He pulled open the drawers of the tall pine chest. More clothes, sturdy stuff for hikes in the countryside.
“Well, Keira, where are you?”
Simon gazed out the window at the beautiful, remote landscape. She could have taken the bus to Dublin for a few days, or she could have headed out into the hills for a ramble and slid off a cliff into the Atlantic. Who the hell knew? 112
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Stifling his annoyance at her poor planning, he flipped through a stack of receipts and brochures on top of the dresser. He didn’t find any type of note or letter or even doodle indicating where she was—nothing that would help him locate her.
He headed back outside, grabbing his rain jacket out of his car—one didn’t travel to Ireland without rain gear—
and ambled off down the lane in the moonlight. Keira had picked herself a spot right out of an Irish fairytale, that was for certain.
The village pub was lit up and lively with food, drink and conversation among a mix of tourists and locals. Simon eased onto a barstool and ordered coffee. It was getting dark on the peninsula, and he needed to keep a clear head. “My name’s Simon Cahill,” he told the sandy-haired barman. “I’m trying to locate Keira Sullivan.”
The barman—presumably the Eddie O’Shea who’d spoken to her uncle—tilted his head back and eyed Simon with open suspicion. “You’ve come all the way from America?”
“London.” Simon didn’t object to O’Shea’s obvious protectiveness. “Keira’s uncle asked me to look in on her through a mutual friend. You talked to the uncle earlier. Boston detective.”
“His name?”
“Bob O’Reilly. To be honest, I don’t know him well.”
O’Shea seemed satisfied. “Keira sat right where you are two nights ago.”
“Did she say she was going anywhere?”
“She said she was looking forward to the summer solstice.”
Simon recalled overhearing the old woman in Boston mentioning the summer solstice. It had something to do with her story about the angel, the brothers, the fairies. He
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113 wished he’d done a more thorough job of eavesdropping on what all she and Keira had said to each other. O’Shea filled a coffee press with fresh grounds and hot water and set it and a mug on the bar, then pulled a pitcher of cream from a small refrigerator and plopped it next to the coffee. “Keira likes to roam about the countryside.”
Simon pushed down the press, then poured the coffee. It smelled kick-ass strong, and he added as much cream as he could without overflowing the mug. “Has she ruffled any local feathers?”
“Not that I would know. She’s only been here a short time, but I can see she’s one who goes her own way.”
“She left her cottage unlocked.”
“Now, why would you care about that? Think someone around here would rob her?”
“You never know.”
Eddie O’Shea grew red in the face. “I know.”
Simon was neither embarrassed nor offended by the barman’s strong reaction. “Any idea where she is?”
“There’s no telling.”
“She give you any hints?”
Calmer now, O’Shea shook his head. “She likes to pull my leg about fairies and leprechauns. I told her I’ve no use for that nonsense.”
“Would you say she’s careful, takes normal precautions?”
“I suppose that depends on what you’d call normal, wouldn’t it, Mr. Cahill? It’s the wet and the cold and the rock I worry about. One slip.” O’Shea snapped his fingers.
“That’d do it.”
It would, indeed, Simon thought.
“I have to say…” O’Shea grabbed Simon’s coffee press and set it on the work counter behind him. “Never mind.”
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Simon waited a moment, but when the barman didn’t go on, he nudged. “What were you going to say, Mr. O’Shea?”
“I don’t recall telling you my name.”
Simon recognized that he was being tested and decided not to play games with the man. “You didn’t. You told Keira’s uncle in Boston.”
O’Shea sighed, less confrontational. “Keira had some
thing on her mind. She didn’t tell me any details, and I didn’t ask.” He snatched up a white cloth and mopped the spotless, gleaming bar. “For all I know, she’s off to kiss the Blarney Stone or some damn thing.”
“If necessary, can you help me pull together a search team at first light?”
“I can.”
Simon drank a bit more of his coffee and started to pay for it, but O’Shea waved off any money. “Thanks,” Simon said quietly, sensing the man’s worry. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
So far, it was proving to be a cheap trip to Ireland. He headed outside, debating his options. He assumed everyone else in the pub had eavesdropped on his conversation with O’Shea and would have volunteered information on Keira if they had any.
Simon noticed a man in simple farmer’s clothes smoking a cigarette at a picnic table by the pub entrance.
“Your girlie’s stirring up things best left alone.” His eyes were a piercing shade of blue, and his voice was steady, sober. “There are good spirits and evil spirits. Best to leave all of them be.”
“Did Keira talk about these spirits?”
The man smiled a little. “You have the look of an Irishman.”
That was all he had to say. He took one last drag on his cigarette, then got up and headed down the quiet street.
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115 Simon started to call after him, but before he could get a word out, the man had disappeared into the mist. As Simon walked back along the quiet lane, fog swept down from the hills, adding to the moodiness and the sense of remoteness of the place. Obviously, his AWOL
artist wasn’t a fainthearted type, but he had to admit he understood the draw of being out here alone. And it was the land of her ancestors and his, which had its own appeal—as well as its own dangers. Easy to get caught up in the romance of a place and think one was safe, protected. Lights in bungalows along the lane and down toward the harbor suggested life in the little village—families gathered in front of the television, getting cleaned up for the next day, settling in for the night. Simon had seldom known such normalcy himself.
When he returned to Keira’s rented cottage, he flipped through another sketchbook, pausing at a hasty-looking pencil drawing of a winding stream amid thick trees and lush undergrowth.
A real place, or a product of her obviously vivid imagination?
Simon turned to the next page. The stream again—this time, curling under a small wooden bridge on a dirt track running through open, rocky pasture.
He tore off the page, folded it and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
If the stream, the dirt track, the fence and the bridge existed, then Keira had drawn enough detail for him to find them—and, with any luck, her.
Beacon Hill
Boston, Massachusetts
4:00 p.m., EDT
June 22
Abigail joined Bob O’Reilly on the front steps of the Garrison house while Fiona and her friends practiced in the drawing room. “They’re on their millionth run-through of
‘Boil the Breakfast Early,’” Bob said. “One more time, and my fillings are going to start falling out.”
“I don’t know Irish music that well, but I like that song,”
Abigail said.
“It’s a happy tune, at least. The sad ones make me want to drive straight to the shooting range.”
“Ever take music lessons as a kid?”
“Fiddle. Hated it.”
“Irish dancing?” she asked.
“I’m taking the Fifth on that one.”
“I don’t know, Bob, I can see you as this little red
headed kid step dancing—”
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117 “I’m armed, Abigail.”
She leaned against the stair railing, feeling the heat and humidity building back in after a couple of dry days. “Any word from Simon?”
Bob shook his head. “You think I’m overreacting.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Any other time of year—any other place—” He broke off. “Keira’s never lived a simple life. A dead man in the Public Garden the other night, and now this.”
“Did you check with the Irish police? Any accident reports, unidentified—”
“No. I haven’t checked. I’m not going to. She’s fine.”
Abigail wasn’t sure what to say. “I imagine you’ll hear something from Simon soon. Owen says he’s one of Fast Rescue’s best, and he’s a disaster-preparedness consultant.”
Bob grunted. “Keira’s a damn disaster all by herself.”
“You don’t mean that, Bob. You’re just worried.”
Abigail tensed, noticing Charlotte Augustine walking up Beacon Street, clutching a book in one hand.
“What?” Bob asked.
“Never mind. Maybe you should go inside and see Fiona.”
He followed her gaze to Charlotte. “Who’s that?”
“Victor Sarakis’s sister. Look, let me deal with her—”
“What’s she doing here?”
“I don’t know, Bob,” Abigail said testily. “Will you just go inside and—”
“Nope. They’re playing a dirge now. I’m in a bad enough mood.” He nodded toward the street. “Go ahead. Pretend I’m not here.”
She didn’t argue with him, just descended the stairs and intercepted Charlotte. “Mrs. Augustine, what can I do for you?”
She was in her late forties, trim and average-looking 118
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except for badly dyed red-brown hair. She wore a crisp, conservative navy skirt suit that Abigail figured had to be hot for late June. They’d met yesterday at her and her husband’s house in Newton. It had been a short visit. Abigail still had nothing but gut instinct to indicate Victor Sarakis’s death wasn’t an accident. She’d left her card for Charlotte—which didn’t include the address for the Garrison house.
“I don’t mean to intrude, Detective Browning, but I thought I might find you here. I was at our showroom, trying to work. It’s difficult…” Her voice faltered. “I can’t get over what happened.”
Bob descended two steps. “Did Detective Browning ask you to meet her here?”
“Oh, no. No, no.” Charlotte’s faced reddened. “I just re
membered reading about her husband’s murder last summer and that he was connected to the Dorothy Garrison Foundation.”
“Her husband wasn’t killed last summer. Abigail figured out who killed him last summer. He wasn’t connected to the foundation, either. The man she’s—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Abigail said, jumping in before Bob explained her whole life to this woman.
Charlotte thrust the book she was carrying at Abigail.
“Here’s the history of Satan I mentioned yesterday.”
Abigail took it from her. “Thanks.” It was a weighty, musty tome. She glanced at the title. Sure, enough. A History of the Devil was emblazoned on the cover in academic-looking type.
Bob leaned over her. “Not exactly light reading, is it?”
“It’s a thorough but basic history,” Charlotte said.
“Victor—I can’t explain why he was so fascinated by the subject. He’s the one who gave me the book.”
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119 “Birthday present?” Bob asked, neutral.
“No. I think he just wanted me to understand his interest. He liked to remind me that the devil is a single entity. People tend to forget there’s only one Satan. One devil. We think of him in multiples these days, though, don’t we? He’s become generic—a cliché.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Abigail said. “Mrs. Augustine, do you believe your brother’s obsession with the devil played a role in his death?”
Charlotte seemed hardly to hear the question. “I don’t know what to believe,” she said. “You’re a homicide de
tective. Do you consider most murders the devil’s work?”
“I don’t,” Bob interjected.
“It doesn’t matter what we think,” Abigail said. “Is that what your brother believed?”
“He never said.”
“When was the last time—”
“The last time we discussed the devil?” Charlotte gave a bitter laugh. “It’s all we ever talked about. Tell me, if God is all-powerful, why not rid us of Satan? Why not just defeat the devil and free us all of his influence?”
“Or she,” Bob said. “The devil could be a she, right?”
Charlotte didn’t even crack a smile. “The devil is God’s enemy, but he’s our enemy, too. Mankind’s enemy. He tempts, lures, cajoles, tricks. He takes many forms in order to do his evil. He’s always on the search for new minions—fresh and able diabolical followers.”
Bob rubbed the side of his mouth with one finger.
“That’s in the book, right?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “If God can’t defeat Satan, how can we mere humans hope to?” She smiled suddenly, as if she’d just realized she was starting to sound like a nut.
“I hope you find the book instructive, Detective Browning.”
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Abigail gave her a tight smile. “I’m sure I will.”
“I don’t really believe there’s a connection between my brother’s interest in evil and his death. I just—I don’t know. I suppose I’m hoping the book will give you a better ap
preciation of Victor’s interests the way it did me.”
“I understand, Mrs. Augustine.”
She seemed relieved, smiling again as she nodded toward the drawing room. “The music’s wonderful. Irish, isn’t it?”
Bob bristled visibly. “I don’t know much about music.”
“Of course,” Charlotte mumbled. “Well, I should be going. Thank you for your time.”
Abigail watched her for a moment before turning back to Bob. “I didn’t tell her to come here.”
“Good thing we were here. I wouldn’t want her dropping off a devil book with Fiona. You know, Abigail, it’s easier for someone with an anonymous life to be a detective.”
She had to admit that lately her life had been anything but anonymous. With her father’s high-profile job, it never had been, but people were used to it. They’d already factored in that she was the daughter of the current FBI director. But her husband’s shocking death—and the dis
covery of his murderer last summer—had kept Abigail in the news. Falling for a Garrison and the founder of Fast Rescue had only added to the complications of her life. Bob sighed at her book. “When the nuns started in on hell, damnation and the devil in catechism class, I’d sneak out to the drugstore and buy comics. You know, good guys, bad guys. Bad guys lose. Good guys win. Simple.”
“Nothing about Victor Sarakis strikes me as simple.”
“I’ve been at this job for a lot of years, and I’ve never once run into a murder committed by the devil. They’ve all been committed by human beings. Our job is to figure out which human beings. Period, end of story.”
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121 Fiona O’Reilly, in skinny jeans and a baggy Irish rugby shirt, appeared in the doorway behind him. “Dad?”
He turned sharply. “Hey, kid. You guys finished?”
“We’re taking a ten-minute break. Dad—who was that?”
“Just a woman who wanted to give Abigail a book.”
But Abigail saw that Fiona was pale, even scared.
“Fiona, do you know her?”
“No! I just—with your work and all…I was curious. Dad, you don’t have to wait for me if there’s something you need to do.”
Abigail kept the front cover of the book out of Fiona’s line of sight, but she hadn’t checked the back cover. For all she knew, it
was decorated in the flames of hell and red, fork-tongued devils.
One devil, she reminded herself . The rest would be his minions.
“There’s nothing I need to do,” Bob told his daughter. But he eyed her a moment, then said, “Fi, what’s up?”
She peered past him at the street. “Did she know the man who drowned?”
“He was her brother,” Abigail said.
Bob shot her a look, but Fiona gulped in a breath. “Did he have anything to do with the old woman and the priest who were here?”
“Fiona,” her father said. “What old woman and priest?”
His daughter’s eyes flickered on him, and color rose in her cheeks. “Nothing. Never mind. I forgot you and Abigail weren’t here. You didn’t see them—”
Abigail started up the steps. “Fiona, it’s okay. You can tell us. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. If it’s something, we need to know.”
“It’s nothing—my mistake. Honestly.”
She wasn’t lying, Abigail decided, but she wasn’t telling 122
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all she knew, either. Bob had to see it, too. But he said,
“Come on, Fi, let’s go inside. You and your friends can play a tune and I’ll see if I can remember how to dance to it.”
Abigail reined in her impatience. “Bob—”
He glared at her over her shoulder. “Go home, Abigail. Read about the devil.” Then he gave her a strained grin.
“No way am I dancing an Irish jig in front of you.”
“If Fiona—”
“Leave my daughter to me.”
Abigail sighed, nodding. She saw the worry etched in his face and decided not to push him. “All right. Let me know if you hear from Simon, and I’ll do the same.”
He didn’t respond. As Fiona started back into the elegant house, she turned and glanced down the street, her face pale again, but she said nothing and neither did Abigail. By the time she was unlocking her car door, she could hear Irish music again and almost peeked into the windows, just to see if Bob O’Reilly was dancing.
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