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She scanned them, saw two of the names Peabody had listed as bogus. “All right, Brady, Adams, Olsen, Luis Javert. Cross check those names with students sent to Hastings from Browning. Search for match with family names, street addresses. Also run combinations. Run combinations for match to photographic or imaging artists of any note.”
WORKING . . . ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETE ALL TASKS IS TWENTY-THREE POINT FIVE MINUTES.
“Whatever. Switch display to map on file while working.
SWITCHING DISPLAY . . .
She moved forward, studying the routes and locations she’d already highlighted. Nothing matched the names she was running. In her mind, she ran those routes, trying to see what he’d seen.
“Where do you work?” she queried aloud. “Where do you store your vehicle? Who are you? Why are you?”
Light, she thought. Light equals energy, life. Light equals soul. There’s no image without light. No life without light.
Something stirred in her brain. She tilted her head as if to bring it to the surface.
And
her ’link beeped.
“Damn it.” She crossed over to answer. “Dallas.”
“There she is. Hello, darlin’.”
“Roarke.” Every other thought flew out of her head, slapped away by love and worry. “Where are you?”
“In Dublin’s fair city.” He grinned at her.
“Are you . . . Are you drunk?”
“Well and truly pissed, that I am. We’re well into the second bottle now. Or maybe it’s the third. Who’s counting?”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and my old boyhood mate, Brian Kelly. He sends all his love and devotion.”
“Right.” They’d gotten plowed before, foolishly buzzed on wine while on holiday. But she’d never seen Roarke stupidly drunk. His beautiful eyes were blurry, and his wonderful voice so thick with Ireland and slurred from drink, she could barely understand him. “You’re at the Penny Pig.”
“We’re not, no. I don’t believe. No,” he verified after glancing around. “Don’t appear to be in the pub. This much whiskey deserves a more private setting. We’re drunk in Bri’s flat. Come quite some ways from the shanties, Bri has. Nice cozy flat here. That’s him you hear singing now about Molly Malone.”
“Uh-huh.” So he was safe then, she thought, and wouldn’t go stumbling out of the pub and in front of a maxibus. “I guess it’s after midnight there. You should go lie down now, get some sleep.”
“Not ready to sleep, don’t want the dreams. You’d understand that, wouldn’t you, my one true love?”
“Yeah, I would. Roarke—”
“Found out some things today that I don’t want to think about quite yet. Drowning them for the night. Found out some things from one of my father’s old mates. Bastard. Didn’t kill him, you’ll be pleased to know. But I wanted to.”
“Don’t go anywhere tonight. Promise me you’ll stay in Brian’s flat. Drink yourself unconscious, but don’t go anywhere.”
“Not going anywhere till tomorrow. Heading west tomorrow.”
“West?” She got an image of cattle ranches and mountains and long, empty fields. “Where? What, Montana?”
He laughed until she thought he’d burst. “Christ, is it any wonder I’m besotted with you? West in Ireland, my darling, darling Eve. I’m bound for Clare tomorrow. Odds are they’ll kill me the minute they see my face—his face. But it has to be done.”
“Roarke, why don’t you stay with Brian another day. Let things settle down some. Then . . . What the hell was that?” she demanded when she heard a violent crash.
“Ah, Brian’s down, and appears to have taken a table and lamp with him. Passed out flat on his face, poor sod. I’d best go try to haul his ass up and into bed. I’ll ring you up tomorrow. See that you take care of my cop. I can’t live without her.”
