by Annie Jones
The boy jerked his head away. “I am one of the little people of Ireland—a leprechaun.”
A stress-breaking bubble of laughter burst from Julia’s lips. As lies went, this one was a whopper. But it was original, she had to give the boy that. He had to be protecting something— or someone—pretty important to try anything this creative to distract them.
“Well, I have to admit, you’ve got me there, kiddo. That is one story I’ve never heard,” she said. “But just because you’re a terrific storyteller doesn’t change the fact that you’re a minor in need of assistance.”
“I’m no miner.” A resigned grin broke across his face, his green eyes glinting in mischief. “Leprechauns don’t mine their gold, they bury it. You must be thinking of dwarfs.”
“No, I’m thinking of dinner, and how standing here listening to your nonsense is keeping me from it.” Craig set Julia’s groceries inside the car and motioned for the boy to get in as well.
“I don’t suppose you want to tell us your name?” Julia asked through the open driver’s door as the boy curled up in the back seat and Craig plunked down in the passenger’s side.
“Oh, no, you won’t be tricking that out of me.” He scowled up at her.
“Why not? Is that some kind of leprechaun superstition?” She regretted the bitter tinge of her words, but she was cold and tired. Tired, not just from the grueling day-after-day struggle for the shelter’s survival, but tired to the depths of her spirit over situations just like this one. It sometimes seemed that every day, more and more hands stretched out in need, and fewer and fewer reached back, ready to help.
Craig slammed his door shut. “Whatever we’re going to do, Julia, could we get on with it?”
She sighed and folded her hands on top of the car, scanning the thinning traffic in the dim evening light. Darkness and stormy weather were fast approaching, her car was on a ramp headed away from any facilities that could take this child for the night, and Craig had made it clear he had plans and would not welcome delay.
A passing car flicked on its headlights. Thunder resonated from deep inside the billowing gray clouds. If only she could find a police car and wave it over—that would be ideal.
“I’ll tell you what, my little lucky charmer, I could use some leprechaun magic right now,” she muttered to the kid in the back of her car.
“What is it you’d wish for, lass?” The child’s slight weight moved the old car as he leaned forward to peer up at her from behind the driver’s seat.
What is it you’d wish for? The question echoed through her being. She knew what she must work for, even what she would hope for, but what would she wish for? The distinction of the single word gave her a wistful feeling, like a child with her pencil poised over a Christmas list.
“Days like this, my friend, I think I’d wish—” She imagined enough money to afford a hot meal out somewhere, nothing fancy but filling. Decent shoes. The shelter full of volunteers, its bankrolls filled to capacity, its occupancy at an all-time low. She sighed. “I guess I’d just wish—for a little help.”
“Granted.” The word rushed out like a breath of fresh Irish breeze.
Julia stared down at the boy, who pressed his lips together the way a child does before he imparts his deepest secret. But before he could utter a single sound, the whoop of a police siren made her jump.
Whirls of red light spun across the scene as an unmarked cruiser pulled up behind her old car.
A wave of relief washed over her, sweeping away the dim cast of her mood. She glanced from the stopping police car to the boy and grinned. “I suppose you’re going to try to claim this is all courtesy of your benevolent blarney, Mr. Leprechaun.”
“No need to thank me, lass. I’ll just be on my way”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Craig lurched after the boy, but the youngster was too fast. He slipped away and out the car door.
“Hold it right there.” Julia fell into her I’ll-brook-no-argument-from-you voice with great ease. She snagged the boy, who glanced toward the cruiser and the officer climbing out of it with anxiety in his green eyes.
“I’m telling you,” the boy said in a harsh whisper, “I’m a leprechaun. I’ve granted your wish for help, now you have to let me go.”
He fought like a wildcat for release, but Julia held firm.
“Stop that this instant,” she said, then let her tone soften to show the real empathy she felt for the child. “Listen, sweetie, I know a kid in your situation has a natural distrust of the police, but I promise you, the officer is here to help you. This is really for the best. We can’t leave you out here alone.”
“I’m not...” he clamped his mouth shut.
Alone. He didn’t have to say it for Julia to hear it. She glanced to the billboard but saw no other sign of life there.
She returned her gaze to meet the boy’s searching for the answers he masked with a flash of defiance. Beyond them, she heard the swish of the policeman’s boots in the tall roadside grass. “If someone else is out here, you’d better tell me now.”
“What? Do you think there are other leprechauns lurking about, Julia?” Craig teased, his own mood obviously lightened. “You’ve already caught your limit, and besides that, he hasn’t forked over his pot of gold.”
The boy went rigid beneath her restraining hand.
“Don’t be silly, Craig,” she said, trying to keep everyone calm until the policeman, who was scribbling down her license plate number, got to them.
“It’s not silly, Julia,” Craig protested, poking his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He sniffled in the damp air. “The legend goes, if you catch a leprechaun, he has to surrender his pot of gold. Isn’t that right, Red?”
The boy’s green eyes sparked. “Indeed it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be getting that gold...”
“What seems to be the problem here, ma’am?” The tall, imposing officer strolled up to their little tableau, his face partially obscured by the brim of his dark brown hat.
“Hello, sir. I’m Julia Reed, director of St. Patrick’s Homeless Shelter.” She extended her right hand. “I am so glad you came along when you did, Officer...?”
“Shaughnessy.” He took her hand and gave it one jerking shake. “Michael Shaughnessy.”
Was it her imagination, Julia wondered, or did the man’s presence make the child bristle more than it should?
“How can I help you?” Officer Shaughnessy asked, his gaze fixed on the boy.
The gesture made Julia shiver, but she fought off any apprehensions by concluding that perhaps the two had had run-ins before. Street kids and cops did not mix well, at any rate, so even if there was nothing personal between the two, they would respond as adversaries out of habit.
“Um, you can’t help me, exactly, Officer,” Julia said, caution coloring her words. “It’s this fellow here.”
“I see,” the officer said, his voice flat. “Well, you just leave him to me. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”
The boy glowered at the uniformed man.
The situation didn’t feel right to Julia, but she had no reason for her misgivings. Swallowing down the cold lump in her throat, she reached in her back jeans pocket to find a business card. “If you need anything, son, please call.” She offered the card to the boy. “Here’s how you can find me.”
He turned his angry eyes to her and kept his arms at his sides.
The police officer stepped up. His huge hand grasped the boy by the jacket collar, throwing the child off balance for a moment.
Suddenly, the boy shot away from the officer, straight into Julia.
The force of the boy’s weight made her stagger backward a few steps, but she quickly regained her footing. The boy moved around so he was standing half behind her, and she automatically straightened up in a defensive posture.
The officer tensed and she wondered if she—or the boy— was in danger.
“Please, lass, please.” The pure pleading nature of the boy
’s voice tugged at her heart, and she turned her head to meet his desperate gaze.
“Leave the boy to me, ma’am,” Officer Shaughnessy barked.
“One moment,” she responded, making it clear she wouldn't allow any quibbling. She focused on the child, who was standing so close she could feel his rabbit-paced heartbeat at her side.
Julia placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder. She kept her voice low to preclude Craig and the police officer from hearing. “What is it? Don’t be afraid, you can tell me.”
The green eyes shifted toward the rainbow-covered billboard and a brightness seemed to pass over his features.
“By rights, my pot o’ gold is yours, lass.” The lilting words barely carried to her above the din of traffic and the grumble from the skies above. “I can’t have it fallin’ into another’s hands.”
Officer Shaughnessy tapped the toe of his boot against a stone jutting from the wet grass. “Hurry it up, will ya?”
The boy took a deep gulp. “Please, lass, you’ve got to be the one to claim me treasure. Can I have your promise on that?”
She looked steadily into the boy’s face, her heart as heavy as the laden rain clouds hanging low over the skyline. The child had no home and few possessions, she realized. The last thing he wanted was to lose the belongings he had managed to squirrel away, those things which he counted as precious as gold—his treasures. And he was asking her for help. “Just tell me where to find it.”
“Now, where are you supposin’ you’d be finding a pot o’ gold, lass?” He wriggled his dark red eyebrows, his glance flicking toward the Lucky Lottery Jackpot Billboard. Their voices blended in a hushed conspiracy. “Under the rainbow.”
“Just find the patch of shamrocks and dig straight down," the boy whispered.
“Dig? I have to dig?”
“Shh!” The boy raised a finger to his lips. “Of course you have to dig for the treasure. Don’t you know anything?”
She smoothed her hand over his thick curls and shifted her weight uneasily. “Actually, I’m beginning to think I don’t know anything at all."
Lightning ripped across the gray clouds, throwing over the boy’s anxious features a mixture of yellow light and shadow.
“If you don’t hurry this along, ma’am, we’re going to be standing in a rain storm.” Officer Shaughnessy shuffled a step closer to them.
“I’ll be coming along with you...sir.” The boy turned and walked away from Julia, his shoulders hunched, his feet kicking at the grass as he went.
As the patrol car drove away, Craig clapped his hands together. “Another good deed done in record time. Now if we could just—”
“Not yet.” Julia moved to the back of her car to unlock the trunk.
“If you’re doing what I think you’re doing,” Craig warned her, “you better realize I’m not going to be a party to it. I have…”
“You have work to do,” she cut him off. Turning to rifle through the piles of blankets and extra clothes, spare batteries, flashlights, and first aid kits she finally found her sorry excuse for a shovel. She thrust the splintered handle into Craig’s hand. “Faith can move mountains, but sometimes it has to do it one shovelful of dirt at a time. And somebody has to hold that shovel.” Julia trudged back up toward the billboard, motioning for her assistant to follow. “That shovel, my friend, is an instrument of faith in human kind in action.”
“Pardon me if I point out it’s also used to dig graves.” Craig hoisted it onto his shoulder and slunk along behind her.
Julia drew in the smell of the impending storm, let it refresh her then let it out in a sigh. “Not today, my friend. Today, we’re digging for treasure.”
CHAPTER TWO
Julia shuddered.
Her hands fisted on the top of her scarred army surplus desk. She stole a sidelong glance at the ominous cadet-blue safe, glinting at her through the half open closet door in her office on the second floor of the shelter.
Last night she and Craig had gone beneath the billboard expecting to unearth a cache of sports cards, a ball cap, perhaps a piece of jewelry, some memento a boy might call treasure. Instead they’d found… trouble.
A great big, black pot o’ trouble, to be exact. A leprechaun’s treasure unlike anything she’d been prepared for, honest-to-goodness, heavy, gleaming handfuls of very old gold coins.
She pushed her heavy hair off her shoulders and folded herself into her red cardigan. Her shoulders tightened and anxiety roiled in the pit of her stomach. She could still smell the fresh dirt clinging like chocolate cake crumbs to the cast iron kettle and lid as she unearthed the boy’s secret stash from the damp, dark ground.
Craig had wanted to go with her to take the find to the shelter and call the police to see what to do next but she hadn’t seen the sense of making him miss out on his dinner plans. She’d be find, she’d insisted, with the protectiveness of her staff around her and the gold tucked inside the shelter safe, she would calmly wait for the police to arrive and be done with it.
That’s what she’d intended to do. But this morning she sat in her office haunted by knowledge that she still had a fortune in gold sitting just a few feet away.
“Well? What did the police say? Were the coins reported stolen? Is there a reward?” Craig slipped into her office as silently as his not so sneaky sneakers allowed.
“I don’t know,” she said softly
“You don’t know what?” Craig sat in donated wing-back chair beside her desk, eyes studying her behind his hipster glasses, his elbows and knees poking out at sharp angles from the swayed seat. “About the reward or if the stuff was stolen?”
“I don’t know,” she said with more conviction, almost snapping at her assistant. She looked toward the open office door then cast her gaze around the room, finally coming back to Craig’s expectant expression. She wet her lips. “I don’t know about the police.”
“The—” His brows clashed above his eyes. “Julia, what are you talking about?”
She glanced at the door again and the empty hallway beyond. They were alone. The night staff and evening’s residents had gone already. The shelter stood, wrapped in eerie quiet, locked tight until evening. The lumbering shell of a building never quite felt empty. Always there were shadows and noises and the sense of someone or something in the next doorway, or just over your shoulder. The feeling had stopped needling Julia long ago but today she felt it to the depths of her bone.
She drummed her fingertips against the scratched paint on her metal desktop then finally fixed her gaze on Craig and said, “I’m talking about Officer Shaughnessy.”
“Officer who?”
“Shaughnessy. The officer who just happened along at the exact time we needed him to spirit away the Irish boy we found.”
“Ah, the leprechaun patrol.” Craig nodded his head and chuckled.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if you knew what I do.” She skimmed her finger over the scribbled notes she’d made the night before. “There is no Officer Michael Shaughnessy that fits the description of our man with the Cincinnati police.”
“Maybe he’s with the—”
She traced her fingertip downward on the paper. “He’s not with the highway patrol, the sheriff’s department, or any of the local campus security forces.” Her wooden chair creaked as she leaned back in resignation. “Craig, he’s not even a mall cop.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “I checked everywhere. Michael Shaughnessy is a great big fake.”
Craig pushed against the arms of the chair as if ready to jump up and take action even though he stayed in place. “And we turned that kid over to him?”
“That kid—who told us where to dig up a fortune,” she added.
He hunched his shoulders forward. “What now?”
“I don’t know, but—” She checked out the doorway one more time then inched close to her desk, lowering her upper body and her voice. “I’ve still got the gold.”
“What?”
He nearly leaped out of his chair.
“Shh.” She placed her finger to her lips. “Think about it, Craig, a boy who knew the whereabouts of something so valuable, kidnapped by a man sneaky enough to impersonate a police officer? Add that when I told the cops I thought the boy might be in trouble they told me that without a name or photo there wasn’t much they could do to help him. If I had turned that gold over to the police, it might have been like signing that child’s death warrant.”
“And since you didn’t, it might be like signing your own.”
A solid chunk of ice seemed to settle in her throat. She could hardly breathe, let alone swallow. Craig was right, but then, so was she. Her mind raced but no single thought took center stage.
She wanted to go stumbling out to her car and drive away as fast as she could for parts unknown. At the same time, she wanted to stay right there and never leave the relative safety of her familiar surroundings again. For the first time in a long, long time, Julia Reed, mountain mover, had to admit she needed something more than courage, wits and a shovel—she needed to ask for help. But from whom?
“I was going to say top o’ the momin’ to you, but as I get a good long look at this place, I’m more in mind of bottom o’ the barrel.” Irish. The accent, though faint, poured like aged whiskey over every syllable from the deep, masculine voice out in the hallway. It sent a tingle through Julia’s body and a shiver down her spine. Then a man stepped into the doorway, smiling. “Looks like I got here just in time.”
“You.” The word whooshed out with the rush of air from her lungs and she didn’t know if help had arrived or she had lost her ever lovin’ mind.
*
Cameron O’Dea made a show of glancing behind himself. His parka rustled, its open zipper cold against his wrist as he flattened his palm to his nubby gray sweater. He cocked his head at the woman with enormous blue eyes who was gaping at him. “Me?”
“You’re... oh, my goodness,” she whispered.