Malarkey (28 page)

We trudged on. "What happened?"

"In the end, she put a hex on him that bound him to do her
will." Maeve sounded preoccupied. She went on more briskly, as if
she meant to be done with the story, "When they eloped, the king set
the Fianna and their hounds on the lovers and chased them the
length and breadth of Ireland for a year and a day without respite."
She walked forward, suddenly confident. "In the legend, the dolmens
are the beds Diarmuid made for Grainne in the wilderness. Isn't that
the wall?"

I peered ahead. "Yes, thank God." We had come out at the
wall but not within sight of the stile.

"Which way?" Maeve asked.

I had no idea. "I think I went left last time."

"We'll try it."

We walked along, silent now, both of us stumbling from time
to time on the uneven ground. The fog was so thick I bumped the
stile before I saw it. We climbed over and stood for a moment on the
turf.

I turned back and called Jay's name one more time. My voice
rang on the cold air and echoed eerily, but there was no reply.

Finding the cottage was easy after that, though the fog made
everything look distorted. The light from the kitchen window
showed yellow. Joe's patrol car and the Toyota hunched in front of
the door like monsters of legend, one red and one white.

My father greeted us at the door, and I knew at once that
something was seriously wrong, something else.

"What is it?"

Dad took my arm. "Sit down, Lark. They've had a call..."

"They? Who?"

"The Gardai. Someone called Mahon and said he was
speaking for a republican splinter group. He claims they've
kidnapped Jay and are holding him as a hostage."

"Ah, Jaysus," said Maeve behind me. "The gobshite."

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The
heart's grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our
enmities
Than in our love...

Yeats, "Meditations in Time of Civil War"

In retrospect, I suppose it was then that Maeve took over. At
the time, I was too stunned to notice. She charged past me into the
living room, and I heard her speak sharply to Joe.

Dad said, "Lark, my dear, do you want a little whiskey?"

"I'd barf."

"It's an old-fashioned remedy, I know, but your hands are
like ice. You need something. Perhaps a cup of hot tea."

Hostage. Jay was a hostage. Every atrocity story I'd ever
heard, every tale of political hostages imprisoned and tortured for
years, whirled in my head. I wobbled over to the door arch and
leaned against it. "I want to know what's going on."

"...and I can put a name to the man, Joseph." Maeve reached
for the telephone. "That's more than Mahon can do at this
hour."

Joe laid a large hand on the receiver. "You're mad!"

"Give me the telephone. I'll keep it short."

Joe's back was to me, so I couldn't see his expression, but his
shoulders were stiff with disapproval. After a moment, though, he
handed Maeve the phone. She tapped out a number from
memory.

Dad said, "Lark..."

I flapped my hand, hushing him.

"Mike? Maeve Butler here. Where's Liam? Did he indeed?
Let me speak to Barbara, if you please. It's urgent." She waited,
tapping her foot. "Ah, Barbara. When did Liam leave the estate? I see.
And where has he gone? No, Jay's still missing. He's been
abducted."

Joe growled and reached for her.

She backed away. "Does it matter what terrorist group?
Sure, they're all alike." She covered the receiver. "Did the kidnappers
demand a ransom?"

Joe shook his head. "Not yet. The call was a preliminary
contact. And do not tell Barbara anything more, Maeve, or I'll take
the phone from you by force. I mean it."

She nodded and spoke into the receiver. "No, I can't. Now
tell me about Liam McDiarmuid."

When she said the surname, a chill touched my spine. I went
on into the room and sat on the couch. Dad followed like a hen with
one chick.

Maeve was listening. I could hear Barbara's voice, though
not her words. "Yes, a grand idea. Thanks." She hung up.

Joe grabbed Maeve by the shoulder, marched her over to the
vacant armchair, and thrust her into it. "What name, Maeve? If you're
withholding—"

"Withholding evidence?" She gave a sharp laugh. "Save your
threats. Liam's your man." She looked at her watch. "And he has
more than two hours' head start of you."

I said, "No!"

She turned to me. "One translation of the Irish name Grainne
is Grace."

"Diarmuid and Grainne," I echoed, still stupid with
shock.

My father drew a sharp breath.

Joe kept his eyes on Maeve. "You're daft, woman.
McDiarmuid has no ties at all to extremist groups. When he first
came back from Bosnia, he used to bait the lads in the pub whenever
they got to singing the old songs."

"Liam despised Slade Wheeler."

They stared at each other. That at least was true, I thought
numbly. Liam had made no bones about his loathing of Slade and
Slade's wargames.

"The kidnappers, what are they calling themselves?"

Joe's eyes shifted. "Sons of Glory."

"Never heard of them." After a moment, Maeve added, "Your
terrorist group doesn't exist. I'll lay odds Mahon thought he'd got a
crank call."

"Then you'd lose. The speaker used an identifying code." Joe
rubbed the back of his neck, frowning at her as if she were an
indecipherable rune. "'Twas outdated, to be sure, but that's common
enough if a man's been out of touch. We're hunting Tommy Tierney.
He's done a bolt."

Maeve hooted. "That yobbo hasn't the poetry."

"Poetry? Don't spin me one of your fairy tales, Maeve."

"I won't spin you anything, Sergeant Kennedy. Get yourself
onto headquarters and tell the Gardai to pluck Liam off the Rosslare
ferry."

"Only an idjit would try to escape on the bloody French
ferry."

"If he thought he was being pursued. As far as Liam's
concerned, he's off scot-free. Barbara said he left for the trade show
in Brussels directly you rang Stanyon with the news of Jay's
disappearance. The show doesn't start until Saturday, but the
Stonehall concession has to be set up. It's a convenient cover.
Barbara didn't question it. Tracy's flying to Brussels tomorrow."

Joe pulled at his lower lip, still frowning. "Poetry."

"There was," she said carefully, "a mark on Slade Wheeler's
brow, and no one denies he was Grace Flynn's lover."

"In the legend, 'twas Diarmuid had the mark."

"Liam saw Slade as Diarmuid—the warrior, the seducer—and
himself as Finn MacCool."

"Shite." He turned away, disgusted.

"Or as the high king, or as one of the druids, more like, a
wise man and a protector. Liam is Grace's cousin. It fits, Joe." She
stood up and gave him a shove in the direction of the telephone. "Call
it in."

"And tell the dispatcher I'm after looking for Finn MacCool?"
Joe's voice was thick with sarcasm.

Maeve raised her chin. Her eyes were bright and her color
high. When she spoke, though, her voice softened, "You're a good
man, Joe, and what's more you're a man of learning, try as you may
to disguise it. You said it yourself. Slade's body was laid out like a
hero waiting for a requiem mass—on Easter Monday with a mark on
his forehead, his fatigues brushed, and his toes cocked at a military
angle. Tommy Tierney hasn't the wits or the patience."

Joe's shoulders sagged.

"Tell the dispatcher you're looking for a suspect trying to
leave the country without Garda permission."

My father said, "That's a sensible precaution surely."

Joe turned to us. "You agree, sir?"

Dad nodded. "He should be questioned."

"Lark?"

I was too confused to say anything, but I nodded, too.

Joe turned without a word and picked up the receiver.

While he dialed and identified himself, Maeve went into the
kitchen and brought back the travel diary. I remembered her saying
in the woods that she wanted to check a description. Ages had
passed since then. She sat in the armchair and pored over the book,
riffling the pages. Finally, she leaned back with her eyes shut. Dad
and I watched her.

Joe made three calls, speaking with crisp efficiency. He
telephoned the ferry terminal first. Then he put out a general call, an
APB, for Liam and Liam's car. Through my numbness, I remember
being surprised that Joe had the make and license number of Liam's
Saab in his notebook. The third call, to Chief Inspector Mahon,
reassured me that Joe had not lost his sense of policely propriety,
and that the Gardai had not given up the search for Tommy
Tierney.

My initial shock was beginning to give way to ordinary
terror, and my mind was throwing out serious questions about
Maeve's theory. It seemed to me that she was ignoring the whole
problem of Kayla Wheeler's death. I could imagine Liam killing
Slade—just. But Kayla's murder was gratuitous. It didn't fit the
mythical pattern. It was straightforward, brutal slaughter.

When Joe hung up and came over to us, I finally found my
voice. "I know Mahon's technicians photographed Alex Stein's
bruises. Did they examine the other suspects?"

Joe gave a sharp approving nod. "You're thinking."

"I don't see Liam killing Kayla."

"He's unmarked," Joe said bleakly. "No bruises. A wee mote
in her ladyship's grand vision."

Maeve opened one eye. "I don't pretend to know all the
answers, Joe."

There was a knock at the door. Joe ushered Barbara in. She
was carrying a carton, and her eyes were swollen from crying. Joe
took the box from her and set it on the kitchen table. I had risen,
hoping the knock would bring news of Jay, but residual manners
kicked in, and I greeted Barbara.

Her lip trembled. "I'm so sorry, Lark. Alex and I feel
responsible."

My mouth opened and shut. The truth was that part of me
agreed with her. If Dad and I hadn't come to the Steins' cottage, Jay
would have been safe at home in Shoalwater.

But guilt is a sticky game. If I blamed Jay's abduction on
Stonehall Enterprises then I was going to have to take some of the
blame myself. I had behaved badly to Jay.
Oh God, just let him be
safe, and I'll never do anything unkind again ever to anybody in my
whole life please.
A sample of my mental processes. The sight of
Barbara's tears opened the fountains, and I wept all over her.

Somehow we wound up sitting on the couch with my father
patting Barbara's shoulders and Maeve patting mine. How long that
went on I don't know.

Meanwhile, Joe was on the phone again. In fact, the phone
was his duty station. He told us Mahon had directed him to stay with
the family and to field all incoming calls. Whatever the reason, I was
glad Joe stayed with us.

I remember that night as a series of telephone calls
punctuated by bowls of Murtagh's soup. Barbara's chef had risen to
the occasion. He had sent a beef and barley potage so potent it could
have cured shingles, along with a loaf of fresh soda bread. I wasn't up
to more than a few spoonfuls of soup myself but it kept Dad going—
and Maeve and Joe, after Barbara left, carrying the empty carton with
her.

Around midnight Mahon himself showed up with his
sergeant and a medic in tow, in case we needed tranquilizing. I
needed something. I needed Jay. I refused medication. The medic
listened to Dad's heart. Mahon took a statement from me and a brief
corroboration from my father. Then he left, with the sergeant and
medic
en train
. Joe went back to the telephone.

After he sent his constable off to Liam's flat, Joe called the
American Embassy, which would no doubt notify the FBI. When he
had explained to me the extraordinary measures the Gardai were
taking to find my husband, Joe made it clear the abductors could
have taken Jay anywhere in the country. Though he thought it
unlikely they had left the island with him, they might have spirited
him across the border into Ulster. That possibility shook me to the
core.

Later, a messenger from Mahon came to the door with a
tape of the abductor's call and a cassette player. Joe played the tape
for me in the hope that I could identify the voice. All I knew was it
wasn't Liam's voice. Dad didn't recognize it either.

The caller sounded young and muffled. When he had
identified his group, a name that clearly meant no more to the police
than to anyone else, he announced that Jay was being held hostage.
He called Jay "your grand Yank detective," and spoke in vague but
menacing terms of justice and retribution. The call nauseated me in
its very banality. Up to that point I had hoped I was caught in a
nightmare. The tape made it all too real.

Mahon had set up an incident room at the church hall and
was mounting a world-class search for evidence of the abduction. He
had, Joe reported without a gleam of satire, called out the army and
set up a machine gun nest at the Killaveen crossroads. A roadblock
had been established at the other end of Suicide Lane, where it
joined the N11. There would be no more reporters in the bushes at
Stanyon—and no shortage of experienced searchers. They were going
to search the entire estate at first light.

"I assume they know what to look for." Maeve's lip curled.
She had made another pot of tea and brought it to the living room.
She sipped her own, delicately.

Joe's fists clenched. "If you know something else, out with
it."

"Are they looking for signs of the abduction, or are they
looking for Jay Dodge?"

He glowered. "Both."

"There's a hideaway somewhere in the woods."

"The folly? 'Twas torn down in the last century, and Mahon's
men have been all through the area twice. I've had enough of your
fantasies, Maeve. Give over."

I said, hesitant, "There is the mound." My own tea sat
untouched on the tray, cream scumming the surface.