“I want to see what he does tomorrow,” Tucker said as he turned over the engine. “I want to know who he talks to, where he goes, what he has for lunch, how many shits he takes. If he’s involved, something’ll break. Of all of them, he’ll break first.”
“What about the girl?”
“I don’t know about her. I know she was meeting Foy at Patty’s Place, but somehow I just didn’t read her as a part of all this. If she is involved, she’s going to be tougher to crack, if we can even find her. But I’ll tell you this, Collins. We’ll get them. Whoever’s responsible for offing Thompson, we’ll get them. Right now I don’t want to do something that’ll let some smart-assed lawyer get him off on a technicality. When we go for him, I want him dead to rights.”
Putting the car into gear, he floored the gas pedal and took off with a squeal of rubber. Beside him Collins just stared through the windshield, his own feelings mirroring Tucker’s. They needed something hard, something that’d stick. They just had to be patient. But there was one thing Collins promised himself. When they finally brought somebody in, he was going to go a few rounds with him in the interrogation room.
Part Two – The Dancer and the Drum
As kingfishers catch fire,
Dragonflies draw flame.
—GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
Chapter One
I’m dreaming again, Sara thought.
She had to be. Tall pines and larches reared on all sides of her, filling the night air with the pungent scent of their resin. A carpet of needles cushioned each step she took: Each step. . . .
Sara stopped abruptly. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was being in Patty’s Place when—She shivered. Had that been a dream, too? Where did one stop and the other begin? Leaning against a tree, she slid down, drawing her knees up to her chin, hugging her legs to stop trembling.
Dreams weren’t supposed to be like this. Not . . . this real. Not with trees whose rough bark poked at her through her sweatshirt. Or sap that stuck to her fingers where she touched it, or the lonely sound of the wind traveling through the topmost branches. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake, but nothing changed. The realization that she had no control over the situation raised goosebumps on her skin.
When had she started this dream? Before she found the ring? She held up her hand to look at it. Even in the dim light of the forest it was clearly visible, for a dull light seemed to emanate from it. Was it real? Or had the dream started after she’d found it?
She remembered the beast men, one like a stag and one like a bear, and then the other thing—like a bear, too, but with fetid breath and gaping jaws. . . . She’d seen, no, sensed it twice. She’d only seen it once, and that was to the accompaniment of the bear/shaman’s bone discs. Then she’d sensed it—once when the RCMP Inspector was questioning her in The Merry Dancers, fleetingly, and again in the restaurant.
She buried her face in her hands. What was happening to her? Oh, God. What if nothing was? What if she was just losing her mind?
She lifted her head, wiping the unshed tears from her eyes. The forest was too real to be a dream. She had to accept that, somehow, she’d been transported to it, though for what reason still remained a mystery. It was probably in Quebec somewhere. In the Gatineau Hills. She had to start walking until she got to a road and could find her way back home. She’d figure out what direction she should be heading in by taking a reading from the stars. All those nights of staring dreamily into the night skies might just pay off.
She stood up, but hesitated again. If someone had dropped her off here, there had to be a reason for it. They were probably close by still, watching for her reactions. That, or it was some sicko who was waiting for her to freak out completely before coming after her with an axe. Her legs began to tremble again.
Kneeling, she scrabbled through the pine needle carpet until she came up with a length of wood thick and long enough to serve as a club. She broke off the twigs that stuck out from it and stood up again, hefting it. It didn’t make her feel much better.
The forest was awfully quiet. Her own breathing sounded ragged and harsh to her ears—a sure signal to anyone who was stalking her. Stalking. Why did she have to use that word? She held her breath, then let it out slowly, repeating that until she felt a little calmer. She took a couple of steps, being careful not to snap a twig, and was surprised at how soundlessly she moved.
What if this was a dream? Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. If it was a dream, nothing could really hurt her then, could it? Didn’t you just wake up when things got too scary? That was comforting, except for the small voice at the back of her head that asked: What about all those people who die in their sleep? Maybe that was what happened when you didn’t wake up in time.
Move, she told herself. Start moving. It’s not doing you any good to be hanging around here.
Again the actual motion was more a glide than her normal pace. She bit back questions as they formed in her mind and just kept going. She sped through the forest as sinuously as a panther, like a ghost, like water flowing downhill, making its own pathway. She avoided the trees and protruding branches with an unnatural grace. It didn’t even seem as though she was using her legs. She was just flowing, faster and faster, until her surroundings started to mist and blur in her sight.
It is a dream, she thought thankfully. Soon I’ll wake up and everything’ll be all right.
The forest was thinning, or disappearing. She refused to let it bother her. This was a dream. If she just went with the flow she’d wake up soon enough. Dreams didn’t last forever. Most of them were only a few moments long in actual time, however lengthy they seemed when you were in the middle of them. At least that was what she remembered reading somewhere.
She slowed down to see where she was. She was still traveling through woodlands, but the forest was now made up of black spruce and groundcover of reindeer moss that spread a greenish-mauve color over broken stumps and windfallen trees. Moving slowly forward, she stepped out on a high ridge and looked out over a wide expanse of water. The headland on which she stood was a fractured limestone cliff that towered some three hundred feet above the shoreline. Below her, along the shore, were sand dunes, beaches, and salt marshes.
The beauty of the scene held her spellbound for long moments. The wind brought the tang of salt to her nostrils and she breathed deeply. The rude wooden club that she was still holding fell from limp fingers.
At length, something tugged at her and she headed to the right, south along the coast. She passed cliffs laden with wild rose bushes, more spruce, some cedar. The feeling of being drawn grew stronger and she began to hurry again. There was a sound in the air that she couldn’t recognize. It was soft and distant, but as insistent as a summoning bell. The clarity of its tone was bell-like as well, but it wasn’t a bell. Not until she reached a long sweep of shingled beach did she recognize it for what it was. Harping.
She paused to listen. The sound of the sea, waves lapping gently to shore, mingled with the bittersweet lament of the harp notes. She saw in the distance a large lump of limestone lifting from the beach and suddenly knew where she was. She and Jamie had spent a few weeks down here one summer. That was Percé Rock, supposedly named by Champlain, a great shiplike rock that surveyed the Gulf of St. Lawrence like a beached whale. She remembered seeing the Rock by day and being impressed. By moonlight, it filled her with awe.
By moonlight. It wasn’t just that. It was the feeling that had been growing in her all day, that subtle heightening of her senses, now mixed with the strangeness of her dream. She listened to the harping. It was fey and resonant, and she thought of Alan Stivell’s rendition of “Ys,” complete with the sounds of the sea—but this was deeper, more solemn, more magical.
She wasn’t frightened anymore. Heading across the shingles she never gave a thought to why she couldn’t see the lights of Percé village or the statue of the saint on top of Mont Saint-Anne that was a landmark for fisherme
n at sea. She saw only the Rock and the sea and the play of moonlight on the shore. Heard only the sound of the waves and the soft, fey harping. Sought only the harper.
She found him at the foot of the Rock, seated with his back against that limestone monolith. Nearby was a leather coracle like the kind she’d seen in old picture books of historical Ireland. At his feet was a thin dog, all fur and eyes. It lifted its head as she approached and whined softly. The harper let his hands fall from the strings of his instrument and looked up.
With a shock, Sara recognized him. It was the man from her painting. Younger, but the same man. She paused where she stood, suddenly shy, and a little frightened.
The harper’s eyes had narrowed as he studied her. When he spoke, his voice was clear and ringing, but the words were in no language that Sara knew. She shook her head, then took a step back as the harper laid his instrument aside and stood up. He held his hands open before him in the universal gesture of peace. His hands said, Look, I have no weapons. I offer only peace.
Still unsure, Sara let him approach. He lifted his hands towards her—slowly so as not to startle her—and laid a palm on either side of her head. A pain like fire pierced her mind. She reeled and would have fallen, but he supported her, eyes suddenly filled with concern.
“Easy,” he said. “I meant no harm. It was just—”
Sara tore herself free of his grip and staggered backward. She shook her head slowly. The pain was gone, but she was still a little shaky. Then suddenly she realized something.
“I . . . I can understand you,” she said.
“I am a bard,” he said as though that explained it all. When she said nothing, he added: “We have the gift of tongues. It is a gift that can also be given to another.”
“A gift of . . .” Sara repeated in a murmur.
She looked away from him, back to the cliffs, and saw for the first time that there was nothing there but the wild headlands. No village, no statue, nothing.
“Percé,” she said almost to herself. “What happened to the village?”
“I saw no village,” the harper replied. “You are the first I have met in this land, m’lady. What is its name?”
“Its name?” She looked from him to his coracle. “You didn’t arrive here in that, did you? From across the sea?”
The harper nodded. “It was a long journey, and not one of my own choosing. My gifts sustained me, but only barely. If there is shelter near . . . ?”
It’s just a dream, Sara told herself. Nothing to panic about. Percé doesn’t have to be here in a dream. Men who looked like they stepped from a history book can cross the ocean in a coracle with nothing but a harp and a dog. Why not?
“Are you ill?” the harper asked. “The giving of the gift of tongues is not a powerful spell, but had I known it would pain you so . . .”
“No. I’m fine. I mean, I appreciate being able to understand what you’re saying and all. It’s just that . . . the last time I was here it was . . . different.”
For one thing, she’d been awake.
“Different? How so?”
He was still having some trouble understanding her, Sara decided. Must be her accent or something. God! Her accent? She was worrying about accents? Why not just wake up instead? Or should she tell him that she was dreaming him, complete with harp, coracle and dog. And magic gifts. Maybe she should have taken up writing fantasy novels instead of the mystery she was working on.
He was still waiting for her answer. She swallowed, but with difficulty. Her throat was too dry.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said at last. “I’m not from around here, you see.”
“Then why are you here? A maid alone on a deserted shore. Is this land so peaceful that such a thing can be?”
Maybe not the land, Sara thought, but in my dream, yes. Why not? It’s my dream isn’t it? Unless this was someone else’s dream and—No. She didn’t want to start thinking along those lines.
“My name’s Sara,” she said to change the subject. “Sara Kendell. What’s yours?”
“Sara,” the harper repeated, saying her name as though he was tasting it. “It is an unfamiliar name, but has a lovely ring to it.” He smiled. “You do not guard your names here, as we do in my homeland. But as you have entrusted me with yours, so will I give you mine. I am called Taliesin, once of Gwynedd, for all the long roads I’ve trod, but now of no land. Or of all lands.”
“Taliesin.”
She knew the name, but before she could remember from where, her gaze lit on the ring finger of his left hand. There, all gold and bright, was a twin to the ring on her own finger. She held up her hand to compare them, then felt herself grow dizzy. She remembered who Taliesin was. He was the most famous of all the Welsh bards—a magician as well as a harper who supposedly wrote the druidical “Battle of the Trees” that Robert Graves had based his book The White Goddess on.
“How can this be?” Taliesin said, echoing Sara’s thoughts, though he referred to the ring on her hand and not what his name meant to her.
Too weird, Sara thought and her dizziness grew. She felt a touch on her arm, as though the harper had reached for her, but that touch turned to mist, or she did, for it was gone, and the spinning grew fiercer. She lost all sense of equilibrium. Darkness swelled and then—
Sara was someplace else.
Her dream was still too jumbled to make sense out of. She blinked, feeling that sensation of dislocation that comes when you don’t wake up in your own bed, but she wasn’t quite sure what bed she’d gone to sleep in last night, so she couldn’t even tell herself to relax. Her eyes opened and she gave a small cry of dismay.
It was starting all over again. The pines and larches reared about her. The smell of resin was thick in the air. She was lying on a thick carpet of pine needles and the air was very still, except for high above where the wind murmured through the treetops.
She sat up, willing her surroundings away. But with a sense of déja vu that set her nerves on edge, the forest stayed where it was, and she stayed in it. Alone, except for the sound of the wind and—Sitting up, her hand brushed something that was neither pine branch nor cone. Pulse drumming, she looked down upon the still white features of Kieran Foy.
He lay stretched out on the pine needles beside her, face ashen. There was a rude bandage on his side through which a faint red stain of dried blood could be seen. Sara remembered the scene in the restaurant, the flash of the monster’s talons. . . . And if Kieran was here, and she was here, and that wound was here—then might it not all be real?
She started to shake all over. Backing away from Kieran’s still form, she knocked something over. Twisting with surprise, she discovered it was only a clay jug. Water spilled from it and soaked into the pine needles until she had enough presence of mind to pick it up and set it upright. Beside the jug, on a rudely woven and dyed cloth, were strips of dried meat and flat things that looked like unleavened cornbread or cakes.
Who had left these things? Who had bound Kieran’s wound? She stared wildly through the trees, but found no answer in them. It’s morning, she realized then, sensing the sun more than seeing it through the thick canopy of pine boughs above them. Morning where? At that moment, Kieran stirred.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. At first he didn’t seem to focus on anything. Then his gaze cleared and he looked directly into Sara’s eyes, his own confusion mirroring hers. His lips parted, but no sound issued forth. He reached for her hand, but when their skin touched, Sara knew a dizzying surge of displacement. Suddenly they were sharing minds again. His sickness and confusion became her own and she saw herself through his eyes.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried, tugging her hand free. “Don’t ever touch me!” She couldn’t bear to feel that again, and she backed away from him.
“W-water,” Kieran croaked. “Please. . . .”
The jug was right behind her. She picked it up and edged closer. His jacket lay beside him, neatly folded
. Careful not to touch him, she bunched up his jacket and managed to work it under his head, and then she was able to trickle water into his mouth. More fell down his chin than went in, but it was enough. His eyes began to clear. Sara sat back on her heels and regarded him critically.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
Close up as she was, she could see the changes that the few years since she’d seen him playing with Toby Finnegan’s band had brought. Beyond the chalky pallor of his face, she saw strong lines. It was the face of a man who was usually sure of himself, a determined face, but not without a touch of gentleness. He returned her look with frank curiosity.
“Not so good,” he said at last.
He sat up. One hand went to his side at the effort.
“Nom de tout! I feel like I was hit by a truck.”
When his fingers came in contact with his bandage, he looked down, shocked. His own memory of what had happened in Patty’s Place flooded his mind. Physically, he was feeling stronger by the minute. But his head reeled with the images that came to him. Lord dying Jesus!
“A shaper,” he murmured, fingering his bandage.
“A what?”
“A shapechanger. That’s what gave me this.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
There was an edge to Sara’s voice that brought Kieran’s gaze sharply to her. He remembered through the haze of his confused waking her crying something about not touching her.
“I didn’t try to . . . take advantage of you or something, did I?”
“What?” Then Sara realized what he was talking about. She shook her head. “It’s when you caught hold of my hand . . . when you were waking. All of a sudden I wasn’t in myself anymore. I was seeing everything through you. . . .”
Not the best of explanations, she realized as she was speaking. But lucidity was beyond her reach just now.
“You must be an empath,” Kieran said. “When people are under stress, they tend to project more strongly than usual. Physical contact heightens it—feeds it directly to you. I’ll damp my projecting so it won’t happen again.” He concentrated for a moment then reached out his hand. “Give it a try now.”
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