When James' glass was empty, he didn't bother refilling it. Instead, he grabbed the bottle of Glenlivit and sipped straight from the bottle. It made the memories fresher, clearer, and the past was exactly where he wanted to be. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the phone ringing over and over again.
The sound forced his eyes open. He sat upright in bed and looked around for a moment as he tried to get his bearings. Sarah was sound asleep beside him, and he reached over to grab the offending phone. He clicked it on without even looking at exactly who was calling.
"Hello?"
"James." The low rumble of Declan's voice echoed in his ears, and his brain instantly snapped awake. Declan's voice had a way of doing that to people. "I need you to come to St. Anne's. Immediately."
James glanced at Sarah's sleeping form. For a moment, it ran through his mind to say no, but he squashed the sensation and eased out of bed.
"I'll be there in less than fifteen, Declan," he replied, clicking the phone off. Throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt, he sank into a pair of sneakers before grabbing his keys. Sarah woke up then—just barely. Running a hand through her hair, she blinked rapidly.
"Where you goin?" she asked sleepily. Half-dressed and completely disheveled, James wanted to climb back in and tumble her, but that was something that happened only rarely these days. Between his grueling shifts at the hospital and Sarah's total maternal infatuation with Victor, they didn't have the same fire as before. He still loved her. In fact, he wanted to run away from Belfast—maybe go back to America—maybe have another baby. Victor was almost four. He wanted his own family unit, away from the insanity that was the Irish Kings.
"Your Da needs me, love," he whispered. Rounding the bed, he kissed her forehead. "I'm heading to St. Anne's. I'll be home as soon as I can."
"Be careful," she mumbled in return. "Dinna forget yer gun." She was on sleepy autopilot as she opened the drawer and grabbed a Glock. James hated it, but Declan insisted he learn to use it.
"Ye never know when ye'll need ta proctect yerself." James' voice held a little of the Irish brogue as the words filled the silence. After years there, he could copy the sound of the accent to perfection. His grandparents would have been proud of the accuracy. They would have hated the man he'd become.
St. Anne's was a massive brick building with stunning stained glass and long, red trimmed oaken pews. James had been there a handful of times, but there was something about that particular church that made his gut boil in anxiety. He walked to the front of the church, dipping his fingers in the cask of holy water. Making the sign of the cross, he stood slowly, his eyes on the golden cross resting just behind the pulpit.
"Dr. Sinclair," a thick Irish brogue broke the silence, causing James to jump slightly. He turned and faced a ruddy faced, balding priest. He sported a silvery, well-barbered beard, but it was his emerald green eyes that cut through him. He walked towards James with purpose, extending his hand. "I'm Kellan Ashby."
James cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. Silently, he took the cleric's hand and soundly shook it.
"Come," Ashby said quietly as he walked up the center of the church. He headed out the door, and James followed. A long, black car waited outside. After he ducked in the back seat, James hesitated, but he ducked in behind him. As the door slammed, James knew this moment was different from the rest.
"Thank ye fer coming so quickly, Dr. Sinclair," Kellan said low, and even though he and James sat just inches apart. "I really appreciate it. Declan said yer a great physician, and I need that now."
"You're welcome," James replied, completely unsure of what the hell he'd gotten himself into.
The bottle was now halfway gone. James' head swam, and he wasn't anywhere as drunk as he wanted to be, but he set the bottle down. As night descended on Silver Spring, James Sinclair lay back on the sofa, suspended in that cold night twenty-three years ago.
The house was small and confined. It was on the edge of Belfast, a place that James wasn't quite as familiar with. Father Ashby left the car and walked with purpose towards the entryway. Again, James followed. Kellan opened the door, and as James walked in, complete and utter shock flooded every single vein in his body.
Babies. At least ten babies, all under one, greeted him. Nurses quietly tended them as Father Ashby walked past. None of the women spoke, but James followed, zombie-like through the maze of cradles. A tall, narrow flight of stairs greeted them as they left that front entryway. Kellan climbed them without hesitation.
"Where did they all come from?" James asked as they climbed the steps. Kellan didn't answer. Instead, he reached the top of the steps and turned right. Walking down an endless hallway, James could see multiple rooms full of babies. They finally came to a closed door at the end of the hallway. Kellan turned the knob and walked in. Nausea churned in his gut. A baby mill. A fucking baby mill.
This room, thankfully, had only baby in it. Two women sat with the boy, who couldn't have been more than a year and a half old. The boy was wrapped in the arms of a pretty blonde, who rocked him gently. The other woman, a dark, caramel skinned brunette, stood by her side, looking longingly at the child.
"Maureen, Fiona," Kellan said kindly, "This is Dr. James Sinclair. He's come to take a look at the wee one."
The blonde stood and walked towards the cradle in the corner. Carefully, she lay the baby down, but she didn't move from his side. She gazed lovingly down at the child and began to speak.
"Dr. Sinclair," she said softly. "This little one came to us tonight all the way from America. Can ye check him, make sure he's alright?"
"For what?" James countered. "So you can sell him?"
"James, mind yer place," Father Ashby said with a tinge of menace. "Ye dinna want it to get back to Declan that ye were fresh to ma sister."
"Sister?" James looked at the blonde woman. When her green eyes met his, he knew it was true. They were identical to the cleric's.
"Aye," the blonde said sagely, "Maureen Ashby. I'm Kellan's sister, but ye dinna wanna know what ma husband does, lovey." James gritted his teeth. Maureen was right. The less he knew about her, the better.
"Just check the baby out," the brunette said low. "It's not like they go ta bad homes. They go to good Catholic parents that just haven't been blessed with babies."
"Yeah, as long as they pay the right price," James quipped.
"It gets split with the church," she returned.
"Of course it does," James spat. "It always does."
"Ye and yer pretty wife profit from it too," the caramel goddess laughed darkly. "Declan has been in the baby sellin business fer ages."
"And who the hell are you?" James spewed, careful to keep him voice down.
"Fiona Larkin," the beauty stated proudly with a flash of white teeth. James' heart seized, in spite of himself. She was stunning. Absolutely stunning. He gritted his teeth, unsure of the man he was becoming. He was disgusted with the thought of the babies being bought and sold like chattel, like livestock, but at the same time, the dangerous glint in this woman's eyes riled something dormant within his soul, something Sarah had neglected for far too long.
"Look at the lad, Sinclair," Kellan Ashby commanded. "And ye are free to go."
With a malevolent gaze in the priest's direction, James walked over to the bassinet. The baby, clad in an onesie and a diaper, had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. His hair was platinum, and his cheeks were a beautiful shade of pale pink. He was a beautiful boy. He was incredibly alert.
Those eyes pierced into James' heart, even now, even as he grabbed the bottle of whisky and cracked it open again. Sipping it, he thought of the bassinet, of the blue eyes, of everything. He was healthy and strong and just wonderful, and every time James thought of him, his breath caught. He always wondered where the child went. He always wondered if a good Irish Catholic family got him. He wondered what happened. No matter where he went, that face still haunted him.
"Ye aren't a stupid man," Kellan Ashby warned. "But I saw the way ye reacted when you came here."
They stood outside the makeshift baby mall, waiting for the car to come. After giving the small boy a clean bill of health, Ashby escorted him out. James couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, even though he knew there was no reason for him to be watched.
"I'm not going to report anything, Father," James said calmly. "I'm not one to slit my own throat. But I will say this: you're not the man I'd want to dinner around my boy."
"Trust that ye'll never see me there," Kellan responded. "Taking Declan Brogan's grandson would surely result in a certain death."
"He isna gone yet?" Fiona's voice rang in the frigid night. She'd opened the door and traipsed down the concrete steps. "I thought he woulda went screamin for the hills by now."
"Why?" James asked. "Because I don't believe humanity should be for sale?"
"Oh, were I as young as ye," Fiona smiled. "If I had the luxury of being Brogan's son-in-law, I guess I could afford to think that he's a good man. I'm sure this side of it has shocked yer delicate American sensibilities."
"You're quite jaded," James stated. It was as if Ashby had all but disappeared as the argument began. "I guess being a criminal makes you that way."
Fiona's hard laughter rang in the winter air. Kellan breathed a sigh of relief as the car rounded the corner.
"Ye'll have plenty of time to discuss it as the driver drops ye back at St. Anne's," Ashby said. "James, George will drop ye at yer house. Fiona, George will take ye to Jimmy O."
"What?" James said. "I have to ride with this she-devil?"
"Ye scared, little boy?" Fiona cruelly challenged. There was nothing playful about it.
And now, through the half-gone bottle of expensive Irish whisky, James realized that those cruel words were exactly what made him want Fiona so goddamned much.