“This guy might be immortal,” Nina mocked, “but he is dumber than shit.”
Peter chuckled. Sam asked why. She frowned at the information she discovered on a hunch. “I have a friend. Don’s ask. She works for Visa, but she has ways of tracing all kinds of credit cards and their activities.”
“I like where this is going,” Peter growled happily.
“She has helped me trace all records of Dylan Finnigan’s all over the world, right?” she started. “There were a few people with similar names, naturally not born in 4000BC like this nutter. But there was one Dylan Finnigan, that used a credit card in the city of Porto,” Nina raised an eyebrow for dramatic effect and darted her dark eyes cunningly between her two companions, “to register a yacht for permission to sail Portuguese waters spanning two days during which Mario Cruz was murdered.”
“Holy shit,” Sam smiled. “Either this bloke is, as you say, dumber than dog shit, or he simply does not think that after all these decades of committing erratic murders, he could be discovered.”
Peter Carroll shrugged. “I regret to admit that he could very well be right in that assumption. I mean, until I started putting these random reports from various countries together, including cold cases going back to post-Second World War, he would never have been discovered.”
“That is true, Inspector,” Sam agreed from behind the steering wheel. “Nina, does your friend know what the address on his credit card is? That would be far more accurate to follow.”
“Aye, and we are on the right track,” she replied. “Looks like this man does not like to venture too far from his origins in Limerick. He is based in a small patch of land called Blackvalley…one word…in County Kerry.”
“Ta,” Sam said, and proceeded to tell the GPS where they need to go.
“It is still some drive there, from Limerick,” she warned Sam, so we had better break out some of Peter’s hard caffeine.
It was late autumn, but Ireland did not know any color but green. When Peter took over the driving task from Limerick, further southwest toward Blackvalley, Sam took the time to break in a new lens. Even from within the moving car, he managed to capture some of the most breathtaking landscape scenes he had ever shot. Through County Limerick and into County Kerry he kept shooting the vast emerald panoramas, broken only on occasion by grey and ancient stone or random country houses.
“God, this place is beautiful,” Sam said.
“I lived in Dublin for two years when I was young and handsome,” Peter smiled. “Always regretted living in the crowded city when all this natural beauty and space beckoned. Before I knew it, me and the wife were in her hometown of Edinburgh and I never got the chance again to see this country.”
“Until now,” Nina winked. “And here you are, still handsome.”
Peter laughed and put his hand on his chest like a flattered lady. Sam’s cell phone rang just an hour away from Blackvalley. Looking bewildered, he turned to Nina in the backseat behind him and showed her the screen. “Look, it is Jane again.”
“Better take it this time,” Nina suggested. “Why doesn’t Purdue call us himself?”
Sam had answered the call in the meantime. Nina and Peter listened to Sam saying nothing. He was busy listening, only throwing in an affirmative here and there until he began to ask questions that alarmed Nina.
“When did it happen?” Sam asked, followed by a clearing of his throat. Nina gasped. When Sam cleared his throat something dire was afoot.
“Sam?” she asked. “Sam.”
“And there is no cure?” Sam inquired. Nina held her breath. “How can they not know? They are medical professionals, right? Supposed to be the best there is.”
“Sam,” Nina pried. He swung to face Nina, looking annoyed. He mouthed, “Wait.”
Peter said nothing. He did not know David Purdue personally, but by reputation, the man was a powerful figure in Edinburgh. He knew that the call pertained to Nina and Sam’s friend, and suddenly he felt guilty for pulling them away from Edinburgh. When Sam finally hanged up the phone, he looked devastated.
“What? What?” Nina pressed.
“You remember the principal at that school where you lectured?” he asked Nina. “The primary school with that history week thing?”
“Where we first found the scabbard of Excalibur?” she asked.
Peter gulped. “You found the sheath of Arthur’s sword?”
“Aye, but that is a long story, Peter,” Nina explained quickly. “What about Principal Willard, Sam?”
Sam turned to look at her. “He tried to kill Purdue two nights ago, in Wrichtishousis!”
“Jesus Christ! Are you kidding me?” she shrieked.
“Purdue was showing him and that history teacher woman the relics room,” Sam recounted. “Apparently the woman tried to blow up the place or something. Jane was a bit frantic in telling me everything, but this Willard was one of them. He stabbed Purdue repeatedly with one of the ancient weapons.”
Nina covered her mouth with her hand. Inside her palm he could hear her wail, “Oh, Jesus.”
“Charles got injured in the blast. He had sustained a few burns and is in the same ICU unit as Purdue,” Sam continued. “Looks like they were planning the whole thing to kill Purdue all along. Now, Jane says that according to Purdue’s doctor, they are worried about his wound not healing. It keeps bleeding, does not coagulate.”
“Then it is infected,” she speculated.
“Nope. Jane told me that is the uncanny part. The medical team have analyzed his blood. According to his tests, he should be showing signs of healing, but no,” Sam shrugged. “They are keeping a close eye on him for the next few days.”
“Oh my God, I feel terrible about not calling back,” Nina lamented.
“How could we have known it was that urgent?” Sam consoled her. “Besides, there is nothing we can do to help him. Look, Purdue is a rich man. He can afford the best care. Those people who can actually do something to help solve his condition are on hand. We can do nothing for him but hope and wait. I suggest we get one bad thing down before we try to divide our efforts on the next, hey?” He held Nina’s shivering hand, and with his other hand, he wiped her tears. “Don’t worry, love. He is David fucking Purdue, eh?”
“Aye,” she cracked a shrill, soft answer.
Along the narrow, barren meander of road that ran through the county of Kerry, the car sped in silent aim. The occupants were quiet now, and Sam had ceased shooting the beauty outside. Even the brilliant greens had turned pallid to them. The only thing that would lend some alleviation to their misery, would be to find the child killer and subdue him. What they were going to do with him when they found him, was not yet clear.
When the vehicle pulled into the last town before Blackvalley, they had to devise a plan.
“Peter, how is your acting?” Sam asked. In Sam’s profession, it was par for the course to play different roles if you wanted people to give you information. This time, though, a man Sam’s age would not be believable asking for someone of Finn’s age.
“What do you need, son?” the old man asked zealously, as they crossed the bridge at Riverowenreagh to reach a landmark cottage.
“We need to know where he lives,” Sam sighed. “Unless we wait in the car in front of the café at Lord Brandon’s cottage here.”
“Right,” Peter said resolutely, “I will find out.”
Without hesitation, he got out of the car and marched to the small café that marked the ruins of the locally famed rector. Sam and Nina watched, surprised at Peter’s willingness and discretion. “Watch him go,” Nina grinned, as Peter disappeared into the café. The silence was deafening, save for the melancholy wind that forced its path through the beautiful shadow of the mountain.
“It will be dark soon,” Nina remarked. “This time of year, I think, we should have dark shortly past 5pm. I should have brought my extra scarf.”
“I have one for you,” Sam said tenderly. The two former lovers stare
d at each other in wonder for a long while, neither wishing to spoil the moment with words. Only the sweet song of the strong wind serenaded the similar yearning in their souls, the lyrics to which would never be written.
A sudden crack jolted them both from their delirium, as Peter jerked open the driver’s door and startled the two out of their wits. “Sorry about that,” he jested with a naughty chuckle.
“Did they know anything?” Nina asked.
“Are you afraid of dogs?” Peter asked them. Both shook their heads reluctantly at the odd question. “Good,” he replied to their response, “because Dylan Finn is a much feared mountain man around here. He lives in a small Norman abbey here, converted into a rectory somewhere around 1952. Turns out he was a priest as well, just like Father Harper, but lost his collar when he was implicated in a local scandal. They could prove nothing criminal, though, and he became exiled from public service. And he still lives in the abbey to this day, along with an undisclosed amount of Rottweilers. The locals refer to him lovingly as Count Finn, relating to Christopher Lee’s Dracula.”
“Seems like the locals know about his obsession with drinking blood, then,” Nina remarked. “Yet, they do nothing.”
“What can they do, Nina?” Sam asked. “He does not kill the local stock, if you know what I mean.”
“Aye, true,” Nina agreed.
Looking pleasantly surprised, Sam asked, “Peter, how did you get all that information out of the people?”
“And in record time,” Nina added.
Peter scoffed. “Why, I just pretended to be an old war buddy, looking up all my old mates from the same platoon. Told them I was ‘looking for old Finn’ in my most naïve, silly old man guise.”
“You are a legend, Peter,” Nina flattered him with a beautiful smile.
He lifted a piece of paper with Biro scrawled directions on it. “A legend with a map, Dr. Gould.”
29
Bleak Charade
When Sam, Nina and Peter Carroll arrived at the concealed entrance to the left marked on the makeshift Biro map, it was already dark. According to Peter’s sources at the café, the owner owned a maroon Jeep, his sole mode of transport. Into the turn, the three hunters noticed no vast fences or any signs prohibiting entry, which was odd for someone who apparently owned one of the biggest ancient relics of all time. Either the man was too trusting, or he trusted his frightful reputation to keep the peace on his property.
It was but a smallholding, not some large estate, that he lived on, but it was deep into the rock of the mountain.
“It looks like there are mountains on both sides of the road,” Nina remarked as the vehicle’s headlights illuminated the rough, pothole-riddled one-lane road that was flanked by steep rock face.
“Or it is one mountain, cracked in two, I think,” Peter speculated. “On the map here they drew it as one mountain. Look.” He showed Nina the indent in the part was that shaded, marked ‘mountain’, a few inches from the part marked ‘abbey’.
“This place gives me the creeps, I do not mind admitting,” Sam said. His right hand dipped to his left side, feeling for his Beretta as some kind of solace.
“Do you have a permit for that, Sam?” Peter asked.
“Of course,” Sam replied quickly. “My best friend is MI-6. Do you think I will not have my weapon registered? You never know when Paddy gets drunk and gets all loyal civil servant on you, you know?”
Nina giggled at the thought of Paddy arresting Sam while both swung around in a pub. It was a shade of the past, but still hilarious. At least the hilarity of the notion distracted her a little from the impending terror that slowly slid over her, threatening to engulf her.
“Not to be a downer,” Peter suddenly said, “but look at that building. Straight out of ‘Dracula Has Risen From The Grave’, I dare say.”
“Great,” Nina muttered. “I did not need to hear that.”
“No car, from what I can see,” Sam said. “You think he is out?”
“Listen, boys, tell me why we are driving right up to this place in plain sight with our lights on, announcing our arrival,” Nina asked.
“Because we want to get inside with his permission, so that his puppies will not eat us,” Sam explained.
“Wait, you are planning to talk to him?” she gasped. “I am staying in the car.”
“Of course, love,” Sam replied. “We cannot go breaking in.”
His dark eyes glinted in the dashboard lights as he peered at her through the rear view mirror. Even in the half dark, she could see him imploring that she be quiet with her unlawful ideas. Her eyes widened suddenly, when she realized that they were in the company of the law, so to speak. Nina nodded to signal Sam that she got the hint.
When the car engine was switched off, Nina felt a sense of gloom, as if the lid of her coffin had just been shut. She knew that she was in the company of two capable men, but still she felt exposed to evil on a primal basis. Before them, the abbey stood in a silent and primeval state, exuding a strange power that connected to the very senses of the three visitors. Inside, there were a few lights on, seeping through a collective entryway. All else was dark and seemingly unattended.
“What do you have there, Peter?” Sam asked, when Peter climbed out of the car with a compact cooler bag. “You bought him a few beers at the café when you bought our pies?”
Peter shook his head, smirking, but he did not reply. Sam and Nina followed, looking as civil as possible as not to let their mark in on the true purpose of their visit, which was still vague. Nina hoped to take the Grail from him by any means necessary and Sam wanted him arrested to stand trial in Portugal.
“Am I the only one nervous about the dogs?” Nina whispered as they ascended the first of three flights up to the glowing entrance. The stone abbey seemed alive, or aware, that its callers were not friendly. As the three stole up the second flight, a vague growl could be heard from the window where the glow lived. Nina stopped in her tracks, but Sam ushered her on with a reassuring hand. The meeting cliffs on either side of the abbey forced the wind through, strengthening its thrall tenfold.
Peter peered into the old glass window, while Sam and Nina waited with baited breath. The old inspector turned his head and said, “He is inside, sleeping on the couch.”
“Good. He is drunk,” Sam whispered.
Peter gestured for Nina to come and have a look. She stood on her toes to peek in. There he was, the mighty child killer in all his five-and-a-half-foot glory, curled up on the couch. He looked no older than sixty years, but she guessed that cheating age had its physical setbacks, because he looked decrepit in health. Gaunt and wan, his face fell into a myriad of wrinkles in all the places that exhibited pain or sorrow. His brow, the drooping corners of his mouth and the permanent frown between his eyes were laden with dents and dimples of sheer agony, and his hands were talons, shriveled up under his chin as he snored.
“There is where your scary growl comes from,” Peter teased her. Nina was relieved, but only for a moment. Another deep growl filled her ears from quite another direction, the same direction she heard Sam yelping from. The tall, dark journalist was cornered against the abbey’s balcony wall by a large black dog, slobbering at the mouth. The Rottweiler was alone, but its mad barking warned its friends inside the abbey.
“Oh Jesus, he is going to Cujo him!” Nina shrieked, hiding behind Peter. “Sam! Use your gun!”
“If I move, he will jump,” Sam replied through clenched teeth, frozen in place.
In all the racket of the pack, the slumbering owner was driven out of sleep. He sat up, wide awake, his face distorted in panic and confusion. “Who is there?” he shouted, coughing from the minor effort. On instable legs, Finn seized his shotgun and pressed up next to the front door, among the four Rottweilers barking incessantly.
“It is me, Dylan!” Peter shouted. “Peter Carroll, from Edinburgh. Remember me?”
“What do you want?” Finn shouted over the din of the dogs.
&
nbsp; “Brought you a whiskey. Passed by through Kerry and thought I’d look you up, old friend,” Peter disclosed. “Come on, let us in. It is fucking freezing out here!”
Sam and Nina exchanged looks of befuddlement. Did Peter Carroll know Dylan Finn? A sick feeling churned in Sam’s stomach, as the door opened and Finn silenced the dogs, but he clung to the hope that it was just another of Peter’s well-played charades. Nina shrugged at Sam. She too, had no idea what to think.
30
Hypocrisy: The Privilege of the Blessed
“Come on, guys,” Peter coaxed his companions, while Finn leered suspiciously at them with deep-set eyes. “Who are they?”
“This is Sam Cleave and this is Dr. Nina Gould. She is a historian,” Peter boasted. As he mentioned Nina’s vocation, her eye found a peculiar chalice sitting on the mantle. Nina’s heart jumped, prompting her hand to instinctively slap Sam in the ribs. He did not pay much attention at first, as his focus was on the scrum of foaming canines weaving around him. Another nudge came from Nina’s small frame, this time a punch.
“What?” Sam frowned, pushing a big male away from his nuts. “I have to watch my step here.”
Through inanimate lips, Nina said, “Grail. On the mantle.”
“What do you have there in the cooler box, mate?” Finn smiled as he stepped aside for Peter, shaking his hand. “Something that needs to be drunk, perhaps?”
“Good guess, Dylan,” Peter giggled, and sank his hand into the small slit of the partially unzipped container. From it, he pulled a bottle of Teeling single malt, relishing the cheerful reaction of the sickly host at the abbey. Finn cried one word, and Irish word none of his guests knew, and at once, all the dogs made for the wall under the window and lay down in a row.
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