The Angel

by Carla Neggers

  “I was sitting in Patsy’s kitchen eating brown bread and drinking tea when he called her. She knew what we were up against before we did. She believed he was the devil—not that he thought he was the devil. That he was, in fact, Satan.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  March shook his head. “No. I figured it out later. She should have told me, but she didn’t. Not for Fuller’s sake, Simon. But she shouldn’t have had to witness what he did to himself.”

  “So he did kill himself?”

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  “Yes, but that wasn’t his intention. He believed he could survive the flames.”

  Simon took a moment to digest that one. A twenty-four­

  year-old killer luring the mother of a victim of his violence to watch him set himself on fire. “Figured he’d burn a while, prove how evil he was, then, what, set Patsy on fire?”

  “Probably.” March got heavily to his feet. “I promised your father I’d look after you if anything happened to him—”

  “You have, John.” Simon rose and put out his hand.

  “Thank you.”

  The two men shook, then March surprised Simon by embracing him. “Brendan would be proud of you.”

  “Tell Abigail about him.” Simon stood back and smiled, remembering his father on a summer night just like this one.

  “He was named after an Irish saint. Brendan the Navigator.”

  “That tape of his execution…”

  “Letting me see it was the right thing to do. Maybe not with another kid, but with me—it’s when I knew you understood me. It’s when I started listening to you. If you hadn’t come along when you did, done what you did—”

  Simon gave the FBI director a broad grin. “I’d probably just be getting out of prison right about now.”

  And for the first time in many visits, and most likely many days, John March threw back his head and laughed.

 
  Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts

  11:30 p.m., EDT

  June 24

  Abigail couldn’t contain her surprise and delight when she entered her living room and saw Keira Sullivan’s painting of the Irish cottage that had caught her eye at the auction. She’d never been to Ireland and wasn’t Irish, but it didn’t matter. Something about the painting—about Keira’s work—had captivated her.

  “Owen,” she said, turning to him, “where did this come from?”

  “Simon left it for you. For us, really, but it’s more for you. He says if you’re happy, I’m happy, and this’ll make you happy.”

  “It does. It’s beautiful.”

  “He wants to know if he’s back on the guest list for the wedding.”

  “Now we’ll have to invite him, assuming…” She didn’t go on.

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  “There’ll be a wedding, Abigail,” Owen said, slipping an arm around her. “Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Only because we’re making it complicated. We’re lucky. We have friends, family, resources, work we love—

  and we have each other. I love you, Abigail. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’m patient, but only to a point. Let’s get married.”

  “We don’t have everything figured out.”

  “We don’t need to.”

  It sounded so simple when he said it. “I’ve been launch­

  ing myself into the future. I haven’t done that in a long time. Before Chris was killed, I had so many plans. Then I didn’t. I focused on making detective and finding his killer. That was it. Nothing else. For seven years.”

  Owen kissed her softly. “We can plan together,” he said.

  “You don’t have to figure everything out by yourself.”

  “I keep thinking about Bob bottling up that poor girl’s murder for all these years. Owen, I don’t want us to shut each other out. Bob’s one of the best men I know. I’d trust him with my life without hesitation. He’s a great detective. But I’ll bet you he never told either woman he married about Deirdre McCarthy.”

  “He’s protective.”

  “Yes, but I think Simon got it right. He said Bob learned just not to go there—he put a wall up around that part of his past. I was never that way with Chris’s death. I went there every day.”

  “Because his murder was unsolved,” Owen said.

  “I don’t go there every day anymore. Owen—I love you so much. I love thinking about you, and I do. I think about you every day.” She looked at the painting. “Our first

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  343 wedding present. It’s incredibly generous of Simon. Now we owe him—”

  “He’d disagree. Hates having people owe him.”

  She just saw the card. “‘Dear Ab’,” she read aloud.

  “‘Enjoy the painting. Let me know when you pick a wedding date. I think of you as a long-lost sister, even if you’re not Irish.’” She shook her head at Owen and smiled. “Simon does have a way about him. He’s cheeky, though, isn’t he?”

  But there was a loud knock on the back door, and Abigail wasn’t surprised when she found Bob and Scoop there with yellow pads and sharpened pencils. “The girls and my sister and niece are asleep,” Bob said, “but I need to go through it all again.”

  “I’m not asleep,” Keira said, appearing behind Bob and Scoop. “I’m not a cop, but can I join you?”

  Abigail looked back at Owen, but he was already clearing off the kitchen table. It’d be a long night. Then a knock came at the front door, and as she headed down the hall, she couldn’t even imagine who it’d be. Yarborough? The mayor? Reporters?

  But it was her father, standing by himself on the welcome mat. “Hello, Abigail.”

  Her breath caught. “Dad. Tell me nothing’s happened to Simon—”

  “Nothing’s happened to him,” her father said. “He’s fine.”

  “Cahill’s a fun guy,” Bob said from behind her in the hall, “but I have a feeling a lot of people want to kill him.”

  “One in particular at the moment.”

  “Norman Estabrook,” Scoop said, then shrugged at the surprised looks. “I made a few calls.”

  Abigail noticed her father’s slight smile. He was adept at keeping his emotions under tight wraps, but she could tell he had a genuine fondness for Simon. He stepped 344

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  inside her small apartment, shrugged off his suit jacket. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “The people who want to kill Simon always end up dead or in prison.”

  Bob, Scoop and Owen obviously liked and understood that answer, but Abigail saw Keira’s pale look. Keira knew little about Simon, but she was clearly in love with him. We could be friends, Abigail thought, and sat at the small kitchen table between her and Owen.

  “May I join you?” her father asked.

  Abigail nodded. “I’d love it,” she said. Before he sat down, he put an arm around Keira. “You can trust Simon,” he said.

  His tone gave Abigail a jolt, and she realized that Simon hadn’t been kidding in his note. He was like a long-lost brother, because the way her father had just spoken about him…it was as if he were talking about a son.

 
  Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 7:00 p.m., IST

  August 3

  Keira walked down the lane from her cottage with her Irish sweater pulled tight against her in the chill of the wind and damp evening air. She’d begun to notice the days getting shorter, dawn coming a little later, night a little sooner, on the southwest Irish coast. She imagined life in the village before electricity, and it was easy to understand how telling stories by the fire had taken hold here. As she turned the corner onto the main village street, she could hear an uproar at the pub. Laughter, arguing, hoots of protest. Her step faltered.

  Simon.

  She picked up her pace, breaking into a run. She hadn’t pinned up her hair, and she could feel it tangling in
the wind. A cold, damp mist swept up from the harbor. It was a good night for a warm pub, an even better night to be back with Simon.

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  When she pulled open the pub door, she forced herself to calm down, not look as if she’d just been chased by ghosts or wild dogs—although there’d been none of that in her weeks at her cottage. There’d been a lightness, tran­

  quility, on her quiet lane. She liked to think Patsy’s wish had been fulfilled and the stone angel was back where it belonged—somehow, some way.

  Keira tucked back some wild strands of hair and caught her breath.

  She wasn’t wrong. It was Simon who’d caused the uproar in the pub.

  He stopped midargument and stood up from his stool at the bar. He had on an Irish sweater, and his black hair was a little longer, curling into the wool. His eyes, as green as the hills outside the pub door, sparked, and he smiled. “I had a feeling it’d be easier to find you this visit.”

  Eddie O’Shea polished a beer glass behind the bar. “Ah, Keira. You didn’t have to get yourself into a pickle this time, now, did you?”

  The local men gathered at the tables exchanged amused glances. None admitted to believing she’d seen the stone angel up at the ruin, or that the black dog had been anything but a stray, or that they knew anything about an old man in wellies or how her backpack and that shovel had ended up for Eddie to find.

  They believed in the devil, though, who’d killed the sheep that awful night, who’d killed Patsy McCarthy in South Boston and had tried to kill Keira and her mother in the woods of southern New Hampshire.

  But in the weeks since Keira had returned to the cottage, the horror of those days had receded. She’d worked tirelessly on her collection of tales from Irish-born American immi­

  grants, taking time to roam the hills and play tourist, buying

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  347 a pottery vase inAdrigole, riding Ireland’s one cable car from the tip of the Beara Peninsula to Dursey Island, crawling through castle ruins. Colm Dermott had visited her with his wife and four children, and she’d hooked her laptop up to the Internet.

  Seamus Harrigan had stopped by to tie up any loose ends of Jay Augustine’s havoc in Ireland. The Irish detective had his own theories. For starters, he believed that killing the sheep had been opportunistic—of the moment, when the poor beast wandered in front of Augustine on his search for the ruin. Harrigan’s team had found a bucket Augustine had undoubtedly used to carry the blood and entrails off with him. A grisly thought that disturbed even Harrigan, an experi­

  enced detective.

  Once Augustine found the ruin and started digging, the dog attacked him, and he hid in the trees. Then Keira turned up and ducked into the ruin, thinking the dog was after her. Augustine, still nervous about the dog, decided he had to take action. The ruin was already showing signs of col­

  lapsing. He whispered her name and triggered a bigger collapse, then grabbed Keira’s backpack and ran. But before leaving the ruin, he dumped his bucket of blood and entrails.

  On his way out of town, he slipped into Keira’s cottage and stole her copy of the tape of Patsy telling her story—and, when he saw the note on the counter detailing her where­

  abouts, he snatched that, too.

  As for the angel—Harrigan had his doubts there’d ever been a stone angel in the ruin. “But if you want to believe there was, Keira,” he’d said, with a flash of his very blue eyes, “you go right ahead.”

  And Keira had decided, who was she to argue with an Irish detective?

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  Harrigan, who had relatives in the village, said he had a story or two he’d like to tell her one of these days, and he spoke to her as if he knew she’d be back. A few of the locals had pulled her aside to entertain her with tales of their own. None admitted to knowing the story about the three Irish brothers and the stone angel. But throughout her weeks in the village, Keira had dreamed of this moment.

  Simon set down his glass. “Sorry, fellas. Another time. We’ll pick up where we left off.”

  He walked over to Keira and whisked her up into his arms, and the men all hooted and laughed as he carried her effortlessly out to the street. He didn’t set her down until he reached the lane that led down to the harbor.

  “A boat,” she said. “I should have known.”

  “It’s borrowed.”

  “Someone else who owes you his life?”

  “The same person.”

  “Will Davenport,” she said. “Eddie told me about him.”

  “Will’s fishing in Scotland, but he wants to meet you. It’s the flowers in your hair on your Web site.”

  “I suspect it’s because he’s your friend, and he knows I’m smitten.”

  “Smitten?” Simon grinned at her. “A word for a fairy princess, don’t you think?”

  She laughed, and he led her along the pier, fitting in with the Irish fishermen. But he was a man who could fit in anywhere. When they reached the boat, he scooped her up again, carrying her below, as if he’d been thinking about this moment for days.

  He laid her on the bed, and she threw her arms over her head, sinking into the soft, warm sheets and taking in the welcome shock of being with him.

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  349 “Keira…” He stared into her eyes. “We’re a couple of wanderers.”

  “At least for now.” She threaded her fingers into his hair. “Let’s wander together.”

  He quieted her up with a kiss. “Keira, Keira,” he whis­

  pered, kissing her again and again. “I’ve missed you.”

  The next kiss lasted a long time, and all she wanted was it to go on forever. She smoothed her palms down his neck and over his shoulders, loving the feel of his warm sweater, his firm muscles. When he deepened their kiss, tasting her, she sank even deeper into the soft bed, feeling the want spread through her.

  “I’ve dreamed about you,” she said. “I knew you’d find me. I never doubted—”

  He slipped his hands under her shirt, lifting his mouth from hers and smiling. “I thought that might get your attention.”

  “You were right.” She relished the feel of him on her bare skin. “Simon…I’m not just falling in love with you any longer. I am in love.”

  “I’ve thought about you saying that for all these weeks. Keira,” he whispered, skimming his hands up her sides,

  “I love you.”

  He curved his palms over her breasts, and she couldn’t talk, just let herself take in that he was finally here, with her, making love to her. In seconds he had her clothes off, and his, and all she wanted was to give herself up to the feel of him. She couldn’t get enough of him. Not now, not ever. He pulled back the covers, holding her in his arms. “Are you cold?” he asked.

  She smiled, running her hands up his strong back. “Not for long, I imagine.”

  His mouth found hers again, a deep, lingering, erotic kiss that fired her skin and her soul. She could feel his 350

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  focus—his purpose. He could pluck survivors out of rubble because of his ability to zero in on a mission. She was more out of control.

  A challenge, she thought. A distraction.

  “We belong here,” she said. “Right now, this moment…”

  He kissed a trail lower and found her nipple, and she cried out in surprise and pleasure at the feel of his tongue. She heard the Irish wind howling outside. Appropriate, somehow. They’d met in Boston, Keira thought, but it was Ireland that had brought them together. She’d have fallen for him if they’d met over a pint at Eddie O’Shea’s pub.

  “Keira,” he said, “stop thinking.”

  And he touched her, licked her, forcing all thought right out of her brain.

  She drew her legs apart, and he raised up and drove into her, slowly, deeply, warmth as well as hunger in his green eyes. She responded, savoring every thrust, every inch of him, her pulse quickening, her sk
in tingling. Her release came suddenly, as the wind beat against the small boat and Simon cried out her name, and she knew they were where they were meant to be.

  Afterward, they made their way back out to the pier, bundled in wool sweaters as the wind died down again. Keira looked up toward the barren hills, and against the stars and the moon, she saw the silhouette of a man in an Irish cap and wellies up among the rocks and sheep. He was trailed by a troop of dancing shadows—fairies, she thought, and whether they were real or imagined, she didn’t care. Simon slipped an arm around her, and she knew he’d seen them, too.

  “My father’s home village is up the coast,” he said.

  “I’ve heard there are stories there of farmers, fishermen, fairies and magic.”

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  Keira leaned against him, welcoming his warmth and strength. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than sail the Irish coast with you.”

  “Up for an adventure, are you?”

  She smiled. “Always.”

 
  Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 7:00 p.m., IST

  August 6

  Bob O’Reilly entered the toasty pub and noticed that no one seemed to care that he was soaked to the bone and dripping on the floor. He’d walked down the lane from the cottage his crazy niece had rented for another month. She’d arranged for a cot in the living room and sent him and her mother tickets to Ireland.

  What could he do? A free trip to Ireland. He had to go. He peeled off his rain jacket and hung it on a coat tree with a lot of others just as faded and worn. The barman, Eddie O’Shea, eyed him as he filled a beer glass from the tap. “Well, Detective, did you have a good walk?” He said “detective” as if he thought it was pretty funny Bob was a cop.

  Bob shook some of the rainwater off his head. “The weather’s lousy, and the air smells like wet sheep.”