"Did you see something move?"
We stood and stared into the murk. Maeve took my arm. "No, I did not, and the fog's settling. I was telling you about Diarmuid and Grainne."
I stumbled on the slippery surface, and Maeve's grip tightened. "Go on. You were talking about Finn's Abishag."
"Like King David's concubine?" She gave an easy laugh, light- hearted. "Grainne wasn't exactly a bed-warmer. She was the daughter of the high king, so marrying her enhanced Finn's prestige and brought him wealth and power, not that he needed them. Still, he liked to show her off."
"And one of the warriors fell in love with her." My sleeve caught on a bush and water sprayed us both. "Sorry."
"In love? No. He was true Irishman, cold as a clam." A note of bitterness rang in her voice, and I remembered her quarrel with Joe. "'Twas the other way round. Grainne fell in love with the warrior. His name was Diarmuid, and he was more thoughtful than most of the Fianna, a brooder. The goddess of youth had marked him on the forehead with a love-mark guaranteed to make any young woman wild for him..." Her voice trailed.
"What is it?" She had stopped on the spongy surface which was flatter now. "Did you see something?"
She gave herself a small shake. "No. Well, Grainne fell in love with her brooding warrior. He was too honorable to shame the king by seducing her—or too cold-blooded, take your pick."
We trudged on. "What happened?"
"In the end, she put a hex on him that bound him to do her will." Maeve sounded preoccupied. She went on more briskly, as if she meant to be done with the story, "When they eloped, the king set the Fianna and their hounds on the lovers and chased them the length and breadth of Ireland for a year and a day without respite." She walked forward, suddenly confident. "In the legend, the dolmens are the beds Diarmuid made for Grainne in the wilderness. Isn't that the wall?"
I peered ahead. "Yes, thank God." We had come out at the wall but not within sight of the stile.
"Which way?" Maeve asked.
I had no idea. "I think I went left last time."
"We'll try it."
We walked along, silent now, both of us stumbling from time to time on the uneven ground. The fog was so thick I bumped the stile before I saw it. We climbed over and stood for a moment on the turf.
I turned back and called Jay's name one more time. My voice rang on the cold air and echoed eerily, but there was no reply.
Finding the cottage was easy after that, though the fog made everything look distorted. The light from the kitchen window showed yellow. Joe's patrol car and the Toyota hunched in front of the door like monsters of legend, one red and one white.
My father greeted us at the door, and I knew at once that something was seriously wrong, something else.
"What is it?"
Dad took my arm. "Sit down, Lark. They've had a call..."
"They? Who?"
"The Gardai. Someone called Mahon and said he was speaking for a republican splinter group. He claims they've kidnapped Jay and are holding him as a hostage."
"Ah, Jaysus," said Maeve behind me. "The gobshite."
Chapter 16
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love...
Yeats, "Meditations in Time of Civil War"
In retrospect, I suppose it was then that Maeve took over. At the time, I was too stunned to notice. She charged past me into the living room, and I heard her speak sharply to Joe.
Dad said, "Lark, my dear, do you want a little whiskey?"
"I'd barf."
"It's an old-fashioned remedy, I know, but your hands are like ice. You need something. Perhaps a cup of hot tea."
Hostage. Jay was a hostage. Every atrocity story I'd ever heard, every tale of political hostages imprisoned and tortured for years, whirled in my head. I wobbled over to the door arch and leaned against it. "I want to know what's going on."
"...and I can put a name to the man, Joseph." Maeve reached for the telephone. "That's more than Mahon can do at this hour."
Joe laid a large hand on the receiver. "You're mad!"
"Give me the telephone. I'll keep it short."
Joe's back was to me, so I couldn't see his expression, but his shoulders were stiff with disapproval. After a moment, though, he handed Maeve the phone. She tapped out a number from memory.
Dad said, "Lark..."
I flapped my hand, hushing him.
"Mike? Maeve Butler here. Where's Liam? Did he indeed? Let me speak to Barbara, if you please. It's urgent." She waited, tapping her foot. "Ah, Barbara. When did Liam leave the estate? I see. And where has he gone? No, Jay's still missing. He's been abducted."
Joe growled and reached for her.
She backed away. "Does it matter what terrorist group? Sure, they're all alike." She covered the receiver. "Did the kidnappers demand a ransom?"
Joe shook his head. "Not yet. The call was a preliminary contact. And do not tell Barbara anything more, Maeve, or I'll take the phone from you by force. I mean it."
She nodded and spoke into the receiver. "No, I can't. Now tell me about Liam McDiarmuid."
When she said the surname, a chill touched my spine. I went on into the room and sat on the couch. Dad followed like a hen with one chick.
Maeve was listening. I could hear Barbara's voice, though not her words. "Yes, a grand idea. Thanks." She hung up.
Joe grabbed Maeve by the shoulder, marched her over to the vacant armchair, and thrust her into it. "What name, Maeve? If you're withholding—"
"Withholding evidence?" She gave a sharp laugh. "Save your threats. Liam's your man." She looked at her watch. "And he has more than two hours' head start of you."
I said, "No!"
She turned to me. "One translation of the Irish name Grainne is Grace."
"Diarmuid and Grainne," I echoed, still stupid with shock.
My father drew a sharp breath.
Joe kept his eyes on Maeve. "You're daft, woman. McDiarmuid has no ties at all to extremist groups. When he first came back from Bosnia, he used to bait the lads in the pub whenever they got to singing the old songs."
"Liam despised Slade Wheeler."
They stared at each other. That at least was true, I thought numbly. Liam had made no bones about his loathing of Slade and Slade's wargames.
"The kidnappers, what are they calling themselves?"
Joe's eyes shifted. "Sons of Glory."
"Never heard of them." After a moment, Maeve added, "Your terrorist group doesn't exist. I'll lay odds Mahon thought he'd got a crank call."
"Then you'd lose. The speaker used an identifying code." Joe rubbed the back of his neck, frowning at her as if she were an indecipherable rune. "'Twas outdated, to be sure, but that's common enough if a man's been out of touch. We're hunting Tommy Tierney. He's done a bolt."
Maeve hooted. "That yobbo hasn't the poetry."
"Poetry? Don't spin me one of your fairy tales, Maeve."
"I won't spin you anything, Sergeant Kennedy. Get yourself onto headquarters and tell the Gardai to pluck Liam off the Rosslare ferry."
"Only an idjit would try to escape on the bloody French ferry."
"If he thought he was being pursued. As far as Liam's concerned, he's off scot-free. Barbara said he left for the trade show in Brussels directly you rang Stanyon with the news of Jay's disappearance. The show doesn't start until Saturday, but the Stonehall concession has to be set up. It's a convenient cover. Barbara didn't question it. Tracy's flying to Brussels tomorrow."
Joe pulled at his lower lip, still frowning. "Poetry."
"There was," she said carefully, "a mark on Slade Wheeler's brow, and no one denies he was Grace Flynn's lover."
"In the legend, 'twas Diarmuid had the mark."
"Liam saw Slade as Diarmuid—the warrior, the seducer—and himself as Finn MacCool."
"Shite." He turned away, disgusted.
"Or as the high king, or as one of the druids, more like, a wise man and a protector. Liam is Grace's cousin. It fits, Joe." She stood up and gave him a shove in the direction of the telephone. "Call it in."
"And tell the dispatcher I'm after looking for Finn MacCool?" Joe's voice was thick with sarcasm.
Maeve raised her chin. Her eyes were bright and her color high. When she spoke, though, her voice softened, "You're a good man, Joe, and what's more you're a man of learning, try as you may to disguise it. You said it yourself. Slade's body was laid out like a hero waiting for a requiem mass—on Easter Monday with a mark on his forehead, his fatigues brushed, and his toes cocked at a military angle. Tommy Tierney hasn't the wits or the patience."
Joe's shoulders sagged.
"Tell the dispatcher you're looking for a suspect trying to leave the country without Garda permission."
My father said, "That's a sensible precaution surely."
Joe turned to us. "You agree, sir?"
Dad nodded. "He should be questioned."
"Lark?"
I was too confused to say anything, but I nodded, too.
Joe turned without a word and picked up the receiver.
While he dialed and identified himself, Maeve went into the kitchen and brought back the travel diary. I remembered her saying in the woods that she wanted to check a description. Ages had passed since then. She sat in the armchair and pored over the book, riffling the pages. Finally, she leaned back with her eyes shut. Dad and I watched her.
Joe made three calls, speaking with crisp efficiency. He telephoned the ferry terminal first. Then he put out a general call, an APB, for Liam and Liam's car. Through my numbness, I remember being surprised that Joe had the make and license number of Liam's Saab in his notebook. The third call, to Chief Inspector Mahon, reassured me that Joe had not lost his sense of policely propriety, and that the Gardai had not given up the search for Tommy Tierney.
My initial shock was beginning to give way to ordinary terror, and my mind was throwing out serious questions about Maeve's theory. It seemed to me that she was ignoring the whole problem of Kayla Wheeler's death. I could imagine Liam killing Slade—just. But Kayla's murder was gratuitous. It didn't fit the mythical pattern. It was straightforward, brutal slaughter.
When Joe hung up and came over to us, I finally found my voice. "I know Mahon's technicians photographed Alex Stein's bruises. Did they examine the other suspects?"
Joe gave a sharp approving nod. "You're thinking."
"I don't see Liam killing Kayla."
"He's unmarked," Joe said bleakly. "No bruises. A wee mote in her ladyship's grand vision."
Maeve opened one eye. "I don't pretend to know all the answers, Joe."
There was a knock at the door. Joe ushered Barbara in. She was carrying a carton, and her eyes were swollen from crying. Joe took the box from her and set it on the kitchen table. I had risen, hoping the knock would bring news of Jay, but residual manners kicked in, and I greeted Barbara.
Her lip trembled. "I'm so sorry, Lark. Alex and I feel responsible."
My mouth opened and shut. The truth was that part of me agreed with her. If Dad and I hadn't come to the Steins' cottage, Jay would have been safe at home in Shoalwater.
But guilt is a sticky game. If I blamed Jay's abduction on Stonehall Enterprises then I was going to have to take some of the blame myself. I had behaved badly to Jay. Oh God, just let him be safe, and I'll never do anything unkind again ever to anybody in my whole life please. A sample of my mental processes. The sight of Barbara's tears opened the fountains, and I wept all over her.
Somehow we wound up sitting on the couch with my father patting Barbara's shoulders and Maeve patting mine. How long that went on I don't know.
Meanwhile, Joe was on the phone again. In fact, the phone was his duty station. He told us Mahon had directed him to stay with the family and to field all incoming calls. Whatever the reason, I was glad Joe stayed with us.
I remember that night as a series of telephone calls punctuated by bowls of Murtagh's soup. Barbara's chef had risen to the occasion. He had sent a beef and barley potage so potent it could have cured shingles, along with a loaf of fresh soda bread. I wasn't up to more than a few spoonfuls of soup myself but it kept Dad going— and Maeve and Joe, after Barbara left, carrying the empty carton with her.
Around midnight Mahon himself showed up with his sergeant and a medic in tow, in case we needed tranquilizing. I needed something. I needed Jay. I refused medication. The medic listened to Dad's heart. Mahon took a statement from me and a brief corroboration from my father. Then he left, with the sergeant and medic en train. Joe went back to the telephone.
After he sent his constable off to Liam's flat, Joe called the American Embassy, which would no doubt notify the FBI. When he had explained to me the extraordinary measures the Gardai were taking to find my husband, Joe made it clear the abductors could have taken Jay anywhere in the country. Though he thought it unlikely they had left the island with him, they might have spirited him across the border into Ulster. That possibility shook me to the core.
Later, a messenger from Mahon came to the door with a tape of the abductor's call and a cassette player. Joe played the tape for me in the hope that I could identify the voice. All I knew was it wasn't Liam's voice. Dad didn't recognize it either.
The caller sounded young and muffled. When he had identified his group, a name that clearly meant no more to the police than to anyone else, he announced that Jay was being held hostage. He called Jay "your grand Yank detective," and spoke in vague but menacing terms of justice and retribution. The call nauseated me in its very banality. Up to that point I had hoped I was caught in a nightmare. The tape made it all too real.
Mahon had set up an incident room at the church hall and was mounting a world-class search for evidence of the abduction. He had, Joe reported without a gleam of satire, called out the army and set up a machine gun nest at the Killaveen crossroads. A roadblock had been established at the other end of Suicide Lane, where it joined the N11. There would be no more reporters in the bushes at Stanyon—and no shortage of experienced searchers. They were going to search the entire estate at first light.
"I assume they know what to look for." Maeve's lip curled. She had made another pot of tea and brought it to the living room. She sipped her own, delicately.
Joe's fists clenched. "If you know something else, out with it."
"Are they looking for signs of the abduction, or are they looking for Jay Dodge?"
He glowered. "Both."
"There's a hideaway somewhere in the woods."
"The folly? 'Twas torn down in the last century, and Mahon's men have been all through the area twice. I've had enough of your fantasies, Maeve. Give over."
I said, hesitant, "There is the mound." My own tea sat untouched on the tray, cream scumming the surface.
Joe's frown shifted from Maeve to me.
I told him about my incised stone, gathering confidence as I spoke. Maeve trotted out the etching that showed the mound. Joe flicked his fingers over the drawing. "Faugh, we know there's a hill. I don't see your point."
She gave him a sweet smile. "That's because you don't understand the nature of follies."
"A serious flaw in my otherwise sterling character."
She ignored his sarcasm. "Face it, you're thinking of a gazebo, a nice little circle of columns with a roof. A folly was a fake ruin."
He made a sound expressive of extreme skepticism.
"A folly could take any shape, and the diary says, explicitly, that the Stanyon folly was an extension of the tomb, the dolmen that's buried beneath all that dirt and all those rows of trees. It's a cave, Joe, an underground bunker."
He drew noisily on his fifth cup of tea and set his mug back on the tray. "If it is, it's a cave without an entrance."
"The devil. Your men didn't find the entrance. It's concealed. But Orangemen met there in the last century and de Valera's boys stored ammunition in
it in the twenties. We know that much. I'll lay any odds you like there are a dozen old-line republicans in the county who could walk right into the shelter. Notably Toss Tierney."
"We've a warrant out for Tommy Tierney's hide. How much cooperation do you think we'll get from Toss?"
"He's is a twister," Maeve said coolly. "Teresa is another story, though, and Toss listens to her. Let me call her."
"No!" Joe thrust his fingers through his thick black hair. Maeve took another tack. "The tomb faces north. I'm sure of that from the description in the diary. Whssht, man, I could draw you a picture. I shall draw you a picture. I've an ordnance map in the boot." She stood up, tea forgotten on the arm of the chair. "Let me bring my excavation team to the woods in the morning. They're idle tomorrow, settling into their quarters. We'll find the folly."
"Ha! If you fancy Mahon will put up with a crew of university students mucking about his crime scene, you're daft." Joe paced to the desk, wheeled, and paced back.
My father, dozing on a corner of the couch, snorted and sat up.
"If it's just Mahon..." Maeve began, as if persuading the chief inspector were the easiest thing in the world.
Joe stopped dead on the gray and white rug. "No, it's not just Mahon. It's the whole mad notion. What makes you think they're holding Jay anywhere near here?"
Maeve made a wide gesture. "'They.' There is no they. We are speaking of Liam McDiarmuid. I'll wager he sneaked out of Stanyon the back way, overpowered Jay, and took him into the woods in the space of half an hour or less. He was back at his desk at Stanyon by the time you called. He could have done that easily, without his absence causing comment, but he couldn't have spirited Jay off to Dublin or Cork."
"Not without accomplices," Joe agreed.
I shivered, wondering who the accomplices might be.
The telephone rang. All of us jumped. Joe answered. From the scraps I heard of his side of the conversation I gathered he was speaking to Mahon and that something had happened. My stomach roiled.
Dad took my hand.
Joe hung up. "Neither Liam nor his Saab is on the ferry."
Maeve took a step toward him. "That means nothing." I could see she was shaken.
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