Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  “He was looking toward Connecticut?”

  “Maybe,” Brendan said. “He had a vision of a magical land, across the western seas, called Tir na nog—‘the Promised Land of the Saints.’ He felt pulled there, and he sailed out of a narrow creek, just like the one in Black Hall, and set off on a quest for the Blessed Isles. A seven-year quest…No matter how fierce the sea, or how wicked the storms, he kept going. He’s the patron saint of pilgrims and seekers.”

  “Our family’s been on a six-year quest,” Agnes whispered.

  “To get your father back,” he said, stroking her head.

  “I thought when he came home, everything would finally be right,” she said. “I thought my mother would be happy, and Regis would stop having nightmares. I thought she’d figure out that Peter is wrong for her.”

  “Agnes,” Brendan said, looking at her with eyes so blue and glowing she imagined he could see straight into her soul. “She will figure that out. I have the feeling she already has. People have to make their own mistakes.”

  “What was she saying?” Agnes asked.

  “You should ask her,” Brendan said softly, thinking of what Regis had said to him later, after they’d returned to Star of the Sea.

  “It sounded as if she thought Mr. Drake was going to attack Dad—I thought I heard her say ‘Don’t hurt him.’”

  “She did say that,” Brendan admitted, not wanting to say more until he’d had the chance to talk to Regis again, help her to tell everyone.

  “But why was she so upset?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I couldn’t believe she hit Mr. Drake. Regis would never hurt any-one…you should have seen her at Ballincastle, after she saw my father kill Gregory White. She was pure white, just staring into space. She couldn’t move, couldn’t talk.”

  “I can imagine,” Brendan said. “After what she’d been through.”

  “The police took our father away, and an ambulance took Regis to the hospital. She was there for days—we were afraid she wouldn’t come out of it. My mother couldn’t even go to Cork City to help Dad.”

  “How could she have helped him?” Brendan asked gently. “He was in custody, right?”

  “Yes,” Agnes said.

  “It must have been terrible,” Brendan said.

  “Yes,” Agnes said. “It must have. Regis can’t remember what happened, and our father would never really talk about it, to anyone. But Regis was bruised, and she had a huge bump on her head. The doctors said it probably accounted for why she couldn’t remember anything.”

  “That and the trauma,” Brendan said. “People shut down when they’re scared. Emotions can be just as brutal as being physically attacked. That’s why I want to be a psychiatrist.”

  “I wish it were so much easier,” she whispered.

  “Like in Tir Na Nog,” he said.

  Holding her hand, he leaned forward to kiss her, and Agnes closed her eyes, tasted his lips. She felt herself melting into him, so lost she barely realized they were no longer alone. Looking up, she saw her parents and Cece standing there. Cece tugged Agnes’s hand, looking frantically from her to Brendan.

  “Have you seen Regis?” she cried.

  John shepherded his family through the vineyard, toward the Academy. Cece talked quietly, filling Agnes and Brendan in on Regis. Honor strode along in silence, her shoulder brushing against John’s as they walked. From the top of the rise, John spotted the police cars, one of them unmarked, at the dead end of the lane that led to the Blue Grotto. His stomach flipped, just seeing them.

  When they got to the bottom of the hill, they followed the sound of voices into the small stone chamber: the Blue Grotto. Seeing it filled with strangers—two plainclothes detectives and two uniformed officers—felt jarring. They were talking to Bernie and Tom.

  Bernie and Tom turned as John and Honor moved forward. Tom stood close by her side, but Bernie was clearly the one in charge; the police were all looking at her, taking notes.

  “Excuse me,” one of the detectives said, attempting to block the way. “This is a police investigation. You’ll have to come back later.”

  “What happened here?” Honor asked.

  “Please step outside,” the female detective said.

  John realized that the officers assumed that his family was just visiting the grotto—worshipers, or tourists, visiting Star of the Sea. Bernie caught it at the same moment and edged forward.

  “This is my brother and sister-in-law,” Bernie said. “They live on the grounds here at the Academy. Maybe they’ve seen something. John, Honor, someone scratched some messages into the wall, and they’re causing…consternation.”

  “They sound a little desperate,” Tom said.

  “Aunt Bernie,” Cece cried, her voice breaking. “Regis is missing! She’s very upset, and she’s run away. Never mind this…please, you have to help us find her.”

  “Slow down,” the male detective said. “What happened? How old is she?”

  “She’s twenty,” John said.

  “And you say she’s run away?”

  “She said she has to think,” Honor said, visibly shaken. She twisted her hands, trying to keep them steady. Her face was pale, her lips dry. Her gaze darted to John, as if making sure he was okay; he nodded, supporting her, taking her arm. “She’s been through a lot, and last night had words with her fiancé’s father.”

  “At Hubbard’s Point,” one of the uniformed officers said sharply, suddenly taking notice. “We got a call about that, but by the time we arrived, she was gone.”

  “I don’t think that was necessary,” Honor said. “For you to be called.”

  “Mr. Drake could have pressed charges,” the officer said. “He chose not to.”

  “For a little shove?” Agnes asked. “She didn’t mean it.”

  “He claims she attacked him, scratched him.”

  “Barely,” Honor said, but she looked scared.

  “She’s very loyal to her father,” Bernie said.

  “She was defending him,” Honor said.

  The cops all turned their eyes on John. “That’s you?”

  “It is,” he said, feeling nervous to have the attention of four members of the police department on him.

  “You’re John Sullivan,” said the younger cop—and John recognized him as Officer Kossoy. He had been here the night of Agnes’s accident.

  “I am,” he said.

  “The artist?” the woman detective asked.

  “Yes,” John said cautiously. Was she familiar with his work, or had she heard about Ireland?

  “I’m Detective Cavanagh, and this is my partner, Detective Gaffney,” she said.

  “You’ve been in trouble, Mr. Sullivan,” said Gaffney. “We know about you.”

  “What does this have to do with our daughter?” Honor asked. “Please—”

  “We ran a check on you,” Officer Kossoy said, “after the last incident, when Agnes fell off the wall. Your daughter Regis was with you in Ireland, wasn’t she? When you killed that man?”

  “We were all there,” Honor said, her voice rising. “My husband was protecting Regis from him!”

  “It’s true,” Cece cried as Officer Kossoy reached for John’s arm. “Get away from my father!”

  “Cece,” Agnes said, grabbing her sister in a hug.

  “Do you think Regis’s running away has anything to do with the message on the wall?” the female detective asked no one in particular.

  John remembered seeing the first carvings with Tom just two weeks ago, and now he read the new words, etched just about even with his eye level:

  SET ME AS A SEAL ON YOUR HEART, AS A SEAL ON YOUR ARM;

  FOR AS STERN AS DEATH IS LOVE.

  “Are you saying you think she wrote this?” Honor asked. “She could barely reach it—she’s only five-four.”

  “‘Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; for as stern as death is love,’” John read, and the lines sent a chill down his spine
. “What is that from?”

  “The Bible,” Brendan said. “The Old Testament.”

  Everyone turned to look at him. Red-haired, sparks in his blue eyes, he gazed up at the carving. John saw that he had wiry strength in his thin body; like Regis, he was too short to reach up that far. But John found himself looking around for a step, something that could boost the boy up.

  “Do we have a religious scholar in our midst?” Bernie asked, smiling.

  He shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “But I went to Jesuit school, so…”

  “Ah,” she said. “The Jesuits. They’re the Marines and intellectuals of religious life. Very rigorous. Funny, I wouldn’t think of them as giving so much emphasis to the Song of Songs. That scripture is so filled with love; it would take a kinder, softer Jesuit to teach it.”

  Brendan nodded, as if he knew what she meant.

  John found himself wondering about this boy who could talk the Old Testament with Bernie and Tir na nog with Agnes, as he had heard him do a few minutes earlier. Again, he read the message, shivered at the words “for as stern as death is love.”

  “Do you think love is stern as death?” John asked, looking straight at Brendan.

  “Hey,” Officer Kossoy said, “this is a police investigation. Why don’t we leave the metaphysics till later.”

  “They go together sometimes,” Brendan said, as if the policeman hadn’t spoken, looking straight at John. “Not everyone knows that, though.”

  “You know it?” John asked.

  Brendan nodded slowly, and held John’s gaze.

  “His brother died,” Agnes said softly, inching closer.

  “Did you do this?” John asked, pointing at the wall.

  Not replying, Brendan cleared his throat and looked away.

  Just then, the sound of a car squealing into the parking lot echoed off the stone walls, and everyone looked toward the Academy. A Jeep pulled into view, and Honor gasped, “Regis!”

  But it wasn’t. It was Peter Drake, followed by three friends. They started toward the Sullivans’ house, but caught sight of the crowd by the grotto and changed course. Peter’s eyes were wild, his shoulders bursting with tension. His tan privileged-beach-boy looks were contorted with panic and rage.

  “Where is she?” he shouted, rushing toward Brendan.

  “Peter, stop!” Agnes said, getting between them.

  Peter stopped short of physically moving her, but glared at and through her and stepped around her. Brendan folded his arms, gazing back with fire in his eyes.

  “First you show up out of nowhere, big hero, taking care of Agnes. That would win Regis over if nothing else, and you had to know it. Then that stunt last night—stepping in, taking her away, so close to her, whatever the hell that was. And now, this note from Regis—”

  “She left a note?” Brendan asked.

  “She left one for us, too,” Honor said.

  “We’d like to see them,” Detective Gaffney said.

  Honor willingly gave him the sheet of paper. Peter started to hand his over, but then jammed it into his pocket and flung himself at Brendan. His fist cracked Brendan’s nose, sharp as a gunshot, blood bursting everywhere. Brendan, bleeding, fought back, landing some punches of his own as Peter kept pummeling, until the police finally pulled them apart.

  “She left me,” Peter snapped, wiping his bloodied lip. “Gave me back my ring! And you know why. You know why!”

  “Peter, what are you talking about?” Agnes asked.

  “Ask him,” Peter said, shuddering with sobs as Officer Kossoy and his partner held his shoulders. Brendan bent double, pressing his hands to his face. Bernie crouched down, handed him a handkerchief, her hand on his back.

  “Are you all right?” Bernie asked.

  “I’m fine,” Brendan said.

  “You shouldn’t care whether he’s all right or not!” Peter yelled. “Don’t any of you get it? Regis is gone because of him! Ask him!”

  “Do you have any knowledge of Regis Sullivan’s whereabouts?” Officer Kossoy asked. For the first time, fear had entered Brendan’s eyes, sending a cold splinter into John’s heart. John had seen fear like that before—primal and untamed—in the eyes of men in prison. He pushed Bernie aside and looked straight into Brendan’s eyes.

  “Do you?” John asked, his fingers gripping the boy’s skinny shoulders.

  “Dad, don’t hurt him!”

  “Back off, Mr. Sullivan,” Detective Gaffney said, yanking his arm.

  “What do you know about Regis?” Honor asked. “What did Peter mean?”

  “I know that she had something to think about,” Brendan said quietly.

  “I think maybe we’d better talk this over,” Detective Gaffney said to Brendan. “Down at the station house.”

  “That’s right,” Peter said. “Take him in—that’s where he belongs.”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong!” Cece cried out.

  “Brendan,” John said, turning his back on Peter, “we’ll help you if you just tell us the truth.”

  “Goddamn you,” Peter said, wrenching John’s arm. “You should have stayed in Ireland, left Regis alone. My parents looked your case up. You beat a man to death. That’s what Regis has to live with—what she’s running from. Right, Brendan? Can anyone even blame her?”

  “You don’t know anything,” Brendan said.

  “Shut up, loser,” Peter shouted. “I checked on you—asked around. You’re a bastard. You don’t even know who your parents are. Your sister Agnes and this a-hole have been talking behind our backs. She’s been cheating on me with this creep—and he’s been doing the same to you. Couldn’t you see it in their eyes last night, at Hubbard’s Point?”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about Brendan. He has parents who adopted him, who love him,” she said, looking at Brendan. “And I saw him trying to help my sister,” she whispered, growing pale.

  “She looked at him the way she should be looking at me!” Peter exploded.

  “Regis needs a lot of help right now,” Brendan said quietly. “If you love her, you should know that.”

  “What do you mean, she needs help?” John asked.

  “Tell us,” Honor said.

  “Don’t you understand, even now?” Brendan asked gently, reaching for Agnes, looking into her eyes.

  “Understand what?”

  “Regis is the reason your father couldn’t come home. She’s the reason your family couldn’t be together.” Brendan stared at John, still and unwavering. And John knew that he knew the truth.

  “What are you saying?” Agnes shrieked, whirling to look at John and Honor. John felt her and Honor’s gazes boring into him, sensed Tom taking a step forward, as if to mitigate the force of their emotions.

  “Come on, let’s clear this up down at the station,” Officer Kossoy said, leveling a look at John, too. “Both of you.”

  “Dad,” Agnes wept, “what does he mean?”

  “John, please,” Honor said, her voice breaking.

  “I can’t say anything without Regis,” John said.

  And at that, Agnes wheeled, burying her head in Honor’s shoulder.

  Detective Gaffney stepped forward, grabbing John’s arm and doing what John knew he would: marching him away with Brendan, toward the two police cars. He looked back over his shoulder.

  Of all the things he might have expected to see—his daughters crying, Honor staring after him with despair, Peter smug and triumphant—what he did see shocked him.

  Bernie—standing with Tom in the middle of the grotto, her right arm stretched out, reaching, as she watched the group of police marching John and Brendan toward the squad car, right past Brendan’s crazily painted Volvo.

  Only her gaze wasn’t on her brother, John—not at all. Her arm trembled, held straight out, grasping at nothing John could see, her eyes full of light and pain, locked on Brendan McCarthy, the boy with the red hair, as the police led him away.

  Twenty-four

  The p
olice took John and Brendan away, and Honor stood and watched them go. Agnes and Cece raced after the cars, stopping only when they turned out of sight. Peter and his friends stormed off, as angry as when they’d arrived.

  Glancing over at Bernadette and Tom, Honor felt the energy pouring off them and knew they needed to be alone. She started back through the vineyard; not toward home, but along the path that led to the beach. Her skin tingled as she neared the sea. The waves rolled in, and the air felt moist. The long stone wall ran in its relentless way along the crest of the hill to her right. It shimmered in the sun, sparkling with mica.

  She climbed the bluff, followed the narrow trail through bayberry and beach roses, looking past the labyrinth, up and down the strand. There was John’s stone cottage, darkly silhouetted, and when she saw it, she started to run. Regis would be there—she knew it. Their daughter, their wonderful, mixed-up girl—if she was searching for answers, and Honor knew she was, the only place to find them was right here.

  “Regis!” Honor called.

  Climbing up the steps, she rattled the door; it was locked, but the latch was old and fragile. She knew she could force it, but she also knew where Tom had always hidden the spare key—on a rusty nail just behind the kitchen shutter. If only John hadn’t taken it, changed the hiding place…and he hadn’t. Her fingers closed around it; fumbling, she sliced the heel of her right hand on the nail, but she didn’t even care—she had the key.

  Managing to get it into the lock, she opened the door. “Regis,” she said into the cool darkness.

  But the room was empty. John was once again with the police, and Regis was once again lost. Honor leaned against the door and closed her eyes. She was thrust back in time. When the police took John away from that windswept cliffside, someone else was also gone—Regis. Lost and numbed, unable to remember or speak about what she had just witnessed.

  What had Brendan meant?—Regis is the reason your father couldn’t come home. She’s the reason your family couldn’t be together. He had sounded so clear, so certain. There was something otherworldly about him; Honor had heard the girls saying that Regis called him “the archangel.” She’d taken it in stride. Living on the grounds of Star of the Sea, the girls often spoke of saints and angels. But there was something about this boy, so caring and true.