Her smile dimmed, but he could still make out the stubborn, defiant set of her jaw. “I’m fine, and you’re right. Let’s go.”
They crossed the yard slowly, picking their way through the dead tangles of grass and avoiding the piles of excavated earth. Once, when Rylie shone the torch beam over one of the mounds, a distinct buzzing jarred his brain. Inadvertently, he raised his hand to his temple. “You hear it already, don’t you?” Rylie asked in a whisper.
He dropped his hand and nodded. “’Tis strong tonight.”
She gave a nervous little giggle, “Because it’s Halloween?”
“Samhain,” he corrected, recalling the Druid’s words from a few nights ago. “Tomorrow is Samhain, one of the Celts’ most celebrated days. A time when the spirits are close.” “Lucky us,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “Sure hope they’re friendly spirits.”
The air grew heavier with mist and the feculent odor of decay. Vines and brush overcame the grass and weeds, and the earth grew spongy under foot. Beside him, Rylie paused.
“Looks like we’re here,” she observed. “You go first. And take the flashlight.”
She shoved the plastic cylinder at him, their hands colliding. Hers felt icy, fragile as a snowflake against his. Of its own volition, his other hand came up and stroked her cheek, equally chilly in the moist darkness.
“Rylie . . . ” he breathed her name on a sigh of longing.
Then his lips settled atop hers. Unlike her hands, her mouth felt warm and inviting. She tasted achingly sweet. Her eager tongue met his on an escalating wave of need, while her hands looped around his neck and she flattened her breasts against him.
God in heaven knew he’d give anything to be worthy of her! But he never would be. And tonight’s escapade would prove it to her once and for all.
The torch flickered crazily between them and clunked to the ground. With a groan of regret, Donovan broke the kiss and bent to retrieve it. She bent with him, both of them groping for the rolling light.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she declared. “Let’s go back to the cottage. Or the back seat of the car. Or any place where I can have my way with you, except the cold muddy ground.”
“Later,” he admonished, his fingers finally closing over the wayward torch. Then more to himself than to her, he added, “If you still want to.”
“Oh, I will,” she answered as they both stood.
Donovan wished he could believe her.
Wordlessly, he played the light over the ground, searching for the path that led to McRory and Sybil’s dig sites. After a moment he located it and together, he and Rylie walked into the stygian darkness. His feet dragged, as if his body protested his mind’s decision to come here. Within a few minutes of entering the dank labyrinth of the fens, the noise inside his skull started up again, increasing in intensity with every meter he traversed He definitely couldn’t recall this happening to him before.
The sound soon grew so loud that he couldn’t think, he had to focus hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other. When they reached the fork in the path, he handed Rylie the torch and clutched his temples with both hands in an effort to blot out enough of the harsh buzzing so that he could remember which direction to take to reach the ancient pier.
“Are you all right?”
Donovan could scarcely make out her words through the relentless cacophony. However, the brush of her fingertips across his cheek seemed to ease a bit of the pounding. He put his hand over hers and flattened her cold but soothing fingers against the side of his face. Drawing in a ragged breath, he stared at the division in the path again.
“That way,” he said with a tilt of his throbbing head. “Can you go first?”
Even in the dark, he could see the concern etching her delicate features. She nodded and shined the torch on the ground before she stepped in front of him, catching his hand. Stumbling after her, he clung to her hand like a lifeline.
Long, agonizing minutes later they reached the excavation site. In the pool of torchlight, the pit looked like a newly dug grave.
And he had to go into it.
Reluctantly, Donovan let go of Rylie’s hand and approached the edge. The ancient black timbers roared out their sirens’ song.
“Donovan, what are you doing?” she cried out, the light from the torch wavering. “You’re not going down there!”
“Have to, I’m afraid.” His mouth was so dry his voice came out little better than a croak.
Quickly, before he lost what little remained of his nerve, he scrambled over the lip and into the hole.
The effect was instantaneous. Colors and shapes exploded in front of his eyes. The noise inside his mind crescendoed and burst. Robbed of breath, Donovan hovered on the brink of consciousness for a moment.
In the sudden black quietness, he heard Rylie give a strangled cry. He looked up and saw the tall form of the Druid coalesce within the swirling mist at the edge of the pit.
Donovan opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a weak cough.
“Dony, my brother.” The robed figure reached out a long arm, and Donovan felt very real and rough fingers dig into his forearm to help him clamber out.
The beam from the torch flickered and winked out.
“Hain,” Donovan managed to wheeze in greeting.
He followed the big man’s gaze and saw Rylie scrambling frantically after the fallen torch. Little mewling sounds of distress issued from her.
“Can she see you, too?” he asked in surprise.
Hain nodded his shaggy head. “’Tis Samhain. And though she does not look it, a little of the High King’s blood flows in your wee golden lass as well. She can see me, mayhap not so well as you, Dony. Nor do I think she can understand what I say.”
“Rylie,” Donovan called out softly.
She’d found the torch and clutched it in both hands. Visibly shaken, she turned on her knees and faced them. “’Tis all right,” Donovan soothed. “He’s a friend.”
But she didn’t answer; only whimpered. In fact, though she struggled to stand, her legs collapsed under her and she sat back on the muddy ground.
Donovan took a couple of steps toward her, but Hain’s deep voice stopped him.
“I had best go no closer to her,” the Druid said. “But I know why you’ve come again, Dony. The dead man, he who dug these holes, you seek him.”
Though it wasn’t a question, Donovan nodded. “McRory.” His throat constricted at the confirmation of what he already knew. “He really is dead then?”
“You have seen that he is, my brother,” Hain replied, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “As you guessed, the nine-fingered one killed him and brought his body here, to the fens.”
Lynch! Donovan’s mind spun. Lynch had murdered McRory. But why?
The Druid continued speaking, “He went to the other place, where your mother buried the tall man long ago. He moved the mound of earth and buried the dead man next to the hole, then covered him back with the same mound.”
“D-Donovan?” Rylie’s whisper quavered behind him.
He jerked his head in the direction of her voice and saw, to his astonishment that she stood within an arm’s length of him. Even in the dark, he could see that her eyes were wide with fright and that she was trembling. Yet she’d managed to push herself this close.
“’Tis all right,” Donovan reassured her, nearly overcome by a wave of admiration and pride at her courage. He extended his hand in her direction and she grabbed his fingers in an icy death-grip.
Behind him, he could hear Hain’s deep voice warn, “Take care, my brother. This man means to harm you also. Both of you.”
Donovan pulled Rylie close, tucking her head under his chin.
“I’m s-sorry I’m such a b-big baby,” Rylie choked out against his chest.
He murmured a comforting sound in the back of his throat, then swiveled his head in Hain’s direction.
But the Druid had disappeared into the mist. The same inte
nse noise that had accosted him earlier blared inside his head, but rapidly diminished to a low whir. Nonetheless, the momentary blast staggered him. Rylie’s arms encircled his waist, steadying him. She peeked nervously over her shoulder at the dark, swirling fog.
“What . . . Where . . . ” She turned her startled face up to him. “Did I scare him off?”
Donovan smiled a bit in spite of the pain stabbing behind his eyes. “I think he was more worried about scaring you. I didn’t expect you’d be able to see him. Did you hear him too?”
She buried her face against his jacket for a moment before she spoke again. “Not really. I could hear a low sound but no words. And he did look pretty darn scary. Kinda like a big hulking shadow, only in reverse. Light instead of dark, but more substantial than a ghost, or how I’d picture a ghost.” She stopped abruptly and took a step back though her arms remained loosely clasped around him. “You looked more like the ghost. Almost like you weren’t quite there.” She drew herself close to him again. “Are you okay? What did he say?”
“What I already guessed, Lynch murdered McRory.” To his surprise, Donovan found he was panting as if he’d just run a thousand-meter foot race. Or maybe a five thousand meter, for his limbs and body felt engulfed with fatigue. And his head ached like it had split down the middle. He let go of Rylie and rubbed his temples.
Rylie drew away a little and asked, “Did he know why?”
Donovan grimaced. “No, but he told me Lynch buried McRory right next to the pit where they discovered Malachy Flynn.”
“Smart. Who would think to look there?”
“We would,” Donovan replied. Then at her glance of protest, he explained. “I’m hoping if I find McRory, then I’ll be able to see why Lynch killed him.” “In a vision, you mean?”
When he gave a slight nod, she chewed her bottom lip for a moment before she said, half-heartedly, “But we don’t have anything to dig with.”
“There’s a lean-to on the side of the cottage, I’ll check for anything we can use.”
Rylie gave a small sigh or relief. “Good! After that close encounter with your friendly Druid, I really need to use the bathroom.”
“That’s settled then,” Donovan affirmed. “And when we get to the cottage, we’ll call Heaney’s service.”
“Good idea.” She pulled the plastic torch from her pocket, switched it on, and they began their slow exit from the fens. The mists had thickened, and if they tried to shine the torch beam anywhere but directly on the ground, it reflected back like a distorted mirror. With the limited illumination, roots and branches tripped and snagged at them, hampering their progress further.
The buzzing in Donovan’s ears continued, though not as loudly as before. Either that, or his head already hurt so much that it seemed inconsequential in contrast. He yearned to sit down and take a long cool drink of water, but he didn’t want to prolong this misery one moment more than necessary. Besides, the nearest water was at the cottage anyway.
The fog had grown so dense, that he didn’t even realize they were out of the fens until the torchlight shone on the mound of earth from one of the storage pit excavations directly in front of them. Squinting, he could faintly make out the darker shape of the building across the yard.
“Thank goodness!” Rylie accompanied her exclamation with a little jig. “We’re almost there!”
He sympathized with her plight. “Why don’t you go ahead? Can you see well enough without the torch?” He dug in his pocket for his keys. “The door shouldn’t be locked but just in case, the smallest of these opens it. Oh, and take the car key too. I dropped the mobile between the seats. Heaney’s office number is on the directory.”
With hands still icy cold, she exchanged the torch for the keys, thrusting them into her pocket. “What should I tell Heaney?”
Donovan shrugged. “’Twill be his service, so just say ’tis urgent that he call us back right away. Maybe by then, my headache will have eased up enough to sort out what to tell him.”
“Poor baby,” she murmured. Then standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips across his cheek. “I’ll check my purse for aspirin.”
Before he could answer, or kiss her back, she was gone. He could make out the red splash of her sweatshirt bobbing along through the mist for several moments, then the swirling gray curtain swallowed it. Fingering his cheek, he trudged on across the yard, wondering how the hell he could explain to the lawyer—or anyone else for that matter—what he knew about McRory without having been directly involved.
Perhaps he really should be locked up, and studied for the freak of nature he truly was. He’d known the minute he touched foot back on Irish soil that his life would be torn apart, but he’d never imagined how badly, how irreparably.
No going back now. Donovan pushed aside his gloomy thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand, finding something to exhume a corpse. Fecking lovely.
He reached the lean-to attached to the back corner of the cottage. As expected, no padlock dangled from the rusty bolt fastening on the door. With fingers half-numb from the cold, he struggled to move the ancient metal, which finally gave with a groan.
He shined the light all around the tight enclosure. Other than mouse droppings and cobwebs, the contents were sparse. A moldy broom with a splintered handle leaned in one corner and a rusty paint bucket sat in the other. A yellow-tipped screwdriver, a wooden clothespin,and a handful of eight-penny nails lay scattered on the earthen floor between them. Nothing else. Not so much as a rag.
Think! Donovan commanded himself. Maybe he could use the lid of the paint bucket? Or maybe there was something inside the cottage? He cocked his head to listen, but heard nothing from inside. Leaving the lean-to door open, he walked toward the front.
“Rylie?” he called out, shining the slender torch beam in the direction of the car.
A sudden glare of light split the darkness at the cottage door, followed by a muffled cry, “No!”
“Rylie!” he shouted, throwing his arm up to ward off the piercing brightness that stabbed his eyes.
But before he could move or speak again, the blinding light quavered wildly and something heavy clattered on the stone floor.
“Stop, O’Shea!” A man’s gruff voice ordered.
He turned and saw Lynch standing in the cottage doorway. One of his hands gripped Rylie’s upper arm. The other held a gun, its barrel resting under her jaw.
Chapter 15
THE PLASTIC TORCH DROPPED FROM DONOVAN’S NERVELESS fingers, the light spinning drunkenly on the ground at his feet.
“Hands where I can see them!” Lynch barked, as he’d undoubtedly done hundreds of times.
Somehow, through the paralysis of terror that gripped him, Donovan managed to raise his arms to chest level, palms out, fingers spread. The beams from the two dropped torches illuminated the ground around the doorstep and cast eerie shadows around Rylie and Lynch’s feet and legs.
“So here you are again, O’Shea,” the beefy inspector mused with feigned casualness. “You and your little Yank looking for someone? Or maybe some thing?
” Donovan swallowed down the bitter taste of bile before he could speak. “L—Let her go.” Anger battled with his fear, curling his fingers against his palms, making his voice stronger. “She knows nothing.”
“And what of you, boyo?” Lynch’s tone dropped to a sneer. “How is it you always seem to know too bleedin’ much? Who helped you and your professor friend hatch this blackmail scheme? Not your old man, the feckin’ gobshite never knew squat about the Provos’ network.”
“You’d never believe me if I told you,” Donovan replied, his mind now unparalyzed and whirling out of control.
Somehow he had to divert Lynch’s attention. Make him lower the gun. He squinted into the darkness, trying to see Rylie’s face. Any other woman would have been sobbing hysterically. Trembling. Begging. But not Rylie. He couldn’t see her face, but could discern the rise and fall of her chest under the red sweatshirt. A little rapid,
but not erratic. Not panicky. She, too, awaited her chance.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lynch spat, wrenching Rylie’s arm. “I’ve waited too long, searched too long for those account numbers. Nobody’s going to take what’s mine after all these years.”
“You can’t honestly think you’ll get away with three murders,” Donovan challenged, though he had no doubt that Lynch was capable of the deeds. His vision of McRory was more than enough proof.
The other man gave an ugly laugh. “Not murder. I’m afraid the two of you will have a tragically fatal lovers’ quarrel. Certainly not unheard of. I shall arrive too late to prevent it, though one of you will live long enough to tell me the whole sordid tale.” He shifted his stance slightly and Rylie squirmed in his grasp. “So which of you survives the longest, O’Shea? You? Or her?”
The gun swung a fraction as Lynch tried to adjust his hold on her. The slight movement was all the opportunity Rylie needed. As the gun barrel brushed beneath her chin, she twisted toward her captor. In the torch beams, Donovan saw her foot lash out and connect squarely with Lynch’s knee.
“Bastard!” she shouted, ramming her shoulder into his throat as Lynch crumpled with a groan.
The gun clattered onto the threshold. In the same instant, Rylie sprang away, dodged around the car, and leapt toward Donovan.
“He has the car key!” she gasped, swiveling around him. “Run!”
Donovan moved on pure instinct, turning to dash across the yard for the dark safety of the fens. He reached for Rylie’s arm and realized that she had them pinioned behind her back. Lynch had handcuffed her.
“Son of a bitch!” he swore. But his words were lost in the sharp report of the pistol.
Rylie squeaked in fright and stumbled. He gripped her elbow and kept her upright, kept her moving.
Halfway across the yard, Lynch fired again and Donovan zagged to the left, jerking Rylie with him. Another shot rang out and Donovan heard the bullet thud into the mound of earth as they darted by. The rumbling tread of Lynch’s footsteps sounded behind them.
Rylie stumbled again, her movements awkward and unbalanced with her hands lashed behind her back. He threw his arm around her shoulders to steady her.
The Wild Sight Page 21