Patrick held an envelope in his hand. He opened it, and several photos spilled out.
Abe leaned over the table for a closer look.
“The many faces of Orla,” Patrick said, touching one of the pictures.
She was a beauty - dark hair, bright blue eyes like Patrick’s. Her long, sinewy frame looked strong, like an Amazon woman.
“She loved her bike. Rode it everywhere. For her sixteenth birthday, she didn’t beg for a car. She wanted a new bike. The Schwinn Super Sport in lemon yellow.”
“Nice-looking bike,” Abe said.
Liz studied the young woman’s face.
In one photo, she sat on a paisley couch next to a boy about her age, with a shock of red hair and a freckled nose.
“That’s her cousin, Liam. My sister’s son. He lives in Detroit.”
Orla smiled in the photo, but not a big, toothy grin. Instead it was a small smile, as if she and Liam had just shared an inside joke the photographer was unaware of.
“This is the most recent.” Patrick pointed at the last picture.
Orla stood next to a small woman with a pinched smile.
“That’s my wife, Fiona,” he told Abe.
A distance separated the two women, despite Orla’s long arm draped over her mother’s small shoulders.
“It was Fiona’s birthday. Orla took us out to dinner at Paulie’s. She’d just started a new job and was excited to have extra money to treat us.”
“What was the new job?” Abe asked.
Liz watched him pick up his pen. His eyes drifted back to the photos for an instant, a sadness gathering, but then he shifted, looking at Patrick dispassionately.
“Waiting tables at a cafe called Zander’s. They serve funny food, like raw sandwiches or something. You couldn’t pay me to eat there, but these younger generations.” Patrick waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not a long-term option. Orla takes classes at the college. She teaches sewing, makes costumes for the playhouse shows. She’s an unusual girl, gets bored easily. She makes handbags and sells them at the farmer’s market, among other things.”
“Did she mention anyone from the cafe? Anyone who made her feel uncomfortable? Or anywhere else in her life?”
“I wish I could tell you, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. Orla doesn’t talk to me or her mom much about personal stuff. She hasn’t lived at home for a year and a half. Her girlfriends would know those things. And Liam.“ Patrick picked up the photo of Orla with her cousin. “My sister and I call ‘em bacon and cabbage.”
Liz saw the same confused expression on Abe’s face.
Patrick shrugged.
“Guess you have to be Irish. Our mam cooked bacon and cabbage every day she could get her hands on some good meat. They go together - so to speak.”
“Does Liam have any theories about Orla?” Abe asked.
Patrick shook his head.
“I’ve talked with Effie, my sister, a few times. She said Liam’s as mystified as the rest of us. He’s been itchin’ to come north, but he’s got a pregnant wife and a big job. Can’t exactly take off.”
“He’d be open to talking with me?” Abe asked.
“Sure, yeah.”
“Can you give me his full name, phone number, and address?”
Patrick rattled off Liam’s contact information.
“How do you feel about this one?” Abe asked, pushing Orla’s senior picture to the center of the table.
“It was taken two years ago,” Patrick said.
“I know, but it’s a clear headshot, which is helpful. I’d like to use this one in the article.”
“What article?”
Patrick and Abe both looked at Liz.
“Abe’s writing an article about the disappearances - all of them,” Liz told him. “He and his editor have been working on it for months. Orla’s the… the last straw, I guess.”
“If the police won’t link them,” Abe said, “we will. The public deserves to know about this and make their own conclusions.”
“But you said she didn’t fit,” Patrick said to Liz almost accusingly.
“I also said it was the same man,” she responded, eyes hard.
“This may be your only chance, Patrick. Don’t turn away from this. Go home and prepare Fiona.”
“There’s likely to be a media response,” Abe said. “And hopefully a police response. It’s time to get their attention.”
“When will the article appear?”
“Five days. It’s coming out in Sunday’s paper. I have a few more interviews to do. I’d like to talk with Liam, and chat with Orla’s co-worker, but it’s getting close.”
Hazel
“Hazel!” Miranda rose from one of several card tables where people, mostly women, sat with spreads of tarot cards scattered before them. “I hoped you’d come today.”
Miranda took Hazel in her large, soft arms and pressed her into a hug. The woman smelled of a heady blend of lemon and peppermint oils. Her thick, dark hair was piled and clipped on her head.
“I read about Orla in the paper. Any news?”
“No.” Hazel shook her head. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I thought maybe we could do a collective reading. See what everyone gets.”
“Yes!” Miranda’s head bobbed up and down, orange teardrop earrings bouncing. She maneuvered her round body through the tables and clapped her hands.
“Lovelies, can I have your attention, please?” There were eight people in the room, two per table. They were all readers, but they practiced on each other. Six women and two men gazed at their unlikely leader. “Our dear friend Hazel has come to us for help.”
Several people shifted to Hazel, offering little waves and nods.
Hazel smiled at them. She had met with many of them for years. She knew their stories, both from readings and the small talk that inevitably followed the group’s sessions.
“We’re doing a reading for Orla Sullivan. Orla has been missing for more than a week. Got a picture, sweets?” Miranda shifted to Hazel.
Hazel drew several photos from her purse, and Miranda quickly dispersed them amongst the tables.
Hazel sat alone with Miranda after the group had disbanded and the others had trickled out.
The tarot consensus had been clear - Orla had come into contact with someone devious. The Devil cards had shown up a startling number of times, accompanied by the Tower, and the ten of swords.
Miranda shuffled her own stack, closed her eyes, and flicked the cards onto the table.
She flipped over the top card.
The knight of swords stared back at them.
“A young man, quick-thinking and fast-acting. Driven by intellect, strategy. This is your helper.” Miranda tapped the card. “Be watchful for this person.”
“He’s already arrived,” Hazel said, thinking of Abe.
“Yes, good.” Miranda flipped another card. “The Magician.” She studied the card. “You have everything you need, but you must call upon all of your faculties - beyond the intellect, you must use your intuition, your compassion. I believe you will help to balance this individual.” Miranda touched the knight card again. “This problem cannot be solved by mind alone. There are forces beyond us. Remain open to receive their messages.”
Chapter 17
Abe
Abe spotted Liam easily. He stood over six feet tall, with coppery red hair and a full beard to match. He looked older than twenty, big and lumberjack-like as he growled at a man sitting on some scaffolding, smoking a cigarette.