The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  “Be that as it may,” McRory insisted and turned to walk back up the slope. “There’s aspirin and what-not back at the cottage, and I for one, could do with a shot of Bushmills.”

  Rylie slammed her half-empty mug of tea in the sink and stuck her head out the open cottage door to stare at the disappearing figures of the three men. She was debating whether or not to follow them when Sybil flipped her cell phone closed and stood next to her.

  “Police are on their way.” She confirmed. Then she muttered under her breath, “Shite! Shite! Shite! This’ll make a right hames of everything!”

  “Excuse me?” Rylie turned to see the other woman sink onto the closest camp cot, toss the phone aside, and bury her face in her hands.

  Draped in an oversized green sweater, Sybil’s thin shoulders shuddered in a silent sob. “Sorry,” she mumbled between her fingers. Then she raked her sweater sleeve across her eyes.

  “Things were going so well ’til now. This was turning out to be the find of Aongus’s career.” Her voice turned sullen. “But now the police will shut us down whilst they investigate. And who knows how long that’ll take?”

  Rylie pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and offered it to Sybil. “I suppose that’s time you and Aongus can’t be together?”

  The other woman nodded and wiped her nose while Rylie pulled over the stool and sat opposite her.

  “Because of his wife?”

  “Bloody hell!” Sybil moaned. “Am I that bleedin’ obvious?”

  “Only because I’ve been there and done that,” Rylie admitted, surprising herself as well as Sybil, but some part of her wanted to spare another woman needless pain and betrayal.

  Sybil rolled her eyes and snorted. “I’m finding this hard to believe, Miss . . . Rylie. ’Tis plain that you fancy Mr. O’Shea, and he you, and I know for a fact he’s single.”

  “It happened a long time ago.” Actually less than a year, but it felt like another lifetime. Then the impact of Sybil’s second statement hit, and Rylie looked askance. “Trust me, I’m the last person Donovan O’Shea is interested in.” She touched the other woman’s hand and held her gaze. “But you must believe me, Sybil, an affair with your married boss will end badly. It always does.”

  “No, Aongus is different.” She threw off Rylie’s hand and jerked her head aside to break eye contact. “He only married herself because of her position at Queen’s. This find will secure his career, and he won’t need herself any more. Besides, he—”

  Sybil’s words stopped suddenly and Rylie noticed a shadow flickering across the open door. She craned her neck and saw two men approaching, one with a wild mane of carrot-red curls, the other a typical Irish brunet with his hair clubbed back in a ponytail. Giving one last swipe to her nose, Sybil met them at the door.

  “What’ve that pair of gobshites done now, Syb?” the redhead demanded, then seeing Rylie, he flushed in embarrassment. “Pardon. Brian Finlay, and this is Frank Casey.”

  “Rylie Powell.” Rylie stood and shook the brunet’s extended hand. Both men looked older than their colleague Johnny, though several years younger than Professor McRory.

  “A Yank,” Frank Casey observed, looking at her sneakers. “You must be with O’Shea.”

  Before Rylie could answer Brian Finlay spoke again, his green eyes sparkling amid his mass of freckles, “I meant to ask if Johnny and Michael have stirred up trouble.”

  “This time ’tis not their fault,” Sybil’s voice sounded tightly restrained. “They’ve uncovered a body, a recent one.”

  “Shite!” Frank muttered what Rylie guessed was the most common word in the Irish lexicon.

  “The PSNI buggers will shut us down for sure.” Brian agreed, the sparkle extinguished from his eyes.

  “I’ve already called, and they’re on their way.” Sybil sunk back onto the camp cot with a ragged sigh. Her pale blue eyes welled with fresh tears.

  Brian gave her shoulder a hesitant pat. “Sorry, Syb. I know how much this meant to you.”

  “Cuppa?” asked Frank, reaching for the undisputed Irish cure-all, the teakettle.

  Forced to fall into step behind the professor, Donovan and his companions carefully made their way out of the fens and back across the yard. While he walked, Donovan replayed the two brief, horrific flashes in his mind. His visions had never gone on and off like a strobe, and they were always rooted in Celtic antiquity, never recent. What this new variation might mean made his stomach roil. He really must get out of here!

  Just before they reached the now empty work area, a black sedan pulled into the yard. Behind it rumbled a black and white van. The Police Service of Northern Ireland had arrived. McRory broke into a jog, but Donovan maintained his slower pace, with Michael and Johnny on either side of him. The two either weren’t anxious to face the PSNI, or they wanted to make sure he wasn’t too gee-eyed to walk on his own. Or both.

  Sybil and a young man with red hair emerged from the cottage as a man in a trench coat got out of the sedan. The officer and the professor were talking when Donovan, Michael, and Johnny approached.

  “These are my two associates who found the body, Michael Carmody and Johnny Byrne.” McRory waved his hand by way of introduction. “And this is the property owner’s son, Donovan O’Shea. Inspector Colm Lynch.”

  Lynch offered his gloved hand to each of them in turn, but after he shook Donovan’s, his eyes narrowed.

  “You’ve grown considerably since the last time we met.” He paused to look him over from top to toe before he continued. “’Tis no surprise you don’t remember. I was new to the force then, and we called ourselves the Royal Ulster Constabulary rather than the PSNI. I investigated the disappearance of your mother, Moira Mullins O’Shea.”

  “I . . . I don’t remember much. I was only seven.” For a disconcerting moment, Donovan imagined everyone leaned forward in eager anticipation. Other than his visions, this was the last topic he wanted to discuss. But the PSNI inspector wasn’t inclined to let the subject drop.

  “Passing strange how no trace of her was ever found,” Lynch said, playing to his audience. “For good or ill.”

  Chapter 4

  “READY WHEN YOU ARE, INSPECTOR,” CALLED ONE OF THE men standing at the rear of the police van.

  “Carmody and Byrne, is it?” Lynch nodded at the professor’s two protégés. “Let’s go then.”

  As the police inspector, Johnny, and Michael tramped off toward the fens, McRory herded everyone else back inside the cottage. Donovan supposed he was obliged to stay, though he would’ve much rather hopped into Rylie Powell’s hired car and headed straight back to Ballyneagh. Or better yet, gone right on to the Belfast airport and the first flight home.

  Unfortunately, the vexing Miss Powell sidled up to him and cast a worried glance into his face. “You don’t look so good.”

  She wrapped her delicate fingers around his forearm and guided him to one of the camp cots against the far wall. Donovan eased himself down and she plopped next to him. “Do you want some tea?”

  “Grand idea,” McRory said, then turned and disappeared up the stairs into the loft.

  While Sybil and the red-haired man bustled about looking for extra cups, the other man added more tea and hot water to the teapot. If Donovan remembered correctly, his name was Frank Casey.

  “I’m really sorry about your mother.” The soft whisper near his ear startled Donovan. Then Rylie laid her small hand on his arm again. “But at least the body wasn’t her.”

  “N—no,” he managed to choke out.

  Though her touch was meant in sympathy, the heat from her palm burned through his jacket and sweater like a live coal. He pulled his arm away and put some space between the two of them.

  “Right nasty business, whomever ’twas,” Frank muttered to no one in particular as he re-lit the burner and put more water in the kettle.

  “Yes, indeed!” seconded McRory, hustling back down the stairs with a flat whiskey bottle in one hand. “’Twas murder most foul.�
�� He poured tea into the cup Sybil offered then splashed in a generous portion of the whiskey. “Isn’t that right, Donovan?”

  Donovan shifted under the questioning gazes of everyone in the crowded room. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t you now?” McRory poised the whiskey bottle over another cup Sybil had just poured. “A wee nip? Good for what ails you.”

  “No, thank you.” His tone came out sharper than he intended. Sybil shot a surprised glance at him and he could feel Rylie doing the same, so he added apologetically, “I don’t drink.”

  The professor’s eyebrows shot up in mock dismay. “A bit like the cobbler’s children who have no shoes, is it?”

  “I suppose so.” Donovan tipped up his cup of tea to drink, thereby ending the uncomfortable conversation. He hoped.

  “C’mon, Brian,” Frank motioned to the redhead. “Might as well load up everything else before they shutus down. Maybe we’ll have enough to keep us occupied until the PSNI lets us come back.”

  “’Twill be the middle of bloody freezing winter by then,” Brian grumbled as the two walked out the door.

  After the two men left, Rylie spoke again, this time to the professor. “Why do you think the man was murdered?” Her voice squeaked on the last word.

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, McRory took a swig of his fortified tea, then answered. “Because our Donovan nearly took a header into the hole after one look.” His shrewd gaze pinned Donovan before he could protest. “And don’t go prattling about headaches, food poisoning and such. ’Tis plain to me that you have The Sight, boyo.”

  Though Rylie looked confused, recognition spread over Sybil’s face.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Donovan scoffed. “Only women have The Sight.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sybil contradicted him. “Evidence suggests that some of the ancient Druids may have actually been clairvoyant. And they were males.”

  Crossing his arms, Donovan scowled at all three of them. “Trust me, if I could foresee the future, I’d have won the Irish Sweepstakes long ago.”

  McRory chuckled, “If only ’twere that simple, eh?” He took another slow sip of his whiskey-laced beverage. “But the truth is that The Sight can manifest in a hundred different ways and degrees. Some people call it intuition or a hunch. Surely you’ve had those.”

  “I have,” Rylie spoke up and giggled. “But I’m wrong more often than I’m right. Does that mean my Sight is defective?”

  For whatever reason, she seemed to be helping defuse the uncomfortable situation. Grateful for her unexpected aid, Donovan was taken aback nonetheless.

  “Ah, darlin’ girl,” drawled McRory. “There’s nothing defective about you that I can see.”

  That remark didn’t sit any better with Donovan than it did with Sybil, whose pale eyes snapped between Rylie and the professor. A tawny blush stained Rylie’s cheeks.

  “I always know when a family member isn’t well,” Sybil offered a bit defensively. “I suppose that counts as a wee bit of The Sight.”

  “So do I,” Donovan added with complete honesty. “When my sister called in June, I knew as soon as she spoke that my father was ill, though I suppose that could have been because of the way she said my name.” Then another memory assailed him and he heard himself murmur, “And I was sick for a fortnight when my mother went missing.”

  Unsure what had prompted that confession, Donovan quickly took a drink of tea to moisten his parched throat.

  “Then perhaps the body in the fens is a relation of yours,” McRory concluded.

  “I don’t see how,” Donovan replied, rising to his feet. He placed his mug in the sink. “Please excuse me a moment.” Then he headed for the loo, for a moment’s well-deserved reprieve.

  With Donovan ensconced in the bathroom, Rylie moved to the sink to wash out the used cups. Sybil rushed to help her, while Professor McRory continued to sip from his mug. Rylie had drunk Irish coffee on St. Patrick’s Day once and found the taste repulsive, so she couldn't image gagging down tea mixed with whiskey. She would rather have a frozen margarita any day.

  Just as she heard Donovan come back into the room, she saw Michael, Johnny, and the police inspector crossing the yard. Sybil saw them too, and put more water in the teakettle to heat. Then all four of them walked outside to meet the three men. Michael and Johnny looked subdued, and both immediately ducked inside the cottage.

  “Sorry to tell you,” said the beefy police inspector. “But this is now a homicide investigation. The victim sustained multiple stab wounds to the abdomen.”

  On one side of her, Rylie heard Sybil give a strangled gasp, while on the other side, Donovan’s face blanched. She reached for his hand and was surprised when he didn’t jerk away. His breathing sounded ragged.

  “Given the amount of decomposition, I’d say he’s been dead at least twenty years,” McRory was saying. “How can you be sure he was stabbed to death?”

  “Because when we turned him over,” Inspector Lynch fished in the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a clear plastic bag with a large rusty kitchen knife inside. “This was still imbedded in one of his ribs.”

  Rylie’s horrified gasp echoed with Sybil’s and the other woman quickly crossed herself. Even McRory flinched. Rylie felt Donovan’s fingers tighten over her own, and from the corner of her eye, his handsome face looked even more white, cold and hard as polished marble. But he didn’t appear all that shocked, almost as if he’d anticipated the knife.

  Could the professor be right? Did her half-brother really possess the extra sensory perception they called the Sight? She certainly didn’t have it, so he must have inherited it from his mother.

  The police inspector shoved the plastic bag back into his pocket. “Sorry Professor, but since this is now a crime scene, I can’t allow you and your crew to stay here and continue your dig.”

  “I expected as much,” McRory murmured while Sybil’s head drooped in dejected defeat.

  “I’ll need contact information from all of you,” Lynch’s sweeping gaze included the four of them as he extracted a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket. He fumbled with the pen in his gloved fingers. “Probably nothing more than a few routine questions, since I doubt my superiors will want to commit much time or manpower to a case this old.”

  “My wife is a geneticist at Queen’s, who works exclusively with DNA,” Professor McRory said while beside him Sybil’s head snapped up and color flooded her face. “If you need help in identifying the remains, I’m sure she’d oblige.”

  “Appreciate the offer,” Lynch replied. “We’ll be transporting the body to Armagh City and I’ll let the county coroner know.”

  Seemingly oblivious of his assistant’s mortification, McRory gave the inspector copious phone numbers and addresses for himself and his wife. Poor Sybil squirmed like she was enduring medieval torture. So much for her claim about Aongus being different. Rylie had to cover her derisive snort with a cough. As soon as she did, Donovan seemed to realize they were still holding hands, and he jerked his fingers away. She cleared her throat and the inspector diverted his attention to her.

  “Sorry, but I’ll only be here eleven more days,” she babbled into the awkward silence. “I’m staying in Cavanagh House B & B in Dungannon. Do you want my American address and phone number too?”

  “I don’t expect we’ll need it,” Lynch answered. Then he turned to Donovan. “However, I may need to question your father, since he is the legal property owner and likely was at the time of the murder.”

  A muscle in Donovan’s jaw twitched. “I’d rather you didn’t. My father is very ill and unable to speak. Undue stress could be harmful to him.”

  “Can he communicate at all?” the inspector asked, eyes narrowed. When Donovan gave a slight nod, he added, “Then I’ll try to be brief.”

  Still looking mutinous, Donovan gave only the name of a care facility. Then he gave his own address and phone number and the name and phone number of his sister, Doreen Sull
ivan. Lynch turned to Sybil, and Donovan pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

  “Excuse me a moment,” he murmured, then walked toward the parked vehicles and out of earshot.

  As Rylie looked at his broad back, phone pressed to his ear, she suddenly realized she now had the information she needed to see her father. A smug grin tugged at one corner of her mouth; Donovan would probably spit nails when the same thing occurred to him.

  A flurry of movement drew her eyes away from her half-brother. The other two police officers came into view, carrying a large canvas bag between them. The dead body. She, Sybil, and Professor McRory watched them lug their burden across the yard to the back of the van. Lynch closed his notebook and crossed to meet them.

  While Rylie watched the three policeman conferring together, Brian and Frank rejoined them and drew the professor inside the cottage for their own conference. She glanced at Sybil, who stood still as a stone. Then Rylie looked back at Donovan. Something definitely was not right. His tall frame slumped against the hood of the car, arms cradling his head.

  Her feet and legs operated independently from her conscious mind, for the next thing she knew she stood beside him. His cell phone lay in the dirt next to the car’s front tire. What she could see of his face glistened with a sheen of perspiration and his breath sounded as rapid as if he’d jogged a brisk mile.

  “Donovan?” she queried, her hand poised above his shaking shoulder.

  With a startled gasp, he turned and knocked against her, only a tiny rim of blue visible around his wide black pupils. With sudden certainty, Rylie knew McRory was right. Donovan O’Shea saw things. He had The Sight.

  “Are you—” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth and she struggled to get words out. “—okay?”

  The jangling of his cell caused lucidity to leap back into his eyes. They both dived for the ringing phone and bumped their heads together. Rylie almost toppled over, but managed to remain upright, hand clutching her temple.