Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  “Sit, sit,” Lucy ordered. Jamie sat awkwardly in the open chair she gestured him to, which thankfully, was not next to the fireplace. Jamie had been feeling abnormally warm lately on top of his other symptoms. “Ye recall Ríordán, surely?” When Jamie nodded, the fili returned the nod slowly. “This great hulk of a man is Ánrothán, or Hanrahan in English. He’s a druid.”

  The big man sat immobile on the couch and did not offer his hand to Jamie. He stared at Jamie, studying him. Jamie coolly returned the gaze. Hanrahan was tall, six-five, and from what Jamie could see beneath the dark brown robe, covered by a black tunic, the man had very little fat on him.

  “Well, if ye are both finished sizing each other up, perhaps I might begin?” Lucy asked pointedly.

  Jamie sat back with a soft grunt, and Hanrahan chuckled, a deep, cavernous sound. “Síocháin, seanchaidhe. Please begin.”

  “Hmph,” muttered Lucy. “Men. Anyway, this is detective Jamie Griffin—”

  “Not any longer, ma’am,” Jamie interrupted. “As of this past Monday, I lost that position.”

  “Indeed? Why is that?” Lucy asked.

  Jamie was already tired of answering that question. “Because of my illness. I’ve run out of vacation and sick time, and the department had to let me go.”

  “I am sorry to learn that, Jamie,” rumbled Hanrahan. “Lucy told me not only of your illness, but that you and your partner are investigating the cailleach who fancies herself the Witch of Endor.”

  “Cailleach?” Jamie asked. “I’m not familiar with that Irish word.”

  “It means witch,” replied the druid, “and whoever or whatever else she might or might not be, the woman is a particularly nasty practitioner of the dark arts.”

  “Ah, here we go again,” Jamie said under his breath. “Where’s Cushing when I need him?”

  Hanrahan smiled grimly. “Lucy told me that you are no believer in the occult.”

  “She told you correctly. My partner believes in the supernatural, but he’s not available today.”

  “Pity. Maybe he would be more receptive to what we are going to tell you.”

  “Look,” said Jamie. “I just had this argument with my partner on Monday. While I may not believe in this mumbo-jumbo, I realize that my partner, you folks, and many others do believe in it. Besides, Sedecla clearly believes in it, as do her cult members. So my opinion is beside the point. I’ll consider anything that might help me bring her to justice.”

  “Well spoken, Jamie,” Hanrahan said in an approving tone. His face was lined and weathered, making it hard to determine his exact age. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old.

  “Let me begin. Lucy spoke correctly when she named me a druid. What does that word mean to you?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Very little. My mother has made passing references to druids as ancient priests. The little I studied about druids in college called them pagans who practiced human sacrifice, like the wicker man. Beyond that, not much.”

  Hanrahan smiled and sighed. “Tis about as I expected. There are some nuggets of truth buried in the myths and histories surrounding our order. Would it surprise you to know that my order has an unbroken line of priesthood back to the very earliest days of the Celts?”

  “Yeah, it would. I thought the Romans had pretty much wiped you guys out.”

  “They did their best,” replied Hanrahan grimly. “Augustus and his ilk outlawed our religion and made it a capital offense. This actually did nothing more than drive us underground, where we have remained out of sight of organized religion. Every once in a while, some New Age ‘nut’ manages to find out about us and writes a book which, fortunately, is received with a great deal of skepticism.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you refer to ‘New Age nuts,’” laughed Jamie.

  Hanrahan shrugged. “There are those who have genuine power and seek truthful knowledge of the world, both physical and spiritual. People like Lucy here,” he said, extending a hand. Lucy bowed her head in acknowledgement, “but there are many more who seek to profit from this by any means possible. They do our order a grave disservice by spreading half-truths and misconceptions.”

  “Then why don’t you step forward and show your true selves?” Jamie asked.

  “Because by-and-large, the world is still very intolerant. Just look at your fundamentalists and ‘Tea Party’ people here in America. Do you think for a moment that they would be open to learning of truths that do not fit neatly into their religious boxes?”

  “No, probably not.”

  “Enough theology. I will tell you what I know. It is up to you what you do with that knowledge.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Let me begin by examining your aura.”

  “Wait,” protested Jamie. “I thought you didn’t like any of that ‘New Age’ stuff?”

  “No, I told you that they do disservice to the actual knowledge of our religion. All living creatures have about them some type of emanation, commonly referred to as an aura. Many religions, including Hinduism and Buddhism, also believe in the ability to detect auras.” Hanrahan sounded like a college professor giving a lecture. “Again, if you wish my help, I must ask you to hold your skepticism in check.”

  When Jamie nodded, Hanrahan continued. “Lucy told me of your mysterious illness. She also told me that it began before your confrontation with Sedecla.”

  “Aye, but it’s been very rare for me to take ill, and whenever I have been ill, I’ve gotten well very quickly. This crap has been lingering for months now, and if anything, it’s getting worse.”

  “Very well. Please relax and hold still.” Hanrahan looked past Jamie to the wall behind him on the other side of the room, and then nodded to Lucy. “Very good. He is positioned properly for a reading.”

  Jamie looked over his shoulder and saw a plain white wall. “You need a blank background?”

  Hanrahan nodded. “It is not required, but preferable. The reading of a person’s aura involves examining the colors contained within, so trying to read someone accurately against a variegated or cluttered background can be difficult if not impossible. Now hush,” the druid commanded.

  Jamie sat as still as possible, trying to relax as he watched Hanrahan. The druid steepled his fingers in front of him and stared intently at Jamie’s forehead. Hanrahan’s eyes lost their fixed gaze. After a long pause, the druid lowered his eyes and rubbed them lightly.

  Not realizing that he had been holding his breath, Jamie exhaled loudly. “So what was all that about?”

  “That was all about reading your aura, Jamie,” replied the druid tersely. “The process is quite simple really—and like most simple tasks, difficult to master. Basically, reading an aura involves intense concentration upon the subject for about a minute, depending on the skill level of the practitioner. The tricky part is to stop gazing upon the subject directly, but instead shifting your focus to your peripheral vision and continuing to concentrate upon the area around the subject for another minute or so.”

  “So that’s why your eyes appeared to lose focus,” said Jamie.

  “Yes, that was when I shifted to my peripheral vision.”

  “Why your peripheral vision?”

  Hanrahan chuckled, more of a rasping of his throat than a laugh. “There have been many studies and disagreements about that over the years, my young friend. Simply put, the central portion of the retina is more damaged than the periphery, due to constant use and abuse, and that portion of your eye has been ingrained over the years to look in a certain fashion. The periphery of your eyes are less damaged and not so rigidly trained. When using peripheral vision, I am able to read a person’s aura by looking at the colors contained therein.”

  “I’ve heard the bit about colors before. One of my sisters, Brighid, is into this stuff. She’s tried to convince me of its merits.”

  “Well, Jamie, since you said you wanted to hear what I have to say, let me tell you what I saw. While the predominant color in your a
ura is turquoise, it is streaked with both white and sulphur.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Jamie.

  “Meaning that overall, you are a dynamic individual with an energized personality. You are capable of influencing other people. You are able to do many things simultaneously, are a good organizer, and feel bored when forced to concentrate on a single task.”

  “Damn,” muttered Jamie. “Have you been talking to my wife?”

  This time Hanrahan laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. “No, but hopefully this will make you somewhat more comfortable with what I am telling you.”

  Jamie shrugged. “Maybe. Those could also be just very astute observations and guesses.”

  “May I remind you that you have sought our help?” bristled Ríordán.

  “Síocháin. Peace, fili. We will not convert this man with a simple reading.” The druid then turned back to Jamie. “The colors tell me much about your current condition. While turquoise is the dominant color, indicating the core of your nature, the veins of white and sulphur are indications of your current condition. White is always a sign of serious illness, and sulphur indicates pain or anger. Together, these colors tell me that you are indeed very ill, in some pain, and most likely very angry about it.”

  “Again, no offense, but hardly earth-shattering revelations,” noted Jamie.

  “True, but the nature of your aura also tells me that your illness is not due to any supernatural influence by Sedecla. While she may believe strongly in her curses, your lack of belief has probably shielded you from the worst of her enmity.”

  “You mean she can’t curse someone who doesn’t believe in it?”

  The druid grimaced. “Not exactly, although that is close enough for purposes of our discussion. It is possible that her curse worsened your condition, but I doubt it, given the strength of your disbelief, but this leads me to my other purpose in meeting with you today. You must be extremely cautious in your dealings with the cailleach.”

  “Great,” said Jamie. “Another person trying to warn me off the case.”

  “No,” replied Hanrahan emphatically. “I am not trying to warn you off ‘the case,’ as you put it. Just the opposite, in fact—I wish to see the cailleach stopped, and you appear to be the first person I’ve encountered who might be in a good position to accomplish that task.”

  Jamie paused. “So you’re opposed to Sedecla and worried about what I will face?”

  “Exactly. Others have gotten in her path in the past. They did not survive the encounter.”

  “Hunh,” said Jamie. “Maybe she’s never run into a hard-headed Irish cop before.”

  “Perhaps so,” agreed Hanrahan, “but I would not underestimate her. Whether you believe in her powers or not, she is a formidable opponent.”

  In the next hour, the three spiritualists imparted everything they knew of Sedecla to Jamie. Jamie thought that they could have continued longer, but Jamie’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, glancing at the number. “I need to take this.” He stood shakily and turned away from the others. “Griffin.”

  “Jamie.” Sully sounded both relieved and upset to have reached him.

  “Yeah, Sully, what’s up?”

  “Jamie, I don’t know any good way to tell you this.”

  Jamie’s stomach clenched, and he felt the warmth sink out of his body like water down an open drain. “Just spit it out, Cap.”

  “Right. A patrol found another body, and when they pulled the ID, they called me immediately.”

  “No,” moaned Jamie. “Don’t tell me—”

  “Yeah. It’s Cal. He’s dead—killed just like the other victims in your case. Now you’re going to get your ass in here and tell me everything you know.”

  “You can’t give me orders any more, Cap. Remember?” Jamie choked out the words.

  “Maybe not,” Sullivan replied, steel in his voice, “but I can make your life hell, Griffin.”

  “Easy, Sully, back down. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  “Thanks, Jamie.”

  “You got it.” Jamie turned to face the questioning faces of the trio by the fire. “Well, this case just got more serious. They found the body of my former partner, Cal Cushing. He was murdered. That bitch made a huge mistake,” Jamie said grimly. “Now she’s made this personal.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was cold and rainy again Tuesday morning, the clouds leaden and pregnant with rain, dumping torrents of water down upon both the cemetery and the mourners gathered by the open gravesite. Many more people attended than could fit within the tent. Not that the canvas roof kept those inside much warmer than those outside, but it did keep the worst of the rain from running down their heads, faces, and torsos.

  Jamie stood just outside the tent. He could have squeezed beneath it, as had Eileen and the girls, but he saw no point in bothering. Eileen had tried to pull him inside with her once, but Jamie had resisted, unmoving. He knew that Eileen and the girls were also in pain. Jamie could not process that fact, though, any more than he could process the fact that Cal was dead. Jamie felt wrapped in a cold cloud much denser and darker than those that filled the late October sky.

  He’s dead. Cal’s dead, and I wasn’t there. The thought kept clanging around in Jamie’s mind like some kind of demented pinball. Cal’s dead, and I wasn’t there. Jamie noted absently that Fran, Cal’s ex-wife was there, standing behind the immediate family.

  Jamie’s gaze wandered to where Cal’s parents, Franklin and Eve, sat in chairs, huddled against the cold, the rain, and the grief, with other family members trying to protect them from all three. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually seen or spoken with either of them. Being Cal’s partner had given Jamie limited access to Cal’s private, personal life. Jamie knew that Cal was estranged from his family, largely due to Cal’s career choice. He was supposed to be a lawyer, Jamie recalled. Or go into his father’s financial planning company.

  Behind Jamie, who was in his dark dress uniform, hat, and dark overcoat, a small sea of similarly attired officers stood. Robert Sullivan stood to Jamie’s right. Leonard Hamilton, who would have been Cal’s next partner, stood to the right of Sullivan. Three marksmen gathered perpendicular to the crowd, ready to provide the gun salute upon cue. The bagpipe music, always haunting in the best of times, swirled about the site like an unwanted guest, deeply touching each person gathered.

  When the service concluded and the echoes of gunfire had dissipated, Jamie patiently slipped through the crowd to Cal’s parents.

  “Mister and Mrs. Cushing,” Jamie said quietly, taking off his hat. As they turned their faces to look at him, Jamie wasn’t sure they actually saw him. “I’m Jamie Griffin. I was Cal’s partner on the police force.” Jamie thought he could detect a slight tightening around Franklin’s mouth. “I want to express my deepest sympathy. Cal was more than just my partner—he was my friend. I promise you, I will not rest until we bring the people behind your son’s murder to justice.”

  They could do nothing more than nod their heads at him, with Mrs. Franklin sobbing quietly. Jamie then replaced his hat and walked to where Fran stood, talking with Eileen and the girls.

  “Franny,” Jamie said gently. “I know you and Cal were still close. I’m so sorry.”

  Frances Endicott Cushing was a tall blonde, who not only had retained her youthful beauty, but had somehow managed to enhance it over the years. She gave Jamie a big hug. “I know, Jamie,” she choked, “but I also know this is hard for you and Eileen and the girls.” She stepped back and looked closely at Jamie. “How are you doing? Honestly?”

  Jamie paused a moment to see the concerned stares of his three “womenfolk.” “Well, I’m sure Eileen’s already told you, I’m not doing so good.”

  “She did. I’m sorry to hear it, Jamie.”

  “Yeah, well, Cal and I were working a serial murder case when I got sick, and I know he was still working it in my absence. I feel responsible. If I’d been wi
th him, maybe I could have prevented this.”

  “Nonsense,” proclaimed Fran. Like her parents and her former in-laws, Fran was an old-time Boston Brahmin, her cultured exterior wrapped around an iron core. “Given your condition, I don’t think you could have prevented this. In fact, we’d probably just be attending two funerals today.”

  Jamie sighed and did not dignify Eileen’s “I-told-you-so” gaze with a response. “Thanks for saying so, Fran, but it’s not how I feel. Like I told Cal’s parents, I’m going to see that Cal’s killers are brought to justice.”

  “Just how might you be doing that?” Eileen demanded.

  “Dad, do we have to tie you down and sit on you?” Riona demanded. Caitlin added the weight of her gaze, but Riona, being the irrepressible child, did the talking.

  “Peace, ladies, peace. This is neither the time nor the place for debate.”

  “But Jamie,” Fran protested. “If you’re no longer on the force, how can you continue any type of investigation?”

  Jamie laughed, a rough, dangerous sound. “I’d like to see someone stop me.”

  “Maybe we can give it a try.” A hand pressed down gently on Jamie’s right shoulder. Jamie turned to see Bob Sullivan by his side. Behind Sully were Frank and Patrick Griffin. “You know I should give you hell for wearing that uniform,” Sully continued. His father and older brother just stared at Jamie in silence.

  Jamie made a wry face. “Hell, Sully, if that’s all you got to yell at me about—”

  Sully chuckled humorlessly. “Jamie, I know you feel an obligation to Cal—”

  “No, Sully,” corrected Jamie softly. “I have an obligation to Cal.”

  “Am I going to have to order you to stand down?” Frank Griffin asked stiffly.

  “Well, Da, given that I’m no longer on the force, you can’t give me orders anymore now, can you?”

  Frank’s gaze hardened. “Maybe not, but since the fact that I’m your father doesn’t seem to matter to you, maybe the possibility of pressing charges will get your attention.”