The Angel (18 page)

hanging branch along the stream. “I didn’t overhear every

thing she said to you, but I gather she’s with the brothers and thinks the angel can bring good fortune.”

“She asked me to look for it on the summer solstice,”

Keira said.

“Because of the story itself—the angel first appears on the hearth on the night of the summer solstice. Someone else familiar with the story would know that.”

“And therefore could have picked the same night as I did to be out here.”

Just ahead, Keira spotted the ivy-enshrouded ruin through the trees, the cave-in making it easier not to miss. She stifled a sudden sense of dread, noticing that Simon hadn’t slackened his pace at all.

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But he paused just then and glanced back at her. “You okay?”

She nodded, ignoring a tightening in her throat and chest.
Concentrate on figuring this thing out.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, continuing on up the hill. “And I suspect the collapse itself might have exposed the angel. What if it was buried in the ruin?”

“Then the question is what caused the cave-in at that precise moment?”

“Someone poking around the same as me. But,” she said, standing just below the tree that had fallen across the ruin’s only door, “why leave me out here trapped inside the rubble?”

Simon’s eyes darkened. “Good question. Have you told the story to anyone besides Professor Dermott?”

She shook her head. “I can’t speak for Patsy, though.”

“Who all knows you were coming out here to research an Irish story?”

“I’ve made no secret of it, but I haven’t given the details to many people. The location of my cottage, for instance. I’m aware I’m here on my own.”

As she tried to get a better look at a heap of rubble, Keira almost stepped on a tuft of sheep’s wool in the tall grass. She repressed a sudden wave of the revulsion she’d felt last night when she’d realized she was covered in blood.

“Keira?”

“Just getting my bearings,” she said, choking back the memory.

Simon eased closer to her, coming within an inch of his arm brushing against hers. “Do you remember any details now that you’re back here?”

With her back to the ruin, Keira looked at the stream, sunlight and shade dancing on the clear, shallow water.

“It’s an enchanting spot, isn’t it?” But when he didn’t 166

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answer, she turned again, squinting at the dead tree, the par

tially-collapsed chimney. “I didn’t sneak out here—I wasn’t singing or anything, but I wasn’t worried about anyone hearing me, either. Once I saw the dog, I was pre

occupied with him. I certainly made enough noise if someone else was out here and didn’t want to be seen. As for the sheep…” She grimaced. “It wasn’t an act of nature that killed that poor animal.”

“We don’t have enough to go on to say for sure. Let’s let the police get out here and see what they say.”

She stared at the remains of the tiny hut. “It wasn’t my imagination that started this place collapsing on top of me.”

“No, it was probably your crawling around in an unstable structure without the proper knowledge or equip

ment.” Simon’s tone was more matter of fact than critical.

“You were worried about the dog and not paying attention.”

“That doesn’t explain the angel. Maybe someone pur

posely started the cave-in to trap me, then figured I was dead or at least incapacitated and stole the angel. If it’s an authen

tic early Celtic statue, it’s valuable.”

“And if it’s solid rock, it’s also heavy.”

“It’s only about two feet tall. I doubt it’s that heavy.”

“So this ‘someone,’ whoever it is, crawls into the hut after it collapsed, grabs the angel and—”

Keira shook her head. “Not
after
the cave-in, while it was happening. I saw the angel during a brief lull in the collapse. After it started up again, I couldn’t see much—I was huddled under the loft trying to keep rocks and rafters from falling on my head. Someone could have grabbed the angel and crawled out in the middle of the action.”

“Risky,” Simon commented.

“Opportunistic, too.” She gestured to the tree blocking the door. “I’ll bet he—or she—toppled the tree, deliber

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ately or accidentally, on the way out, then headed for my cottage and stole my note to delay my rescue or the dis

covery of my body.”

“Any candidates?”

“No.”

She was aware of Simon watching her and turned toward him, noticing that his eyes were as green as the vegetation on their lush hillside. She felt a drop of rain on her hair. The wind was picking up. She could hear it howling up on the exposed hills. The police would be here soon, and she’d have to go through it all again—why she’d come out here, what had happened, every detail of the past two days. Her gaze fell on a smear of dried blood in the disturbed ground by the fallen tree, and she turned abruptly and ran, thrashing up the hillside through the mass of trees and under

growth. She came to a barbed-wire fence, barely breaking her stride as she clambered over it.

The wind was fierce out in the open. She could hear sheep bleating nearby, and as she stood on a rock jutting out of the ground, she could see the harbor far below, fishing boats, a pricey-looking sailboat. Crossing her arms in a gust of wind, she squinted out at the jagged MacGillicuddy Reeks across the bay, soon, no doubt, to be consumed in gray clouds and fog.

Simon stood next to her. “We’ll wait here for the guards,” he said calmly.

The Garda, Keira thought. The Irish police.
“A Garda
Siochana,”
she said, half to herself. “I’m butchering the pro

nunciation, but it means Guardians of the Peace. I like that.”

“Keira…”

“I’m okay. I had a mini panic attack.” She stepped off her rock, wishing again for warmer attire. “I have to go back to Boston. At least for a few days. I want to check with Patsy to 168

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make sure she didn’t leave out a part of the story that might help me make sense of what happened here, and I want to talk to Colm Dermott. I can’t—” She broke off, then resumed. “I have to figure out what happened at that ruin, Simon. I can’t stay here for six more weeks without knowing.”

“All right. I’ll get you back to Boston. Today, if you’d like.”

She nodded. “I would. Thank you. I’m not as rested today as I’d hoped I’d be.”

Her fatigue wasn’t just due to the aftereffects of her ex

perience in the ruin or her nightmare. It was also due to her night in bed with him, waking up in his arms—even if she’d been clawing imagined slugs and spiders off him. She’d come within a split second of asking him to make love to her.

Another reason, she thought, to head to Boston. Simon took a breath. “Hell, Keira.”

She didn’t know whether she made the first move or he did, but suddenly she was in his arms. His mouth found hers, and she let go of all her tension and threw her arms around his neck, deepening their kiss. She loved the taste of him, the feel of his hard body against hers, the warmth of him in the cold, damp wind.

He lifted her off her feet. The hem of her shirt rode up, and he spread his hands on the bare skin of her lower back, sending a jolt of pure desire straight through her. She pressed herself into him, was sure she heard him give a moan of a yearning as wild and uncontrolled as her own. A gust of wind blew down from the hills, and more sprinkles fell, the combination of the cold air and water with the heat of their kiss setting every nerve in her body on fire. Sensations coursed through her. She’d never re

sponded to anyone the way she did Simon. She wanted to

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run her hands through his hair, taste every part of him, feel him inside her. And it wasn’t just adrenaline, or being out on an Irish hill—she’d had a strong reaction to him the moment she’d spotted him in Boston.

“I’d love to go back to the cottage,” she said between kisses. “A storm’s brewing. We could forget all this mess…”

But even as she spoke, he was lowering her back onto the cool, damp ground, and she steadied herself and caught her breath as she adjusted her shirt and looked out across the barren landscape.

Just as well they’d stopped when they did, Keira thought, because now she could see two men walking toward the ruin.

“The guards have arrived,” Simon said with a hint of amusement.

“In the nick of time, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hardly.” And, as if to make his point, he gave her a fast, fierce kiss. “We’ll pick up where we left off another time. We’re not finished.”

Keira didn’t respond, just ran toward the two Irish police officers and waved to them, hoping they’d have answers. Perhaps they’d tell her they’d just arrested someone who’d been out killing sheep and terrorizing tourists. But she knew that was unlikely, because the answers weren’t in Ireland.

They were in Boston.

Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts

10:00 a.m., EDT

June 23

Using a screwdriver she’d borrowed from Bob O’Reilly, Abigail opened a gallon can of blue paint she’d put on news

paper in her bedroom. A grainy black-and-white picture of Victor Sarakis stared up at her, as if to remind her that the investigation into his death was not yet finished. She tried to focus on the paint. “Do you like the color?”

she asked Owen, who watched her from the doorway.

“It’s a nice shade.”

He didn’t give a damn about paint. She knew he didn’t, but she still had to ask. She wanted him to like it, to have some role—however small—in its selection. He’d arrived back in Boston last night from Austin. Her gaze drifted to the double bed—anything larger wouldn’t fit in the tiny room. She hadn’t bothered to make it. The sheets were tangled from their lovemaking.

“If you want a different color,” she said, “now’s the time to speak up.”

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“Blue’s good. I can help—”

“It’s so small in here, we’d just bump into each other and get paint all over everything.” She lifted off the lid, set it on Victor’s face and put down the screwdriver, picking up the wood stirrer that came with the paint. “I’m not kicking you out.”

“I know you’re not.”

Did he? She wasn’t sure anymore. “I’m preoccupied with a case.” She dipped the stick into the paint and smiled, or tried to. “I’ve got the devil on my mind.”

She’d been reading Charlotte Augustine’s book on the history of the devil last night when Owen had arrived. “It’s your day off,” he said. “You could sit in a lounge chair, drink wine and read Jane Austen.”

“Sounds tempting.” There were a thousand things she could do besides paint the bedroom.

“Simon’s on his way back here with Keira,” Owen said.

“Bob told me when I went out for the paper. He’s been beside himself. I guess I don’t blame him. It’s weird, Keira coming on the body in the Public Garden and now this mess in Ireland.” Abigail shoved the stick into the paint. “I don’t like coincidences.”

“Is there any reason to think the two are connected?”

“No.”

When she didn’t go on, Owen drew himself up straight from the door frame. “There are a couple of things I need to do at the foundation. Nothing important. Fiona O’Reilly and her friends are coming back to practice. If you want to, stop by later.” He smiled. “We can dance an Irish jig.”

Abigail felt a little of the tension go out of her. “Do you know how?”

“No, but maybe Bob could teach us.”

“That I’d like to see.”

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She stirred the paint. It was such a great color. She’d picked it out while Owen was out of town. He could afford decorators, but she couldn’t, not on a detective’s salary. And she didn’t want to. She’d had visions of redecorating the bedroom together, but it wasn’t working out that way. Without looking at him, she continued. “Bob’s annoyed with me. I sat outside last night reading a history of Satan while I waited for you. The man who drowned the other night was obsessed with devil imagery.”

“Bob thinks you’re wasting your time?”

“I’m bucking him and everyone else I work with. We’re all under pressure to improve our percentage of solved cases, and this one—it’s not even a case at this point, really. The pre

liminary work’s done. I should wait for the full autopsy report. It could be a couple more weeks.”

“You think you should wait, or everyone else thinks you should?”

“Both.” She lifted the stirring stick out of the paint and scraped the excess off on the edge of the can. “Something’s not right about this man’s death, Owen.”

“In other words, as the lead detective, you don’t believe waiting for the autopsy report is in the best interests of your investigation.”

“That’s a better way to put it than to tell me I’m just being difficult.” She looked up at him from her paint can.

“I love you, Owen. You know that, don’t you?”

“Never a doubt. Abigail—”

She jumped in before he could finish. “The color will darken when it dries.”

“It’ll be perfect. But you’re not going to paint today, are you?”

She rolled back onto her heels, not responding right away. One of the many things she loved about him was his

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insight—she didn’t have to constantly explain herself. “I haven’t decided. I admit I’m preoccupied. I can’t shake this Sarakis thing. I keep thinking I’m missing something, and someone’s going to end up hurt if I don’t figure out what.”

“Do what you have to do today, Abigail.”

“We’re grilling tonight. Keira and Simon will be here by then, won’t they?”

Owen nodded. “I’m picking them up at the airport.”

“I don’t like this, Owen. I’m glad to know the Irish police are investigating. What if some nut followed Keira to Ireland and tried to kill her? It could all be a bizarre mix of accident, coincidence and her imagination. But I’d want to know more if I were an Irish detective.”