The Dark Divide

by Jennifer Fallon

  Sorcha glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen. Nothing was amiss. Warren’s wife was moving about, the children out of sight from this angle. Warren probably hadn’t been gone long enough for his wife to notice he was missing.

  It was time to be gone from here, but Sorcha was soaked in Warren’s blood. She could not move about in this realm like that. She quickly peeled off the clothes she was wearing until she was naked, ignoring the bitter chill of the evening. She dropped the clothes beside the body, wondering what the authorities would make of them, given they had been stolen from his son’s wardrobe. She fled, at a crouching run, toward the house next door. There was washing on the clothesline and an ornamental fishpond in the yard next door where she could wash off the blood. She had to be quick as someone might come looking for Warren any minute. If she was discovered, there was no explanation she could offer. She could say nothing that wouldn’t make things infinitely worse.

  The clothes from the house next door were too big for her, but they would have to do. The dress she stole was floral and meant for someone much older, and there’d been a ratty knitted cardigan on the line next to the dress, so she took that against the chill, even though it was already damp with the falling dew. She slipped out of the yard and down the driveway of the next house where she emerged onto the street, just in time to hear a high-pitched scream of horror as someone — Warren’s wife or daughter — discovered the body.

  Danú take your soul, Warren, she prayed silently as she walked away from the house as if nothing was amiss. May your sacrifice be worthy of the cost. May Arawn find you a cosy place in hell.

  Warren was taken care of. Now Sorcha needed to make certain Darragh returned home, so that his death was not wasted.

  CHAPTER 25

  If it had been up to some of Pete’s older colleagues in the NBCI, half an hour alone in a small room with Ren Kavanaugh’s twin would have given them all the information they needed. Pete didn’t actually disagree with that. He was quite sure someone like old Frank Murphy, the longest serving member of the squad, would have emerged with the location of Hayley Boyle in no time at all, if nobody was really worried about the condition the boy would be in, once he had it.

  Fortunately for the young man in question, there were rules against that sort of thing, and for anybody who’d bothered to look at the stats, they knew it didn’t work anyway. There would be no police brutality in Brendá Duggan’s squad. Not only had she forbidden Frank Murphy and everyone else — including Pete — to question the boy, she’d brought in a civilian to do it for them. One Dr Murray Symes, the shrink who’d been treating Ren for most of his teens.

  The same guy who ran Hayley Boyle down in the first place.

  Frank shook his head and muttered to himself about the foolishness of it all. Pete was in complete agreement — the first time he and Frank had ever agreed on anything. He was livid. It was, to his mind, the stupidest idea he’d ever heard of.

  ‘Symes knows Ren Kavanaugh intimately,’ Brendá Duggan informed Pete when he charged into her office to object.

  ‘That kid is not Ren Kavanaugh,’ Pete said.

  ‘You can’t prove he isn’t, Pete.’

  ‘The tattoo is on the wrong hand.’

  ‘His mother swears that boy is her son. I’m afraid her opinion trumps your concussion.’

  Pete was fighting a losing battle on that point, so he abandoned it for the moment. ‘You’re not seriously going to let Symes talk to the kid, are you? You’re handing them an insanity plea on a platter.’

  Duggan didn’t seem to be in the mood to discuss it. ‘Hayley Boyle has been missing for five days. You know the stats, Pete. If we don’t find her soon we’re not going to find her at all. In case you hadn’t noticed, the world is going to hell in a hand basket right about now. I’m going to lose half my manpower to anti-terrorist units by the end of the day. I’ve already had the commissioner on the phone about it. We don’t have the time to coax the truth out of this kid, and I’m not ready to let Frank Murphy beat it out of him. Symes can tell when the boy is lying. He knows how to push the kid’s buttons. He’ll get the truth faster than we will and time is of the essence.’

  ‘How can he be impartial? Is it even legal? Does Ren’s mother know about this? And what about her lawyer? Surely she isn’t going to allow it?’

  ‘His mother suggested it,’ Duggan told him. ‘Can’t say I blame her, either. Kiva Kavanaugh is in damage control. If Hayley Boyle turns up dead, we could go her as an accessory after the fact for hiding the boy. She’s in the mood to be very cooperative, and I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘If you want him to talk to a shrink, why not call Annad in?’

  ‘I tried,’ Brendá said. ‘He’s got the flu. Symes is the best we can do on short notice.’

  Pete shook his head in disbelief, but he wasn’t giving up. ‘Can I sit in on the interrogation?’

  ‘Only if you promise to let Symes take the lead,’ Duggan said. ‘And that you don’t pick a fight with Eunice Ravenel.’

  Pete sighed, a little bothered Duggan knew him that well. ‘I’ll be good.’

  ‘You’d better be,’ Duggan warned. ‘Nobody on this Earth gives a rat’s arse about what some actress’s kid is up to because of what’s happening in New York, or else we’d be knee-deep in reporters right now. Even your brother has abandoned us. So let’s make what little time we have count. I want Hayley Boyle home or … her fate determined.’

  ‘Do you think she’s already dead?’ Pete asked.

  Duggan shrugged. ‘It’s up to you and Symes to find out.’

  The boy everyone but Pete thought was Ren Kavanaugh sat in the interview room with his lawyer, the inimitable Eunice Ravenel. Pete observed them for a time through the one-way mirror in the observation room. The young man sat at the table, his hands clasped together on the desk in front of him. He was still dressed as they’d found him in Kiva Kavanaugh’s house, in jeans, a leather jacket and a tooled-leather Western style boot. His other foot was bandaged; apparently he sprained it jumping out of a moving car escaping the henchmen of the drug lord, Dominic O’Hara, if you believed his mother.

  Eunice was wearing a severe black suit and heels that were so tall, slender and dangerous-looking, Pete was surprised she was allowed to wear them in an interrogation room. She was pacing the room with a sharp clack-clack of her stilettos.

  ‘Are you Mr Doherty?’

  Pete turned to find a tall, distinguished, grey-haired man wearing a dark suit and visitor’s badge, standing at the entrance to the observation room. ‘Dr Symes?’

  The man nodded and stepped into the room. He looked into the interrogation room for a moment, studying the boy.

  ‘Has he said anything yet?’

  ‘Not to us,’ Pete said. ‘He was lawyered up before he even got here.’

  ‘I would prefer to talk to him without her there.’

  ‘Yeah … good luck with that.’

  Symes shrugged. Pete figured that he’d known, even before he asked, that they were already skating around the edges of acceptable police practice. Getting rid of a minor’s legal representation while he was being interrogated wasn’t going to happen, no matter how special and clever Symes imagined himself to be.

  ‘What did he say when you arrested him?’

  ‘Not much of anything,’ Pete said. ‘Nobody did, really. Right about when we stormed the house, that plane hit the World Trade Center in New York. I don’t think anybody was paying much attention to what the kid was saying for a while there.’

  Symes’s eyes narrowed with interest. ‘What was Ren’s reaction?’

  ‘To the plane hitting the building?’ Pete had to stop and think for a moment. Like the rest of the world, he was still trying to come to grips with the spectacular scope of the attack himself. ‘I dunno … gobsmacked I think. Like the rest of us.’

  The psychiatrist nodded, but Pete didn’t think that was because he’d gained any insight into the boy’
s behaviour. It was just what he did to make it seem that he was pondering deep thoughts. ‘You must allow me to do the talking,’ Symes said, turning from the window to look at Pete. ‘Ren is a troubled young man, but he has an intelligent and clever mind. He has also been in therapy for a number of years and understands the process. He will see a trap coming if you try to ambush him.’

  Pete threw his hands up. ‘Boss said to let you ask the questions,’ he said. ‘I’m just here to make sure you don’t try to beat a confession out of him.’

  Symes scowled at that, apparently not appreciating Pete’s sense of humour. ‘Shall we begin?’

  ‘Why don’t we?’ Pete said.

  ‘Hello, Ren,’ Murray Symes said as he stepped into the interrogation room.

  The boy looked up at the psychiatrist blankly for a moment, as if he didn’t know who he was, confirming Pete’s belief that this wasn’t Ren Kavanaugh, but his identical twin. Ren would have had an immediate reaction to the appearance of his shrink. This boy stared at Symes for a moment or two and then nodded, as if he’d worked out whom it was he was dealing with. ‘Dr Murray Symes.’

  ‘I believe you know Pete Doherty.’

  The boy looked up at him and nodded.

  ‘I wish to reiterate my objection to this,’ Eunice announced, before she could be included in the introductions.

  ‘Noted and fallen on deaf ears,’ Pete told her, in agreement with Ren’s lawyer for once. ‘His mother has given her permission and waived his doctor–patient privilege. You’ll probably have awesome grounds for appeal when this goes to court, Counsellor, but right now, there’s nothing either of us can do to stop it.’

  Murray took the seat opposite the boy, leaving Pete to sit opposite Eunice next to the recording equipment. He reached across, pressed record and glanced at his watch. ‘Interrogation of suspect believed to be Chelan Aquarius Kavanaugh,’ he said, for the benefit of the recording. ‘Time is six thirty-eight p.m., September eleven, two thousand one. Present are Dr Murray Symes, Ms Eunice Ravenel, Detective-Sergeant Peter Doherty and the suspect.’ He nodded to Symes once he was done. ‘He’s all yours.’

  Murray had been studying the boy closely while Pete took care of the recording equipment. Eunice glowered at both of them. Ren, or rather the boy everyone thought was Ren, seemed unnaturally calm and unbothered by the situation.

  ‘How have you been, Ren?’

  Wow … ten years of med school and that’s the best he can come up with?

  ‘My name is not Ren,’ the young man replied. ‘I am Darragh.’

  I knew it! ‘Darragh who?’ Pete asked, before he could stop himself.

  ‘I am Darragh of the Undivided,’ he replied calmly.

  ‘Can I speak to Ren?’ Symes asked, throwing Pete a warning look.

  Darragh shrugged. ‘I suppose. If you can locate him. I’ve not had any luck getting through to him myself, but if you have technology in this realm which will allow it, I would appreciate a chance to speak with him also.’

  The answer seemed to surprise Symes. ‘Technology?’

  ‘You have no magic here,’ Darragh said, as if such a glaringly obvious fact didn’t need stating. ‘How else would you accomplish it?’

  ‘So you think it’s going to take magic to allow us to speak to Ren?’

  ‘More than you have, I’m afraid,’ he agreed.

  ‘When did Darragh arrive?’ Symes asked carefully. Pete wanted to scream at him. He could see where this was going. Symes obviously thought the kid had developed a multiple personality disorder, when in fact he was telling the cold hard truth. The bullshit about magic might be the boy trying to mess with their heads, but this was no manifestation of Ren Kavanaugh’s troubled psyche. This was a different kid.

  ‘I came through the rift with Rónán last Wednesday.’

  ‘The rift?’

  ‘It’s how we cross dimensions. I understand that’s not a concept you are familiar with in this reality.’

  Symes laced his fingers together on the table in front of him thoughtfully. ‘So … you … Darragh … come from another reality? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where is Ren now?’

  ‘He’s back in our reality, I suppose. That’s where we were headed when your Gardaí attacked us.’

  ‘Us being …?’ Symes prompted.

  ‘Rónán and me. Sorcha, of course, and his friend Hayley.’

  ‘He’s sent her away from her family, then,’ Symes pointed out.

  ‘To restore her sight,’ Darragh reminded him. ‘There is a cost for every action, Doctor. I believe that is a law in this realm, as well as mine.’

  ‘So … what’s this other realm like?’ Symes asked. ‘The one where you come from?’

  Darragh paused before answering. ‘I’m not sure I can do it justice by describing it,’ he said, his eyes flickering up and to the right.

  Symes’s mouth flashed the briefest of smiles, as Darragh stumbled over a description of his imaginary world. Pete was watching him closely. His body language suggested he was remembering, rather than lying. Either this kid was a consummate liar, or he really believed what he was telling them.

  ‘The biggest difference would be the magic, I think.’

  ‘I see,’ Symes said, steepling his fingers. He was easier to read than the kid. The shrink was puzzled now. ‘So the story you told Patrick about Hayley being a hostage. Was that a lie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Still watching him closely, Pete marvelled at how completely the boy believed what he was telling them.

  ‘Why?’ Symes asked. ‘Because you just couldn’t bring yourself to tell him you’d sent your cousin through to another reality to be healed?’

  ‘Wasn’t there another woman with you?’ Pete asked, even knowing he shouldn’t. But Symes was wasting time. This kid didn’t have a personality disorder. He had a twin brother.

  ‘Do you mean Trása?’ Darragh shrugged. ‘Given the trouble she has caused recently, I would hesitate to call her a friend.’

  ‘I mean Sorcha.’

  ‘She went through the rift with Ren and Hayley,’ Darragh said.

  ‘And they left you behind?’

  ‘Could we stop for a moment, Detective?’ Symes asked tightly. ‘I’d like to have a word. In private.’

  ‘Interview suspended at six forty-eight,’ Pete said for the benefit of the tapes. He stood up and pointed at the door. ‘After you.’

  ‘You were instructed not to say anything!’ Symes informed Pete as soon as they stepped into the hall and the interrogation room door snicked shut.

  ‘You were instructed to make him tell us where Hayley Boyle is,’ Pete reminded him. ‘Not lay the groundwork for your next published paper on multiple personality disorders.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Symes gasped, looking horrified that anybody would dare speak to him in such a manner.

  ‘He’s not pretending to be somebody el —’

  ‘No, he believes he is somebody else,’ Symes cut in. ‘Or at least, I’m here to establish if he truly believes it, if you would stop interrupting long enough to let me get a word in.’

  ‘He believes it, because he is someone else,’ Pete insisted. ‘That tattoo is on the wrong hand.’

  Symes shook his head. ‘That doesn’t prove anything. The tattoo could easily have been on his right hand all along, and people not remember it correctly. If you’d studied psychology at all, young man, you’d know how unreliable eye-witness testimony is because of the human capacity for self-delusion.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Doc,’ he shot back, wondering if it was worth pointing out that he had studied psychology. He had a Masters in Criminology from Cambridge, but decided it wasn’t worth it. Symes would still think he knew best, no matter what Pete had studied. ‘You’re giving me a grand lesson in the human capacity for self-delusion right now.’

  Symes glared at Pete. ‘If you cannot be silent in there, Mr Doherty, I will insist Inspector Duggan has you remov
ed.’

  ‘And if you don’t get anything useful out of that kid in the next hour,’ Pete replied, ‘I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice.’

  Pete was fairly certain he couldn’t do that, but he was determined to get the last word in, so he turned and opened the door before Symes could respond. He took his seat at the table, flicked on the recording equipment and leaned into the mike, ‘Interview resumed at six fifty-one.’

  ‘So … Darragh,’ Symes asked, ‘how long have you been in this … reality?’ He spoke to the boy carefully and with an air of understanding and tolerance that made Pete want to scream. It was clear Symes believed he was pandering to Ren’s delusion. Pete didn’t buy this nonsense about jumping through a rift from another reality any more than Symes did, but he was damned sure Symes wasn’t talking to Ren Kavanaugh.

  ‘I told you, we came through the rift with Rónán last Wednesday.’

  ‘And this … other world you have been in … that’s where Ren has been hiding all this time?’

  Darragh nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You … or rather Ren, told his mother he’d been kidnapped by men associated with Dominic O’Hara. You told her you were injured escaping him.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer that, Ren,’ Eunice advised.

  ‘Rónán’s mother did not strike me as someone who could deal with the truth,’ Darragh replied, ignoring her advice. ‘I told Kiva Kavanaugh what she wanted to hear. Or what she wanted to believe. I was trying to be nice to her.’

  ‘How is that nice?’

  ‘It will make the separation easier for her to bear.’

  ‘What separation? Do you mean separation from you?’

  ‘From Rónán,’ Darragh corrected, shaking his head. ‘Once I return to my realm, we will not be back.’