Lucy looked skeptical. “You’re kidding me. A group no one has ever heard of?”
Magee nodded solemnly. “Yes, a group no one has ever heard of—or few people, because somebody obviously sent me this book, and I assume that was so that I could help you and Agent Jaxon.”
“Speaking of whom,” Lucy said, looking at her watch, “I wonder where he is. He’s going to want to hear all of this.”
Magee smiled. “That’s quite all right. A good tale only gets better the second time around, and I suspect the two of you will want to borrow my book and delve into this yourselves.”
“So who wrote the book?” Lucy asked.
“A good question,” Magee said. “There is no credited author. No publisher listed after the title page, and no record of it in the Library of Congress or any public library I could find. I tried to find a record of the Sons of Man on internet search engines and got a few hits. One was an incredibly bad song by a band called Killswitch Engage. I believe the lyrics go something like You son of man I am here as a witness/You son of man can’t you see what burns inside me. Not exactly Bob Dylan and no apparent help with our poem. But that was about the most interesting of the lot.”
“Did you try to find any references from the Isle of Man?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, and nothing there either,” Magee replied. “I even wrote an email to their tourism bureau asking if they knew anything about a group called Sons of Man, but that was a dead end, too. Obviously, it was written by someone with insider information—maybe one of the Sons.”
“So if Sons of Man is capitalized,” Lucy wondered aloud, “I wonder if the poem is also referring to another group that calls itself the Sons of Ireland?”
“I thought of that myself,” Magee said. “And I did find a nonprofit association called the Sons of Ireland in Monmouth County, New Jersey. But it was founded in 2002 after the World Trade Center attack, as their internet site states, based on ‘the principles of brotherhood, charity, and community service.’ Their big annual event is the Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day, when the brave ones jump in the Atlantic to raise money for charity. In other words, they don’t seem to be in league with the nefarious Sons of Man.”
“Can I see the book?” Lucy asked.
“Yes, of course,” Magee said. “This has certainly added a bit of spice to my mundane little existence, but I’m sure I’m merely the conduit and this should be in your hands.”
Lucy got up off the stool to get the book. “If that’s the case, why not just send it to me?” she wondered as she sat back down.
“That I can’t answer,” Magee said. “But I expect it will be revealed in due time.”
Lucy looked at the cover. It was embossed with a symbol consisting of three running legs joined at the hip inside a circle, as if forming the spokes of a wheel. “I’ve seen something like this before, only there was a Medusa’s head in the middle,” she said. “It’s on the flag of Sicily. I think it’s called a triskelion.”
“Or triskele, from the Greek for ‘three-legged.’ It’s quite an ancient symbol and has been found on pottery dating back thousands of years, including one piece depicting Achilles with the triskele on his shield,” Magee said. “It’s also on coins found in Sicily that date back to 300 BC. You’ve already seen the one on the Sicilian flag. But it’s also on the flags of Brittany and…as you might imagine…the Isle of Man. They’re each a little different. Besides the Medusa, the legs on the Sicilian version are nude; those on the flag of the Isle of Man are like the one on the front of the book, gold-armored and spurred. Notice that whoever published this book went to the expense and trouble of using real gold leaf on the armor. Isle of Man banknotes also feature the tre cassyn, as it’s known in Manx, above the Latin phrase Quocunque jeceris stabit.”
“Wherever you will throw it, it stands,” Lucy translated, and grew quiet. He bears the mark that stands wherever you throw it. Look for it. She could hear Andy’s voice warning her from her peyote vision.
“Exactly,” Magee beamed, then noticed that Lucy had grown pale. “Say, is there anything wrong?”
Lucy pulled herself out of the memory. “No. Just recalled something. Not important.”
“Okay, if you’re sure,” Magee said, then turned back to his story. “The oldest known version of the tre cassyn on the Isle of Man is found on the ancient Sword of State that once belonged to Olaf Godredson, a king of the southern Hebrides and the Isle of Man in the 1200s.”
Lucy smiled. “You’ve been doing a lot of research.”
Magee blushed. “Oh my, yes, and one discovery seems to lead to another. For instance, there are stylized versions—such as a triskele where the legs are represented by spirals. The earliest of those discovered so far were found on Neolithic carvings in County Heath in Ireland.”
“Think that’s the tie to the Sons of Ireland?”
“Who knows?” Magee shrugged. “But other than the use of the triskele, I couldn’t find any definitive connection between the two. However, the more I looked, the more I was surprised at what a common symbol it is.”
Magee explained that the triskele was also the symbol of nationalist movements of indigenous groups of Spain, including the Galizan, Asturian, and Cantabrian. “There’s a four-branched version called the lauburu that is used by the separatist Basque movement.”
It had also been adopted by Wicca and other neo-pagan groups. “It’s quite popular with the bondage and sadomasochism crowd, too, especially after it appeared in the movie The Story of O. I suppose you and I could rent it and watch it together,” Magee said, looking sly. “Just in case there’s some hidden message in all that heaving, naked flesh.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “The only hidden message is in your pants, you dirty old man.”
“Maireann croí éadrom i bhfad, eh?” Magee chortled.
“Yes, Cian, ‘a light heart lives longest,’ but on with your story,” Lucy said.
Magee laughed and swiveled in his chair to the wall of books behind him and removed a small book from the shelf. “Mein Kampf,” he said. “‘My Struggle,’ Hitler’s little master-race manifesto. Originally it was published with a photo of that madman on the cover. This is a reprint, but the point is, I want you to look at the symbol on the front.”
“A swastika.” Lucy nodded. “Four-legged, but yes, I see the similarity.”
“Quite unfair really,” Magee said. “In many cultures, the swastika is a benign symbol, such as in the Hindu religion. But unfortunately, the triskele was doomed to become a symbol of hate once the Nazis got a hold of it; a trilegged version was also the symbol of the Waffen-SS division in Belgium. More recently, white racist death squads in South Africa have used it as their symbol, as have Aryan and neo-Nazi groups in western Europe and the United States. There is also a cousin of the triskele favored by these racist groups called the Valknut—three interlocking triangles—a terrible fate for something of innocent Norse origins.”
“So are the Sons of Man racist?” Lucy asked.
“There’s some indication of that in the book,” Magee replied. “Part of which seems to have emerged during the slave-smuggling years, when there was little regard for the welfare of their cargo other than keeping them alive for sale. But while there are racial overtones, I think that the philosophy that evolved simply holds that their interests are best protected by a white state, preferably of Celt-Nordic-Germanic origins. I have to say as an Irish-American who is proud of his Celtic roots, I’m ashamed that such a connection exists. They can kiss my ass, Póg mo thóin!”
“Every race has its racists,” Lucy said with a shrug. “And most every society has had men who seek dominion over other men, or think they know what is best for all—especially if it is best for them. The Sons of Man seem to be just one more, though if they still exist, they might be more dangerous than most. Maybe the recording and the book was sent as a warning, like you said, a Rosetta stone to translate what they’re up to…. God, I wish Jaxon was here.”
Magee blushed the color of a ripe tomato and tears jumped into his eyes. “Be still my heart,” he said. “Thank you, but I was just doing what I could to help.” Embarrassed, he hauled his bulk out of the chair. “Perhaps I best fix us a spot of tea while we wait for Agent Jaxon.”
As Magee puttered about near his microwave, Lucy looked at books on the shelves and piled on chairs. When she glanced over at the hallway leading to the front door, she was startled to see someone standing there. Then she saw that the ‘person’ was actually St. Teresa.
Oh no, Lucy thought. Whether the saint was a figment of her imagination or a genuine apparition, she didn’t know. But whichever it was, the saint tended to show up in times of danger, and this was no different. Teresa looked at her and mouthed a single word. Run.
At that moment, something crashed through the garden-level window near the door and fell flaming like a meteor in the hallway. The Molotov cocktail then burst and spewed flaming gasoline against a wall of books.
Lucy turned to Magee, who’d come around the corner carrying two cups of tea. “Run,” she screamed to him as he stared in confusion at the quickly spreading conflagration.
“Where?” he cried. “That’s the only way out!”
A block away, a man trotted down the alley toward a waiting limousine. He slowed when he approached the car and Jamys Kellagh stepped out. “Is it done?” Kellagh asked.
“Yes,” the man said. “I listened for a few minutes. He had the book and had shown it to the girl. They knew far too much.”
Kellagh nodded as he thought: That damn book could have ruined us all. Written and self-published by a traitor within the family, only a few copies survived—all in the hands of council members. This one had been, too, until another traitor took it and gave it to the enemy, though he’d since paid the price.
It should have been destroyed a long time ago, Kellagh thought. Folly to have kept it out of some misplaced affection for history. It was only by luck—and technology—that he’d learned that Cian Magee had received the book. His people regularly monitored the major internet search engines, like Google and Yahoo, for a variety of keyword searches that might impact the organization’s plans. After the book was stolen, he’d added Sons of Man to the list of keywords to watch out for. There’d been nothing until shortly after Thanksgiving, and then there’d been several hits, all traced to the bookstore.
His first inclination had been to simply visit the shop and, when no one else was around, shoot Magee and take the book back. But the opportunity had not presented itself before Magee called Lucy Karp, a conversation he’d listened in on; then he knew he had to act fast and decisively. He’d decided that a wine bottle full of gasoline and a rag for a wick would accomplish the task of destroying the book and killing the witnesses to its existence.
“Did you wait to make sure no one got out?” Kellagh asked.
“I threw the bottle so it landed right in front of the door,” the other man replied. “There are no other doors and it will go up like a torch. You sent me there to buy a book yesterday and even without gasoline that place was just waiting for a match.”
“You didn’t wait to make sure the job was accomplished?” Kellagh asked calmly but in a tone that made the man tremble with fear.
“Do you want me to go back?”
“No,” Kellagh said. “That’s what I get for sending an idiot to do a man’s job. I’ll go have a look. And you better be here when I get back.”
Inside the bookstore, Lucy and Magee ran to the other basement-level window. Lucy looked at the narrow opening with dismay. She knew that she might fit through it, but Cian never would.
“You first,” he yelled to her. The flames were already spreading into the living room and the smoke was so thick she could only see a couple of feet. “But here, take this, I wanted you to have it anyway. Wear it for me someday, a ghra mo chroi, when that cowboy comes to his senses and marries you.” He pressed something into her hand that she put in her pocket without thinking.
Magee knitted his fingers together to create a step for Lucy to place her foot. “Up you go,” he grunted as he lifted her to the window. Smoke was already billowing from the opening and she coughed and gagged, trying to claw her way out. She felt herself getting weak, but then two hands grabbed her by her forearms and pulled her forward.
Collapsing on the ground outside of the window, she looked up. Jaxon stood there with smoke swirling around him. He looked angry and she shrunk away when he extended his hand to help her up. Instead, she pointed back at the window. “Help, Cian!” she pleaded.
Jaxon turned and rushed back into the smoke. Lucy heard Cian screaming in pain and terror. Retching, she got back on her feet just as Jaxon staggered out. He grabbed her and wouldn’t let her get closer to the fire.
“I couldn’t get him out,” he said. “I’m sorry, Lucy, the window is too small.”
As if to confirm that, there was a last wailing cry of a frightened, dying animal. Then there was only the sound of the fire, the shouts of people on the street and people poking their heads out of apartment windows, and the far-off cry of a siren.
Lucy tried again to push past Jaxon, but he held her. “Let me go!” she cried. “I have to help him.”
“It’s too late, Lucy,” he yelled. “Cian’s gone. We have to get back, this whole building is going to go.”
Jaxon led Lucy across the street, where she sat down on the curb and started to cry. “I killed him,” she wailed.
“No, you didn’t,” Jaxon said. “You didn’t start that fire.”
“You don’t understand,” Lucy wailed. “They killed him because of that poem and what he discovered.” She looked up, her eyes wild with suspicion. “Where have you been, Espey? You were late.”
Jaxon hung his head. “I wasn’t responsible for this, Lucy. And I swear to you that I will do everything I can to catch and punish whoever was.”
Lucy seemed to weigh what he said. At last she nodded. “For Cian’s sake, nár laga Dia do lámh.”
Jaxon’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s an old Irish blessing,” Lucy interjected, “and means ‘May God not weaken your hand.’” She reached in her pocket and pulled out the object Cian had given her, knowing that it was his mother’s ring. She put it on her finger and started to sob.
14
THE QUIET TAPPING OF THE STENOGRAPHER’S MACHINE stopped as Richie Meyers checked his notes. The others in the room—Marlene Ciampi, Mikey O’Toole, Kip Huttington, and Clyde Barnhill—remained silent, like actors at a rehearsal waiting to deliver their lines. They were an hour into the deposition of Huttington, the first half covering O’Toole’s history at the university, including his success and standing in the community, before moving onto the allegations that resulted in the ACAA hearing and suspension. But now Meyers was ready to delve into the heart of the lawsuit.
“Mr. Huttington, were you asked by Coach O’Toole for a public name-clearing hearing at the university following his suspension by the ACAA?” he asked as the court reporter resumed tapping away.
Huttington glanced at his attorney, Barnhill, who nodded.
“Yes, I was,” the university president answered.
“And what was your reply?”
“Objection to the form of the question,” Barnhill said. “President Huttington is a representative of the university; any reply was officially that of the university.”
Meyers gave Barnhill an “are you serious” look. The university attorney had been a pain in the ass throughout the deposition—frequently objecting or touching Huttington on the arm to indicate he wanted to confer before answering the most mundane questions.
“Okay, then,” Meyers sighed. “What was the univer
sity’s official reply through its representative President Huttington when Coach O’Toole asked for a name-clearing hearing at the university?”
Huttington looked at Barnhill, who indicated that they should once again turn away from the others and discuss his answer. When the pair had their backs to him, Meyers rolled his eyes at O’Toole and Marlene. They both smiled and shook their heads; even the court reporter put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.
The deposition was taking place in a meeting room next to Huttington’s office at the University of Northwestern Idaho in Sawtooth. Meyers could have demanded that the university representatives come to his office, but given the cramped quarters there, he’d agreed to meet at the university. “Besides,” he said, “I think it was enough of a shock when I filed notice that Butch Karp, who just happens to be the district attorney of New York, would be co-counsel. Barnhill even had his secretary call to confirm that I was talking about the Butch Karp.”
Huttington and Barnhill turned back to the table and faced the court reporter. “The university denied the request,” the president replied.
“For what reason?” Meyers shot back.
Apparently, Barnhill had anticipated the question and rehearsed it with Huttington, because he didn’t bother to stop him from answering right away. “The university is a member of the American Collegiate Athletic Association and as such is subject to its rules and regulations,” Huttington replied. “The ACAA conducted a hearing at which Coach O’Toole was given the opportunity to give his statement; the association then made its decision. The university as an entity was not obligated to provide Coach O’Toole a second forum, and we saw no good purpose—wanting only to get this business behind us for the university’s sake, as well as Coach O’Toole’s sake.”
“You refused to give me a chance to prove that the charges against me were false so that I could clear my name for my sake?” said O’Toole incredulously.
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