Path into Darkness

by Lisa Alber

“Oh, for crying out loud,” she said. “They don’t need a matchmaker. They’re fine on their own.”

  His expression turned serious. “They need a push. Annie could help Nathan, but they need more time together for that to happen. Without Zoe to distract Nathan. Better yet, let Annie be the one to help him in the cottage. Grand idea, that.”

  “She may not want to help with the cottage.”

  “She will.” He shifted in his chair. “I think I’ll rest awhile before she arrives.”

  Taking the hint, Merrit walked back out of the house while dialing Annie’s number. Halfway to the cottage, Annie agreed to visit and Merrit remembered that Liam had said he had a “brilliant idea” for her. Whatever it was, she had a feeling she’d rather not know.

  twenty-two

  O’Neil waited for Danny outside the hospital. He leaned against his car in the no-parking zone in front of the entrance and waved at drivers to go around him. Danny had sent Marcus home with the children hours ago, and after that, the waiting had resonated with the fizz of the overhead fluorescent lights, agitating him and sapping his energy at the same time. By the time the staff had bundled Ellen into an ambulance for transport to the hospital in Limerick, he’d felt bug-eyed and starved. Only, in his case, rather than nutrients he craved knowledge.

  No joy there. Once the Limerick hospital got a hold of her, it could be a full day before he received news. It scared him that for a split second he’d stopped the doctor from inserting the oxygen tube. Relief had surged through him. Maybe he would no longer need to live a half life of waiting, of wondering. He could let her go and, best yet, do so without having made the tough choice.

  A split second for this essential tawdry truth to reveal itself: He was a coward.

  When Danny cornered the doctor again, he learned that, besides pneumonia, Ellen was at risk for congestive heart failure and something called acute respiratory distress syndrome.

  “When can you pull the ventilator tube out of her?” he asked.

  “As soon as the fluid in her lungs dissipates.”

  “When will that be?”

  “It’s hard to say. With luck, within a week.”

  With luck. With sodding luck? He longed to pound the word out of the doctor’s skull. If they depended on luck then he could just as well wave sage sticks or ask Nathan’s daughter, the so-called healer, to perform the laying on of hands.

  The sound of Ellen’s gagging reaction to the tube plagued him, the first sound he’d heard out of her since she’d fallen into the coma. A sound like a plea, begging the hospital and him to release her.

  He forced his thoughts away from Ellen and back into the car as O’Neil sped them toward Lisfenora. After an initial questioning look, O’Neil drove as if he always picked Danny up from the hospital on Saturdays.

  “We’re contacting the family members of each person who died under Elder Joe’s care,” O’Neil said. “There are surprisingly few of them.”

  “He had a knack for picking lodgers with families like old Cecil’s back there,” Danny said. “Fancy that.”

  O’Neil clicked his tongue in disgust. “Cecil have anything new to add?”

  “Elder Joe did most of the yelling after Frances Madden died, not the second man.”

  They had turned off the N87 from Ennis in the direction of the ocean rather than north toward Lisfenora. Ten minutes later, O’Neil pulled up in front of a low-slung brown and yellow building nestled on the edge of acres of meticulous rolling green lawns.

  “Joe Junior could be anywhere,” Danny said, “doing whatever it is groundskeepers do.”

  “Groundskeeper? That would be ‘golf course superintendent’ to you and me, matey.”

  Inside the Lahinch Golf Course clubhouse, Danny gazed out the wall of windows toward the Dough Castle tower ruins that sat in

  the middle of one of the two golf courses. It stuck up like a sentinel while white dots that were the Goats of Lahinch grazed nearby.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Mrs. O’Brien’s proprietary voice called Danny’s attention away from the goats. Along with her usual black dress she wore red lipstick that accentuated her thin lips. She eyed him like she’d caught out a poacher on the aristocrat’s land.

  “Routine work,” he said. “Have you seen Joe Junior—Joe Madden—in the vicinity?”

  She blanched. “Him? I know him, of course. He does a fine job here.” She rubbed down her dress. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  O’Neil returned from talking to the club manager. “What was that about?”

  “Bloody hell if I know. We’re about to sully the reputation of this fine club, I expect.”

  “Ay, then let’s go about it. Joe’s at the Devil’s Pit. Hole 12.”

  O’Neil drove them along the Liscannor Road to a maintenance area and parked beside a pile of fresh sod. They walked into the green along an access path. A gentle curve revealed a view of the long fairway that ran alongside the Inagh River as it entered the Atlantic. Several goats popped their heads up from grazing and surveyed the men with inquisitive brown eyes. One of them ambled along with them, ears perking in their direction every now and then.

  “You can take the lead with the questioning.” Danny didn’t want to admit how weary he felt. “You don’t haunt Alan’s pub the way I do.”

  “And I don’t know Joe Junior personal-like, I get it.”

  They reached the lip of the trap called the Devil’s Pit, a grass-covered divot in the earth that was deeper than it looked from afar. A golfer could lose a ball forever down there. Danny didn’t play golf, so he couldn’t imagine how the players lobbed balls back onto the green.

  “Jesus, man!” Joe Junior shouted. “Stop right there.”

  Rather than his usual frowsy man-cardigan, Joe Junior wore heavy twill dungarees laden with pockets, a wind cheater over a fisherman’s jumper, and a woolen skull cap. He hadn’t noticed Danny and O’Neil yet. He half ran, half slid down the side of the pit to where several men stood around an overturned power lawn mower.

  O’Neil waited until Joe Junior had helped right the mower before calling to him. “Mr. Madden, got a minute?”

  Joe Junior squinted up at them. With a running start, he clambered up the steep slope using his hands.

  “We won’t take much of your time,” O’Neil said.

  “Hope not, laddie.” He jerked a thumb toward one of the groundskeepers. “That waste of space thought he’d mow the grass inside the Devil’s Pit. Now I’ll be needing a hauler to drag the bloody thing out.”

  The goat that had followed Danny and O’Neil nudged Joe Junior’s hand. Joe Junior dug into his pocket and produced a slice of carrot for her. “Molly here knows how to work it.”

  He led them to the end of the green where the grass petered out into a sandy slope down to a narrow beach. He hopped a shambling white picket fence. The wind gusted stray rain droplets against them. He looked from one to the other of them until Danny tilted his head toward O’Neil.

  “That way, is it?” Joe Junior turned toward O’Neil. “Detective, what’s it about then?”

  “We have questions about your aunt, Frances Madden. We’re interested in her time as EJ’s lodger.”

  Joe Junior avoided looking at Danny. He dug into the sand with the toe of his boot and stooped to dig out a golf ball. “Right,” he said. “That. God rest her. She raised me, she did.”

  “See,” O’Neil said, “we know that she died at EJ’s house and you weren’t happy.”

  Careful there. Perhaps Danny should have taken on this conversation, after all. He knew Joe Junior well enough to converse with him fella to fella. He was starting to bridle at O’Neil’s tone, his lips pursed like a little old lady’s.

  “No, I wasn’t happy.” Joe Junior continued wandering with eyes trained on the ground. “Would you be?”

  Answer his question, fella to fella. Instead, O’Neil kept on track. “We’re curious why you never mentioned an aunt who died.”

  One mor
e mention of the word die and Joe Junior would fling the golf ball at O’Neil’s head, full stop. Danny held up a hand. Slow down. O’Neil nodded.

  “My favorite aunt passed away last month,” O’Neil said. “It’s a shock, even when you know it’s coming.”

  Joe Junior long-armed the golf ball he held into the river, where it bobbed for a moment before sinking into the current. “That’s the point, Detective. I didn’t know it was coming.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t ‘oh’ me, for feck’s sake. I know what you’re fishing for, and you’d be right for guessing I no longer considered EJ a friend. But we landed on bygones and enough said.”

  “I hadn’t noticed a difference between you two at the pub,” Danny said.

  “I’m after saying that. Made no bloody matter.”

  “It would be helpful to have the entire story,” O’Neil said.

  “Fine. EJ said he would help Aunt Franny recuperate from pneumonia. All she needed was another week or two of rest. We don’t have money for proper continuing care, and EJ said he did caretaking on the side. I trusted the wanker.”

  Pneumonia. Danny watched a little egret skim the waves close to shore. “She was breathing okay when she arrived at EJ’s? No fever?”

  “I’m telling you she was past the worst. She needed a body to wait on her, that’s all. I would have taken her myself but I work long hours.” Joe Junior spat. “She was brought back to life by the miracle of modern medicine only to be dragged down again by that useless baggage.”

  Right, miracle. Danny stepped ahead of Joe Junior to pick up yet another stray golf ball.

  “That doesn’t sound like bygones to me,” O’Neil said.

  “What the bloody hell would you know?”

  Danny tossed the golf ball from hand to hand. “Detective O’Neil has a point. You’re still angry, so how did you reach a truce?”

  “I persuaded EJ to refund my money for her care.”

  “What did your persuasion consist of ?” O’Neil said.

  “Nothing but words with a reminder that he wouldn’t be welcome at the pubs if I happened to talk about my grief and the cause for my grief. Couldn’t live without a pub, our Elder Joe, and who knows, maybe word would circle back to the guards. Maybe to you, Danny.”

  “You invoked my name?” Danny said.

  “Indeed I did.”

  “He paid?” O’Neil said.

  “Indeed he did, but he wasn’t happy.” Joe Junior smiled with lingering spite. “Bellowing like a demented banshee.”

  “Where were you Friday night?” O’Neil asked.

  “I saw EJ at the pub, as usual, if that’s what you want to know. I went home. Alone. Don’t know what more I can say about that since I live alone.”

  “What time was that and was EJ still at the pub when you left?”

  “I was home by eleven on the dot. When I left, EJ was hunkered over his pint talking his usual shite. On a roll he was, about his bloody chickens. The gobshite loved his chickens.”

  “How did EJ get home that night?”

  “Like I said, I’d left by then. And I was alone after that. Alan probably rang a taxi man. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Danny led the way back to the car with Molly the Goat trotting beside O’Neil. Rain patters landed on their faces and hands.

  “Get the feeling he wasn’t as alone as he said?”

  “He doth protest too much,” O’Neil mused.

  “Must be good if he’s willing to go un-alibied.”

  twenty-three

  Several hours after Merrit left Nathan to get on with the house painting, he staggered out of one of Fox Cottage’s bedrooms. He stopped midway across the living room, listening. Back in the bedroom, Annie snuffled in her sleep, the lightest of whimpering breaths. So, she had nightmares of her own. The thought comforted him. He almost turned back to wake her from her doze and ask her what she saw in her dreams. Instead, he made his way to the kitchen to drink water from the taps. The pipes gurgled and shot out a tepid orange stream of water. Nathan spat out the water and coughed against the metallic taste of it.

  He returned to the living room, pausing again. Time had gotten away from him, and realizing that, his vision wavered around the edges. He caught hold of the fireplace mantel and stood still, reaching inward for the normal part of himself that didn’t lose time. He closed his eyes, but it was too late. His hands shook and the buzzing began at the base of his skull.

  “Stop it,” he said, his voice sounding far away.

  Nothing would happen to him here in Fox Cottage with a lovely naked woman in the next room. This was a safe place. Eyes still closed, he inched his hand along the mantel to the wall and let the wall lead him back to the bedroom. He jerked back at a sticky sensation—blood.

  No, wet paint on newly painted walls, he reminded himself.

  He opened an eye. Fingerprints in the paint, and paint on his hand. He squinted against the racket inside his head, his gaze still on the wall, but his focus on the rest of the room. An empty room. Nothing to fear here. He stood alone, and being alone, he was safe. He knew this.

  Sunlight flared between passing clouds, brightening the room. With care, Nathan turned his head. He stood near inset shelves filled with dusty books. He continued swiveling his head. Nothing but a side chair, a pot without a plant, a plastic-shrouded couch. Paint fumes increased the pounding in his head.

  Outside, the clouds shifted again. From the corner of the room, a metallic glint sprang out at him. Sharp in a beam of light, aiming itself at him. He ducked toward the bedroom, toward Annie, fingertips scrabbling against bare floorboards. The cotton batting that encased him squeezed, crushing his breath, squashing his reason.

  A touch seared his back. He flattened himself onto the floor, but the tentacle grabbed tight enough to smother. More tentacles engulfed him until he couldn’t breathe. No returning from the brink this time. He wilted, too exhausted to fight any longer.

  After a while, he caught the strains of a melody. Below the blood thumping against his ear drums, a tune with no beginning and no end. He latched onto it and climbed up its notes like a lifeline.

  “There now,” Annie said. “Deep breaths.”

  She lay next to him on the floor, wrapped in a sheet. After several minutes, the molten press of one of her arms and one of her legs softened to the warmth of her skin pressed against his. Nathan caught his breath as his senses returned to him. The cool wood floorboards, the rain percussion, the stink of fresh paint. Fox Cottage, that was all.

  On shaking limbs, he rose onto all fours and then to his feet. His body felt stiff, misused, unreliable. He glanced down at himself as he walked into the bedroom with mud-colored walls. He still wore his t-shirt but nothing else.

  Behind him, Annie’s sheet dragged on the floor. He yanked on his underwear and jeans with bum facing her, the ultimate disrespect, before turning to her. Better to get it over with, but rather than disgust or judgment, Annie smiled at him.

  “You’re full of surprises,” she said. “Are you feeling better now?”

  The breath he’d been holding fell out of him. “That’s never happened before.”

  She cocked her head as if puzzled. “No?”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not sure what happened.”

  “And I’m not sure I believe you, but I won’t pry any further. As for that”—Annie pointed toward the mussed bed—“I know exactly what happened. You pounced on me.”

  “I don’t pounce.”

  “Nearabouts anyhow.” She let the sheet drop and stood in the center of the room with hands on her hips as she surveyed the ground. Their shoes and her clothes were scattered about, along with the throw pillows from the bed. “No worries. Faster than I usually go, but I’ve been trying to live in the moment. It’s all we have.”

  Christ in heaven, she was a mighty beauty. He saw her with a sculptor’s eyes, the protrusion of her tummy, the rounded contour of her collarbones, the soft flesh of her inner thigh
s.

  “Ah,” she said and toed a pillow aside. With a mischievous grin, she twirled her underwear around an index finger. “Can’t forget these, can I? Can you imagine?” She hooted with laughter. “Having it off in Liam the Matchmaker’s cottage. Talk about wagging tongues.”

  She collapsed onto the bed, overcome with the hilarity of whatever she was picturing in her head. “Oh my.” She wiped laughter tears off her cheeks. “Excuse me, that was most unbecoming of me.” She pulled on her underwear and found her jumper. “So much for maintaining a feminine allure.”

  Nathan perched next to her on the bed, longing for some of her aliveness to rub off on him. Maybe he had pounced on her, but not for the reason she thought. It hadn’t been about copulation. It was this, right here. Her vitality. Her resilience. A vampiric need to attach himself to her almost overcame him.

  She popped her head out of her jumper. A peep of west-slanting light caught the silver in her hair before the sky closed down again. The rain continued unabated. He glanced out the window. Too much time had passed. He’d arrived before noon, and now it was—he wasn’t sure. Well into the afternoon. Past three. “Where’s my mobile?”

  Annie stood on one foot, hopping around as she fitted her leg into her jeans and pulled them up. After a moment, she said, “On the bed stand.”

  Nathan grabbed for the mobile, his pulse up into his ears again, zero to one hundred in three seconds flat. Not unusual, he told himself. He was still charged up from whatever had happened—the daytime nightmare. Before today, his mind had only tortured him at night.

  With a button push, he had the immediate answer he required to calm down again: Zoe hadn’t rung.

  “What about Zoe?” Annie said as she fastened her belt.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You mumbled something about her. ”

  He shoved his mobile into his jeans pocket. “When Zoe gets antsy about me, she leaves messages, but she hasn’t, so I’m safe from having to explain my absence.”

  Annie slipped on comfy-looking clogs. “I’m not a parent, so I’m daft about these things, but wouldn’t she assume you’re helping Merrit all day?”

  Yes, but that didn’t lessen the urge to hurry home. He excused his way past Annie and went in search of his shoes in the living room. He winced as sunlight flared again. On the floor, a paint can lid caught and held the light, bright as a beacon. A startle of light. He jammed the lid back on the Afterglow paint can and tamped it down harder than necessary.