The Ghost and Katie Coyle
Page 9
CHAPTER NINE
Drifting beneath the trees, Derry sensed the subtle shift in the energy patterns surrounding Pond House which told him Katie had returned. He coalesced within the circle of Standing Stones and reached for the clothing he’d carefully hidden beneath one of the trees. He had to remember to strip the modem clothes off his body before he disappeared into the vortex of energy, since he’d discovered, much to his chagrin, that the clothes simply disappeared, and that each time he manifested physically, he was once again wearing the same ragged breeches and torn white shirt he’d been wearing when he died. He shrugged on the unfamiliar shorts and shirt, fumbling with the zipper even as he felt Katie’s presence coming closer. He had just managed to make himself presentable when she stepped out of the woods into the circle.
“Why, hello!” she said, a delicate flush on her high cheekbones.
He smiled in spite of himself. Since he’d met her the night before, the sense of connectedness to her had increased exponentially. He could feel the aura of energy that surrounded her pulsing with the vitality of her life force. She was so achingly alive. “Hello, Katie Coyle. And how are you?”
“I had lunch with Mary today,” she said. “Did she tell you?”
He hesitated, thinking furiously. “She did mention something to that effect, I believe. Did you enjoy your lunch?”
“It was very nice. Have you been to the place? It’s called the Tea Room.” Katie broke off, cocked her head and grinned. “She was kind enough to assure me that you weren’t an ax murderer.”
He raised his eyebrows, a little perplexed. “An ax murder—” There were so many things that his peculiar existence precluded him from knowing. “Ah, no,” he finished lamely. “Not an ax murderer at all.”
“And I told her I didn’t mind if you were interested in examining the Stones. I find them quite fascinating myself.” She moved to touch the nearest with a sweep of a graceful hand. “Tell me, what’s your assessment of the Ogham Writing? I think it’s absolutely amazing that Ronan Monahan made such an effort to duplicate that, don’t you?”
Derry blinked, thinking furiously. This woman wasn’t just a replica of Caitlin. This woman was a scholar—she possessed more knowledge of Ireland and its history than he did, most likely. She’d know in a minute if he said anything wrong. He swallowed hard. “You’re a scholar of Irish history, Mary was telling me?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Oh, yes. And to tell you the truth, the mystery of the earliest Irish alphabet has always fascinated me—even if I’ve never had the time or the money to really indulge myself.”
“What do you mean?” He moved just a little closer, and this time, he caught the barest trace of the perfume she wore—a blend of lilies and lilacs and honeysuckle.
Katie shrugged. “Irish Studies in America is just getting off the ground. Not every college or university has a place for it. In order to find a job, I had to make sure I could teach more mainstream topics—not something as esoteric and as specialized as Early Irish. Know what I mean?” She was tracing the stick shapes with one rounded nail.
“I can imagine,” was all he could think to say.
“So tell me, Mr. Riordan, exactly what is your interest in the Stones? Mary said you’d be poking around here—you know, I may have some books at the house you might find interesting—”
“Doubtless,” he interrupted. “But—uh—well, let’s just say my interest is strictly amateur.”
“Oh.” She raised one eyebrow and paused, as though waiting for him to explain further.
“I…uh…I…” Derry cursed himself for sounding like a fool. “There’s a set like these on my property in Ireland, you see…”
“Ah.” Katie nodded, sparing him the trouble of saying anything more, and he sagged inwardly, thanking whatever power held him bound that at least he’d guessed the right thing to say. “You’re the owner of the set these were created to duplicate? Where in Ireland are you from?”
“Well—uh—yes,” he said, remembering the ancient ring that stood on a low, rounded hill on a corner of his ancestral property. At least two hundred years ago, they’d still been there, and according to old Ronan Monahan, they stood there still. “Yes. Mary’s been telling me for years that these were here and looking so much like the ones I grew up around, and I—uh—well, I just had to come and see for myself. And I come from a small town outside Dublin called Kilmartin.” At least he hoped to God it was still a small town. Old Ronan had said it was, but that was fifty years ago or more. Who knew how it had changed?
“Kilmartin.” She said the word as if it meant something to her, then smiled. “So this is your first visit to America?” Katie turned to look up at him.
“Yes.” He drew a deep breath. At least that he could say with certainty. “My first visit to this beautiful country.” He indicated the forest around them with a gesture.
“It certainly is beautiful here.” Katie smiled and held out her hand. “But I hope you don’t intend to spend all your time hanging out in these woods. Mary must have some day trips planned, and such?”
“I—uh—I’m sure she does.”
He reached for her hand. Her warm, living flesh slid against his palm, and in that moment, he felt a jolt of energy, and a sense of a connection that nearly made him gasp aloud.
“I must be getting back to work, Mr. Riordan,” she was saying. “It was very nice to see you again. I told Mary you should feel free to explore as much as you like. If you’d like those books, I can lend them to you. Just let me know.”
She gave his hand a little shake, and Derry was gratified to see a faint pink blush stain her cheeks. So perhaps she felt something, too.
“The pleasure was mine, Miss Coyle.” He knew he stared down at her, and he wrenched his eyes away from her face. He didn’t want to frighten her.
“Oh,” she said with a little smile, “Please call me Katie. Everyone—well, at least all my friends—do.”
“Katie it is, then. And my name is Derry. To my friends.”
With another smile that was almost shy, she tugged her hand out of his grasp, and disappeared beneath the trees.
• • •
Reeling, Katie nearly stumbled down the path. Who was Derry Riordan, and why was she so drawn to him? Yes, he was very good-looking, there was absolutely no doubt of that, but the intensity of her attraction to him transcended mere physical good looks. Why did she feel as though she should turn around and sit down within that circle of stones and talk to him as long as words would come?
And at the same time, he made her feel like a tongue-tied schoolgirl in the midst of her first crush. Every word of their conversation replayed itself in her mind. Ireland. Ogham. Kilmartin. As she crossed the bridge, she stopped short. Alistair Proser was researching the Earl of Kilmartin. The Missing Earl. No wonder the name rang a bell.
The faint ring of the telephone brought Katie back to the present. She rushed across the lawn and into the house just in time to grab the phone as the answering machine began to play.
“Katie?”
Her sister’s voice made her smile. “Meg? I’m here.”
“So where’ve you been all day? Have classes started yet?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Ah, good luck. I’m sure you’ll do fine. They’ll all love you.”
“My students might. I’m not sure about anyone else.”
“What are you talking about?” Katie ran her fingers through her hair and sank into the sofa. “Oh…” In a few brief sentences, she outlined her run-ins with Reginald Proser and his son.
“They both sound delightful,” Meg said when Katie finished. “And the son sounds like a real treat. How do you do it, Katie? You’ve gone from Josh the pompous toad lawyer to Alistair the pompous toad prof.”
“Yeah, well,” Katie laughed a little. “You know what they say. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince. And speaking of that…” She hesitated. There was no point telling Meg about Derr
y. She didn’t know enough about him to say whether he was a prince or a toad or an unemployed Irishman wandering the world.
“Oh?” Meg asked. “What are you not telling me? Or, more to the point, who are you not telling me about?”
“Oh, no one.” Katie shrugged even though she knew her sister couldn’t see the gesture. “But consider this a forewarning. Alistair Proser is threatening to visit you when he comes to Ireland to finish up his research for the Clancy.”
“What!” Meg shrieked in mock horror. “I don’t need any more toads showing up on my doorstep.”
“Well, he probably won’t. It isn’t as if you could help him. His topic is the Earl of Kilmartin. You know, the Missing Earl?”
“Mmm. Vaguely. Hey, listen, it’s really really late here, and I better run. But you take care, Katie-did. Keep all the toads on your side of the Atlantic, all right? And don’t let any of them slime allover you—you’ll do fine tomorrow.”
Grinning, Katie hung up. Meg always managed to make her smile. She’d have to ask Derry what he knew about the legend. It would be interesting to hear it from a native. She got up and walked over to the window. Outside, the early evening was calm and quiet and only the muted babble of the waterfall broke the hush. Admit it, Katie, she told herself. It would be interesting to talk to him at all. About anything. It’s just one of those feelings.
A flash of white and a motion on the other side of the pond caught her eye, and she peered outside more closely. The flash of white came again. Someone was in the trees. She wondered if she should call the police. She pressed her face closer to the glass, and reached for the switch by the door labeled “floodlights.” Light washed over the lawn. She squinted hard, trying to see, but there was nothing. Just a bird or something. Or maybe Derry on his way back to Mary’s house. Wherever that was. Funny, she hadn’t yet asked.
She turned away from the window with a sigh and settled herself with her notes on the couch. Time to put everything but class tomorrow out of her mind. She drew a deep breath and smelled the familiar odor of bay rum. Now you behave, Captain, she thought. As if in answer, she could have sworn she heard a soft chuckle.
It was much later when she heard the voice. Soft at first, no more than a whisper, it came just as she laid her book across her knees and raised her hands to rub her temples. She paused in midstroke and looked around.
It came again, stronger and more distinct; a man’ s voice, crying out for help. She got to her feet and quickly opened the front door. She leaned outside and heard the voice once more.
“Help me! Help me!”
That’s it, she thought. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed her flashlight. She was going to find out the source of that voice if it was the last thing she did. And if it happens to belong to some homicidal maniac, it just might be that, her conscience scolded.
Ignoring the voice of common sense, Katie dashed along the path, the strong beam of light bobbing before her.
“Help me!”
The voice echoed eerily through the forest. Heedless of the thorn bushes that lined the path, Katie ran through the forest, her sandals slapping over the pine-covered earth. She reached the place where the path divided into the one that led to the road and the other which led down to the beach. Except for the insects’ shrill chorus, the night was silent.
She took a few steps toward the beach and heard the soft sigh of the ocean. Nothing. Doubtfully, she started down the path, training her flashlight first right, then left. At the top of the little overhang, she stopped and gazed out over the dark waves. Ribbons of white foam laced the black water. The scent of the salt air filled her nose and she breathed deeply, closing her eyes. She slowly exhaled and drew another deep breath. This time she was startled to detect another scent—a scent that was becoming all too familiar. Bay rum.
She jerked around and strained to hear above the ocean. The bushes parted and to her complete astonishment, Derry Riordan stepped out of the forest.
“Derry! What are you doing here?”
“Good evening, Kate.” He paused just outside of the forest’s perimeter and thrust his hands in his pockets. “I’m glad to see there’s someone else who appreciates a moonlit ramble.”
Katie laughed a little uncertainly. The odor of bay rum wafted by on the gentle breeze, and was replaced by the stronger smell of the sea. His words had struck an unexpected chord. “You know, I just thought of something. Something I hadn’t thought of in years.”
“Oh?” He stood his ground, although he rocked forward on his feet as though he’d like to come closer.
Her heart beat just a little faster. “When I was a little girl, everyone always called me Katie. Except for my grandfather. When I was a very little girl, he used to call me Kate. Sweet Kate, he’d say—just like sweet cake.”
She laughed again, very softly. “It’s funny—I hadn’t thought of that in…so long I can’t remember.”
“So you like to be reminded of forgotten things, do you, Katie Coyle?” His soft brogue added an unexpected caress to her name.
“Well, I suppose I must.” She shoved her own hands into the pockets of her jeans and shivered a little. The ocean air cut through the thin cotton of her sweater. “But what on earth are you doing out here? And dressed just like that?” She gestured to his T-shirt and shorts. “Aren’t you chilly?”
He shuffled his feet back and forth. “A bit. I don’t really feel the cold, though.”
“And why’s that?” She lifted her chin and raised one eyebrow at him, expecting him to say something bantering.
Instead he shrugged as though uncomfortable and unsure of how to answer. “Just my nature, I guess.” He looked down at his bare feet and then quickly back at her. “So tell me, Katie Coyle, are you just out for a ramble in the moonlight?’
“No,” she said, squaring her shoulders. She was going to tell the truth. If he knew Mary, he must know the legend. “I thought I heard a voice. Calling for help.” She gave a little nod to emphasize her words, daring him to challenge her.
“Ah,” was all he said.
“You heard it, too?”
“I have, on occasion.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully.
“And not tonight?”
“Uh—no. Not tonight.”
“I heard it. So I grabbed my light and came out here. I wanted to see once and for all—” Abruptly she broke off. What was she going to say? That I’m not crazy?
“You aren’t crazy,” he said, and startled, she stared up at him.
“Are you reading my mind?”
“Of course not.” He sounded slightly offended. “Is that what you were thinking?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I was.” She looked around. “Well, there’s clearly no one here but us, so I suppose—”
“The legend must be true.”
She gave another short laugh. “I imagine there’ve been plenty of shipwrecks along these shores—look at those rocks.” He was staring out at the dark ocean. The rocks glistened in the moonlight. “They’re so beautiful from here—”
“But deadly.” His tone was terse. “I hate the sea.”
The intensity in his voice confused her. “Hate it? I guess it is dangerous—”
“You’ve no idea how dangerous,” he said. For a long moment he was silent, staring into the water. “A ship can be smashed to smithereens in a matter of moments against those rocks. And the poor wretches aboard her never have a chance,” he finished bitterly.
“I haven’t spent very much time sailing,” said Katie, wondering why he sounded so vehement. “But I’m sure you’re right.” She paused briefly, and then asked, “So what are you doing out here?’
“Just walking.” He gazed up at the stars. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“ Yes,” she said. “It is.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt. It’s just—just that I lost a great deal to the sea once, and I’ve never been able to forget it. Please forgive me.”
“I was—uh—I was wondering if you could perhaps tell me about a certain person in history.”
“Oh?”
“The Earl of Kilmartin. He lived around 1799…”
“Of course,” she nodded. “The Missing Earl.”
“I thought perhaps you being a scholar, you could tell me if you knew anything of him. Or of what happened to him.”
“Oh, well,” Katie drew a deep breath. “That’s actually funny—I was wondering if there was anything about him you could tell me, since you’re from that part of Ireland. He’s missing, of course. I mean, he disappeared and no one really knows what happened to him. It was never very clear where he sided in the Rebellion of ’98—that’s 1798, you know…”
She heard herself revert to her “teacher voice” and she groaned inwardly. “Well, anyway, he had a brother who I believe was very active in the rebel cause, but the earl himself remained nonpartisan for a very long time. If he got embroiled at all, it had to have been no earlier than 1796. But anyway, it seems likely that he did, and either he or his brother got arrested either late in ‘98 or early in ’99, and he probably died in prison. There aren’t any records of him, at least not anywhere I know of.”
“Ah.” Derry was gazing out over the ocean. The wind ruffled his hair, and in the harsh light of the flashlight, his cheekbones were thrown in sharp relief.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but—” She stopped. Did she dare mention Alistair Proser and his project? Well, why not? If Derry followed up and got some information about his town in Ireland, while Alistair thought Katie had a possible beau and would stop asking her out, what was the harm? “There’s someone at East Bay who might be able to tell you more.”
“Oh?” Derry looked hopeful.
“His name is Alistair Proser and he’s not on the faculty, but he’s the son of the chairman of my department. And he’s here, on sabbatical from Yale. He’s working on a paper that involves the Earl of Kilmartin.”