The Angel

by Carla Neggers

  She located the trail that led to her mother’s cabin just as a stiff, sudden gust of wind blew strands of her hair in her face. She hadn’t even thought to pin up her hair that morning. She’d been in a hurry to see Patsy and to get her black-haired search-and-rescue expert out of her apart­

  ment before anything else happened between them. Except he was also an FBI agent.

  Keira doubted that was Simon Cahill’s only secret. He

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  295 was a charmer if ever there was one, but he was also a man of many layers.

  Another breeze stirred. She picked up her pace, navi­

  gating tree roots, rocks and low-hanging tree branches, pushing through the tall ferns that flanked the narrow trail. Ordinarily, she would have enjoyed the hike, especially on such a beautiful summer day, but today she felt only dread at the prospect of facing her mother, telling her about Patsy and pleading with her to talk—about Ireland and her longdead friend. And if she couldn’t talk, at least engage with her daughter the way she used to, if only for a few minutes. Listen. Be there. Was that so selfish to want? Keira forced herself to dismiss any need on her part. She’d only known Patsy for a matter of weeks. Her mother had known her all her life.

  Why not turn around and go back to Boston? Why even tell her?

  Keira tripped on an exposed rock, but regained her balance before she fell. The stumble brought her out of her thoughts, and she focused again on her surroundings. For the entire drive, she’d debated whether to leave her mother in blissful ignorance. Let her pray and work in her isolated world. Wasn’t that what she wanted? But Keira had kept driving, and now she kept walking, because she didn’t have a choice. She had only to envision Patsy’s body, and the angels and pictures on the dining room table, and she knew she couldn’t turn back.

  As she came to the rustic cabin, Keira was struck by the similarities of the site she’d chosen to that of the ruin in Ireland. Although the landscape was more thickly wooded here than the open countryside on the Beara Peninsula, and there were no sheep or ancient stone circles in the area, the 296

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  hill dipping down to a stream and the remoteness of the spot brought Keira back to her search for the ruin of Patsy’s hermit monk hut on the evening of the summer solstice. She gave an exaggerated shudder to rein in her active imagination and stepped up to the cabin’s back door, calling through the screen. When there was no answer, she didn’t hesitate, just pulled open the door and poked her head inside. “Hey, Mum—it’s me, Keira.”

  But still there was no answer. She hadn’t considered that her mother might be at the spring fetching water or checking on the Murphys’ country house—or even just out in the woods listening to the birds.

  She went inside, calling again as she headed through the rustic kitchen into the cabin’s main room. Her mother had left a series of sketches of various serpents on her worktable. She must have gone outside for a break, Keira thought, venturing out the front door.

  She noticed the faint smell of sawdust and several freshly split logs awaiting their addition to the neatly stacked woodpile. With the woodstove her mother’s only source of heat, the work to keep it stocked was never ending. Keira would have helped, but that wasn’t an option in the new rules her mother adopted for her life. The fenced-in garden was quiet in the afternoon sun. It included flowers as well as vegetables, which Keira had taken as a positive sign that this isolated existence really was what made her mother happy.

  She heard a muffled sound down toward the stream. A moan.

  Her heart jumped, even as she saw a wet, dark smear on the tree stump her mother used as a chopping block, and it was as if she were back at the ruin in Ireland, standing up from the fallen tree covered in sheep’s blood.

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  297 Except this wasn’t sheep’s blood.

  Mum—where are you?

  A splitter was propped against the chopping block. Keira took it in both hands, but there was no blood on the metal head.

  The wind gusted through the trees, and she could hear the stream tumbling over rocks below her on the hillside. She pictured him peering down at her in the rubble of the ruin, so calm, so competent. She didn’t care that he’d obviously thought she’d been reckless, or that she’d worked for hours in grueling conditions to construct her makeshift ladder. That didn’t matter—she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather have at her side right now. She steadied herself. She’d chopped wood with her mother as a kid. She could wield a splitter if she had to. She saw a shadow—a movement—among the hemlocks on the hillside.

  It wasn’t a squirrel or a wild turkey, or even the wind. Someone was there.

 
  Near Mount Monadnock

  Southern New Hampshire

  1:25 p.m., EDT

  June 24

  Simon’s cell phone rang a few miles after he’d crossed into New Hampshire from Massachusetts. Before he could speak, Will Davenport said, “I have information, Simon.”

  “Are you having trouble getting to Ireland?”

  “I’m here in Kenmare.”

  “Even our Moneypenny couldn’t get you there this fast. Helicopter, Will, or were you already there when I called?”

  “I anticipated you’d need my assistance.”

  Simon tensed, hearing the note of seriousness in his friend’s voice. “Go ahead, Will. What’s up?”

  “An American named Jay Augustine arrived in Shannon on a flight from Boston on the morning of June twenty-first,”

  Will said. “He rented a car at the airport and stayed in Kenmare that night. He returned to Boston the next day on a flight out of Shannon. He would have arrived midafternoon.”

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  299 Given Will’s extensive sources inside and outside gov­

  ernment, Simon wasn’t surprised at how much his friend had managed to discover in such a short time. Will was also thorough, and he had a labyrinthine, sus­

  picious mind.

  “The timing fits,” Simon said. “Who is he?”

  “JayAugustine is the brother-in-law of the man your Keira found dead in Boston before she left for Ireland herself.”

  Simon swore. He was keeping an eye out for the turn onto the dirt road that would take him to Eileen Sullivan’s cabin. At the speed he’d been going, he figured he couldn’t be too far behind Keira. “Go on,” he said tightly. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Will continued with his grim report. “Physical evidence—

  a blood-stained sweater—places Augustine at Keira’s ruin on the Beara Peninsula. He and his wife are fine art and antique dealers in Boston, Simon. They would know the value of an ancient Irish artifact and have access to potential buyers.”

  “Money could explain wanting to beat Keira to the angel and make off with it. It also could explain leaving her in the rubble of that ruin. But the sheep, Will…” Simon broke off, controlling his anger. Keira had gone to Ireland to research an innocent story of mischief and magic, hoping to understand her mother and learn more about her birth father—perhaps, in a way, both her fathers. The one who’d given her life and the one who’d adopted her. Simon saw his turn, took it and realized he was losing cell coverage.

  “Simon?”

  “I’m about to lose you, Will. I’m in the woods, on my way to Keira and her mother. Augustine didn’t do much to cover his tracks.”

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  “That means he has an escape plan,” Will said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Inform the Irish police—”

  “Are you kidding? They’re on my elbow right now.” But Will’s touch of humor faded almost immediately. “This man’s a cold, calculating predator, Simon.”

  “Yeah,” Simon said, but he knew his phone had died. The road was narrow and dotted with potholes, but he drove faster. Will and the Irish police would get word to Boston law enforcement about Jay Augustine. In the meantime, Simon would find Keira and her
mother. He rolled down his window, heard birds and felt the breeze. He could understand the appeal of building a cabin out in the woods. He lived on a boat himself, although for most of the past eighty-plus miles, he’d pictured Keira on his boat with him. If she didn’t know about boats, he could teach her. If she did, he could just watch her paint Irish fairies and rainbows.

  An image of Patsy McCarthy interrupted Simon’s visions of sailing the seven seas—any sea—with his fairy princess. He kept driving.

 
  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  1:30 p.m., EDT

  June 24

  Charlotte Augustine shrieked on the front walk to her brother’s house. “You can’t stop me! I have a right to be here. I’m Victor’s next of kin.” She pushed at the Cam­

  bridge PD officer restraining her. “Let me go, damn you!”

  Abigail stepped out of the house and ducked under the yellow tape two officers were still unfurling to mark off the crime scene. Two Cambridge detectives, who reminded her of Bob, glowered at her, but they didn’t impede her. Tom Yarborough fell in behind her. He was fair-haired, driven and absolutely the most cynical law enforcement officer Abigail had ever met, and she’d met plenty. He hadn’t let her out of his sight since he’d arrived twenty minutes ago, finding her on her knees in a pool of blood as she tried to save Liam Butler’s life. The Cambridge police and paramedics had since descended.

  “Actually, they can stop you,” Abigail told Charlotte. 302

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  “What’s happened? My husband—Liam—”

  “Liam’s in tough shape. He’s been stabbed repeatedly.”

  But deliberately left alive, if barely so, Abigail thought. In order to suffer or to distract police, at least for a little while. Maybe both. “I found him in the sunroom. I did what I could. Paramedics are with him now.”

  “Will he…” Charlotte trembled, unsteady on her feet.

  “He’ll live, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no…no.”

  “Where’s your husband, Charlotte?”Abigail asked quietly.

  “Did Liam—did he tell you who attacked him?”

  It was a question Abigail had no intention of answer­

  ing. Liam had been at best semiconscious, unable to respond to any of her questions or instructions—finally, she’d just applied pressure to the worst of his wounds and waited for medical help to arrive.

  “Mrs. Augustine—”

  “I don’t know where Jay is.”

  “Did you know that Liam was spying on you and your husband?”

  Charlotte wobbled and took in shallow breaths. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I think you do, Charlotte.”

  “Go to hell. You have no right to tell me what I know and what I don’t know.”

  Yarborough moved slightly behind Abigail, but he said nothing. She noticed the dandelions going to seed in the unkempt yard and remembered the traditional, expensive clothes Victor Sarakis had been wearing the night he drowned. A man of contradictions, but wasn’t everyone? Charlotte herself wore a female version of her brother’s attire—light-colored khakis, a dark pink polo shirt, tennis

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  303 shoes, simple gold jewelry. Nothing antique, nothing Celtic—

  nothing to indicate she had an interest in Irish artifacts.

  “Mrs. Augustine,” Abigail said, “when’s the last time you were in your brother’s climate-controlled room?”

  Her hand dropped from her mouth. “What? Why?”

  Abigail debated, then answered. “There’s a bulletin board in there that’s covered with photographs of the daughters of another detective—”

  “They’re not Victor’s doing!”

  “I believe we’re dealing with a serial killer, Charlotte. You can help us stop him by telling us what you know.”

  She sagged, taking a step backward toward the street. She looked as if she might faint, but she rallied, even as tears streamed down her cheeks. “The spying—it was Victor’s doing. He asked Liam to help him. He—they—”

  Charlotte faltered, wiped her tears with her fingertips.

  “They were trying to help me.”

  “How?” Abigail asked.

  “Everything’s happening so fast…”

  “Just stick to the facts. You can sort out all the emotions later. Okay? How did your brother think he was helping you by spying on you and your husband?”

  “I wanted a divorce,” she blurted, then waved a hand dis­

  missively. “Jay travels so much. That’s where he is now. Traveling.”

  “Traveling where?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. He often doesn’t. He’s on the road a lot because of his work. Our work, I mean.”

  She squinted at Yarborough, then at Abigail. Except for her red cheeks, there was no sign of tears now. “Jay is…

  remote.”

  “Have you told him you want a divorce?”

  “No. No, I haven’t.” She wrapped her arms around 304

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  herself, hugging herself as if she was cold. “I’d hoped Victor’s death was an accident. If he was murdered—can you imagine what that’ll do to my life?”

  Abigail stiffened and gave Yarborough a sideways glance, saw that Charlotte’s comment had hit a wrong note with him, too. Never mind cooperating with the police and, if her brother had been murdered, finding his killer—

  making sure no one else got hurt.

  But Charlotte Augustine didn’t seem to think there was anything off-putting about her remark. “Detective Browning, I know you have to explore all the possibilities, but I don’t see how these photographs of the detective’s daughters or the attack on Liam have anything to do with me or my husband. What if Liam’s the one responsible for the bulletin board, and this detective found out and attacked him?”

  “That didn’t happen,” Yarborough said.

  Charlotte went ashen. “I’m sorry, I…” Fresh tears welled. “I want to help if I can. Go ahead. Please. Ask me any questions you want to.”

  “Keira Sullivan,” Abigail said. “Do you know her?”

  A flicker of recognition.

  Yarborough took a half step forward. “The truth, Mrs. Augustine.”

  She tightened her hug on herself and looked toward the house as the door opened and paramedics carried out Liam Butler on a stretcher. “Oh, Liam,” she whispered.

  “Charlotte,” Abigail said, “how do you know Keira Sullivan?”

  “I don’t. We—we’ve never met. I just know her name. Her work. Victor showed me one of her illustrated books the day he drowned. That afternoon. I didn’t tell you. He came out to the house…” She bit on her lower lip. “It was the last time I saw him.”

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  305 Abigail could see that Charlotte wasn’t finished and didn’t interrupt her pause.

  “I only remember because I liked the illustrations. They’re so original—so cheerful. I was surprised Victor liked them, considering his obsession with the devil and evil.”

  “Why did your brother show you Keira’s book?”

  Abigail asked.

  “I don’t know!”

  But that wasn’t the truth, and Yarborough, clearly losing patience, shook his head. Instead of pouncing on Charlotte for her obvious dissembling, he spoke quietly to her. “You have a lot bottled up inside you, Mrs. Augustine. You just lost your brother. It’s tough. We know that.” His tone was reassuring, friendly. “It’d do you good to finally let it all out. Tell us everything. Let us decide what helps and what doesn’t. Don’t censor yourself.”

  She dropped her arms to her sides. “It has been hard. So hard. I wish now I’d pushed Victor to give me more in­

  formation, but I didn’t. And now it’s too late.”

  “There was an event on Beacon Hill the night he drowned,” Abigail said. “A
benefit for a folklore confer­

  ence. Keira Sullivan was there. So was one of the girls whose pictures are on the bulletin board. Did Victor—”

  “He wasn’t invited. Jay and I weren’t, either.”

  “Charlotte—”

  “I don’t know why Victor showed me that damn book! He was spying on me, Detective Browning. He was trying to help, but still.” She suddenly kicked the top off a dandelion, sending little white seeds floating into the air. “He didn’t like Jay.”

  Her tone had changed, and Abigail resisted the tempta­

  tion to jump in with another question.Yarborough remained impassive at her side.

  Charlotte squashed what was left of her dandelion with 306

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  her toe. “I want this all to go away. But it won’t, will it?”

  She raised her gaze to Abigail. “Liam didn’t know why Victor was having him spy on Jay and me. Victor didn’t tell him. There was no need to tell me—I saw for myself what was going on with Jay. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

  “But Victor did tell you,” Abigail said. Charlotte nodded. She wasn’t shaking now. “He said there were times when he’d look at Jay and think he was looking into the eyes of the devil. I wanted to believe it was an exaggeration. I didn’t want to believe Jay was that bad.”