The Angel

by Carla Neggers

  “He is, though,” Yarborough said. “Isn’t he?”

  “I think so,” Charlotte said, hugging herself again. Out on the street, Abigail saw Bob O’Reilly pull up to the curb, jump out of his car and show his badge to a Cam­

  bridge police officer, who didn’t stop him. Abigail didn’t contain herself. “Bob—your daughters—”

  “They’re safe. They’re with Scoop, Owen and the Lex­

  ington police.” But he didn’t look even marginally relieved as he narrowed his eyes on Charlotte Augustine. “Jeanette and Billie Murphy.”

  She gasped as if he’d stuck her with a needle and she lunged for the street, but Abigail and Yarborough both grabbed her before she could get a half step. Charlotte calmed down, and they let her wriggle free. Bob hadn’t moved. “You acted on behalf of the Murphys and bought one of my niece’s paintings at the auction the night your brother drowned.”

  “I told Detective Browning already that my husband and I weren’t there.”

  “You phoned in the bid. I just talked to the Irish profes­

  sor who’s heading up the conference—”

  “He’s wrong.”

  “The Murphys are your clients. They’re into their Irish

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  307 heritage.” Bob was steady, focused. “They’d love to get their hands on an Irish Celtic stone angel like the one in Patsy McCarthy’s story.”

  Charlotte turned to Yarborough, as if he could help her, but he just stepped back from her. She started shaking again.

  “Please—the Murphys aren’t involved in any of this. I didn’t tell you about the painting because I knew you’d jump to the wrong conclusion.”

  Bob remained icy. “You picked up the painting this morning.”

  “No—”

  “Charlotte,” Abigail said without sympathy, “no more lies and half truths.”

  She stared down at the ground. Some of the fight seemed to go out of her. “I delivered the painting to Billie Murphy’s office in Boston. He wasn’t there. I left it with his receptionist.”

  “Whose idea was it to bid on it?” Bob asked. Charlotte clamped her mouth shut and refused to answer. Even Yarborough gave a little hiss—no more playing the nice, patient police officer—but Bob remained calm to the point of scary. He rocked back on his heels. “Mrs. Augus­

  tine,” he said, “you’re going to tell us what you know.”

  Abigail glanced at the paramedics sliding the stretcher into the back of an ambulance. Liam Butler was fighting for his life, and this woman was playing games. “You need to stop thinking about how this situation is going to affect your business and your social life.”

  “The Murphys are new clients,” Charlotte said weakly.

  “They’re from working-class South Boston, but they have a spectacular home now on the waterfront. They’re won­

  derful people. They have exquisite taste—”

  Bob cut her off. “I grew up with them. I know who the 308

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  hell they are. They looked after a woman who was just found knifed to death in her own house. The Murphys were good to her. They own the land in New Hampshire where my sister built a cabin. How did you meet them, Mrs. Augustine?”

  “My husband. Jay—I don’t know how he met them.”

  “He insinuated himself into the Murphys’ lives, Patsy McCarthy’s life— my life.” Bob’s tone hardened even more. “Where is Jay now?”

  “I told Detective Browning—he’s traveling.”

  “He’s not traveling.”

  “No,” Charlotte mumbled. “Please.”

  “My sister’s name is Eileen Sullivan. She’s a religious ascetic. She—”

  Charlotte was sobbing quietly now. “I know. I don’t know her, but we— Jay and I have been out to the Murphys’ house in New Hampshire.”

  Bob didn’t say a word, but Abigail could feel her own knees going unsteady under her. Jay Augustine knew how to get to Eileen Sullivan’s cabin. She was there. Keira was on her way.

  “Bob…”

  He turned and walked back out to the street. Yarborough nodded to Abigail. “Go. I’ll see to Mrs. Augustine and fill in the Cambridge guys.”

  “Tom—”

  “It’s Bob’s family, Abigail. Go.”

  She tried to smile. “I might have to revise my opinion of you.”

  He ignored her, and she ran to join Bob. She didn’t know what she could do to help, but he didn’t have to be alone.

 
  Near Mount Monadnock

  Southern New Hampshire

  1:45 p.m., EDT

  June 24

  Keira sank onto her knees on the bank of the stream in front of her mother, whose moan of pain had been the sound she’d heard. Her mother sat with her knees tucked under her chin in the shade of a white pine, her hands and feet bound tightly with blood-soaked rope.

  She was bleeding from a dozen slashes on her arms and shoulders. Superficial wounds, Keira thought. Designed to elicit pain and a lot of blood, not to kill. Not yet, at least.

  “I can feel the Irish wind on my face,” her mother whis­

  pered, her lips cracked and bloodied from where she’d bit down during her torture. “Oh, I can see the green—such a green. Deirdre won’t fly. She would love to see her mother’s birth place and meet her Irish relatives, but she’s too afraid to get on a plane.”

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  “Mum…it’s Keira.” She had to fight to keep herself from sobbing. “You’re in New England. Be with me now, okay?”

  Her mother’s eyes flickered, and she tried to sit up straighter. “Keira, please tell me you understand. I didn’t tell you about Deirdre because I couldn’t. She was—she was the best of us, and she was taken from us…”

  “I know, Mum. I understand.”

  A few feet from them, the stone angel stood among the ferns at the edge of the stream, as beautiful as the night of the summer solstice when Keira had spotted it on the hearth of the collapsing ruin.

  “Run, Keira.” Her mother groaned in pain. “Leave me. Please.”

  “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

  “We can’t let him kill again.”

  He was there, Keira realized. In the trees, just as he’d been in Ireland. Lurking, enjoying the fear and suffering he was causing.

  Jay Augustine.

  Using the edge of the splitter, she managed to whack through the rope on her mother’s ankles. The rope on her wrists, yanked tight and soaked with blood, would be im­

  possible to cut with any precision—she’d need a sharp knife.

  “Can you walk?” she asked her mother.

  “Yes…but, Keira, take the splitter. Run as fast as you can. Let him amuse himself with me—I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  Keira rose, slipping in the mud as she hung on to the splitter and, with her free hand, helped her mother up. Distract and disrupt. It was one commandment she re­

  membered from her police academy days for just such a situation. She didn’t have to take on Jay Augustine. She

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  311 simply had to distract him and disrupt his plans, get her and her mother away from him if she could.

  “He’s evil, Keira,” her mother said. “He’s not insane. He’s chosen this path.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  Her mother was reasonably steady on her feet despite the blood, her bound wrists. “He doesn’t believe in angels or saints—or fairies and magic. Or the devil himself. He just wants to commit violence and play his games. Feel his own power.”

  “What does he have for weapons?”

  “Knives. Two that I saw. And fear. He uses fear as a weapon.”

  At least if he didn’t have a gun, Keira thought, he couldn’t just shoot them from the bushes. She had no doubt he was watching, taking pleasure in her reaction to her mother’s condition—plotting his next move. If the
splitter deterred him, it wouldn’t be for long. He’d think of some way around it.

  Her mother faltered, shivering not with cold, Keira realized, but with the agony of her wounds—with her own fear. “He killed Patsy. He told me. She told him that story of hers. He manipulated her, too. It’s not your fault. It’s not her fault. Oh, Keira.”

  Keira focused on taking the next step, paying attention to any movement, any sound in the nearby trees and under­

  growth. “Let’s just keep moving.”

  Her mother sobbed, then nodded, as if summoning her resolve.

  A crunching sound came from the hill above them.

  “Keira, Keira.” A man’s voice, chiding her as if she were a recalcitrant child. “Don’t you see? Your mother wants to suffer for the sins of her past. She needs to suffer.”

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  Keira maintained her hold on the splitter. The man stepped out from the cover of several small hemlocks. He was middle-aged, trim, dressed neatly in slacks and a button-down shirt and lightweight jacket. But she saw spots of blood on his slacks, his knuckles, one cheek, and his eyes shone with an excitement that struck her as sexual, physical.

  Keira pushed back her own fear. “Jay Augustine, right?”

  He seemed momentarily surprised, then gave her a mock bow. “I did anticipate that my identity would be dis­

  covered. Part of the fun, in fact.” But before Keira or her mother could speak, he continued. “While your saintly mother was cavorting in Ireland, indulging in fairies and magic and sins of the flesh, her best friend was being tortured and raped. She never told you, did she, Keira?”

  “Why would she tell me? Any mother would want to protect her child—”

  “I’m offering your mother redemption. I left her alive deliberately so she can watch me brutalize you, just as Deirdre’s killer did her. You, the daughter conceived in sin—your mother can suffer the worst pain she’s ever known, and thus be free.”

  Keep him talking, Keira thought. “You don’t care about redemption—”

  “I offered Patsy redemption. She set her daughter’s killer on fire.”

  Keira’s mother shook her head. “No. Not Patsy. She didn’t kill Stuart. I’d have if I’d known where to find him, but Patsy didn’t kill him.”

  “She wanted to—she let it happen. She always knew she’d have to pay for what she did. When I came for her, she knew her moment had come. I could see it in her eyes.”

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  313 Keira scoffed at him. “You killed Patsy because she could identify you to the police. You wormed your way into her life, and she told you the story about the stone angel. With what happened in Ireland, you knew she’d figure out your role, and you killed her to protect yourself. Every­

  thing else is a narrative you’ve established for your own amusement.”

  He ignored her, his arrogance almost palpable. “Do you really think you can take me on with that ridiculous ax?”

  Only if I have no choice, Keira thought. “Killing that poor sheep in Ireland wasn’t about redemption.”

  “Practice, my dear Keira.” He held up a double-edged assault knife covered in what Keira assumed was her mother’s blood. Perhaps Patsy’s, too. He smiled. “Practice.”

  She did her best to hide her revulsion. “You won’t stop with me or my mother. You’ll always want more, and you’ll pay for it. Someone will make you pay.”

  “Not you, though, or your mother. And not today.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me in Ireland?” Keira asked quickly, trying to distract him from his knife. For the first time, he looked uncomfortable.

  “You didn’t expect me to find the ruin, did you?” She kept any fear out of her tone. “You thought you’d beat me to it. You’re a planner—you’re not spontaneous. You had to think on your feet when I showed up. Did you assume I’d die there?”

  “I didn’t want you to.” He sounded sincere, as if the thought of her death had troubled him. “I wanted you here, now. I wasn’t meant to kill you in Ireland. That way.”

  “The dog…he wasn’t yours. He threw you off your game.”

  “Too late to help you. The ruin started to collapse and exposed the angel.” He gestured with his knife at the simple, mesmerizing statue. “Look at her, Keira. Her 314

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  beauty and grace. Have you seen Deidre’s picture? They look so alike.”

  “How did you meet Patsy?” Keira asked, hoping his ego would lull him into lowering his guard, give her an opening, or just keep him talking until Simon could get there.

  “We met the day she displayed her silly angels at the church. Most were junk, but a few were of value.” He raised his knife to eye level. “I’ve enjoyed the chitchat, but don’t think you’re in control. You’re not tough, Keira. Don’t pretend you are. I can end your mother’s suffering in an instant. I can kill you in an instant. It’s my choice.”

  He was almost spitting his words now, but not because of exertion and fatigue, Keira realized. The thrill and an­

  ticipation of what he had planned were getting to him. Her pulse throbbed in her ears, and her hands felt clammy as she gripped the heavy splitter, edging closer to him. If he wanted to keep talking, she’d talk, but she knew she had to be prepared to defend herself and her mother.

  “If I know about you,” Keira said, “the police do, too.”

  That seemed to throw him off, but only for a moment.

  “Drop the ax,” he said.

  Keira knew she’d gone as far with him as she could. He was done talking. “Technically, it’s not an ax,” she said.

  “It’s a splitter.”

  With an unexpected surge of energy, her mother stomped on his instep, and Keira whipped the splitter at him. He ducked away from the sharp edge, and she caught him in the midsection with the back of the metal head. He yelped in pain and stumbled, dropping his knife, charging into the woods.

  “The police will catch up with him,” Keira said, reaching an arm around her mother’s waist and helping her to a boulder. She picked up Augustine’s knife.

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  315 Her mother shook her head. “He’ll come back. He’s obsessed—he wants to do Deirdre’s killer one better. Stuart Fuller enjoyed Patsy’s suffering almost as much as he did Deirdre’s. Mother and daughter…”

  “Maybe, but Augustine’s also an art dealer. He’ll want to profit from the angel. Does he have a buyer? Did he tell you?”

  “The Murphys. They think he’s legitimate—”

  “They won’t for long.”

  Keira cut the ropes on her mother’s wrists.

  “It stops here, Keira,” her mother said, wincing as she eased her bloody hands in front of her. “We can’t let this man kill again.”

  “We won’t, Mum. Simon’s on his way. He’ll be here soon. He’ll help us find this bastard.”

  “Keira—Simon? Ah, the way you say his name. Did you meet him in Ireland?”

  “Boston, actually.” She managed a smile. “But I fell for him in Ireland.”

  Simon slowed his pace on the trail out to Eileen Sullivan’s cabin in the woods, thinking he’d heard singing up ahead. It was singing.

  Really bad singing, he thought. He recognized “Irish Rover,” a song his father used to belt out in the shower a long time ago, but this version had a desperate, half delirious sound to it. A warning? A distraction?

  Simon stepped off the trail into knee-high ferns, ducking behind a thick oak tree for cover as a middle-aged man plunged down the trail, both arms out for balance as he ne­

  gotiated a sharp turn.

  He was panting, sweating.

  He had to be Jay Augustine.

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  Simon jumped out onto the trail in front of him. “Stop—

  FBI. Keep your hands where I can see them—”

  Augustine ignored him, turned and bolted into the woods on the opposite side of the trail. Simon rac
ed after him, tackled him and dropped him facedown onto the ground. Hard, right into the middle of a low, thorny bush. Augus­

  tine moaned and tried to get up, but Simon held him down. Moving fast, he got his knee into the middle of Augus­

  tine’s back and, his eyes on Augustine’s hands, cuffed him in about three seconds flat, then patted him down. He found an assault knife in a sheath on Augustine’s belt. There was a second, empty sheath.

  “Where’s Keira?” Simon kept his knee in place.

  “Where’s her mother?”

  “Let me go, and I’ll tell you.”

  “You look a little worse for the wear. Keira nail your ass?”

  “She’ll bleed to death,” Augustine said, spitting his words. “So will her mother. Slowly, painfully. You know I can make it happen.”

  “That wasn’t you singing, so I’m guessing they’re okay.”

  Just then, Keira swooped down through the trees with a wood splitter held high.

  “Whoa,” Simon said. “Easy, there.”

  She lowered the splitter, breathing hard, hair flying in her face, eyes shining with fury as she focused on Augustine.

  “Your only way out now is to turn yourself into a bat or a snake, you bastard,” she said, “and I’ll bet you can’t do that.”

  Augustine raised his chin and grinned at her, enjoying her anger—her hatred—as if he’d accomplished some­

  thing. Simon didn’t ease up on him at all. A woman who had to be Keira’s mother staggered down the nearby trail, bloody, holding an assault knife in one trembling hand. She stepped closer, and Simon couldn’t

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  317 tell if she planned on shoving the knife in Augustine’s heart. If she tried, he’d have to stop her.

  “That was you singing, Mrs. Sullivan?” he asked her. She nodded, staring at Augustine. “I thought it would help cover Keira’s running and perhaps throw him off, and keep me from having to…” She didn’t finish her thought, instead lowering her knife. “I didn’t want to scream. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I love that song, and I didn’t know what else to do.”