Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  “Yes. We were.”

  “Are there other images, Oliver?”

  He shut his eyes, opened them quickly. “I see my mother with a paintbrush in hand. She puts a finger to her lips and tells me not to tell anyone.” He paused, his gaze again fixed on the evergreen. “The paintings in Driscoll’s car—the one Cassie found—are my mother’s work, Henrietta. They’re hers. I know it.”

  “This image of her with a paintbrush—where was she?”

  “London. The library. That’s what I see but it can’t be true. No paintings or painting supplies were found there.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “I don’t remember. I’ve tried. I don’t. I can’t.” He blew out a breath. “Blast it.”

  “Why would Davy Driscoll take them? I refuse to believe he was blackmailing her because she had a secret passion for painting Scottish scenery. Upper-class women of your mother’s generation sketched and painted. It’s hardly scandalous. Why didn’t she want anyone to know?”

  Oliver didn’t respond.

  “Was she having an affair?”

  He turned to her. “Do you blurt out everything that pops into your head?”

  “No, but I’m not afraid to ask a question. Was she? Upper-class women do that, too, you know. Have secret affairs. She didn’t have one with Driscoll, did she? He wasn’t terribly good-looking, but I only saw him after he was dead.”

  “Henrietta.”

  “What? I’m sorry. I’m a hound on a fox trail. You were just a boy. You could have misread the situation. Well, we’ll get to the bottom of it—the police will, I should say. Are you hoping the ruin where you were held will help jog your memory?” He nodded, and Henrietta noticed he looked less strangled. She motioned toward the trail. “Then let’s go.”

  “Henrietta,” Oliver said again.

  “I didn’t let you answer, did I? It’s caffeine and lack of sleep, and these images of yours. When did you remember about the painting?”

  “I’ve always remembered. I just didn’t think about it.”

  “That makes sense on a certain level, I guess. But what were you trying to say before I interrupted?”

  “I’m falling in love with you.”

  She gaped at him. “You’re falling in love with me. I could murder you right now myself. We’re here in the wilds of Scotland and you’ve had no sleep and we’re discussing your mother’s secrets, and now you decide to tell me?”

  “I should have waited?”

  “It was going to be a brick dropped on my head whenever you told me. Didn’t you ask me to marry you when I was five?”

  “No.”

  “You should have. I’d have said yes.”

  “And now?”

  She smiled suddenly, even as unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. “We’re train wrecks, Oliver, the pair of us. You’re in far worse shape, of course.” She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky, giving way to dawn. Then she shifted back to him. He wasn’t looking sheepish or embarrassed or showing any sign he’d regretted his admission. She laughed, pleased, and took his hand. “We need to change falling to fallen, don’t you think?”

  He squeezed her hand, pulling her toward him. “It’s happening,” he whispered, and his mouth found hers. It was a tender kiss, brief, a brushing of lips, a promise of more. He stood back with one of his enigmatic smiles. “Jeremy Pearson told me you’re falling in love with me.”

  “He’s manipulating you.”

  “Probably.”

  “And he has his nerve,” Henrietta added, truly irritated.

  “But is he right?” Oliver asked.

  She heard the emotion in his voice, felt it in herself. What did Jeremy Pearson matter now, at this moment?

  She smiled. “You must know by now a senior MI5 officer is always right.”

  20

  Rock Point, Maine

  Finian Bracken sat with a pot of tea in the rectory kitchen. It was very early. He was keeping lobsterman hours these days—or he was on Irish time. He shrugged off that thought and opened his breviary. He preferred the traditional black-bound paper breviary to a digital edition. He was to keep it with him at all times and pray the Liturgy of the Hours throughout the day, but he’d neglected that duty since Tuesday. Never since he’d become a priest had he done so. The Liturgy of the Hours framed his day, provided the bones upon which he built his schedule...lived his life. He’d let his ambivalence about Reed Warren and his worries about his friends drive him away from his breviary when the opposite should have happened.

  And now, he thought, he was paying the price. He stared at the familiar words of Psalm 50 but didn’t read them. Never since he’d left Bracken Distillers and entered seminary and the priesthood had his vocation put him in conflict the way this week had done.

  “I did a terrible thing in my youth, Father Bracken. A terrible thing.”

  Some lines in his work were bright, clean and clear. Sacramental confession was one of them. But what was that mess on Tuesday morning?

  He thought again of the nondescript man who’d arrived in his office, asking to speak with the parish priest. He’d pleaded with Finian to hear his confession. He’d said he was dying and wanted to confront the grave sins he had committed.

  But what he’d wanted was information about Finian’s friends.

  He heard footsteps on the small porch through the open screen door. Early for a visitor. He rose from the table as Sam Padgett rapped his knuckles on the door frame. “Mind if I come in, Father?”

  “Not at all. Please. Welcome.”

  The FBI agent pulled open the door. “I know it’s the crack of dawn but I figured you’d be up.”

  Would it have mattered if he hadn’t been? Padgett was professional and uncompromising, but Finian was getting used to that sort given his life in Rock Point. He gestured to the table. “Please, take a seat, Special Agent Padgett. I was just having tea. Can I offer you some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I thought you’d gone back to Boston.”

  “Connecticut. I drove up again last night and stayed at an inn in Heron’s Cove.” Padgett pulled out a chair across from Finian’s tea and breviary. He hesitated, then sat. “I’m interrupting your prayers. The Liturgy of the Hours, right?”

  Finian nodded, returning to his seat.

  “I’m not Catholic,” Padgett said. “I had a case early in my career that involved a priest. I learned a few things.”

  “It’s early, Special Agent Padgett. Are you returning to Boston?”

  “Soon. Have you spoken with anyone this morning?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oliver York is back in England. He spent Thursday night in Ireland.”

  “In Declan’s Cross,” Finian said half to himself.

  “That’s right.”

  “He called me last night. We discussed Irish whiskey.”

  Padgett settled back in his seat, taking in the small kitchen. Finian had added a few items to personalize the space and suit his needs—an electric kettle, a coffee press, a calendar of Irish coastal scenes. The rectory was located next to the church, both buildings over a century old and in need of remodeling but sturdy and comfortable, suitable for a small-town priest and parish.

  “Did you speak with Reed Warren—Davy Driscoll—in here or in the church?” Padgett asked.

  Finian frowned. “Is that relevant to the investigation into his death?”

  “It’s just a question, Father.”

  Nothing was just a question with an FBI agent in the midst of an inquiry, Finian had learned. He added hot tea to the lukewarm tea in his cup. He doubted much about Sam Padgett’s actions since he’d arrived in Rock Point yesterday hadn’t been thought out, deliberate and part of his investigative role.


  Finian decided he could answer Padgett’s question. “We spoke in my office at the church.”

  “We’re up with the lobstermen but it looks as if it’s going to be another beautiful day in Maine,” Padgett said. “I like June in New England a lot better than February. What about you?”

  This was small talk that wasn’t small talk. “June is glorious but I appreciated experiencing Maine in February.”

  “The ice, the snow, the frigid temperatures. Skiers love February. I’m not a skier. I tried once in college. A group of us took off for Aspen. My girlfriend broke her leg. She blamed me. I blamed me.” Padgett paused. “Ever blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault?”

  “Most of us have, Special Agent Padgett. That’s one thing I’ve learned as a priest.”

  “I do what I can to see to it people aren’t prosecuted for crimes they didn’t commit. I like to be thorough and careful. I don’t take a confession at face value, for instance. I’m not talking about a sacramental confession, of course. Different thing. Different rules.”

  Finian drank some of his tea without comment.

  “Father, Davy Driscoll spent the last thirty years of his life on the run for killing Oliver York’s parents and kidnapping him. I’m not here to try to drag his confession out of you. It’s not up to me to decide if it was a proper confession under canon law. Instead I’d like to hear about your visit to Oliver York’s farm in the English Cotswolds.”

  “My visit isn’t a secret. I joined my brother Declan in London and ran into Oliver at an art gallery.”

  “You were both at Aoife O’Byrne’s London show.”

  “That’s right.” Finian kept his tone even but he glanced at his breviary. He could feel its absence in his life. He shifted back to the FBI agent. “I accepted Oliver’s invitation to visit his farm. Then I returned to Maine and my duties here in Rock Point.”

  “Who else did you see while you were in the Cotswolds?”

  “I met Martin Hambly, Oliver’s assistant, and Ruthie Burns, the housekeeper. I met a few farm workers but I don’t recall any names.”

  “What about Henrietta Balfour?”

  Finian thought a moment. “Yes. We ran into her at the pub. Attractive, reddish-brown curly hair, blue eyes. She and Oliver grew up together. Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”

  “No, she’s fine,” Padgett said. “What about Cassie and Eugene Kershaw? Did you meet them?”

  “I don’t think so. I could have. I didn’t pay close attention, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not going to ask if Oliver York made a confession to you then or the other times he’s spoken with you.”

  “You just did,” Finian said with a small smile.

  “If you can’t say someone made a sacramental confession, can you say if someone didn’t?”

  “Once again, Special Agent Padgett, I don’t discuss confessions.”

  “Fair enough.” Nothing in Padgett’s tone suggested he was insincere. “Wendell Sharpe visited Oliver York in the Cotswolds in January. Know anything about that, Father Bracken?”

  “Both Wendell and Oliver mentioned their visit to me in passing, nothing more.” Finian set his cup in its saucer. “Please don’t read anything into my inability to reveal details of my conversations with people.”

  “I gather evidence, Father. I let it show me where it’s pointing. I don’t shape it. I imagine it’s much the same with you and a confession. People tell you their sins. You don’t tell them their sins.”

  Finian considered Padgett’s words. “The priest isn’t to hold what’s said in confession,” he said. “He doesn’t make an effort to remember because he’s not really supposed to hear it. It’s a conversation between the penitent and God.”

  “If it’s a true confession,” Padgett said. “If it’s phony, I bet you remember.”

  Finian said nothing.

  Padgett rose, buttoned his suit jacket. Although he and Finian were about the same height, the FBI agent seemed taller. But that was the idea, Finian thought. Sam Padgett in his dark suit and polished shoes, standing straight, was meant to intimidate, or at least assert himself as a federal agent who had a duty to uphold the laws of the United States. Finian had seen Colin and Emma adopt much the same demeanor—although adopt perhaps wasn’t the right word.

  “You’re one of the last people Davy Driscoll saw before his death,” Padgett said. “If you knew he posed a danger to others, what would you do?”

  “A priest can warn authorities without revealing their sources or the facts or details of a confession.”

  “You can say, ‘So-and-so might be killed tonight. Don’t ask me how I know.’”

  Finian shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “Then I take it because you didn’t warn anyone, Davy Driscoll didn’t make any specific threats in your presence.”

  Finian got to his feet. “Have a safe trip to Boston, Special Agent Padgett.”

  “I understand you can’t reveal a confession but you wouldn’t lie about one. Am I right about that, Father Bracken?”

  “You truly are dogged, aren’t you?”

  Padgett managed a smile. “That word again. I prefer persistent to dogged. The texts between you and Davy Driscoll—my read? He wasn’t a penitent seeking reassurance you’d uphold the seal of confession. He was a killer manipulating you into silence. You were factual just like you are now with me. You didn’t assure him he’d made a proper confession to you.”

  “It was a single short text from me,” Finian said, struggling to keep his tone neutral.

  “It’s okay. I get it. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “I hope the investigation into this man’s death continues to progress and you get the answers you seek.”

  “Do any of us ever get the answers we seek? Thanks for your time, Father. You have my card. Call if you think of anything else you can tell me.” He nodded to Finian’s laptop, open off to one side of the kitchen table. “Ireland?”

  “Scotland.”

  “Where in Scotland?”

  As annoyed as he was, Finian considered his next comment carefully. “It’s a church ruin in the southern Highlands. I looked it up online. It’s where Oliver York was taken as a boy after his parents were killed. I left it open on my screen last night.”

  “Interesting choice of image. When did you look it up?”

  “Shortly before you arrived.”

  “Why?”

  “I was curious.”

  “Because of something Davy Driscoll told you?”

  “The church ruin Oliver was taken to isn’t a secret.”

  “No, it’s not, but that doesn’t answer my question, does it?” Padgett’s gaze narrowed on Finian. “The FBI respects your sacramental responsibilities. That doesn’t mean I do on a personal level. Davy Driscoll showed up at the home of the boy he tormented thirty years ago—the boy whose parents he and his partner in crime murdered in front of him. Driscoll bled to death in Oliver’s arms. Whoever was responsible, it was a hell of a nerve to show up at the York farm, don’t you think?”

  Finian glanced at the photograph of a roofless church ruin, Celtic crosses and gravestones against the orange glow of a Scottish sunset. They reminded him of Declan’s Cross, and yet they were different, too. There was an air of mystery about them, a remoteness, a deep, searing loneliness. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, given what he knew had happened there—given his own mood.

  Finian turned back to Sam Padgett. “Best of luck gathering your evidence.”

  Padgett nodded again to the screen image. “What do you think those two men had in mind when they took an eight-year-old boy to a remote Scottish ruin? Think they’d have turned him over to his grandparents after they ransomed him? Come on, Father Bracken. You’re not that naive. Would you
violate the seal of confession to stop a child molester?”

  “That’s a hypothetical question.”

  “Is it?”

  Sam Padgett was an experienced interrogator and no doubt would recognize Finian’s expression for what it was—irritation, avoidance, fear. He went to the sink, aware the FBI agent was watching him. His head throbbed. He knew his duty but he didn’t have the words to express it.

  “All right, Father,” the FBI agent said. “I respect your vows but I don’t believe one syllable this man uttered to you was on the level. You don’t owe him your silence. In fact, I’d argue the opposite. Whether or not you gave Davy Driscoll absolution—however you two ended things on Tuesday—I don’t believe Saint Peter welcomed him at the pearly gates yesterday morning.” Padgett started toward the screen door, stopped and turned again to Finian. “Thanks for your time. I’m going to stop at Hurley’s for breakfast and then head out of town.”

  “You might run into Donovans,” Finian said.

  Padgett grinned. “I have one brother. Lives in Austin. You?”

  “A twin brother and three younger sisters. All live in Ireland.”

  “They’re not Donovans, though. See you, Father.”

  * * *

  Finian didn’t finish his morning prayers. Instead, he jumped into his BMW and followed Sam Padgett to Hurley’s, a popular, rustic restaurant on Rock Point harbor. He found the FBI agent at a table by the back windows, in a section of the building that jutted out over the water, a silvery blue in the morning sun. The tide was rising, and it felt almost as if they were on a boat.

  “Coffee, Father?” Padgett asked.

  Finian shook his head. He sat down, placing his breviary on the table with its red-and-white checked oilcloth. “You’re right. The man who came to see me on Tuesday did so with the sole purpose of manipulating me into giving him information about my friends.” Finian inhaled, noticing the sky was brightening, as if to reassure him that he’d come down on the right side of his dilemma. “By the time he died, I hope he’d asked God for forgiveness. I hope he was in a place where he was willing to face his past and atone for his sins. That isn’t where he was on Tuesday.”