“I was about to call you,” Bob said. “Yarborough’s on his way. He wants to talk to Helen Carlisle about a few lies she told.”
“About when she left her husband in Ireland?”
“We checked the auction house where she worked. She turned up in June of last year. Before that she was at a smaller auction house—a totally different woman. Quiet, timid. Not at all glamorous.” Bob paused. “Scoop, Helen Carlisle isn’t who she says she is.”
He entered the kitchen and saw skulls and blood-dripping branches. “Yeah, Bob,” Scoop said, tightening his grip on the phone, “I can see that.”
31
Helen Carlisle had transformed the large, elegant courtyard into her own notion of a sacred wood. Sophie stood next to Acosta by a potting bench. The blood dripping from the branches was definitely real. Helen had taken it from several “rodents” she’d killed, their carcasses hanging from the branches of a potted oak sapling.
In the middle of the courtyard was a giant cast-iron cauldron set on a grate over an open fire. Sophie could feel the blistering heat of the flames.
Helen kept her gun—one of Cliff Rafferty’s, she’d explained—pointed at her prisoners.
Her future victims, Sophie thought. “Were you here earlier today?” she asked Acosta.
He nodded, transfixed by the frightening image Helen presented with her red wig and cape pinned at the shoulder with a gold brooch of distinctive Celtic design. His skin was gray, pasty. “I deluded myself.” He slurred his words slightly, his voice barely audible. “She tried to kill me yesterday. I see that now.”
“Listen to me.” Sophie knew she had to pull him out of his shock and self-pity if they were to survive. “Did Helen give you anything? Tea, a glass of water—”
“Tea.”
“She’s drugged you. She thinks she’s some kind of warrior queen or goddess. She thinks she’s drawing power from you. You’re a police officer. A warrior. A lover. A threat. She has wild ideas but she’s not insane. She knows exactly what she’s doing and what she wants.”
Helen sniffed. “What are you saying, Sophie? I told Jay Augustine that you had a knack for adventure and archaeology. I told him that you had a gift and it was just a matter of time before you discovered something of value and interest. I was right.” She didn’t lower her weapon a fraction of an inch. “When Percy told me about you and your Irish fisherman…I knew.”
“Rafferty and Augustine played you.”
“Oh, they tried. Certainly. Cliff was an opportunist. Jay was a killer—I didn’t know at first. Now I see he was sent to me as a sign that it was time I took action.”
“You transformed yourself,” Sophie said, wishing somehow she could get Helen to move closer to the flames, catch her cape on fire—fall against the bubbling cauldron.
“Jay and Cliff thought I was a mousy know-nothing who dusted artwork in one of New York’s lesser auction houses. And I was, until I became the woman Percy Carlisle fell in love with.” Her beautiful eyes leveled on Sophie. “I sought him out because of you.”
“Because of my expertise in Celtic archaeology.”
“Jay was amused by my transformation. Cliff didn’t even know until after Ireland.” Her tone was superior—she was enjoying telling her story. “After he and Jay did what I wanted.”
Sophie kept her tone steady, unafraid. “They followed me to the island.”
“Can you imagine?” Helen smiled, but she didn’t lower her gun. “Percy told me about your research in Ireland and your family home in Kenmare. Everything. Cliff was stupid and lazy in many ways, but he saw you go off with your Irish fisherman. He had binoculars. He was able to follow you and figure out where you were going.”
“He got lucky. If he’d followed me the first five trips out to the island, he’d have come back empty-handed.”
“It wasn’t luck. Those pieces were meant to find their way to me. Jay wasn’t tuned in to anything except opportunities for himself, and look what it got him? He died alone in a jail cell.”
“Did you know that would happen, too?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
Acosta sank onto a bench. “Get the hell out of here,” he whispered to Sophie. “Save yourself. I knew she was out of control but not this. Damn.”
“If we can keep her talking—”
“No, don’t. Don’t, Sophie. Get out of here.”
Helen glanced at him with disdain. “He’ll fall asleep. He won’t die from what I gave him.”
“How did you kill Cliff?”
“I waited for him to get back from whining to you. I hit him on the head hard enough to knock him out. Then I hanged him. It was all planned. He had to be sacrificed. I wanted what power he had left in him.”
“You’d fantasized about doing just that to someone.”
“I don’t fantasize.” She came closer to Acosta as he fought to stay conscious. “I found myself when I delved into the study of true ancient pagan Celtic ways. I have a special insight because of my past. That’s one thing that mouse I used to be gave me.”
“There’s nothing authentic about what you’ve done, Helen, or what you’re doing now. It’s pure, self-indulgent violence. It won’t get you what you want.”
“It will, Sophie.”
“You think you’re a destructress—that you’ll gain power by creating chaos. You’ve intentionally adopted these beliefs to justify and rationalize your violence. Your understanding of early pagan Celtic rites and rituals is limited, as well as warped.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I know and don’t know. Jay and Cliff underestimated me. They hid the treasure from the cave—my treasure—from me. They never thought I’d be the buyer. Then when I married Percy…” She stood up straighter, taller. “When I became Mrs. Percy Carlisle, Jay understood.”
“Then he went after Keira—”
“And he was arrested for murder while my treasure was sitting in his vault.”
“You seduced Detective Acosta. You got Cliff to make sure he was assigned to security at the showroom.” Sophie’s throat was dry, but she was focused on this woman. Helen was lost in her own reality. There was no reasoning with her. There was only delaying her. “He brought you the treasure.”
“That’s right. The cauldron you found is a source of rejuve-nation and abundance,” Helen said, the flames glowing in her eyes. “I will use it to consolidate my power. I have no doubts, Sophie. I have absolute certainty. Look at me. Look at what I’ve done. I’m a Carlisle.”
“You want to be here,” Sophie said softly. “You belong in this beautiful house. You love this life, Helen.”
“That’s right. I will give up nothing.”
“If you go through with this, you’ll give up Percy.”
“He is going through his own transformation. He will understand. He’s under my control.”
Acosta passed out, sinking onto the brick courtyard.
He might have been one of her butchered squirrels for the look she gave him. “For a long time, I was weak and powerless. No one noticed me. Then I changed. Now look at me. I’m Helen Carlisle. I’m Mrs. Percy Carlisle. I’m desired by warriors like Frank Acosta.”
“Cliff Rafferty wanted my opinion on what you were up to, didn’t he? He was going to confess—”
“I’m the one who found his bomb-making materials and laid them out for his police friends.” She kept her gun pointed at Sophie. “You could join me. Think of what you could become, Sophie.”
“Not in a million years. What about Percy, Helen? What have you done with your husband?”
32
Off the Iveragh Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
Josie recognized Percy Carlisle, unshaven, filthy, one hand cuffed to a bolt drilled into the rock wall of the cave. He’d been left with blankets, water, minimal food and modest portable toilet facilities—just enough for basic subsistence, an ordeal for anyone, never mind a man accustomed to the creature comforts as he was. But he was alive.
&nb
sp; Traumatized and exhausted, the poor man couldn’t speak. His graying hair was matted to his skull, his skin pasty beneath the mud. Together, Josie and Myles got him out of the cave.
Tim O’Donovan had called the guards. He looked shaken, stunned by this development. Josie welcomed the stiff, cold, wet wind as she sat atop a boulder. “It wasn’t you who left him here, was it, Tim?”
He seemed to take no offense at her question. “No, and it wasn’t Sophie, either.”
Myles saw to Carlisle, checking his vital signs, talking quietly with him. Finally Carlisle rallied a bit. “I came out here to make my peace.”
“How did you know about the island, Percy?” Josie asked gently.
“Helen. Helen told me this was the island Sophie had explored. I remembered…” He paused, talking difficult for him. “I’d told Helen about what I’d heard—that Sophie was chasing a story with an Irish fisherman. I was so afraid we both had been used by Jay Augustine.”
“Go on, mate,” Myles said.
“I came out here at dawn. A woman was already on the island.” Percy’s voice was distant, hoarse. “She wore a red cape and she had long red hair. I didn’t get a good look at her face, but it wasn’t Sophie.”
“No, it was your wife,” Josie said bluntly. Of course, she thought. Helen Carlisle hadn’t gone straight back to the U.S. after all.
But she could see Percy had figured that out. “I married first and then asked questions. I was stupid because such a woman took an interest in me.”
Josie had it on the tip of her tongue to tell him that everyone made mistakes in love, but that was absurd. Not everyone was left handcuffed to a cave on an uninhabited island off the coast of Ireland.
His wife wanted Carlisle money and power.
“She’s a shape-shifter,” Percy said. “Helen. I don’t even know if that’s her real name.”
33
Boston, Massachusetts
Sophie was talking about magical cauldrons when Scoop entered the courtyard, staying out of sight. “You could use this cauldron for such good,” she said in a gentle, professorial tone. “It could rejuvenate this house. It could replenish your energy and power. You deserve to live a life of plenty after all you’ve endured.”
She stood next to a large cast-iron pot on a fire, herb-scented steam rising from the boiling water. Scoop had a good view of her from the edge of a trellis covered in ivy. He had his weapon drawn. Josie had texted him that she, Fletcher and Tim O’Donovan had found Percy Carlisle alive on the island.
“I am using the cauldron for good,” Helen Carlisle said, just out of his sight behind a potted tree. “Sacrifices must be made. You of all people must know that, Sophie. The gods demand it. I demand it.”
“Your cauldron, Helen? Those baubles you’re wearing? Total fakes. That’s no Tara brooch on your cloak. Not even close. All the pieces in your sacred wood here are garbage. Trust me. I’m the expert. I know.”
“You’re lying,” Helen said, cool but clearly annoyed, agitated.
“I know you’re not stupid or crazy. You believe what you’re doing will get you what you want and deserve. You know exactly what will happen if the police catch you.”
She gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, that’s good, Sophie. Let me remind you that it’s a police officer passed out at my feet. It’s a police officer I’m going to sacrifice.”
“You tried and failed to kill him yesterday.”
Acosta, Scoop thought, edging closer to the cauldron. He could hear the water boiling. Acosta was out of sight, probably by the potted oak with the woman who was about to kill him. Sophie was obviously trying to save him, just as she had yesterday, this time by distracting his would-be killer. She touched her hair, one finger pointing very slightly in Scoop’s direction. It was enough. She knew he was there.
“Yesterday wasn’t a failure,” Helen said. “It was an opportunity.”
“Fire, earth, water. I get that. He surprised you at the museum. What were you doing, drawing your own blood? Butchering a squirrel?”
“You think you’re so smart, Sophie, don’t you?”
“Come out and let me show you why your artifacts are fakes and you’re a phony.”
“Frank’s ready now,” Helen said. “I don’t want him to feel pain. I used a drug this time, but I know how to exhaust him in other ways. We’d have sex out here in the garden when Percy was away. We’d meet in the museum—right down the hall from where he almost died yesterday. He couldn’t get over my energy, my passion. You’ve never had that experience with a man, have you, Sophie?”
Sophie didn’t rise to the bait. “Did Cliff know?”
Helen snorted. “Oh, please. He wanted me, too. He thought about having me every waking moment. You wouldn’t know, of course. You’ve never had a man completely intoxicated with you.”
“Who will you have after you’ve sacrificed Detective Acosta?”
“Whoever I want. I’ll draw strength from Frank after he is dead. He’s asleep for now.” She paused, adding casually, “He’ll wake up when I get him into the cauldron. You’ll help me, Sophie. You have no choice.”
The branches on the oak moved, and Scoop saw a flash of red—Helen, with a 9 mm pistol leveled at Sophie.
“Drop the gun,” Scoop said, his weapon pointed at her.
She turned her pistol to him, and he fired.
Acosta was a mess when he came to. “Helen set up a slow death for me. She was going to roast me over a spit.”
“Worse,” Sophie said, pacing in front of the cauldron. She left it at that.
Scoop was more blunt and added the details she’d given him. “Helen was going to boil you, eat the meat off your bones and then drink the water.”
Acosta grimaced but said nothing. Scoop sat next to him on the brick courtyard. He’d secured the scene. They weren’t touching anything. The water was still bubbling in the pot a few yards away.
Without looking at either Scoop or Sophie, Acosta continued. “So here I am, looking into this bastard Augustine’s business to see if he’d been into trafficking of stolen art in addition to killing people, when I run into Cliff. I get him assigned to work security at the showroom. He’d had a lousy career and his wife had left him and I figured I’d do him a good turn. He played me. It never occurred to me he was doing a little cash business with Augustine on the side. Then Helen shows up and I’m done. Head over heels. Gone.”
“Did you know Rafferty was involved with the thugs who kidnapped Abigail?”
“Not in time to do anything about it. I didn’t figure it out until too late. Augustine had hired them to do some work for him. That’s how Estabrook hooked up with them. Cliff let his failures eat at him. He couldn’t let go. All it took was those guys putting cash in his hands to place a bomb at your house.”
“Any of us could have been killed. Fiona O’Reilly was an innocent teenager.”
“Norman Estabrook paid a lot of money to those guys. Cliff was about cash and an island life. Me…” He glanced toward the potted oak trees. Sophie had explained that oaks were a sacred tree. “I was about Helen. Once she was in my life there was nothing else but her.”
Scoop figured now wasn’t the time to tell Acosta what a damn fool he’d been. “Following Sophie out to the island was Augustine’s idea, after Helen told him about the rumors Sophie was investigating a story Tim O’Donovan had told her.”
“Augustine loved scaring the hell out of her. Cliff said it was his first real clue that Augustine wasn’t just an occasional thief.”
“They left Sophie for dead, Frank.”
Acosta cut his eyes to Sophie but addressed Scoop as he spoke. “She didn’t die. She’s an archaeologist. She’s used to digs, rough conditions. She had the fisherman coming back for her. She got through the night.”
“Rafferty told you all this?” Scoop asked.
“The afternoon before Helen killed him. I didn’t see it coming. I was figuring out what to do when I heard he was dead.”
“She
believed Rafferty and Augustine appropriated and misused her rituals, but she was inspired to act on her violent impulses after realizing what Augustine was.” Sophie was very pale now. “More of Lizzie Rush’s ripple effects.”
Acosta looked up at Scoop. “You should have let Helen turn me into a stew.”
“When did she come into your life?”
“July. After she and Percy were married. I was under her spell. She sucked me dry. She used me.”
Scoop was unsympathetic. “You knew the merry-go-round would stop one day.”
“I figured I’d be in a penthouse with Helen when it did.” He looked ragged, exhausted. “Warrior queen. Hell.”
Bob O’Reilly and Tom Yarborough, a straight-back, fair-haired homicide detective, arrived. Abigail Browning was a split second behind them. Scoop no longer had any question about whether she was giving up the job—she was in full-blown detective mode.
Scoop knew he and Sophie had a long night ahead of them. He slipped his hand into hers. “So, Dr. Malone, what was your backup plan if I didn’t show up with guns blazing?”
A touch of color returned to her cheeks. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She squeezed his hand. “I was going to take one of her blood-soaked branches and knock her on her ass with it.”
“Whoa.” Scoop grinned at her. “You might end up as Agent Malone yet.”
But her face was pale again. “Scoop…”
“It’ll take time, Sophie. For both of us.”
34
Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
Josie entered the little pub in Keira’s village on the Beara Peninsula and ordered herself a Midleton, because, after all, no one had chained her to a remote island cave or tried to burn, drown or hang her. A peat fire glowed in the fireplace. A dog slept on the hearth. A hurling match was on the television. Local farmers, fishermen and laborers had gathered at tables by the window, teasing each other with the familiarity of men who’d known they’d live their entire lives in their quiet village hugging the rocky southwest Irish coast.
The Whisper Page 27