The Angel

by Carla Neggers

  Her hair was tangled, and her shirt was askew. Now that she was safe, Simon knew, her mind—consciously or sub­

  consciously—could indulge in the fear, revulsion, claus­

  158

  CARLA NEGGERS

  trophobia and whatever other emotions it hadn’t let her access during the hours she was trapped. And he’d be a slug himself if he took advantage of her waking up from a stress-induced nightmare. He retreated to the kitchen and filled the electric kettle with water, turned it on and headed for the bathroom, changing into jeans and a sweater. His own hair was a mess. He wet his hands and ran them over his head, gave up and went back into the kitchen. He heaped grounds into a coffee press and poured on what looked like the right amount of water.

  While the coffee steeped, he got down two mugs, and he imagined being here with Keira on an ordinary morning, making coffee, planning their day. He wouldn’t have jumped right out of bed after she’d clawed at him while having a nightmare, that was for damn sure. Simon indulged in those images for about five seconds before he pushed them far to the back of his mind, filled his mug with the strong, steaming coffee and headed outside. A dozen or so sheep stirred in the pasture on the other side of the fence. The sun dipped in and out of gray clouds, and the air was brisk, scented with roses, the damp grass and, he swore, the sea.

  Keira joined him with her mug of coffee, and he nodded to the dramatic hills that swept up into the heart of the pe­

  ninsula. “It’s beautiful country, but six weeks is a long time to be out here alone.”

  “I have a lot of work to do—and exploring,” she said with an unembarrassed smile. “I won’t be alone the entire time. I have friends from San Diego who’re vacationing in Ireland in a few weeks and plan to stop by, and Colm Dermott will be here in late July with his family. And being on my own gives me a chance to get to know some of the local people.”

  THE ANGEL

  159 Simon eyed her. “Keira, I’ve called the Irish police to come have a look at the ruin. They’re on their way.”

  “When did you call?”

  “Early.You were still dreaming about slugs and spiders.”

  “I suppose it makes sense, bringing in the police.” But she quickly sipped her coffee and winced. “Strong, isn’t it?”

  “I just eyeballed the measurements.”

  “It’s good—thank you.”

  She’d put on jeans and an oversize rugby shirt and combed the tangles out of her hair, but Simon had to admit his heart had skipped a few beats at the sight of her. He figured half the men she met probably fell a little in love with her within seconds of setting eyes on her. So why the hell wasn’t she here with a man? He considered the prudence of asking her, then figured why not, “No boy­

  friend to take off with to Ireland?”

  She didn’t avert her eyes from him even a millimeter. “No. As I said, I plan to get a lot of work done while I’m here.”

  “A man would just get in the way?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  She walked over to the fence and cupped her mug in both hands as she sipped her coffee and stared out at the pasture. Simon watched her, aware that she wasn’t fully there with him. She was either still in her nightmare or, more likely, back in the ruin. He stayed quiet, giving her time, recognizing that he wanted to dive into whatever world she was trapped in and rescue her. Slay her demons, if need be. It was kind of mad, but he’d be dishonest if he didn’t acknowledge the protective impulse, understand it for what it was. But Keira was a woman who went her own way, not out of defiance so much as disposition. It was just who she was.

  His father had been like that, and he’d ended up dead. 160

  CARLA NEGGERS

  She took her coffee down the driveway to the roses and mishmash of wildflowers. Across the lane and down the hill, the harbor glistened in the early morning sun. She seemed to soak in the scenery, the life and movement of the new day. She had an unpretentiousness and clarity about her that Simon could appreciate, and hell if he didn’t want to scoop her up and carry her back inside for the rest of the day. Let the weather turn bad. What would they care?

  “I don’t really know you at all,” she said abruptly, then turned to him.

  Not a subject he wanted to get into. “What’s to know?”

  “You’re a volunteer with Fast Rescue. Unless you’re in­

  dependently wealthy, that must mean you have a job. What do you do that you can drop everything to respond to a disaster anywhere in the world, live on a boat, go off to London—”

  “I have my own business.” It was true, as far as it went.

  “I work with various corporations and individuals on disaster preparedness and response planning. I also do some training. Some guide work.”

  “Guide work?”

  He leveled his gaze on her. “If an artistic type wants to search for a mysterious ruin on a remote Irish peninsula on the night of the summer solstice, I can get her there and back safely.”

  “It wasn’t night. Sunset isn’t until ten o’clock here in June.”

  “Let’s leave out night, then. Keira, you haven’t told me everything about why you’re here—”

  “How did you end up as a Fast Rescue volunteer?”

  He sighed. Obviously, she intended for them to do this her way. “A friend of a friend put me in touch with Owen.”

  But it wasn’t that simple. That friend was John March, who’d put Simon in touch with Owen eighteen months ago

  THE ANGEL

  161 simply because Fast Rescue needed search-and-rescue experts, and Simon, in the middle of sorting out what was supposed to be his post-FBI life, was one. At the time, March knew Owen only as the Maine summer neighbor of March’s murdered FBI agent son-in-law. Owen hadn’t yet fallen for Abigail, Chris Browning’s widow, March’s daughter. By then, Simon was back in the FBI fold, working under­

  cover and going after Norman Estabrook. Owen, who was thorough and protective of Fast Rescue and had extensive contacts of his own, figured out Simon’s personal history with March, his undercover status, that his mission likely involved Norman Estabrook.

  With the imminent takedown of Estabrook and the dis­

  mantling of his network, Owen was left in the unenviable position of not being able to tell the woman he loved what he knew about Simon, her father, their friendship. That in­

  formation was all on a need-to-know basis, and Abigail didn’t need to know.

  Neither, Simon thought, did Keira Sullivan. A brown cow meandered up to the fence in the enclo­

  sure across the lane. Simon walked over to her and patted her. She pushed her head against his hand, obviously enjoying the attention. “So, Miss Cow, what did you see the other day? Did you see Keira here go off into the hills? Did you see someone sneak into her cottage and steal her note?” He lowered his ear to the cow, pretending he was listening to what she had to say. “Ah. Fairies. I see. It was the summer solstice, and you saw fairies dancing.” He glanced back at Keira. “Don’t you wish cows could talk?”

  “All right, all right.” Keira laughed, dumping out the last of her coffee into the grass. “Let’s go meet the guards.”

 
  Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 6:30 a.m., IST

  June 23

  Coffee and sunlight had Keira feeling more like herself as she tried to keep up with Simon as they crossed the open pasture in the general direction of the ruin. “Slow down,”

  she said. “I’m tall, but your lope is still my run, and I can’t keep up with you, especially after my nightmare from hell.”

  He glanced sideways at her, the wind catching the ends of his black hair. “I thought my coffee would put some zip in your step.”

  “It did. I’d be crawling otherwise.”

  Threatening clouds pushed down onto the hills. The wind was picking up, but Keira welcomed the brisk air and hoped it would help clear her head, stop her from thinking about waking up from her night
mare and finding herself more or less in Simon’s arms. Common sense warned her not to get too caught up in her physical attraction to him. He’d be on his way back to London soon. He lived a very

  THE ANGEL

  163 different life from hers, and even if a one-night stand would have been fun, she wasn’t the type and never had been. When they came to another fence, Simon hopped over it, then turned and offered her a hand. She took it, resisted the impulse just to jump into his arms. But he caught her around the middle and lifted her down to the ground, giving her a quick, irreverent smile. “You were about to land in sheep manure.”

  She glanced down, and sure enough, he wasn’t kidding.

  “I see that your search-and-rescue skills are highly adapt­

  able.”

  “Helps to know I’m dealing with someone who doesn’t look over her shoulder for trouble.”

  Simon started down the hill to the muddy, thick under­

  growth along the stream. Keira matched his pace, not letting him get too far ahead of her. “I’m not paranoid. I’m not going to sit home because something bad might happen if I go out.”

  “I can see that.” He came to the stream and pushed back the low branch of an oak that dipped almost down to the water.

  “If the angel wasn’t just another hunk of Irish rock, how did it get onto the hearth? Why hasn’t anyone around here found it and sold it to a museum or put it on eBay by now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “More important, where did it go?”

  Keira shivered, wishing she’d worn a coat instead of just throwing a sweater on over her rugby shirt. “I don’t know that, either.”

  Instead of putting her on the defensive, his questions—

  fired at her ever since they’d started the hike back up to the ruin—had helped her to focus on the specifics of her ordeal and remember them with greater clarity.

  “Tell me about the fairies in this story,” he said, thrash­

  164

  CARLA NEGGERS

  ing along the edge of the stream. “Are we talking about a solitary fairy—a banshee or a leprechaun or something—

  or a fairy troop?”

  “You know Irish folklore?”

  “Not much. Enough to ask you a question.”

  “And to spark a good argument in an Irish pub, I imagine. It’s a fairy troop, at least according to Patsy. They’re determined and relentless. They believe they’re entitled to the statue—”

  “Because they insist it’s one of their own who’s been turned to stone.”

  Keira smiled. “So you were paying attention last night.”

  He winked at her. “Hard to resist a magical story told on a dark Irish night.”

  “It’s easy to see out here how Ireland’s strong oral tra­

  dition took root, isn’t it? In any case, the fairies won’t take no for an answer. They want the statue back.”

  “Patsy McCarthy obviously believes the statue exists, or at least wants to believe it.” Simon pushed back another low­

  hanging branch along the stream. “I didn’t overhear every­

  thing she said to you, but I gather she’s with the brothers and thinks the angel can bring good fortune.”

  “She asked me to look for it on the summer solstice,”

  Keira said.

  “Because of the story itself—the angel first appears on the hearth on the night of the summer solstice. Someone else familiar with the story would know that.”

  “And therefore could have picked the same night as I did to be out here.”

  Just ahead, Keira spotted the ivy-enshrouded ruin through the trees, the cave-in making it easier not to miss. She stifled a sudden sense of dread, noticing that Simon hadn’t slackened his pace at all.

  THE ANGEL

  165 But he paused just then and glanced back at her. “You okay?”

  She nodded, ignoring a tightening in her throat and chest. Concentrate on figuring this thing out. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, continuing on up the hill. “And I suspect the collapse itself might have exposed the angel. What if it was buried in the ruin?”

  “Then the question is what caused the cave-in at that precise moment?”

  “Someone poking around the same as me. But,” she said, standing just below the tree that had fallen across the ruin’s only door, “why leave me out here trapped inside the rubble?”

  Simon’s eyes darkened. “Good question. Have you told the story to anyone besides Professor Dermott?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t speak for Patsy, though.”

  “Who all knows you were coming out here to research an Irish story?”

  “I’ve made no secret of it, but I haven’t given the details to many people. The location of my cottage, for instance. I’m aware I’m here on my own.”

  As she tried to get a better look at a heap of rubble, Keira almost stepped on a tuft of sheep’s wool in the tall grass. She repressed a sudden wave of the revulsion she’d felt last night when she’d realized she was covered in blood.

  “Keira?”

  “Just getting my bearings,” she said, choking back the memory.

  Simon eased closer to her, coming within an inch of his arm brushing against hers. “Do you remember any details now that you’re back here?”

  With her back to the ruin, Keira looked at the stream, sunlight and shade dancing on the clear, shallow water.

  “It’s an enchanting spot, isn’t it?” But when he didn’t 166

  CARLA NEGGERS

  answer, she turned again, squinting at the dead tree, the par­

  tially-collapsed chimney. “I didn’t sneak out here—I wasn’t singing or anything, but I wasn’t worried about anyone hearing me, either. Once I saw the dog, I was pre­

  occupied with him. I certainly made enough noise if someone else was out here and didn’t want to be seen. As for the sheep…” She grimaced. “It wasn’t an act of nature that killed that poor animal.”

  “We don’t have enough to go on to say for sure. Let’s let the police get out here and see what they say.”

  She stared at the remains of the tiny hut. “It wasn’t my imagination that started this place collapsing on top of me.”

  “No, it was probably your crawling around in an unstable structure without the proper knowledge or equip­

  ment.” Simon’s tone was more matter of fact than critical.

  “You were worried about the dog and not paying attention.”

  “That doesn’t explain the angel. Maybe someone pur­

  posely started the cave-in to trap me, then figured I was dead or at least incapacitated and stole the angel. If it’s an authen­

  tic early Celtic statue, it’s valuable.”

  “And if it’s solid rock, it’s also heavy.”

  “It’s only about two feet tall. I doubt it’s that heavy.”

  “So this ‘someone,’ whoever it is, crawls into the hut after it collapsed, grabs the angel and—”

  Keira shook her head. “Not after the cave-in, while it was happening. I saw the angel during a brief lull in the collapse. After it started up again, I couldn’t see much—I was huddled under the loft trying to keep rocks and rafters from falling on my head. Someone could have grabbed the angel and crawled out in the middle of the action.”

  “Risky,” Simon commented.

  “Opportunistic, too.” She gestured to the tree blocking the door. “I’ll bet he—or she—toppled the tree, deliber­

  THE ANGEL

  167 ately or accidentally, on the way out, then headed for my cottage and stole my note to delay my rescue or the dis­

  covery of my body.”

  “Any candidates?”

  “No.”

  She was aware of Simon watching her and turned toward him, noticing that his eyes were as green as the vegetation on their lush hillside. She felt a drop of rain on her hair. The wind was picking up. She could hear it howling up on the exposed hills. The police
would be here soon, and she’d have to go through it all again—why she’d come out here, what had happened, every detail of the past two days. Her gaze fell on a smear of dried blood in the disturbed ground by the fallen tree, and she turned abruptly and ran, thrashing up the hillside through the mass of trees and under­

  growth. She came to a barbed-wire fence, barely breaking her stride as she clambered over it.

  The wind was fierce out in the open. She could hear sheep bleating nearby, and as she stood on a rock jutting out of the ground, she could see the harbor far below, fishing boats, a pricey-looking sailboat. Crossing her arms in a gust of wind, she squinted out at the jagged MacGillicuddy Reeks across the bay, soon, no doubt, to be consumed in gray clouds and fog.

  Simon stood next to her. “We’ll wait here for the guards,” he said calmly.

  The Garda, Keira thought. The Irish police. “A Garda Siochana,” she said, half to herself. “I’m butchering the pro­

  nunciation, but it means Guardians of the Peace. I like that.”

  “Keira…”

  “I’m okay. I had a mini panic attack.” She stepped off her rock, wishing again for warmer attire. “I have to go back to Boston. At least for a few days. I want to check with Patsy to 168

  CARLA NEGGERS

  make sure she didn’t leave out a part of the story that might help me make sense of what happened here, and I want to talk to Colm Dermott. I can’t—” She broke off, then resumed. “I have to figure out what happened at that ruin, Simon. I can’t stay here for six more weeks without knowing.”

  “All right. I’ll get you back to Boston. Today, if you’d like.”

  She nodded. “I would. Thank you. I’m not as rested today as I’d hoped I’d be.”

  Her fatigue wasn’t just due to the aftereffects of her ex­

  perience in the ruin or her nightmare. It was also due to her night in bed with him, waking up in his arms—even if she’d been clawing imagined slugs and spiders off him. She’d come within a split second of asking him to make love to her.