by Sam Christer
6
SAN MATEO, SAN FRANCISCO
Ruth Everett waters a long, wide bed of flowers at the front of her twenty-acre ranch. Through the spray rainbow, she sees the battered station wagon of her older sister raising dust at the end of the drive.
The two of them have always had an up-and-down kind of relationship, and since Mitzi moved in with her kids it’s been more down than up. She hopes it won’t be long before they find a place of their own and she and Jack get their privacy back.
The two women share their mom’s dark hair and good cheekbones, and these days pretty much the same ‘fuller woman’ body shape as the catalogues so kindly call it. But Ruth is tanned, toned and dresses like she has her own personal stylist, while Mitzi often looks like she got dressed in a thrift store.
Ruth watches the old car stop at the top of the drive, its long tail of brown dust wagging in the faultless blue sky. Her sister gets out and slaps the Ford’s door shut. Birds scatter from trees and a rabble of butterflies desert a buddleia.
She locks off the yellow nozzle on the end of the hosepipe as she approaches. ‘So how did it go?’
‘Jury’s out.’ Mitzi looks tired. ‘There’s an ex-priest with OCD, some Italian glamour puss who’s angling for a slap and a cute kid who makes crap coffee.’ She takes off her unfashionable, police-issue shades.
‘You being harsh?’
‘Yeah, I probably am. I hope so, anyway.’
‘How about I open a bottle of wine?’
‘How about I jump in the air and click my heels?’
Ruth smiles and hands over the hosepipe. ‘Spray a little while I get it.’
‘Sure.’ Mitzi twists the nozzle too much and decapitates several roses. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘They’ve gone into town with Jack to get stuff for a barbecue. I think they had it in mind to soft-soap their uncle into buying treats.’
‘Yeah they would. That’s the kind of sneaky thing my daughters do.’
Ruth drifts inside and Mitzi plays the water spray over the yellow roses, pink chrysanths and startlingly blue ceanothus. It’s a nice feeling. After living out here at ‘South Fork’, as she calls it, it’s going to be hard moving the kids to the kind of shack they’ll be able to afford. Still, they’re holding things together and Jade is kicking up less than she used to. The first few months after she threw Alfie out were bad for everyone but especially Jade. She’s always been closest to her dad and still misses him. As time goes by, Mitzi will probably let them visit the creep more, but right now one weekend a month is as much as she can stomach.
‘Sis, you’re still drowning things.’ Ruth has reappeared with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
Mitzi twists the nozzle off and drops the hose. ‘Sorry. I was never good with growing stuff.’
‘You grew the girls good.’
She takes a glass from her and settles on a teak bench turned white by the sun. ‘You think?’
‘Yeah, I think.’ Ruth clinks her bowl of golden wine against her sister’s and sits beside her. ‘I wish my fifteen years of marriage had two gorgeous kids in it.’
‘Hey, you’ve got all this.’ She waves a hand at the giant spread of land. ‘And you can have my two any time you like.’
Ruth smiles. ‘I guess so. What about you and your new home?’
‘I scanned the papers today; there are a couple of places out at Serramonte and one across the San Mateo bridge that I’m going to fix to see at the weekend.’
‘There’s no rush.’
‘Thanks. But I’m driving you nuts. I can tell. And I need to get the girls settled over the summer and into school for the new term.’ She sees Jack’s SUV kicking dirt at the end of the long drive. ‘Looks like they’re back.’
Both women take final sips of wine, then wander over to where the garages are.
The big Porsche Cayenne halts and the girls burst out the back doors swinging store bags.
‘Uncle Jack bought us those trainers that we saw.’ Amber opens her bag for her mom to see. ‘Look, Prada.’
‘They’re so cool,’ adds Jade.
Mitzi’s in shock. She couldn’t have afforded one pair, let alone two. ‘That’s real kind, Jack. You’ve spoiled them, thanks.’
‘My pleasure. You got a big hug for your brother-in-law. How you doing?’
‘I’m doing good.’ She surrenders herself to his open arms and he pulls her a little too tight and intimate for her liking.
‘Let’s get that barbecue going,’ grins Jack as they break. He picks four bags of groceries out of the back of the SUV and winks at Mitzi as he heads to the house.
7
ANTIQUES ROW, KENSINGTON, MARYLAND
It’s early evening when Irish reaches the crime scene with Sophie Hudson. The streets have emptied and shadows on the tree-lined sidewalks softened.
The old man’s body has been moved. The wet squad has scrubbed away the blood and cleared the blowflies.
A uniformed cop opens up for them. Beyond clouds of industrial-standard disinfectant, Irish still smells death.
Sophie wobbles slightly as they enter. He puts a reassuring arm around her. ‘It’s okay; we’ll be outside again in no time – just open the safe for me.’
She nods and leans on him for support. The strange odours disorientate her. There’s a sickly sweet smell she doesn’t recognize. Irish feels her apprehension rise with every step.
Sophie stops and looks down. Areas of dark wooden boards near the counter are lighter than anywhere else. They’ve been washed. Scrubbed hard.
This is where the strange smell is coming from.
She can’t go forward. Can’t step nearer the place where it obviously happened.
Irish feels her go rigid. ‘Come to the side. We can walk round. Don’t look down. I’ll watch out for you.’
She lets him waltz her stiffly to the skirting boards and behind the counter. Only when she’s near the register does she realize she’s been holding her breath. A long sigh escapes.
‘You’re doing really well, Sophie. Really well.’ Irish can see the clock now. A grand casket of mahogany, with a face as white and cold as mortuary marble. There are minute and hour hands of black sculpted iron and a big brass pendulum swinging low.
Sophie gets down on her knees and flips open the tall oblong panel at the foot of the timepiece. Behind it is a small metal safe eighteen inches high by nine wide.
She types a six-number code on the keypad, hears a familiar click and pulls open the door. Inside are two pull-out shelves, each two feet long, extending beyond the back of the clock and into the part of the safe that is cemented into the load-bearing wall that the timepiece is bolted to.
Sophie lifts them out. She stands and puts the trays on the counter.
‘It’s not here.’ She looks up at Irish. ‘The cross has gone.’
8
BRITISH AMBASSADOR’S RESIDENCE, WASHINGTON DC
Scrupulously polished mirrors around the vast, opulent ballroom reflect the dazzlingly dressed figures of more than two hundred of the world’s richest and most powerful people.
Sir Owain Gwyn insisted that his farewell is also a charity occasion, which is why movie stars, musicians, politicians, magazine editors, sportsmen and women have all paid $10,000 a ticket to attend the Ambassadorial Ball for the Disabled and the Homeless.
The deep bass of a brass gong draws eyes to the small stage where the Vice President of the United States, Connor Anderson awaits their attention.
‘Don’t worry, everybody, my speech is going to be very brief.’ The fifty-year-old white-haired Texan lets the last of the noise subside before he continues. ‘Sir Owain is leaving us, returning to the service of Her Majesty the Queen. On behalf of the American government and its people, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done while you’ve been on duty here in our country. Your diplomacy and your hard work will be remembered forever.
‘Sir, you have made a special relationship between our countries even more sp
ecial. But you and I, and President Renton, who regrets that he cannot be here tonight, know that you have achieved even greater things that for security reasons we cannot speak of. Ladies and gentlemen, it is a sign of a truly exceptional man that what he does privately, without public credit, outshines the work that most of us do publicly and crave recognition for. Sir Owain Gwyn we raise our glasses to you; we thank you most sincerely for all you have done and wish you the greatest of success in your new posting back in your homeland.’
The room resounds with hearty toasts of ‘Sir Owain!’
While the audience applauds, the vice president half-turns to an assistant and lifts from a velvet cushion a gold, white and red medal. ‘On behalf of the United States Department of Defense, it is my honour to present you with this decoration, the Legion of Merit for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services and achievements.’
He holds aloft the rare neck order and even louder applause breaks out as the British knight stoops to duck his head into the loop of red ribbon.
It takes more than a minute for the clapping to stop.
The dark-haired diplomat cradles the medal, one of the highest ever awarded to a foreigner. ‘Most unusually for a Welshman, I find myself stuck for words.’ His soft brown eyes blink as camera flashes explode. ‘I’ll always treasure this and also the wonderful memories that at the end of tomorrow I will take back to Great Britain. I will leave behind a country that has become my second home and one I love dearly. The Gwyns have had ancestors here since the Mayflower docked. Rest assured that even when I am thousands of miles away, America and its great people will remain close to my heart. Thank you. Now enjoy yourselves.’
A band breaks into dance music and almost drowns the applause as he steps away from the small podium.
Gareth Madoc, who’s also his right-hand man in the US, takes him to one side. He cups his hand to his mouth so no one can lip-read the news he breaks to the ambassador. ‘We’ve just got new intelligence on a terror strike.’
‘Where?’
‘Here in America. New York, to be precise.’
Owain looks across the ballroom. ‘Then I should stay and not fly back tomorrow. We can rearrange my meeting with the others.’
‘No, it’s important that you stick to your agenda.’
‘Why?’
Madoc hesitates. ‘There were complications with regards to the recovery of the relic.’
‘The old man’s death?’
‘Yes. Believe me, it is best if you are out of the country as this unfolds.’
9
SAN MATEO, SAN FRANCISCO
The girls are finally asleep and Ruth and Jack have gone to bed.
Mitzi is in Miss Piggy PJs – a Christmas present – but not ready to rest. For the past two hours, she’s gone back and forth on the witchcraft case. Donovan gave her a set of the case files and now she’s word-blind. Nothing she looks at makes sense any more.
She creeps downstairs and runs a glass of chilled water from the dispenser on the front of the giant fridge fitted neatly in the corner of Ruth’s lavish oak kitchen.
She takes her drink out onto the patio and hears crickets crackling in the darkness. Her presence triggers security lights that pick out the redwoods, giant sequoia and oaks standing sentry on the edges of the property. A vast tract of lawn is broken by a broad-leafed maple, some California laurels and a lot of Ruth’s flowerbeds.
The patio door slides open. Jack stands there in just his boxers, hairy gut sagging over stretched elastic. ‘Let me guess: you got so hot thinking about me you had to come out here to cool off?’ He grins and sneaks down on a steamer chair next to her. A newly popped bottle of beer drips condensation in his meaty hand.
‘You wish.’ Mitzi hopes to hell he’s not got anything stupid on his mind.
Jack stretches out and swigs the beer. ‘You want some?’
She can tell he’s still drunk from dinner and raises her glass of water. ‘I’m good, thanks.’ She gestures to the lawns. ‘Your garden looks as pretty at night as it does in the day.’
He swings around on the steamer and catches her eye. ‘So do you.’
Mitzi laughs him off. ‘You’ve had too much to drink.’
He stretches out a hand and grabs hers. ‘Seriously, Mitz.’ I’ve always been attracted to you. Even when I met Ruthy, it was you I wanted to be with.’
She pulls her hand free and stands. ‘I’m going to pretend I never heard that.’
He gets up and slips between her and the door. ‘Why? Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same way. I’ve seen how you look at me. How you’ve always looked at me.’
‘Back off, Jack. All you’ve ever seen is what’s in your mind.’
‘Hey’ – he sounds offended – ‘a woman like you should be grateful for attention from a man like me.’
Mitzi can’t believe her ears. ‘What?’
He lumbers into her personal space, puts a hand to her cheek and breathes beer into her face. ‘I’ve been good to you and your girls. No harm you being a little good back.’ He pulls her close.
She flips her arms outward and pushes him away. ‘This never happened.’
He grabs her again. ‘But it should.’
Mitzi whips his wrist behind his back and slams him against the wall. She kicks out his right leg, so he’s left spread-eagled and eating brickwork. ‘Never happened, Jack.’ She pulls on his wrist and gets a grunt. ‘You never said anything and you never ended up like this.’ She kicks his leg wider until he face-slides down the wall.
The patio door makes a loud shushing noise as she slides it open, enters the vault of a lounge and slams it again. Before heading to the stairs, she takes one look back at the sorry heap out on the terrace and then heads to bed.
What she misses on the way up is her sister.
Ruth has been stood in the shadows of the lounge watching them both.
10
KENSINGTON, MARYLAND
Irish sits alone at the bar drinking whisky.
He can’t be bothered to eat. Couldn’t care less about going home.
What he wants is to get blind drunk.
He needs the alcohol to flush the toxins of murder out of his body. Clear his head of the images of the old man with his staring eyes and his opened-up stomach twitching with maggots. And he needs it quickly, before the fragile dam walls in his memory break and the other horrors burst through.
The ones from the black day.
It’s eight years since he took a deep breath and lifted the lid of a crappy chest freezer in a suspect’s basement. He’d expected the worst. Knew it would be bad. But nothing had prepared him for what lay inside.
‘Again.’ He slams the shot glass down. ‘Double.’
The bartender knows better than to expect manners. Tomorrow or the next night, when Irish comes in sober, he’ll tip him big and apologize. Which is more than most people do.
The cop raises a hand to acknowledge the arrival of another pale amber vial of Slaney Malt.
Everything is still too clear.
He welcomes the tingle of the ten-year-old whisky against his lips. It goes down his throat like a trail of lit petrol then starts a comforting fire in his gut.
Sophie Hudson’s face swims to mind – the moment when she realized the cross was missing. How can a man get killed for a crucifix? How much could it possibly be worth? Who would buy such a thing and what would they do with it?
He feels the start of a sneeze and grabs a handkerchief from his pocket. The explosion is so hard it leaves blood on the dirty cotton. Must have picked up a cold from the damned store clerk. It’s the last thing he wants.
‘Again.’ Another bang of glass on wood.
The bartend gives him a dark look as he pours another.
‘Amir Emmanuel Goldman.’ Irish raises his refill high. ‘God bless you and’ – he grasps for something appropriate – ‘and may your fucking lousy killer rot in hell.’
He throws back th
e whisky and bangs the glass down.
Now he waits. The shot hits his stomach like gasoline in a volcano. His head rocks. Vision blurs. Tongue goes numb.
Drunkenness. At last, it is coming. Horribly late. But like a much-loved friend, always welcome.
Irish pulls out a wad of dollars and peels off too much. He slaps it down. Climbs unsteadily off the stool pushed up against the long brown bar and heads for the door. He’s going to make it.
The freezer lid has stayed closed. He’ll survive another night.
11
WALES
The pull of the moon is strong.
Ebb and flow. Like the rush of a tide hitting a shoreline, then creeping back out to sea.
Myrddin feels the elemental shift as he arthritically descends the stairs in the ancient tower. His bare feet slap cold well-worn slabs. His thin and mottled hands scratch cotton-candy hair that covers his head and face in almost equal measure.
Once more he’s been disturbed. Jarred from his sleep in the early hours. His mind filled with doubts and demons.
A rumbling cough breaks from his lungs and escapes as an echoing hack down the dark, stony passages.
He pushes open the heavy door to the Chamber of Prophecies and savours the oaky creak it makes and the clang of iron latch and lock as he closes it behind him.
This is his Chamber. Only he has ever come in here. Only he can divine the meaning of the visions that are channelled to this sacred spot. To the Font of Knowledge that stands on the tomb of the great one.
The musty midnight air is stirred by the swish of his long and lavishly decorated robe. His long fingers find the curved rim of the receptacle and he peers down into what seems an abyss.