Keeper's Reach

by Carla Neggers

  Yank nodded. “That’s my guess, too. Buddy played both sides, illegal and legal, to satisfy his ego and his need for an adrenaline rush and cash. He thought he was smarter than everyone else.”

  “He was doing all right financially until last fall,” Colin said. “His productivity app didn’t work out. He was broke.”

  Kavanagh had a faraway look. “Living a lie. It caught up with him. He came to me after Reed went out on his own. He predicted Reed would recruit you, Mike. He couldn’t poach on his old outfit—he needed his own guys. Buddy prompted me to look into the Donovans and Sharpes. Naomi was doing the same thing, on her own. Buddy used that as leverage, too. The son of a bitch played me like a fiddle, as the saying goes.” Kavanagh drank some of his water. “Or is it a harp? Flute?” He swore under his breath. “I’m losing it.”

  “You need some rest,” Yank said. “You did well today, Agent Kavanagh. I can’t speak for the past, but today—you saved Naomi MacBride’s life.”

  “And I’m never going to let her live it down.” But Kavanagh’s humor didn’t reach his eyes and faded quickly. “Buddy didn’t make mistakes. He misled. There’s a difference. It took me too long to figure that out. He was always in control, even when he seemed reckless and out of control.”

  “He got to the Cotswolds about the same time you and Naomi did,” Colin said. “I heard from Emma. She and Padgett have tracked down a witness who saw Buddy in the village—the grandson of the farmworker who came to Martin Hambly’s aid after Naomi found him. He recognized Buddy’s photo.”

  “He knew computers inside and out,” Kavanagh said. “He would latch on to something and try to get me to bite. It was what he did. Point out stuff he’d figured out. He always thought what he had was solid. Sometimes it was.”

  Colin could feel his fellow agent’s anguish at being duped. “After Buddy attacked Martin Hambly on Wednesday, he drove to Heathrow and stayed overnight at a hotel there. He took a flight to Boston the next morning.”

  “In time to pick up York’s package here in Rock Point and ambush Emma.” Kavanagh sank against the back of his chair. “Leverage, profit, adrenaline. Violence. What Buddy did always made sense to him. He was good when he was good.”

  Mike, standing in front of the kitchen sink, didn’t argue. “Reed didn’t expect violence but he suspected something was up. When Buddy surfaced, Reed invited him to the Plum Tree. You, too, Agent Kavanagh. Reed never saw Buddy as someone capable of violence and betrayal. He figured he could handle whatever agenda Buddy had and was open to the idea he might have something to offer.”

  “Your instincts about Buddy were right, Mike,” Kavanagh said, clearly exhausted.

  “He played people to feel sorry for him.”

  Reed Cooper arrived, coming in through the back door. “I sent the guys who were arriving today home. They’re keeping Naomi overnight but she’ll be fine. Waking up soon. She’ll be stuck in Maine for a little while, anyway. You can break it to her that she won’t see grass for months.”

  “We have an ocean,” Colin said.

  Reed managed a thin smile at the three FBI agents. “Feel free to call me personally anytime the FBI needs extra hands. I mean for Cooper Global Security to be the best of the best.”

  Yank made a polite comment that he’d be sure to call. Mike said nothing. Colin could feel his older brother’s restlessness. He nodded to him. “You don’t have to stay here, Mike.”

  Kevin agreed. Mike grabbed his jacket and left.

  He would be where he needed to be right now—at Naomi MacBride’s side.

  * * *

  Colin wasn’t surprised when his mother invited Ted Kavanagh to stay at the inn, her treat. He accepted with thanks and allowed Colin to pour him a whiskey. They’d moved into the living room with Yank and Kevin. Andy had gone to explain what he could to Franny Maroney, who knew finding Emma’s phone hadn’t boded well.

  “Buddy was right,” Kavanagh said, still processing the events of the past week—and the past three years. He drank some of his whiskey. “I underestimated him. I never considered he knew how to use a weapon. He was good with that knife. Naomi was lucky to survive.”

  “You thought he was a geek who wouldn’t think of using violence,” Colin said.

  Kavanagh gave him a ragged smile. “You Donovans don’t mince words, do you? But you’re right. It’s taken me a long time, but I was duped and manipulated by that weasel. Mike, Reed and Naomi are good guys and you and Emma aren’t up to anything. The only mess to clean up is my own.” He sank deep into the couch cushions. “I’m not a bad guy.”

  “You never gave up on your guy who was killed in Kabul,” Yank said, pouring whiskey for himself. “We like our dogged sons of bitches.”

  “Buddy wasn’t a skilled operator or marksman but he was dangerous. His particular gift was in manipulating. He got those guys to commit violence on his behalf. For his benefit. You were right about me, Colin. I had the blinders on. I’m burned-out. Not cut out for this job anymore.”

  “You need that vacation,” Colin said. “Director Van Buren will be glad she doesn’t have to explain a rogue agent.”

  “Just a dumb one. You bastards went through my life, didn’t you? Did you search my apartment? I hope you found the cufflink I lost. My grandfather gave me a set of cufflinks when I graduated high school.”

  “We didn’t go through your life,” Yank said.

  Colin grinned. “Should have, maybe.”

  Kavanagh drank more of his whiskey.

  Yank turned to Colin. “Emma needs a few days before she flies back here. Van Buren wants you to take a break before you go under for HIT.”

  Colin stood by the fireplace with his whiskey. “Telling me to go to England, Yank?”

  “England or wherever Emma ends up. We’ll talk when you get back.” Yank heaved a long sigh then shook his head at Kavanagh. “Have you noticed that Donovans don’t do anything the easy way?”

  “I’m beginning to,” Kavanagh said.

  The senior FBI agent swallowed more of his whiskey. “Their poor mother, my wife says.”

  Colin rolled his eyes. “My mother met my father after she got everyone out of a bank that was being robbed.”

  “You made that up,” Yank said.

  Colin thought he saw Kavanagh smile but he kept his attention on Yank. “Are you going to Boston or Washington from here?”

  “Boston,” Yank said, then shook his head. “Lucy bought an espresso machine.”

  32

  The Cotswolds, England

  Saturday, 9:00 p.m., BST

  Finian could see that Emma was exhausted. Sam Padgett had declined an invitation to stay at the York farm, and he only shook his head and sighed when Emma told him she would stay. He left in time to make a late flight back to Boston. “I’ll take the car,” he told her. “You don’t need to be driving. The air’s out of your tires, Emma. Take a few days. Mop up here. Work with the locals. They like you.”

  Finian poured Yellow Spot, one of the few Irish whiskeys Oliver had on hand. He had three glasses—for Emma, Oliver and himself.

  “Only a little for me,” Emma said.

  “I’ll have a dram,” Oliver said. “Or a táoscan, I suppose, since it’s Irish whiskey.”

  A welcome diversion to serious matters.

  A fire crackled, burning hot in the front room fireplace. Martin Hambly had retreated to his cottage for a nap. The police questions and the certain knowledge, now, of his close call had taken their toll. But he’d promised he would be “right as rain” in the morning.

  Ruthie Burns had brought a tray of fruit, cheese, nuts, honey and biscuits.

  Oliver helped himself to a bit of Cotswolds cheese. He’d unearthed a small watercolor painting and set it on a chair across from him, as if it were an invited guest. It was a moody landscape depicting three crosses on Shepherd’s Head in the tiny village of Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast. Storm clouds swirled overhead and stirred up the Celtic Sea. Finian’s reacti
on was visceral and immediate—an unbidden, unexpected stirring of nostalgia and homesickness, of faith and hope and inexplicable, timeless love. He was a simple whiskey man and priest. To elicit such emotions was for poets and artists—for a brilliant painter like Aoife O’Byrne.

  The painting was unsigned, but this was her work, he knew.

  It was one of three paintings Oliver had stolen on his first heist a decade ago, when he’d slipped into the O’Byrnes’ run-down seaside house in Declan’s Cross. He’d returned the two Jack Butler Yeats landscapes in November. Anonymously, of course.

  “I’m convinced it’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne,” Oliver said. “I can’t say for certain where I got it. But it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  Emma made no comment. Finian handed her a glass of whiskey, then one to Oliver.

  “I need to go back to Declan’s Cross,” Oliver said, not taking his eyes from the landscape. “One last time.”

  “Yes, you do,” Emma said.

  Oliver stared into his whiskey. He made no secret that he was deeply unsettled by the recent events here on his farm and in Maine. Finian understood. Martin Hambly could have been killed. Oliver’s alternate life as an art thief could have been more broadly exposed.

  “This Buddy Whidmore didn’t want Martin to see him,” Oliver said. “He didn’t care if Martin lived or died. He hit him to protect himself. Then he lay in wait at the rectory for the package—and for you, Emma.”

  She seemed to make an effort to smile. “All’s well that ends well.”

  “A simple package. Sheepskins and a handcrafted cross. Look what happened.” Oliver shifted to Finian. “Life’s uncertainties, eh, Father Bracken? Is that why you and Declan went into the whiskey business? To cope with the unknown, or to embrace it?”

  “Perhaps both,” Finian said.

  “Well, then. On to the next challenge.” Oliver raised his glass. “It’s good to have friends in the priesthood and the FBI. Cheers, my friends.”

  Finian wasn’t positive Emma returned the toast, but she did drink some of her Yellow Spot.

  * * *

  In his chair by the fire, Martin swore he ached more now than he had in the first hours after Buddy Whidmore, computer genius and master manipulator, had attacked him. At least it was quiet now. No FBI agents, no local police, no curious villagers. No Ruthie. He’d shooed her out for what he hoped was the last time an hour ago. “I’m fine,” he’d told her emphatically.

  When a knock came at the door, he considered pretending he was dead.

  “Hambly,” came Oliver’s voice. “Open up.”

  Martin struggled out of his chair. He opened the door.

  “You look ghastly,” Oliver said, stepping into the cottage. “Shall I phone for an ambulance or just bring whiskey?”

  “A good night’s sleep will do the trick.”

  “Good. Emma and Finian are discussing her upcoming wedding. I’ll give them a few minutes and then engage them in an intellectual discussion of Saint Brigid and the Celtic goddess Brigid.”

  “I’ll be dead to the world by then, I hope,” Martin said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I miss those two old dogs we lost in December.”

  “I do, too, but couldn’t this wait—”

  “A puppy will aid in your recovery. I’m putting you on the search. I’m not fussy about breed, but I know you probably are—which is fine, because you’ll do most of the training.”

  “You’ve been into the whiskey cabinet, haven’t you?”

  “Finian found the one bottle of Irish. Good stuff. But it doesn’t affect anything. A farm needs a dog.” He took in a breath. “A puppy will help me, too, Martin. In my recovery. If it’s not too late.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  Oliver’s pale green eyes caught the light from the fire. “Have you always known?”

  “I suspected. Vaguely. Then more than vaguely.”

  “I’m so ashamed.”

  “As well you should be. You’ve returned the art in good order. That’s a start.”

  “Only a start, alas.” Oliver pulled his gaze from the fire, any melancholy—real or feigned—gone now. “MI5 will come calling any day. They think I might know something about stolen Middle Eastern antiquities.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course. I suggest you walk in the countryside and enjoy whiskey and do extra push-ups. I’ve amends to make, my friend.”

  “You’ve a country to serve with your unique capabilities, insights and contacts.”

  “That, too. A puppy, Martin?”

  “A brilliant idea. I’ll get on it straightaway.”

  “Good man,” Oliver said, then disappeared back out into the night.

  Martin shut the door, latched it and returned to his chair. As stiff and miserable as he felt, he smiled as he shut his eyes. Yes. It was time again for a puppy on the farm.

  33

  Rock Point, Maine

  Sunday, 10:00 a.m., EST

  Mike was surprised when Naomi asked him to crack the window so she could hear the ocean. He’d picked her up from the hospital and brought her to his parents’ inn, getting her settled in the room at the top of the stairs. It would be a week, at least, before she was cleared to fly. The drive to the Bold Coast was almost as bad, ruling out his cabin, at least for now. Reed had brought her things from the Plum Tree. He was returning to Nashville as soon as possible.

  “The perfect room to recover from a knife wound,” Naomi said, bandaged, tucked under her comforter. “I swear I can smell the ocean.”

  “You can stay here as long as you want,” Mike said. “Then I’ll take you home to Nashville.”

  “We can have barbecue and bourbon at my favorite hangout.”

  “We can,” he said with a smile.

  “I’m not going to let that bastard Buddy ruin it for me. Damn, Mike. He stabbed me. His eyes...” She fingered the comforter. “I bet we’re going to find out he killed those guys in Afghanistan himself.”

  “The FBI can find out.” Mike turned from the window. Her color was decent, but she looked worn-out, emotionally spent if still her indomitable Naomi self. He’d never met anyone tougher. “Anything else you need?”

  “You next to me? Or would your parents flip?”

  “They’re leaving for Florida in the morning. Visiting friends.”

  “How convenient.” Naomi smiled, but her eyes were sunken, her wound and the strain of the past twenty-four hours taking their toll. “Will they leave a pie?”

  Mike winked. “Apple. And my father is making muffins.”

  “Retired cops make the best breakfasts. It’s a rule or something.”

  But tears formed in her eyes, and as much as she tried to fight them, they spilled out and down her cheeks. Mike sat on the bed next to her. “Cry all you want, Naomi.”

  “Your kindness isn’t hard to take.” She sniffled, touching his hand. “And it’s not unexpected.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Get some rest. We have time.”

  “Don’t you have work waiting for you on the Bold Coast?”

  “Nothing that can’t keep waiting.”

  “You live in the real world. You’re not hiding. But you never planned to live that far down east forever, did you?” She glanced around the pretty room. “This is home. Rock Point. Where your family is. You can keep your cabin as a cabin—as the refuge it was always meant to be.” She was silent a moment. “Am I babbling? I’m still on pain meds.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Mike said, not moving from her side.

  “Reed could use you with my volunteer doctors.”

  “He can find someone else. Right now I’m here with you.”

  “It’ll be a few months before they deploy,” she said. “I’ll be back to dancing on tables well before then.”

  “Have you ever danced on a table?”

  “I could go snowshoeing again, or you could take me out into the wilderness to see a moose. There’s a reason wilderness is
in your job description, isn’t there?”

  He smiled. “There is.”

  She yawned, closing her eyes but still awake. “My mother offered to fly up here. I told her it’s okay, I’m in good hands. She does great with my sister. They’re more alike.” Another yawn. “My sister sews.”

  Naomi dozed. Mike didn’t move. He felt the cold air, tasted the ocean in it.

  “Maine’s growing on me,” Naomi said, not opening her eyes. “I could get into life here. I think I’ll like Emma. She sounds very centered. I’m not that centered.”

  “You’ll like Julianne, too. She’s not that centered, either.”

  “The marine biologist. I can’t tell a porpoise from a dolphin.”

  “A lot of people can’t.”

  “Mike...” She licked her lips, opening her eyes now. “I was dreaming about you when the rooster woke me in the Cotswolds.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Naomi.”

  “I am a magnet for trouble, though. You were right about that. Seriously. Last time I saw you, I was in a stretcher. Then yesterday...another stretcher.”

  “You’re a woman with a tough job that needs to be done.”

  “And I trusted Buddy Whidmore,” she said.

  Mike squeezed her hand gently. “Get some rest. I’ll come up and check on you in a little while.”

  “Is Reed still here?”

  “I think so.”

  “He can take care of my doctors while I recover. I’ve done most of the heavy lifting already. He just has to follow the plan and do his thing.”

  “You’re the brains.”

  “Damn straight. I’m going to laze around here and read about puffins and wild blueberries. Maybe your mother has a sewing machine I can use. I know how to sew. I’m just not as good as my mother and sister.” She seemed to make an effort to smile. “I can make you a lumberjack shirt.”