Keeper's Reach

by Carla Neggers

  “If she has no evidence...”

  “No one has evidence.” It obviously wasn’t a point up for discussion. “You’re the man she pines for, Fin. She likes to pretend if only you would come back to her that the two of you could have a cottage on the south Irish coast and small children running about. You’d peg out your washing on Saturday mornings and tumble down to the village pub together in the evening.”

  “Aoife has a full life in Dublin,” Finian said, then smiled. “I doubt she has ever pegged out her washing.”

  “But she longs to. She longs to live in a quiet Irish village and lead a simple, traditional life. If she had to do it over again, I think she would stick to painting walls and the occasional shamrock for tourists and never mind being an internationally recognized artist.”

  Finian wasn’t convinced, but he said nothing.

  “I was always meant to be an only child. My parents had no desire to have more kids. It was to be the three of us.” Oliver glanced out a small window next to their table, set into the thick stone edifice of the old pub. “I wonder how that day would have gone if I’d had a couple of brothers and sisters. Would we have ganged up on the bastards? Would they have chosen a different family to rob and murder, or would they have killed us all?”

  “I wish I had answers for you.”

  “I wish you did, too, my friend.” Oliver kept his gaze on the window. Chickens roamed on the pebbled driveway, near the courtyard entrance. “I cowered that day. My mother did her best to protect me. I hid behind my father’s desk in the library. If I hadn’t—if the two men had discovered me in the midst of their killing—I believe they would have killed me, too. They were on their way out of the apartment, no doubt afraid to linger after what they’d done. When they saw me...” He paused. “Taking me wasn’t a planned act. They didn’t have a chance to think.”

  Finian waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you.” He shifted from the window. “I sometimes wonder if they’re dead. I don’t know which would be preferable. Dead, or out there, one day to be arrested and tried for their crimes.”

  “Would you recognize them?”

  “I don’t know. I like to think so. You lost your family in an accident. I don’t know if it’s any better. Such a tragedy can feel like God is coming after you.”

  “I know it can,” Finian said.

  “My parents and I were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with a few sick, drugged-up blokes who wanted money. They thought the apartment was empty.” Oliver pushed back in his chair but didn’t get up. “This is a morose conversation for a sunny English morning. Change the subject, shall we? Turn our attention to the matters at hand. What do you think is going on with our Emma if she doesn’t know about these two Americans?”

  “Perhaps they aren’t FBI agents, Oliver.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. What if we have a fight among FBI agents on our hands? Or worse.” Oliver’s expression lightened. “I say we because you saw them in London. No reason to think they’re following you, is there?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Your friend Special Agent Donovan won’t be pleased that you’re here, will he?”

  “I suspect not.”

  “I told Emma I invited you. Do you suppose she told him?”

  “Without a doubt,” Finian said.

  “What do you do now, then, Fin? Call Colin about our American pair or take a long walk on the Oxfordshire Way?”

  “I can do both. At the moment, I’m relieved Colin and Emma are across an ocean.”

  “So am I,” Oliver muttered, then laughed as he got to his feet. “You have no idea how relieved.”

  “I’m getting an idea,” Finian said, also getting up from the table.

  “Better the FBI hounding me than bloody MI5.”

  Oliver didn’t expand on that provocative statement as he came around the table and waved to the proprietor, who obviously kept a tab for his eccentric guest.

  When they exited the pub, the sun was still shining, the day warming to springlike temperatures. Oliver took a deep breath. “It’s good to be away from London. I was tempted to invite Aoife to join us. What do you suppose she’d have said?”

  “One can only imagine.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  As they crossed the green, a lad who worked at the pub joined them. He angled his cigarette, keeping the smoke away from Finian and Oliver. “I hear you were asking about the two Americans who were at breakfast yesterday,” he said. “That’s the only time I saw them together, but I saw the man—Kavanagh—out by your farm on Wednesday afternoon, Mr. York.”

  Oliver’s brow furrowed. “What time was this?”

  “It must have been close to five. I was on my way in to work. He was chatting with a courier.” The lad shrugged, flicking ash off the tip of his cigarette. “I assumed he was asking for directions.”

  “Where exactly were they?” Oliver asked.

  “By the gate to the track that leads to the dovecote.”

  Oliver thanked him. He nodded to Finian, and they continued on through the green. “The courier arrived after Hambly fell,” Oliver said, pensive. “Where was our FBI agent then, I wonder? Well. We shall see. When we get back to the farm, I’ll draw out a good walking route for you, Fin.”

  “I’d like that. You’ll give Mr. Hambly the name of his rescuer?”

  “Oh, yes. I will describe Special Agent Kavanagh to him, too.”

  “We don’t know if he’s an FBI agent—”

  “I know.” Oliver turned up the collar to his jacket against a stiff breeze. “After your walk, my friend, we can discuss Irish saints and Irish art, and you can tell me what you learn about Naomi MacBride and Ted Kavanagh from Special Agent Donovan.”

  14

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Friday, 8:00 a.m., EST

  Colin was on the interstate, heading north out of Boston, when his phone buzzed. He expected Mike or his mother, or even Emma, not Finian Bracken. He gritted his teeth as he answered. “Why are you hanging out with Oliver York?”

  “It’s perfectly innocent. I can call back later if I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

  “It’s not a bad time, Fin. What are you doing in England in the first place?”

  “I joined Declan on a business trip to London.”

  “And you just happened to end up in the Cotswolds with York?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that. We ran into each other.”

  “All right.” Nothing Colin could do now, since Finian was already at the York farm. “What’s up?”

  “Oliver believes two FBI agents are following him.”

  Two?

  “Talk to me,” Colin said.

  Finian explained. He was calm, deliberate and precise. The goings-on in England weren’t his first law enforcement issue since he and Colin had met on a dock in Rock Point last June. Finian had just arrived in the United States for his yearlong assignment. He had the means to go back to Ireland, give up the priesthood—live a quiet life—but so far, he was still serving struggling St. Patrick’s Church and coping with Colin and his brothers. And with Emma and the Sharpes.

  “I can try to find the courier and ask him what he and Mr. Kavanagh talked about,” Finian said. “Perhaps if I’m not with Oliver—”

  “Don’t, Fin. Stay out of this. Where are you now?”

  “Walking. Oliver set me off on a route. I have a feeling he didn’t want me around when he spoke with Martin Hambly—you remember him, don’t you?”

  “I told him that he and Oliver remind me of Batman and his stalwart manservant.”

  “I don’t know Batman,” Finian said. “Before I set off on my walk, Oliver told me the courier picked up a package he sent to the rectory.”

  “Your rectory?”

  “Yes. It’s addressed to Emma.”

  Emma hadn’t mentioned it when she’d called Colin Wednesday night. But why wo
uld she?

  “Martin Hambly put the package out for the courier before he took a fall,” Finian said. “Oliver asked me if you can find out if it arrived. It’s a small matter, Colin. No need to trouble yourself.”

  “What’s in the package, Fin?”

  “Nonsense is the word Oliver used. He told Emma about it when he spoke to her Wednesday evening. Oliver likes to tweak the Sharpes, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “I can ask him about the package’s contents.”

  “Do not do that.”

  Colin heard his Irish friend take in a breath. “As you wish.”

  “I don’t like Hambly’s fall,” Colin said. “Do you believe him when he says he doesn’t remember the details?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. He hopes he will remember more once he feels better.”

  “But he won’t see a doctor.”

  “Would you in his place?”

  Colin didn’t answer. Traffic wasn’t bad heading north out of the city, even during morning rush hour. “How long are you planning to stay at York’s farm?”

  “A night or two. I’m due back in Maine soon. You’ll check on the package? Do you think Emma picked it up?”

  “She’s at the convent.”

  “Oh, yes. Her retreat. I wouldn’t want to interrupt her. The package was due to arrive yesterday. She might have picked it up before she went on to the convent, but it’s hardly an urgent FBI matter.”

  Maybe, Colin thought. And Emma definitely would have picked up a package from Oliver York, assuming it had arrived.

  “Do you know who these two Americans are, Colin?” Finian paused. “You at least have an idea, don’t you?”

  “An idea. Fin...” Colin inhaled. “Stay out of this.”

  “Whatever this is,” Finian muttered.

  A tractor-trailer truck whizzed past Colin. He had no reason to believe the man who had identified himself to the English innkeepers as Ted Kavanagh wasn’t, in fact, Mike’s FBI agent friend. Same with Naomi MacBride, the former State Department analyst. He’d dug up photos over coffee but wouldn’t send them to Fin Bracken in England. His Irish friend needed to wind up his visit to the Cotswolds.

  Finian knew he was hanging out with an unrepentant art thief.

  “How far are you walking?” Colin asked.

  “It’s an eight-mile loop.”

  “Do it twice,” Colin said.

  After he disconnected, he jumped off the interstate and pulled into a gas station. He texted Mike.

  Where are you?

  Hurley’s.

  Where is Naomi MacBride?

  Across from me. Plum Tree is next.

  Call me when you get free of her.

  Mike didn’t respond. Colin knew he wouldn’t.

  He was reasonably confident his older brother would call when he could.

  Colin got out of his truck. He’d gas up and get more coffee.

  His phone buzzed.

  Finian again. This time, a text.

  I stopped at the pub and spoke to the waiter again. A second man picked up the woman. Thirties, fair, well dressed.

  Name?

  Didn’t get one.

  Okay. No more sleuthing. Got it?

  Yes. Be well.

  Colin slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. If the second man Finian had described was Reed Cooper, then he, too, was either en route to Maine or there already. But what were Reed Cooper, Naomi MacBride and Ted Kavanagh doing in Oliver York’s Cotswolds village?

  And what did all this have to do with Mike?

  Colin pushed the questions aside. He’d be in Rock Point in an hour. First he’d check on York’s package. He didn’t want to bug Emma at the convent—he took her lack of response to his text as a hint—but he would get in touch with her if he needed her to provide answers about this mysterious package.

  Then he’d head to the Plum Tree.

  Time to meet Mike’s friends.

  15

  Southern Maine Coast

  Friday, 9:00 a.m., EST

  Seeing Naomi again was affecting Mike more than he wanted to admit. She spun out of Hurley’s ahead of him, leaving him with the bill and his two youngest brothers.

  “Have fun,” Andy, the lobsterman brother, said.

  Kevin, off duty as a state marine patrol officer, just shook his head.

  Naomi had held her own with them over breakfast. As if there’d been any doubt. Mike had thought Hurley’s made more sense than the inn with his folks, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Not a good start to the day.

  She beat him back to his truck. She looked as if she’d just come in from London with her black trench coat, skinny jeans and ankle boots. He’d heard her shower running about an hour after he’d rolled out of bed. He’d stood at the window, trying to focus on the view of the harbor but instead seeing her in the shower with him three years ago.

  Not good.

  She was funny, irreverent, open by nature, sneaky by trade, insatiably curious and smart. She’d lost her father to a senseless IED and had done what she could to keep her mother from falling apart. She’d graduated from Vanderbilt with a double major in history and political science. After Vanderbilt, she moved to Washington and started work for the State Department. Eventually she’d ended up in Afghanistan.

  When they’d first met, Mike had told her if she dyed her hair red, she could play Orphan Annie. Just an offhand comment. He hadn’t meant much by it, certainly hadn’t meant to demean her skills and stature as a civilian intelligence analyst. She’d called him a jackass and threatened to rain hell on him if he said anything like that again.

  He hadn’t had to worry about intimidating her then, never mind now that he was an ex-soldier, an expert these days in canoeing, kayaking, wilderness camping and locating seals and puffins on the Maine coast.

  She squinted out at the harbor, sparkling in the morning sun. Last night’s unsettled weather had cleared, leaving behind a cloudless sky and sharply colder temperatures. “It’s breathtaking, Mike. Good breakfast, good view. Can’t ask for more than that, except maybe grits on the menu and sixty degrees warmer.” She turned to him. “Ready for the Plum Tree?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  They got into his truck. He started the engine.

  “Your truck could use heated seats,” she said.

  “I hate heated seats.”

  “Not me. I love them. Sums up the differences between you and me, doesn’t it?”

  Probably it did.

  She snapped her seat belt on. “Was Andy the lobsterman brother or the marine patrol officer brother?”

  “Lobsterman.”

  “And he’s the one seeing the local woman who is doing the marine biology internship in Ireland. You have an interesting family. Do you ever go winter camping with your brothers?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’m not sure winter and camping should be in the same sentence in Maine. It sounds cold.”

  “It’s not cold if you’re prepared.”

  “Not cold enough to kill you if you’re prepared, maybe.”

  Mike didn’t try to explain the appeal of winter camping. He took the coastal road north out of Rock Point. He’d call Colin after they got settled at the Plum Tree. Mike wanted to see Reed first. He could tell Colin didn’t like this get-together. Couldn’t blame him. For all Mike knew, Colin had Naomi’s flight information. For sure he would know by now she had stayed in Rock Point last night. Kevin if not Andy would have told him.

  Law enforcement officers, Mike thought.

  “You know what, Mike?” Naomi gazed out her window. “I don’t regret visiting Rock Point. It helps me understand you better. Why you and I didn’t work.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t care, do you?”

  “No.”

  She turned to him with a smile. “You could have hesitated.”

  He winked at her. “I’m not the hesitating type.”

  “Fo
rget it. You haven’t changed.” She made a face. “Sorry. That came out like an accusation and it wasn’t meant to. It’s just another fact. I’m sorry I called you a jackass last night, too. High emotion on top of a very long day, and jet lag is a recipe for blurting out the wrong thing.”

  “I didn’t notice much difference from when you aren’t tired and jet-lagged.”

  “Nice, Mike.”

  He’d thought so but he noticed her sarcasm. He’d thought he was taking her off the hook for whatever she was worrying about having said wrong. He supposed he should have known better. Trying to talk to Naomi had always spun him dizzy.

  The road took them close to the water but summer homes and businesses thinned out here. The Plum Tree was located past a headland where a lighthouse once stood. Now there was just the keeper’s house and a few summer homes, most of them small and fairly ordinary—not like the mansions down in Heron’s Cove.

  “It’s beautiful here even this time of year.” Naomi sighed, watching the scenery. “Makes more sense why Reed picked Maine. I love the rocky coastline. Very picturesque. Does Maine have any sand beaches?”

  “Down here,” Mike said. “Wells, Orchard Beach, Kennebunkport. Heron’s Cove has a decent beach. Not as many up north but there are a few small ones.”

  “Somehow I don’t see you on a sandy beach. Do you even own a swimsuit?”

  Mike didn’t answer. She was goading him, or having a little fun for herself. Either way, he wasn’t indulging her.

  He turned into a long, paved driveway that wound between snowbanks to a Maine cottage-style building with weathered gray shingles and white shutters. An attractive sign decorated with what he assumed were plum blossoms announced that they had arrived at the Plum Tree Inn.

  “Hard to take Reed and his guys seriously when they pick a place with a giant moose out front,” Naomi said, nodding to a metal statue by the inn’s front entrance.

  “That’s a life-size moose,” Mike said.

  “No kidding? Damn. What do I do if I meet up with a real one?”