The Angel

by Carla Neggers

  She shut her eyes. “It’s a half real, half imagined place,”

  she said. “The dog was real. I didn’t imagine him.”

  “Maybe not.” Simon’s voice was surprisingly close, gentle. “Get some sleep, Keira.”

  “You, too.”

  “I will as soon as you stop talking about shape-shifting black dogs.”

  She smiled. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Yeah. Sweet dreams.”

 
  South Boston, Massachusetts

  8:00 p.m., EDT

  June 22

  Bob O’Reilly rang the doorbell to Patsy McCarthy’s single-family house on the tidy South Boston street where he and his sister had grown up. He’d made a practice of not dwelling on Deirdre’s murder thirty years ago, but he thought of her now, running out onto the street as a young teenager, always more attractive than she’d realized. He’d never met anyone like her.

  It was hot and late, and he didn’t want to be here. But Patsy opened the door, and when she saw him, she put her hand to her mouth and gave a small gasp. “Nothing’s happened—”

  “No,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “You’ve got that cop look of yours.” She relaxed slightly, dropping her hand back to her side. “I remember when you were a little boy, and you’d come here with that same look on your face. Your mother and I knew you’d become a police officer.”

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  147 “Mrs. McCarthy, what did you tell Keira?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went to see her the other night—the night before she left for Ireland.”

  Patsy opened the door wider and stepped out onto the stoop, pulling her sweater more tightly, despite the heat. Bob could see into her front hall, where she had a wall covered with postcards of Ireland and stickers of sham­

  rocks and leprechaun hats. It’d been that way forever. She never went anywhere herself, but she’d ask people she knew to send her postcards from their trips. Even back when Eileen took off to study in Ireland at nineteen, Patsy had asked her to send postcards for her wall.

  “I didn’t tell Keira about Deirdre,” she said, her expres­

  sion hardening. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

  Bob didn’t mince words. “It is.”

  “It’s not my place to tell her.”

  He heard that subtext—that it was his place to tell his niece, and presumably his three daughters, about his murdered childhood neighbor. But he didn’t go there.

  “What did you tell her, then?”

  “Old family stories.”

  “The one about the Irish brothers and the stone angel?”

  Her mood seemed to lighten. “You remember it?”

  “Sure.Yeah, of course. Patsy, you know you’ve opened up a can of worms telling Keira that story. Telling her that her mother looked for the village where it was set when she went to Ireland before Keira was born.”

  “Oh, Bob.” Patsy waved her bony fingers at him. “So what if I did? Maybe Keira will be the one to find the angel. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Bob gave an inward groan. Yeah, hell, he thought, it’d be something. After he’d dragged out of Fiona what she’d 148

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  overheard Patsy telling Keira at the Garrison house, he’d known what to expect, but the confirmation hit him in the gut. His sister had gone off in search of that stupid angel thirty years ago. He didn’t know the details—Eileen had never told him—but he’d long suspected that little adven­

  ture of hers had everything to do with how she’d come home from Ireland pregnant.

  No question, Keira was retracing her mother’s foot­

  steps. Bob didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Simon Cahill hadn’t pulled her out of that ruin when he did.

  Not that Bob was all that sure about Cahill. Big brute of a guy, good-looking, charming.

  Bob ground his teeth together. All three of his daugh­

  ters looked up to Keira. He loved her to death, but having her right there in Boston was a lot different than having her in San Diego or the other places she’d lived in the past few years. Fiona already was bugging him about going on adventures of her own.

  “Bob?”

  “It’s okay, Patsy,” he said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. When did you and Keira hook up?”

  “It’s been a couple of months. I have all her books. She’s so talented, Bob, isn’t she?”

  “That she is. Did she get in touch with you or you with her?”

  “I e-mailed her. I’m handy with a computer, I’ll have you know. I heard about the Irish project and went to her Web site—”

  “How’d you hear about the project?”

  “Billie and Jeanette Murphy told me about it. You remember them, don’t you, Bob?”

  Bob nodded. They were a few years ahead of him in

  THE ANGEL

  149 school, and they’d made a fortune in Boston real estate. They lived in a high-priced waterfront condominium that was technically in South Boston, although not exactly part of the old neighborhood, and they owned the land on which his sister had built her cabin.

  “Who else did you tell that story to?” he asked Patsy.

  “I’ve told it for years to anyone and everyone. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Didn’t say you shouldn’t.”

  “Then what’s wrong with you? Why are you here?”

  He sighed. “Keira ran into a little trouble in Ireland. She’s fine—I just let myself get worked up over it. Because of Eileen, I guess. That summer.”

  Patsy clutched his hand, digging her bony fingers into his palm. “You’re sure Keira’s all right?”

  “I’m sure. Don’t worry, okay? She’s got someone with her.”

  “I told her three or four stories my grandfather used to tell me. Keira seemed to enjoy them, but she especially liked the one about the three brothers. It was Deirdre’s favorite, too. She wanted Eileen to look for the stone angel when she was in Ireland. Bob, you remember how excited Deirdre was about Eileen’s trip, don’t you?”

  He pried Patsy’s small hand from his and squeezed it gently, then kissed her on the cheek. “I remember every minute I spent with Deirdre. She was the best. You okay? Anything you’re not telling me?”

  “You’re a good boy, Bob. You always have been.”

  It wasn’t a direct answer. “Nah. I’m not that good.” He tried to relax but couldn’t, and he slipped one of his cards into her palm. “You hold on to that. It’s got all my phone numbers on it. If you think of anything you want to tell me—anything unusual happens—you call. Better safe than sorry, right?”

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  She nodded.

  But he knew he didn’t have her full trust. He hadn’t kept up with her the way he probably should have, but he’d known her forever and felt her restraint, her resistance. “Patsy…”

  “I’ll call you if I think of anything else,” she said, then smiled, letting go of his hand. “Don’t worry so much.”

  He grinned at her. “Now you sound like one of my exwives. It’s good to see you, Patsy. The priest from your church drove you to see Keira? I don’t know him.”

  “He’s been at Saint Ita’s for a little more than a year. Father Palermo. He came up with the idea to have a church bazaar with an angel theme. I brought in my entire angel collection to display. We had such a wonderful time.”

  He heard her native Ireland in her voice now. “Sorry I missed it.”

  She gave him an impish grin. “No, you’re not.”

  “I should come by more often.”

  “You should.”

  “You can tell me that story again. It’s perfect for Keira’s new book.”

  “I think so, too. That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

  She looked happier, more at ease. “I’m so glad to see you, Bob. Come back soon.”

  “I will.” He started down the s
teps, then turned and pointed at her. “You’ll call, right? Anytime. I’m available 24/7.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You really do worry too much.”

  He probably did, Bob thought, returning to his car, unable to shake his uneasiness. He wanted to blame the summer solstice and his general pessimism, but he knew that wasn’t all—it was the body in the Public Garden, the dead man’s devil room and now Keira’s mess in Ireland. And Fiona. His daughter hadn’t told him everything, either.

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  151

  He debated trying again with Patsy, but he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. She was a sweet soul, but she was also stubborn and secretive. In her own way, she was hard as nails. He remembered taking her out to the water­

  front where Deirdre’s body had washed ashore and how she’d talked about ways to fight the devil. If anyone could do it, it was Patsy McCarthy.

  After Bob left, Patsy changed into her housecoat and slippers and poured herself just the tiniest bit of Irish whiskey to take with her into the dining room. She knew she’d have a hard time sleeping tonight. She was accus­

  tomed to keeping her own company, and she wasn’t afraid in her own house—that wasn’t it, she thought as she stood in front of the curio cabinet where she kept the best of Deirdre’s angels.

  You should have invited Bob in for tea. He’d have come—she could tell he suspected she hadn’t told him everything that was on her mind. He’d have used tea as a way to get her to open up to him, and she wasn’t going to.

  She sat at the table, sipping her whiskey and gazing at the angels.

  Finally, she started up to bed, but a noise drew her into the kitchen. She flipped on her back-porch light, hoping it was a cat in her wind chimes. She had only the one set left. She used to have a half dozen, but one of her neighbors, a young hotel events coordinator who’d “discovered” the east side of South Boston and moved next door, had complained about them. Patsy would never have said a word over such a thing herself. Her neighbor had no such compunctions and had demanded that even this last set of chimes go, too. Off to a white-elephant sale with it, the woman had suggested. 152

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  “If there’s not an ordinance against wind chimes,” she’d said, “there should be.”

  How could someone deny an old woman the pleasure of one lonely set of wind chimes?

  Patsy used to know all her neighbors, but maybe it was just as well she didn’t even know this one’s name. She’d told Patsy she was attracted to their street for its proximity to downtown Boston and the waterfront. No mention of family, friends, anything of the sort. She talked about “gen­

  trification,” a word Patsy loathed.

  “No gentry here,” she muttered, peering out her kitchen window.

  If it was a cat in her wind chimes, she resolved not to take her irritation out on an innocent animal. That would be wrong, although she had no doubt her neighbor wouldn’t resist if similarly provoked.

  How different it was now from when Deirdre was growing up and would bring her friends to the house. Patsy had loved baking for them, telling them stories. She’d hoped to have five or six children, but it hadn’t worked out that way. She’d had just Deirdre.

  Patsy opened the back door, comfortable in her slippers and cotton housecoat. But she didn’t see a cat, and her wind chimes were quiet in the still, humid air. She paused, frowning. Did she hear music now?

  “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered. “I do!”

  It wasn’t her wind chimes, either, or her imagination. She wasn’t losing her mind. No—it was music she heard, sweet, mournful music. She didn’t recognize the melody, but it had an Irish sound. Where was it coming from? Was it a tipsy neighbor, humming as he staggered home after over imbibing at a nearby pub?

  Kids?

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  The music stopped. The wind chimes stirred, clinking pleasantly in the summer night. Patsy didn’t know what had started them dancing. There was no breeze that she could feel.

  As she turned to check the wind chimes, she saw a stone statue of an angel standing on the broad porch railing. She grabbed the front of her housecoat with one hand, as a way to steady herself, and stepped out onto the porch, thinking maybe she’d drunk more whiskey than she’d realized. But she could see the statue clearly—it was de­

  finitely an angel, about two feet tall and constructed of gray stone, with wings, an Irish harp in one arm and a face that was so loving and peaceful, Patsy thought of her daughter. How did the statue get here? Was it a gift for her col­

  lection?

  She reached for the back of a metal porch chair. Surely the music hadn’t come from this captivating statue. It couldn’t have, unless it was some kind of elaborate music box. Had someone left it as a prank, then?

  Real angels, Patsy remembered, appeared before those who were worthy.

  I’m not worthy.

  They also fought demons.

  I’m a sinner…I’m not a demon.

  And this was a statue—a beautiful statue. It wasn’t a real angel.

  She’d call Bob. She’d ask him to come back here. She’d tell him everything. All she knew, all she suspected. She left the angel on the porch and returned to her kitchen, locking the door behind her.

  “Patsy…”

  The voice came from the dining room.

  “Patricia Brigid McCarthy…”

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  Whoever was whispering her name was with her in the house. Patsy reached for Bob’s card on the counter, but she knew she was too late. There was no more time. The devil had come for her.

  As she dove for her telephone, she began to pray.

 
  Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 5:30 a.m., IST

  June 23

  Keira flopped an arm down on Simon’s stomach in her sleep. He was wide awake and had been for some time. So much, he thought, for her invisible electric fence. Not that he minded. He felt her warmth next to him. The earlymorning sunlight streaming in through the window landed on his bedmate’s long, pale hair and fair, smooth skin, and he figured if someone saw her lying here there’d be a new story to tell by the fire.

  But she was in a troubled sleep, moaning to herself, thrashing. He felt her entire body tense, and she made a fist, clutching his T-shirt and a good hunk of flesh. Her nails were cut short, and there were nicks and scrapes on her knuckles and wrist from the hours she’d spent trapped. It was a strong hand, and yet delicate, and Simon imagined her slender fingers skimming over him.

  Just kill me now.

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  He wondered how much Keira hadn’t told him about her trip to Ireland.

  She was self-sufficient and obviously not one to panic, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d come out to the south­

  west coast of Ireland thinking fairies would protect her. Who knew, maybe they had kept her safe in that ruin. From the outside, it looked as if no one could have lived through the cave-in, but not only did Keira live, she’d come through her ordeal relatively unscathed.

  Simon had to admit that if he hadn’t come along, she probably would have managed to climb out of there on her own. But he wasn’t sure what she’d have done if he hadn’t been there when she’d stood up, covered in blood. She cried out in her sleep and dug her fingers into his chest. He felt her knee coming at him but deflected the blow, just as her other hand went for his head. Time to wake her up. In the close quarters his work often required, he had witnessed his share of teammates having nightmares. Usually he’d just toss his watch or a water bottle at the person and say, “Hey, pal, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” But he was reluctant to be that perfunctory with Keira, not so much because he wanted to be gentle with her—he wanted her to be gentle with him. They were in the same bed, and she was in good shape. One well-placed blow would ruin his day.

  And they were in a tricky mustn’t-touch situation
that another well-placed blow could make even trickier. He placed his hand on hers—the one that had a grip on his shirt and some skin and hair he wanted to keep. “Keira.”

  She bolted upright, holding on to his hand, clearly not awake. She was breathing hard, close to the point of hy­

  perventilating, and looked repulsed and terrified, haunted by whatever images were assaulting her in her sleep.

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  157 “Keira, you’re having a nightmare.”

  Her eyes focused on him, widened, and she dropped his hand and rolled back to her side of the bed. Simon didn’t know what had her more distressed—her nightmare, or waking up half on top of him.

  “I was…” She raked a hand through her hair and inched a bit farther from him. “Spiders and slugs were crawling on me.”

  Simon leaned back against his pillows. “Nasty.”

  She blew out a breath, shivering. “It was awful.”

  “Nightmares are normal after a trauma.”

  She lifted her gaze to the window. The shade was up, and the lace curtains were pulled back, providing a view of a small sheep pen across the yard. “Do you have night­

  mares?” she asked without looking at him.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Your work with Fast Rescue—”

  “I’ve had a lot of training to help me learn to process what I experience. There’s no training for what you went through in that ruin.”

  Her very blue eyes shifted to him. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Not at all.” He grinned at her. “It’s not a bad way to wake up, as a matter of fact. If I’d stayed in London, I’d have woken up in a big, elegant, empty bed. This is cozy, the two of us—”

  “I’ll go into the other room. You can go back to sleep.”

  “I’m good. Wide awake.” He threw off the duvet and got up. “Take your time. I’ll make coffee.”

  “That’d be great. I’m still—” She waved her hand. “I’m still fighting off spiders and slugs.”