Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  Then Chisholm considered the gambit Warwick had tried. “So what should Nellie have said, if she speaks it, I mean?”

  “Tha,” Warwick replied, pronouncing it like the English ‘ha.’ “There’s no word for ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” she explained, “so one simply repeats the verb back. It’s like saying ‘I do.’”

  “Hmm.” Chisholm considered this.

  “Well, then,” Warwick interrupted her consideration as they pulled to a stop in front of police headquarters. “I think we can call it a day. You should head home. But I’d like to start bright and early tomorrow. Can you be at the precinct at eight?”

  “Yes,” was the professional, unambiguous response. “In fact I’ll be there at ten ‘til, how’s that?”

  “Fine. We can run over the case in full again before we move on. If you’re going to be my partner on this case, then you should know everything I know.”

  Chisholm smiled. “That’s the plan.”

  16. Bad Dream

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  The ground rushed up at her with the speed of an oncoming train. And just as she was about to impact, she found herself standing in the same grassy field. The same rolling green hills disappeared into the same distant bushes. And the same red barn stood invitingly just past the same grassy ridge to her left—only now it was a school house. Five year old Maggie Devereaux looked at the school house and took a sure step, ready to break into full sprint toward the structure.

  “Don’t.”

  Maggie cringed, then looked over her shoulder. It was her mother. In the same yellow dress. With the same hat shading her face.

  But this time Maggie didn’t wait for anything more. Her face set in a determined scowl, she took off running toward the schoolhouse, just as fast as her small legs could carry her. She ran and ran and ran. The schoolhouse was getting closer, but not fast enough. She’d expected her mom to yell after her by now. But the only sound was the wind rushing past her ears as she sprinted toward the crimson sanctuary before her.

  Why wasn’t her mom yelling at her to stop?

  Maggie looked over her shoulder even as she ran, trying to see what her mother was doing behind her. But rather than her eyes catching a glimpse of her mother, Maggie’s clumsy young legs caught on each other and she fell stumbling to the ground. The hands she put out to break her fall did little to soften the crash, and she succeeded only in scraping her palms on the hard ground hidden beneath the tall grass. Holding back the tears, she leaned up onto her bloodied hands to look at the schoolhouse so temptingly close.

  But her mother grabbed a hold of her neck and shoved her face roughly back to the ground. “Don’t!”

  Maggie jerked awake.

  Damn, she thought as she panted against the images still echoing in her mind, that was… unpleasant.

  She looked at the clock. 8:15.

  After a moment she sighed and sat up in bed, the sheets cascading onto her lap.

  Might as well get up, Devereaux, she told herself. You’re sure as hell not going back to sleep after that.

  17. Turning Over a New Leaf

  Come on, come on. Maggie stood impatiently outside the 1937 Reading Room in the cool Irish morning. Open already.

  Her watch said 9:02.

  Finally, the tall, thin, balding man from the day before stepped up to the doors from inside and unlocked them.

  “Good mor—” he started.

  “Morning.” Maggie shoved a bank note in his hand as she pushed past. She ran ahead just as fast as her legs would carry her.

  “Hmph,” said the man. “Americans.”

  Maggie burst through the doors to the exhibition and rushed to the last of the seven podiums. She expected the page to have been turned from the day before, from the page that ended mid-sentence with the word ben-slániger—‘healer.’ She expected to gaze down on the next page, the page which would reveal the complete thought which had been so rudely interrupted by the mere fact that there was no more space left on the page.

  But she found herself quite thoroughly disappointed.

  The Spellbook of Ballincoomer was still there, the glass cover still protecting it from the hands of visitors. But it was most definitely not open to the next page.

  “Damn it!” Maggie’s voice echoed through the room.

  She skimmed the display before her, trying to recognize enough words to get a feel for where the book had been opened to. But it was a simple glance at the relative thicknesses of each side of the open volume that revealed that the work had been turned ahead by several dozen pages.

  Maggie scratched her head. “But why?”

  “Well, miss,” the thin man replied from behind his information desk, “the volumes are only here for a short period of time. There simply aren’t enough days to display every page. Not like the Book of Kells which is here at Trinity permanently. So for each visiting text, we select the pages we feel were most attractive, the most interesting, the most historically significant.”

  “The least helpful,” Maggie retorted as she stood in the lobby, arms crossed and quite irritated by this turn of events.

  “Yes, well.” He was trying not to get upset; but he hardly felt like helping the American at this point. “I suppose it depends on what one finds helpful.”

  “I’m sorry.” Maggie ran her hands through her thick auburn hair. “I’m just… disappointed. I’d— I’d expected to get to read the next page.”

  “Ah, well. As I said, I’m sorry about that.” He wasn’t actually, but it was the polite thing to say.

  Maggie tapped her toe in thought. “You don’t suppose,” she ventured, glancing sidelong at him as a smile played across her lips, “that you could turn it to the page I’m interested in, could you?”

  The man’s face showed genuine shock.

  “Just for a minute or two,” she assured. “I won’t touch it. I promise.”

  “No,” he replied sharply. “Absolutely not.” He appeared offended at the very idea. “I mean, Good Lord, what if we did that for everyone who made a similar request? Why, it would destroy the manuscripts.”

  Maggie thought for a moment, a skeptical frown draped across her visage. “And exactly how many requests have you had like mine?”

  The man straightened up a bit before answering, quietly, “Well, none actually. But that’s hardly the point.”

  “Look, it would just take a moment,” Maggie pleaded. “And it’s very important. Really.”

  The man sighed. “I’m sure it is, miss, but it’s simply not possible.” He frowned. “Even if I wanted to—which, in all honesty, I must say I don’t—but even if I did, I don’t have the authority. The manuscripts are on loan to the Celtic Department. I just work for the library. And I have strict instructions.”

  Maggie’s eyes continued her pleading, but to no avail.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the man concluded. “It is simply not possible.” He saw Maggie’s lips part in protest. “Please don’t ask again.”

  Maggie nodded in defeat and looked down at the floor. Now what?

  But nothing presented itself and she walked dejectedly from the Reading Room into the mocking sunshine.

  “Hello there!” The woman’s shout completely startled Maggie as she stepped out onto Parliament Square. She looked wildly to her left where sat, on the grass next to the cobblestones, the young woman with whom she’d shared the exhibition hall the day before. “Back again, eh?” the woman asked.

  “Er, yes.” Maggie was quite surprised to see the woman again, let alone to be speaking with her. “Back again.”

  “Looking at the Spellbook of Ballincoomer again, I’d wager?” The young woman stood up and brushed off her seat before hoisting her bag over her shoulder. She was tall, a few inches above Maggie’s 5′4″, with reddish-brown hair cut short and spiky and bright green eyes. She wore a loose-fitting black linen top over a lavender skirt and brown sandals. She stepped over to Maggie and offered a smile that
would charm the birds from the sky. “Before the exhibition ends?”

  “Um, right.” Maggie shifted her weight uneasily. “It’s really quite beautiful, that one. The, um, what did you call it? The ‘Spellbook of Ballincoomer’? Yes, quite beautiful. And of course, I came to see all of them. Not just that one. The Ballincoomer one.”

  “Well good thing you did,” the woman observed with a casual glance toward the structure which housed the texts in question. “After today, they’ll all be packed up and shipped back to their respective homes.”

  “Hm,” Maggie said noncommittally.

  “Have you ever been to Ballincoomer?” the young woman asked.

  “Er, no,” Maggie replied. “In fact, this is my first time to Ireland.”

  “Ah, well then,” the young woman opened her arms wide. “Cead Míle Fáilte! ‘A hundred thousand welcomes.’”

  Cead Míle Fáilte, Maggie repeated in her head. Almost identical to the Scottish Gaelic, Ceud Mìle Fàilte.

  “Thanks,” Maggie replied, unsure what to say next.

  “Well, look.” The woman took a step toward Maggie, just an inch too close. “My name’s Kitty. Kitty McCusker. And it just so happens I’m from Ballincoomer, way over in County Galway. The Spellbook is kept at the cathedral there, ironically enough.”

  Maggie nodded at the information, trying to figure out where all this was headed. Kitty pulled out her planner from her bag.

  “I’m actually a student here at Trinity,” she continued as she started to write something on a blank page in the back of her planner, “but I’m heading home for the summer this weekend.” She tore off the planner page and handed it to Maggie. “Here. That’s my number and address in Ballincoomer. If you’d like to see the Spellbook, and more of the Emerald Isle, you’re welcome to stay with me for a few days.”

  “Wow.” Maggie looked down at the paper. The Irish really are friendly. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I don’t know, though—”

  “Oh don’t trouble yourself. And don’t feel obligated. Like I said, if you decide you’d like to come visit Ballincoomer, then ring me up. I’ll be happy to show you around. And the cathedral would let you look at any pages you wanted.”

  “Uh, great.” She glanced over to the Old Library. “Okay, uh, well, I should probably be going. Lots to do and all that.” She held up the paper she’d been given. “Thanks again. It was nice to have met you, Kitty.”

  “Likewise, Maggie. And maybe I’ll see you in Ballincoomer next week.”

  “Er, yeah. Right. Maybe so. ‘Bye.”

  Maggie turned and headed toward the Old Library.

  And as she watched Maggie Devereaux walked away, Kitty McCusker’s friendly smile melted completely away.

  18. The Rival

  “Hm. I don’t know, Elizabeth.” Chisholm fiddled absently with the passenger side door lock as the patrol car sped down Aberdeen’s M-7 motorway. “I suppose I see your argument, but it seems a bit of a stretch.”

  Warwick kept her eyes on the road, but frowned. But at least Chisholm was being honest. “I guess I’m just saying it’s motive.”

  “Well, it’s motive to be angry,” Chisholm agreed, “but kidnapping?”

  “Why not?” Warwick tried not to be irritated by this Socratic attack. “MacLeod buys her internet start-up only to shut it down. I’d wager that an all Gaelic website had printed more than one editorial piece advocating Scottish independence—and most advocates of an independent Scotland agree that the North Sea oil revenues would be essential to any such endeavor.”

  “Agreed, but—”

  “And then when MacLeod’s son is found missing,” Warwick went on, “there’s that cryptic phrase in blood. It sure wasn’t English.”

  “Well, do we know it was Gaelic? I thought you said it was gibberish.”

  Warwick frowned again. “The linguists at the college said it wasn’t Gaelic,” she admitted with another frown. “They said it looked like Gaelic, but was probably only meant to do. Still, it wasn’t English. We know that much.”

  “Well, we can hardly go around arresting everyone who speaks another language, now can we?”

  Warwick sighed deeply. “That’s not what I meant.” She turned the car off the motorway. “But I’m not passing up a chance to interview someone who lost their entire enterprise to MacLeod and speaks Gaelic on top of it. I’m not ignoring that path.”

  Chisholm crossed her arms and sighed lightly herself. She looked out the window. “So what path are we on anyway? Where are we headed exactly?”

  Warwick pointed ahead to the blue sign on their left. “Right up there.” They reached the sign just as Warwick turned into the driveway and read the words aloud. “Aberdeen Recreational Facility.”

  Chisholm glanced over at the driver, a raised eyebrow inquiring of their purpose there.

  “We’re going to watch some shinty,” Warwick explained with a smile as she pulled the car into a parking stall.

  The Recreational Facility was in fact a large park, with three soccer fields, a clubhouse building and access to the Dee river. On that particular afternoon, one of the soccer fields had been converted into a shinty field, and two dozen or so participants were presently chasing a ball up and down the grassy rectangle waving long wooden sticks over their heads. Similar to field hockey, shinty laid claim to being a sort of national sport for Gaels, with leagues across Scotland and Ireland. Warwick herself had never been interested in the sport however, perhaps in part due to the violence and injuries which resulted from handing wooden clubs to twenty-odd people and telling them to swing at a small wooden ball as hard as they can.

  “NicRath’s secretary said she’d be at the shinty match today,” Warwick explained. “I didn’t want to wait, so I thought we’d come out here directly.”

  “Great,” Chisholm squinted at the players they were approaching, and the fifty-odd spectators who were scattered about the edges of the playing field. “She’s a shinty fan, then? How entirely Gaelic.”

  Warwick smiled and raised her hand. “Exactly,” she exhorted.

  They’d arrived at the edge of the field, the players hacking at the ball safely away at the other end. A group of five spectators had made camp at this particular end and sat atop a picnic blanket together with a cooler of beer and bag of some sort of unhealthy snack.

  “Excuse me,” Warwick began, showing her badge as casually as the gesture allowed. “We’re looking for Marsaili NicRath.”

  A tall black-haired woman stood up and dusted some of the unhealthy snack off her shorts. “You’ve found her,” she announced.

  “Ms. NicRath?” Warwick asked in confirmation.

  The woman smiled. “Not me, love.” She turned toward the playing field and pointed. Warwick looked out onto field just as a short but strong looking woman with a long blond ponytail came running toward their end of the field, stick low to the ground, and teeth bared in determination. She planted one leg and let fly with a full swing onto the wooden ball racing away from her. The ball flew off the ground with a thunderous ‘crack’ and over the head of the opposing goalie, sending approximately half of the spectators into hysterics. “Her.”

  A goal having been scored, it was time to set up again, and Marsaili NicRath circled back slowly toward the center of the field.

  “Ms. NicRath!” Warwick called out. “Ms. NicRath!”

  NicRath slowed her trot and looked around, finally catching sight of the officer, her badge displayed. Chisholm was just standing next to her motionless.

  “May we speak with you for a moment?” Warwick yelled.

  A teammate of NicRath’s had run up to congratulate her and joined NicRath’s puzzled expression at this interruption to their match. “Go on ahead, Mike,” NicRath told her teammate. “I’ll catch up in a bit. Think you can handle ‘em without me for a few?”

  “I don’t know, Marsaili.” He slapped her hard on the back. “But we’ll try. Hurry up though, aye?”

  NicRath diverted her path and trotted up to t
he police officers. “May I help you?” she asked, wiping her forehead dry with her jersey sleeve. “Now’s not exactly a convenient time.”

  “Sorry, Ms. NicRath,” Warwick apologized. “This should only take a few minutes. We just wanted to ask you some questions about David MacLeod.”

  “Ah, David MacLeod,” NicRath began. “The bastard who’s going to shut down my Gaelic-language internet site.” Before Warwick could confirm this, NicRath continued, “And the poor father who’s son was recently kidnapped, only to have cryptic, apparently Gaelic words scrawled at the cribside. That David MacLeod?”

  Warwick smiled. “That’s him.”

  “Right then,” NicRath undid her ponytail, then pulled the sun-streaked strands back again. “I haven’t the time right now, officers, so I’ll be direct. I didn’t kidnap his son and I don’t know who did. Perhaps it was the MacLeod Banshee like all the papers are saying.”

  She finished wrapping the rubber-band around her refurbished ponytail, then continued, “And before you ask: no, I’m no happy the bastard’s going to be shutting down An-Diugh, but according to my lawyer I can’t stop him either. But I can’t imagine how that would be grounds for kidnapping his son. Besides, if I had kidnapped the lad, I certainly wouldn’t have written out Gaelic on the floor like some bloody calling card—if you’ll pardon the pun. And if I had done, I certainly would have spelt it correctly. Perhaps,” she jabbed a finger toward the detectives, “you should consider the possibility that whoever did this wants to make it look like a Gael is the culprit, but didn’t want to take the time to actually learn Gaelic.”

  Chisholm had to nod at this. She looked at Warwick, but Warwick was just staring at NicRath.

  “I’d be happy to give you my fingerprints,” NicRath went on, “but I haven’t an ink pad with me just now, being as I am occupied. However, if you’d like a DNA sample to match the bloody fake-Gaelic,” she bent down and smeared some blood from a still oozing wound to her shin, “I can offer this.”

  Warwick looked down at NicRath’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Ms. NicRath. But no. Not now anyway.” She forced a smile. “Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.”