville,” came the words, in a thick Irish brogue.

  Violently twisting around in his seat, Sean saw a tall, blond-haired man exiting the courtroom. Though he did not view the man's face, he knew it had been this man's thoughts that had come so unbidden and unwelcome.

  Unable to follow his tormentor, he stood, turning to look at his mother, being supported by her attorney. He reached for her across the rail. She came briefly into his arms before the bailiff pulled them apart, dragged her arms behind her, and handcuffed her wrists.

  “I'll come see you,” he said even as she began shaking her head. “Why not?”

  “Go on with your life, Seannie,” she said, her thick brogue raspy and breaking. “Join the service. Make somethin’ of your life, son. Forget about me.”

  “Never!” He tried to get past the guard at the rail, but the man held him back. He watched his mother being led away and could do nothing to stop it.

  “Find your lady, Seannie,” she said. “Don't ever stop lookin’ for her, lad!”

  “Ma!” he called, his frustration hurt festering.

  “Find her, Seannie. She's your lifemate. Don't forget that!”

  Those were the last words his mother said as the door closed, shutting out her tired, worn face. He stood, staring at the portal as though by sheer will he could fling it open.

  Jerry Thompson chuckled when he bumped—most likely, deliberately—into Sean. “You have about as much chance of finding Bronwyn as your old lady has ever getting out of the loony bin!”

  Sean's fist caught Thompson on the point of his chin.

  Jerry lurched backward, though one of his friends kept him from falling. Guards seized Sean before he could leap on his enemy. They dragged him away, bucking and plunging in the strong hands of his captors.

  Held as he was, Sean could not escape Thompson. With a roar, Jerry drove a vicious fist into Sean's belly. As he doubled over with pain, another blow came—this time to the side of his head—before guards subdued Thompson and yanked him away.

  “Arrest that man!” the judge demanded, returning to the courtroom, his robe half-off one shoulder. He pointed at Sean.

  “You'll never see her again, you shanty Irish bastard!” Thompson shouted, spitting blood. “The family will see to it!”

  “Him, too!” the judge ordered.

  “She's beyond your filthy reach!” Thompson laughed. “Uncle Dermot won't ever let you near her again!”

  Sean roared, trying desperately to break free of the restraints on his arms, but the guards had none of it. They hustled him behind the rail and through the door his mother had exited.

  * * * *

  VanLandingham tapped her college class ring on the bar. “Hey, there.”

  Sean was sitting on his bunk, his elbows on his knees. “Hey.”

  The detective chuckled. “That's one helluva mean right cross you got, Cullen. You knocked out three of Jerry Thompson's front teeth.”

  “Too bad. I meant to break his damned jaw.”

  “Yeah, well all that display of temper got you was thirty days in here, son.” When Sean looked up, his eyes wide, VanLandingham nodded. “You're damned lucky I was able to convince Judge Woolery you aren't a menace to society. He wanted to give you six months hard labor on some shitty road gang.”

  Sean's shoulders slumped. His head fell to his chest as he buried his hands in his hair. “I screwed up royally, didn't I?”

  “The good news is Gerard Thompson is gonna be with you. Fighting in Vince Woolery's courtroom is a definite no-no.” She thrust her arms through the bars and leaned her elbows on the crosspiece. “Now, I have to make sure the two of you stay the hell away from each another so you don't spend another thirty days in here.”

  Sean sighed heavily, then swung his legs up on the bunk. He stretched out with an arm over his face. “What difference does it make? I've got nowhere to go, nothing to do. Might as well get a free meal while I can.”

  VanLandingham grunted.

  There was a long silence before Sean slid his arm to his forehead and glanced at her. “What?”

  “I spoke with your mother's attorney.” The detective clasped her hands through the bars. “She doesn't want you to see her in there, so has put herself on the list for ‘no visitation.'”

  Sean stared at her for a moment, then covered his eyes again. “I thought she'd do that.”

  “Can't say as I blame her. Milledgeville is not a place conducive to pleasant visits.” She cleared her throat. “And I thought you might like to know—I found out where Bronwyn is.”

  Sean was off the bunk as though a rocket had gone off beneath him. His movement startled VanLandingham. She jumped, stumbling back from the cell.

  Coming forward, Sean wrapped his hands around the bars. “Tell me!”

  VanLandingham breathed heavily, her face turning red. “God, you move fast, boy!”

  “Tell me!”

  “Hold your water!”

  Sean pulled on the bars. “Lady, come on. Where is she?”

  “In Ireland.”

  “Ireland?” he repeated, his voice filled with disbelief.

  “Her mother and father enrolled her in a private Catholic boarding school in northern Ireland. I think it's named Galrath Academy, but it's really a nunnery on the outskirts of the town Rostrevor, in County Down.”

  “When I went to the clinic to find her father, they said he'd taken a leave of absence. They
didn't say anything about him leaving the country.”

  “Maybe they didn't know. I've learned he's taken a position with a research center in Iowa and has terminated his position here.”

  “Iowa?” Sean asked in a tone that suggested he'd never heard the word.

  “I've had the rent-a-cops at Wickergate keeping a watch on the McGregor's place. One called this morning to tell me there was a moving van at the house. I went and questioned the driver. I asked where they were taking the furniture. They said a place called Grinnell, Iowa. I found it on the map. It's about fifty miles from Des Moines. A little more investigating came up with the place McGregor is now working for Wynth Industries—a place called Baybridge.”

  “What is it?” Sean inquired.

  “A private maximum security prison for the criminally insane. You know—serial killers, psychopaths, that kind of thing. That just damned sure gives me the creeps, you know?” The detective shuddered. “Mrs. McGregor is working there, too.”

  “They left Bronwyn in Ireland—alone?”

  “It would seem so. The van driver said Mrs. McGregor was with them for the walk-through yesterday, but only the real estate agent was there this morning. I spoke with her. Ut seems Wynth Industries bought the house from the McGregor's as part of the deal—the real estate people will sell it for the corporation.”

  “Galrath,” Sean said, laying his forehead against the bars.

  “I did some checking on it.”

  “And it would take a company of Navy SEALS to break into it, right?’ Sean queried in a hard voice.

  She sighed. “Might take a platoon of Green Berets, Army Rangers, and SEALS. It's more or less a cloistered community of nuns—what was described as a ‘maximum security lockdown boarding school for recalcitrant rich girls whose parents couldn't control them.'”

  Sean squeezed his eyes shut. “Mother of God...”

  “They can't keep her forever,” VanLandingham said, touching one his hands gripping the bars.

  He looked at her, tears glistening in his eyes. “You know they'll do everything they can to make her forget me.”

  She rubbed his hand. “The girl I talked to that evening was very much in love with you. Love like the kind I saw in Bronwyn McGregor's eyes, and heard in her voice, doesn't fade. It never dies. She won't forget you.”