Do Not Go Gentle (14 page)

General agreement greeted this pronouncement.

“Don't worry about cleaning anything up,” announced Cal. “That's what I pay my cleaning service for.”

Weak laughter came from everyone.

“Jamie, let's head out,” said Rourke. Jamie had felt too tired to drive, so he hitched a ride to the game with his best friend.

“Alright,” Jamie replied. He looked at Patrick and the other men. “Sorry for spoiling the game, gang.” Everyone demurred, but as Jamie walked out with Rourke, he felt that he had ruined an otherwise great evening. He did not notice the thoughtful look on Timmy O'Neill's face.

A short while later, as they were driving back toward Dorchester in Rourke's black Camry, Rourke broke the silence. “You know Paddy is just as frustrated as you, don't you? He doesn't really believe you're faking or slacking. That was just the booze talking.”

Jamie shrugged, turning away from the passing streets and looking at his friend. “You're a good man to say that, Ruarc O'Riley, but there's more than just frustration there. Da can't even come to a poker game because of me. Patrick was only saying what Cal and others at the precinct have been too polite to say. Why the hell can't I just get over this if they can't find anything wrong with me?” Bitterness laced his voice as Ruarc turned to meet his gaze.

“I don't know what to tell you, Jamie,” Rourke said, looking forward again as they pulled away from a stop light. “I've known you since the third grade and I know you're not faking it. I know you're not slacking. So do Eileen and your girls, and so do your brothers. I think Cal probably does too, but he's just not sure what to do.”

Jamie chuckled mirthlessly. “Neither am I, pal, that's the problem. Neither am I. I feel like this is driving a wedge between me and my family, my friends, and my co-workers. I can't go anywhere without someone asking about my health, and it makes me feel weak to have to tell them I'm still sick. Especially when I can't tell them what the bloody hell is wrong with me. I just don't know, Rourke,” he said, turning back to look out at the flashing lights of the cars and neon lights as they passed by, “but I know that something has got to give, and soon. I can't go on like this.”

* * * *

Saturday morning was dreary. Jamie looked out at the weather in disgust as he let Finn MacCool out for his morning duties.
There's nothing worse than a cold and rainy day in October. I think I'd rather have snow up to my ass and sub-zero temperatures. Well,
he amended after a moment,
maybe not
sub
-zero temps, but give me the cold and snow any day over this damp shit. It gets down into your bones and won't go away.

Jamie let the dog back in, gave him his breakfast. and made coffee without thinking. He was exhausted from last night's activities and having to explain the bruises on his face to Eileen when he got home hadn't helped. The girls hadn't seen them yet, but Jamie knew he'd face more reprimands when they learned the story as well.
Maybe they won't be up before Cal gets here,
he thought hopefully. Jamie had arranged with Cal before last night's game that he would pick him up and drive them to their next step in trying to put some more pieces into the puzzle.
Sure, and I didn't have to twist Cushing's arm all that hard when I told him where we were going.

Marie Hanover, the medical examiner, had called Jamie yesterday morning to tell him her “expert” was willing to meet with Jamie to provide more background information about the Mandean
skandola
mark that was found burned into the victims' skin. “You'd better not go in there with an attitude, mister.” Marie just managed to clear five feet in height, but she could be as fierce as any cop. “Luiseach Mac Eachaidh is a friend of mine and I told her you would be on your best behavior.”

“I will, I will.” Jamie protested. “I'm taking Cushing with me to keep me in line. He buys into this supernatural crap too, so it's all good.”

“Oh sure—you say, ‘supernatural crap', and I'm supposed to think it's all good? I'm warning you, Griffin, if you
ever
want any favors from me again, you'd better watch what you say.”

“I promise to do my best,” replied Jamie seriously. “This Luiseach is a
seanchaidhe
, a wise woman, you said? So I've got to be on my best behavior simply because she's Irish.”

“Hmph,” Hanover snorted. “You'd better.”

“Bye, Marie. Thanks.”

Jamie drank his coffee and watched out the living room window for Cal. When he pulled up in his BMW Z4 roadster, Jamie opened the door and held up his right palm, then one finger. He wasn't going to risk Cal waking the womenfolk on a Saturday morning. It would be a fate worse than death. Since they weren't acting in an official capacity this morning, Cal had driven his car rather than check out their department car. Jamie went out a few moments later, carrying two travel mugs of coffee—one for him and one that he had grudgingly “spoiled” for Cal.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jamie said as he got into the car.

“Shut the door and shut your mouth,” groused Cal.

“Now, now,” scolded Jamie. “I can dump out this mug of spoiled coffee.”

“Gimme the damn coffee,” said Cal, grabbing the cup and taking a big sip. “Ahhh. Now that's good coffee.” He put the mug into a cup holder, backed out of the driveway, and then gunned the car forward, the engine growling like a furious beast.

As they turned northeast onto Dorchester Avenue, Jamie said, “Don't press your luck. Most of our guys will give you a pass, but if Harrison or Whitney are patrolling, you'll get at least a warning.”

Cal made a rude noise, but slowed down a bit. “Where are we going again?”

“Near Blake House.” The oldest house in Boston, Blake House had been built sometime around 1661 by an English immigrant named James Blake.

“I swear, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some type of historical building in this town,” griped Cal.

Jamie laughed. “Look who's talking. Your ancestors did their fair share of building over the years, Caleb Newmarch Cushing.”

“Hey.” Cal gestured, taking one hand off the wheel to point at Jamie. “
Don't
be using those names out loud.” Cal had been named after Caleb Cushing, a distant relative who served as a Congressman and Attorney General under Franklin Pierce and John Newmarch Cushing, a direct ancestor who was a wealthy shipbuilder and merchant. He was not fond of either name. “Tell me again about this gal we're going to see.”

“Okay, okay.” Jamie opened up his portfolio and read from the notes he made after Marie Hanover's call. “Her name is Luiseach Mac Eachaidh, though most people call her Lucy. I couldn't find her exact age, but I think she's around 50. She lives alone in an old bungalow near Blake House. She's known in the Irish community as a
seanchaidhe
, which is an old Gaelic term for a story-teller or master of lore. In Lucy's case, she's also an herbalist, selling homeopathic and traditional herbs, remedies, etc. She's been investigated by various agencies wanting to make sure she's not selling anything illegal or harmful, and she's been cleared each time. Reportedly, she also teaches her lore to others who are interested in carrying on this tradition, which dates all the way back to pre-Christian Ireland.”

“Well thank you very much, Jamie-pedia.”

“That coffee had better start working soon, Cushing. Your grumpiness is getting on my nerves.”

“What? You gonna slug me like you did your brother last night?” After a moment of awkward silence, Cal said, “Sorry, Jamie. That was uncalled for.”

“Nah,” replied Jamie. “I deserved it. I don't know what got into me last night—I was too exhausted to enjoy the game, so I probably should have just stayed home.”

“I'm sure it was good for you to get out. Besides, maybe that little tussle helped clear the air.”

“Maybe.”

They were silent until they drew closer to Columbia Road. As they passed streets, Jamie said, “Okay, turn left here. It should be in the next block.”

Cal complied with Jamie's directions, and they soon pulled in front of a modest house tucked in amongst some neighborhood businesses and larger houses. North Dorchester was more urban, with a greater number of apartment complexes and industrial parks than other areas of Dorchester. The house was well-kept, and as Jamie and Cal walked up, they could see the remainder of a small herb garden, which continued in the house on the window sills.

Jamie rang the bell, and a few moments later a slender, older woman with shoulder length brunette hair, tied back, opened the door. “Ms. Mac Eachaidh?” Jamie asked.

The woman's dark green eyes lit up with laughter, and she chuckled out loud.

“Oh, Ms. Mac Eachaidh, is it now? Well, I'm thinking ye fine gentlemen must be Detectives Griffin and Cushing. Come in, come in,” she said opening the door wider and gesturing for them to enter, “but ye must drop that ‘Ms. Mac Eachaidh' business. Most folk call me Luiseach or Lucy, if that's easier.”

Jamie and Cal entered a clean, but cluttered, living room screaming that an older woman living alone occupied it. The paisley couch was covered in afghans and craft supplies. There were small tables put in various spots amongst bookshelves and corner hutches, each containing various items Jamie could not begin to identify. The hardwood floors were spotless, and he could see a small dining room and kitchen off to one side and a doorway leading down a short hallway.

“Sit, sit,” Lucy commanded. “Can I bring ye gentlemen anything to drink? Coffee, tea, somethin' stronger perhaps?” she asked with a gleam in her eye.

“Coffee would be fine ma'am, nothing stronger while we're on duty.”

“I'll have coffee too.”

“Fine, fine, but lose the ‘ma'am' as well—just Lucy will do fine.” Her Irish accent was heavier than Nuala's, Jamie thought. It reminded him more of his grandmother, gone now a dozen years. Lucy moved quickly and silently into the kitchen and returned with a tray bearing a coffee carafe, cups, cream, and sugar. She was dressed in loose gray satin pants, with a black satin shirt and a black velour robe with three quarter length sleeves. She had piercings in her ears, including the cartilage, and one in her nose, with heavy hoop earrings and several rings with large gemstones.

As she laid out the coffee serving, Jamie noticed the tattoos on both of her hands. “I see your tattoos are Ogham script, Lucy. Black is fine, thank you.” He took the cup from her, and then she gave another cup to Cal.

Lucy held up her hands and turned them back and forth, then gave Jamie and appraising look. “Marie said ye were a bright Irish lad, she did,” Lucy replied. “Can ye read them then, boyo?”

Jamie laughed. “No, but my wife uses Ogham script on her business sign.”

Lucy nodded in recognition. “The music store down just a bit in Uphams Corner, eh? Sure, I've seen that—ye don't see much of the old writing here in this country. Ye both must be very Irish, then?”

“Yes, ma'am, sorry, Lucy,” Jamie corrected himself. “Both of our families are very Irish and….”

Before Jamie could continue, Cal gulped his coffee, set his cup down on the coffee table with a clank and jerked his head downward, lifting one leg, saying, “What the
hell
?”

A small white face with a dark brown mask stuck out from beneath the dust cloth, with short arms clawing at Cal's shoe. As Cal jerked his shoe out of the way, a small sable ferret darted out, swiped at his shoe, then jumped to Lucy's side and hopped up and down sideways. The ferret made a clucking sound that did not reassure Cal.

“Pay him no nevermind,” said Lucy, swatting playfully at the ferret, which dodged and continued hopping. “That's just Fionúir; he's excited to have company, and that hopping is his ‘war dance.' He's telling ye he'd like to play.”

“Really?” replied Cal. He replaced his foot on the floor but eyed the ferret warily.

“Ooh, aye,” said Lucy. “If he was angry with ye, he'd be hissing up a storm.”

“Good to know.”

“So, his name in English would be ‘Ghost'?” Jamie asked.

Lucy fixed her emerald eyes on Jamie again, as if taking inventory of him. “My, but ye
are
clever. Who taught ye the old tongue, now?”

“My grandmother and mother—both from County Cork.”

“Fine ladies they must be. Most folk don't have anything to do with the old ways any longer.”

“My mother still speaks fluent Gaelic, and she's tried to beat some of it into my thick head over the years. I know a few words here and there.” Jamie sipped his coffee, then continued, “but we're not here to discuss Ogham or Gaelic, Lucy.”

She shook her head. “I didna think so. Marie tells me ye have something connected to one of your cases that I might be able to help ye understand.”

“That's correct, Lucy,” Jamie said, handing her the printout he had made of the Mandaean
skandola
. “Do you know anything about this symbol? Have you seen it before?”