The Angel (13 page)

“I don’t mean to intrude, Detective Browning, but I thought I might find you here. I was at our showroom, trying to work. It’s difficult…” Her voice faltered. “I can’t get over what happened.”

Bob descended two steps. “Did Detective Browning ask you to meet her here?”

“Oh, no. No, no.” Charlotte’s faced reddened. “I just re

membered reading about her husband’s murder last summer and that he was connected to the Dorothy Garrison Foundation.”

“Her husband wasn’t killed last summer. Abigail figured out who killed him last summer. He wasn’t connected to the foundation, either. The man she’s—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Abigail said, jumping in before Bob explained her whole life to this woman.

Charlotte thrust the book she was carrying at Abigail.

“Here’s the history of Satan I mentioned yesterday.”

Abigail took it from her. “Thanks.” It was a weighty, musty tome. She glanced at the title. Sure, enough.
A
History of the Devil
was emblazoned on the cover in academic-looking type.

Bob leaned over her. “Not exactly light reading, is it?”

“It’s a thorough but basic history,” Charlotte said.

“Victor—I can’t explain why he was so fascinated by the subject. He’s the one who gave me the book.”

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“Birthday present?” Bob asked, neutral.

“No. I think he just wanted me to understand his interest. He liked to remind me that the devil is a single entity. People tend to forget there’s only one Satan. One devil. We think of him in multiples these days, though, don’t we? He’s become generic—a cliché.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Abigail said. “Mrs. Augustine, do you believe your brother’s obsession with the devil played a role in his death?”

Charlotte seemed hardly to hear the question. “I don’t know what to believe,” she said. “You’re a homicide de

tective. Do you consider most murders the devil’s work?”

“I don’t,” Bob interjected.

“It doesn’t matter what we think,” Abigail said. “Is that what your brother believed?”

“He never said.”

“When was the last time—”

“The last time we discussed the devil?” Charlotte gave a bitter laugh. “It’s all we ever talked about. Tell me, if God is all-powerful, why not rid us of Satan? Why not just defeat the devil and free us all of his influence?”

“Or she,” Bob said. “The devil could be a she, right?”

Charlotte didn’t even crack a smile. “The devil is God’s enemy, but he’s our enemy, too. Mankind’s enemy. He tempts, lures, cajoles, tricks. He takes many forms in order to do his evil. He’s always on the search for new minions—fresh and able diabolical followers.”

Bob rubbed the side of his mouth with one finger.

“That’s in the book, right?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “If God can’t defeat Satan, how can we mere humans hope to?” She smiled suddenly, as if she’d just realized she was starting to sound like a nut.

“I hope you find the book instructive, Detective Browning.”

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Abigail gave her a tight smile. “I’m sure I will.”

“I don’t really believe there’s a connection between my brother’s interest in evil and his death. I just—I don’t know. I suppose I’m hoping the book will give you a better ap

preciation of Victor’s interests the way it did me.”

“I understand, Mrs. Augustine.”

She seemed relieved, smiling again as she nodded toward the drawing room. “The music’s wonderful. Irish, isn’t it?”

Bob bristled visibly. “I don’t know much about music.”

“Of course,” Charlotte mumbled. “Well, I should be going. Thank you for your time.”

Abigail watched her for a moment before turning back to Bob. “I didn’t tell her to come here.”

“Good thing we were here. I wouldn’t want her dropping off a devil book with Fiona. You know, Abigail, it’s easier for someone with an anonymous life to be a detective.”

She had to admit that lately her life had been anything but anonymous. With her father’s high-profile job, it never had been, but people were used to it. They’d already factored in that she was the daughter of the current FBI director. But her husband’s shocking death—and the dis

covery of his murderer last summer—had kept Abigail in the news. Falling for a Garrison and the founder of Fast Rescue had only added to the complications of her life. Bob sighed at her book. “When the nuns started in on hell, damnation and the devil in catechism class, I’d sneak out to the drugstore and buy comics. You know, good guys, bad guys. Bad guys lose. Good guys win. Simple.”

“Nothing about Victor Sarakis strikes me as simple.”

“I’ve been at this job for a lot of years, and I’ve never once run into a murder committed by the devil. They’ve all been committed by human beings. Our job is to figure out which human beings. Period, end of story.”

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Fiona O’Reilly, in skinny jeans and a baggy Irish rugby shirt, appeared in the doorway behind him. “Dad?”

He turned sharply. “Hey, kid. You guys finished?”

“We’re taking a ten-minute break. Dad—who was that?”

“Just a woman who wanted to give Abigail a book.”

But Abigail saw that Fiona was pale, even scared.

“Fiona, do you know her?”

“No! I just—with your work and all…I was curious. Dad, you don’t have to wait for me if there’s something you need to do.”

Abigail kept the front cover of the book out of Fiona’s line of sight, but she hadn’t checked the back cover. For all she knew, it was decorated in the flames of hell and red, fork-tongued devils.

One devil,
she reminded herself
. The rest would be his
minions.

“There’s nothing I need to do,” Bob told his daughter. But he eyed her a moment, then said, “Fi, what’s up?”

She peered past him at the street. “Did she know the man who drowned?”

“He was her brother,” Abigail said.

Bob shot her a look, but Fiona gulped in a breath. “Did he have anything to do with the old woman and the priest who were here?”

“Fiona,” her father said. “What old woman and priest?”

His daughter’s eyes flickered on him, and color rose in her cheeks. “Nothing. Never mind. I forgot you and Abigail weren’t here. You didn’t see them—”

Abigail started up the steps. “Fiona, it’s okay. You can tell us. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing. If it’s something, we need to know.”

“It’s nothing—my mistake. Honestly.”

She wasn’t lying, Abigail decided, but she wasn’t telling 122

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all she knew, either. Bob had to see it, too. But he said,

“Come on, Fi, let’s go inside. You and your friends can play a tune and I’ll see if I can remember how to dance to it.”

Abigail reined in her impatience. “Bob—”

He glared at her over her shoulder. “Go home, Abigail. Read about the devil.” Then he gave her a strained grin.

“No way am I dancing an Irish jig in front of you.”

“If Fiona—”

“Leave my daughter to me.”

Abigail sighed, nodding. She saw the worry etched in his face and decided not to push him. “All right. Let me know if you hear from Simon, and I’ll do the same.”

He didn’t respond. As Fiona started back into the elegant house, she turned and glanced down the street, her face pale again, but she said nothing and neither did Abigail. By the time she was unlocking her car door, she could hear Irish music again and almost peeked into the windows, just to see if Bob O’Reilly was dancing.

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
9:15 p.m., IST

June 22

Keira heard a rustling sound outside the ruin and went still, her upper body on the loft, her hands gripping rafters and ivy. Her feet were balanced precariously on the length of branch she’d propped at the top of her makeshift ladder.

The black dog? A stray sheep?

Whoever had whispered her name last night?

“Keira!”

She was so startled, she nearly lost her footing. This wasn’t a creepy whisper—someone was obviously out looking for her.

Eddie O’Shea?

“Keira Sullivan—are you out here?”

Not Eddie. A man, though, but obviously an American, his voice steady, confident—and familiar, somehow. Her makeshift ladder teetered under her. It was just a 124

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matter of time—minutes, probably—before it gave way. When it did, she wanted to be safe on the loft, not hanging by her fingernails.

“It’s Simon. Simon Cahill.”

Keira lost her grip for a split second, catching herself and hanging on as she swore under her breath. Of all people. She wasn’t so far gone as to have conjured up a search-and-rescue expert, but did it have to be this one?

“We met the other night in Boston.”

Oh, indeed.

His presence meant that her uncle, for whom she’d long been a mystery if not a disappointment, had imme

diately kicked into worry mode after she’d missed her call to him. He must have gotten in touch with Owen, who in turn had gotten in touch with Simon in London. But Keira tried to stick to the practicalities of her situa

tion. Simon was a big guy. He knew how to pull people out of rubble. It would be dark soon. And it would be rude and ungrateful to let him wander past her when he’d taken the trouble—for whatever reason—to come out here to look for her.

Never mind any potential gloating on his part or stubborn pride on hers. She could use his help.

“I’m here!” she called. “By the stream—there’s a stone ruin…”

“Got it. What’s your situation?”

“There was a cave-in, and I got trapped in here. I’m not injured—I’m about to climb out through the loft.”

“Have you had food and water?”

“Yes. I’m doing fine.”

“Then let’s get you out of there.” He sounded controlled, capable—and very close now, somewhere on the back side of the hut. “Tell me where you are.”

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She explained her position. “There’s just one door and it’s blocked—”

“So I see. How the hell did that happen?”

“Beats me.” She didn’t want to get into Patsy’s story, the black dog, the voice, the angel—the fairies. She heard a creak and a thud, and in the next second, the ivy and muck a few feet above her gave way, creating a larger opening. Smoky light poured in. Simon peered down at Keira. “How’d you get up there?” he asked.

“I built a ladder.”

“Resourceful.”

“I don’t know if you can see, but I’m trying to scoot onto a loft. I’m not sure how stable it is.”

“Then why don’t I pull you out and we call it a night? I’d rather not have to come down there. The place looks as if it has rats.”

“No rats. Just spiders and slugs.”

“I don’t mind spiders, but I’d rather deal with rats than slugs.”

Keira guessed that he was deliberately trying to calm her nerves. She started to edge farther onto the loft, but she felt the branch lurch to one side under her. “I feel like Winnie the Pooh stuck in the entrance to the cave. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t go backward. But if I can just—”

“Hold on, okay? I’m dropping a rope down to you. I want you to grab it and hang on, then tie it around your waist. Can you do that?”

“Happily.”

“It’s not perfect, but it’s the best I can do, unless you want to wait for the local fire department—”

“I don’t want to wait.”

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She could feel his smile more than see it. “I didn’t think so.”

Simon lowered the rope through the opening, and she caught it, her hands weak and scraped from the hours of hauling, pulling, lifting and digging. “There’s a window—

if I can reach it, I can crawl out that way.”

“Not unless you really are a fairy princess and can change into a bird or a bat. It’s too small, probably smaller than you realize from your position.”

“I could climb up the rafters—”

“One thing at a time, Keira.”

She hung on to the rope. She didn’t know how she could tie it around her without further destabilizing the ladder and decided not to risk it. “How did you secure this rope? You’re not just holding on to it, are you? I don’t want you to hurt your back.”

He laughed. “No worries.”

This was his show, she thought. Between his succinct, efficient directions and her urgent desire to get out of there, she managed to creep farther up onto the loft. The ladder started collapsing, and before Keira could react, Simon reached one arm down through the opening and hauled her up and out onto the back wall of the hut, grabbing her around the middle before her momentum took her straight over the edge. Although the hut was wedged into the hill, there was still a drop to the ground. Simon was solid muscle, a big, broad-shouldered, bruiser of a man. She didn’t have to do a thing except breathe.

“Okay?” he asked.

She balanced next to him on ivy and old stone and mortar. “Yes, thanks.”

“Hang on one sec, and I’ll help you get down from here.”

Keira welcomed the feel of the breeze on her face, and

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she looked at Simon with his thick black hair, his green eyes—a clear, mesmerizing green, she thought. She’d noticed he was good-looking in Boston, but now, at dusk on a long June day, out on the southwest coast of Ireland, she was struck by how sexy he was. Being close to him was enough to make her throat catch.

He looked totally relaxed, as if he’d just wandered up from the village pub.

She quickly thrust the rope at him. “I can jump,” she said. He shook his head. “I don’t advise it—”

But she was already springing off the wall, and if he could have stopped her, he didn’t. She bent her knees and landed on her feet, letting herself drop onto her forearms into the tall grass at the base of an oak tree. She leaped to her feet, brushing herself off as she grinned up at Simon. “It’s good to be free.”