The Angel (12 page)

Just as well no one was coming to her rescue, she thought, pulling on the sapling carefully, dislodging it an inch at a time. At the first sign of falling rock and debris, she’d duck back into her corner.

She couldn’t see the stone angel from her position under the loft—let alone reach it—but once she was free, she’d investigate from outside the ruin. Had the cave-in crushed the angel?

Or had the fairies come for it?

Keira smiled at the thought. Another hour—two hours at most—and she’d be free.

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
8:00 p.m., IST

June 22

Turn onto lane just past pub.

Look for pink roses and a small traditional stone
cottage on right.

Owen’s directions to Keira Sullivan’s rented cottage were minimal, but as he drove into her tiny village on Kenmare Bay, Simon had no reason to believe they were inadequate. Josie Goodwin had arranged a sporty car for him at the Kerry County airport, but he’d paid for it himself. He’d only go so far in accommodating her boss’s need to repay Simon for saving his life. Simon wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Will Davenport, but he wasn’t a pauper, either.

This was a personal favor to Owen, not Fast Rescue business.

Simon had spent a fair amount of time in Ireland, for both business and pleasure, and enjoyed the narrow, 110

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twisting roads out to the Beara Peninsula. He recalled someone telling him that birds from North America would occasionally cross the Atlantic by mistake and end up crash-landing on Dursey Island at the tip of the Beara. Having himself occasionally ended up in foreign lands he hadn’t realized he’d set out for, Simon could well imagine the lost birds suddenly finding themselves in an Irish sheep pasture instead of on a Brooklyn street. With only one pub in the village where Keira had set up housekeeping, the lane was easy to find. Simon slowed as he came to a small, picture-perfect tra

ditional stone cottage with masses of pink roses and wild

flowers. It had to be Keira’s rental. He pulled into a dirt driveway behind a parked Micra—presumably her rental—

and got out, pausing a moment to get a feel for the place. A fine mist had left water droplets on the grass and flowers. The air was cooler, windier down the peninsula. The cottage was unlit. As he approached the front door, he saw no sign of anyone home. Just in case, he knocked loudly. “Keira? It’s Simon Cahill.”

He waited, but the silence continued.

The door was unlocked. Now here, he thought, was a problem.

But it wasn’t much of a lock, and an intruder could have gotten inside easily. Still, an unlocked door was an invita

tion to trouble. He pushed open the door and flipped on a light switch along the inside wall.

An overhead light glowed on the vibrant yellow painted walls of a single main room that combined the living and kitchen areas. Probably helped on dark and dreary days, Simon thought, noting the comfortable furnishings—over

stuffed sofa and chair covered in bright flowers, side tables stacked with books, a sturdy-looking pine table with two

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pine chairs. The table was spread with colored pencils, oil pastels, sharpeners, erasers, pads and sheets of sketch paper. He opened a medium-size sketchbook, expecting pretty, whimsical scenes of bucolic Ireland. Instead, he found three dark, atmospheric sketches of what he supposed was, or at least was inspired by, the rugged local scenery. As he started to shut the sketchbook, Simon noticed a tiny, cheerful red gnome sitting on a fence post in the top drawing. He had to smile. This was a touch of the quirky, fair-haired Keira he’d expected to find. He checked the kitchen. The electric kettle was un

plugged, cold and empty. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. No food left out. He opened up the small fridge—no clues there, either. She had a stash of butter, cheese, bread, milk, coffee, half a cucumber, carrots, two apples. He looked for a note detailing her whereabouts, but found none.

Helping himself to one of the apples, Simon headed for the bedroom. More vibrant paint—fuchsia this time. A double bed, its flowered duvet neatly pulled up over the pillows. Inside the closet were a couple of blouses and one skirt on hangers, a well-worn brocade satchel suitcase, a pair of sport sandals on the floor and a robe—white, silky—on a hook. He supposed his missing illustrator could have another suitcase, a smaller one for quick side trips. But why leave behind her robe?

He pulled open the drawers of the tall pine chest. More clothes, sturdy stuff for hikes in the countryside.

“Well, Keira, where are you?”

Simon gazed out the window at the beautiful, remote landscape. She could have taken the bus to Dublin for a few days, or she could have headed out into the hills for a ramble and slid off a cliff into the Atlantic. Who the hell knew? 112

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Stifling his annoyance at her poor planning, he flipped through a stack of receipts and brochures on top of the dresser. He didn’t find any type of note or letter or even doodle indicating where she was—nothing that would help him locate her.

He headed back outside, grabbing his rain jacket out of his car—one didn’t travel to Ireland without rain gear—

and ambled off down the lane in the moonlight. Keira had picked herself a spot right out of an Irish fairytale, that was for certain.

The village pub was lit up and lively with food, drink and conversation among a mix of tourists and locals. Simon eased onto a barstool and ordered coffee. It was getting dark on the peninsula, and he needed to keep a clear head. “My name’s Simon Cahill,” he told the sandy-haired barman. “I’m trying to locate Keira Sullivan.”

The barman—presumably the Eddie O’Shea who’d spoken to her uncle—tilted his head back and eyed Simon with open suspicion. “You’ve come all the way from America?”

“London.” Simon didn’t object to O’Shea’s obvious protectiveness. “Keira’s uncle asked me to look in on her through a mutual friend. You talked to the uncle earlier. Boston detective.”

“His name?”

“Bob O’Reilly. To be honest, I don’t know him well.”

O’Shea seemed satisfied. “Keira sat right where you are two nights ago.”

“Did she say she was going anywhere?”

“She said she was looking forward to the summer solstice.”

Simon recalled overhearing the old woman in Boston mentioning the summer solstice. It had something to do with her story about the angel, the brothers, the fairies. He

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wished he’d done a more thorough job of eavesdropping on what all she and Keira had said to each other. O’Shea filled a coffee press with fresh grounds and hot water and set it and a mug on the bar, then pulled a pitcher of cream from a small refrigerator and plopped it next to the coffee. “Keira likes to roam about the countryside.”

Simon pushed down the press, then poured the coffee. It smelled kick-ass strong, and he added as much cream as he could without overflowing the mug. “Has she ruffled any local feathers?”

“Not that I would know. She’s only been here a short time, but I can see she’s one who goes her own way.”

“She left her cottage unlocked.”

“Now, why would you care about that? Think someone around here would rob her?”

“You never know.”

Eddie O’Shea grew red in the face. “
I
know.”

Simon was neither embarrassed nor offended by the barman’s strong reaction. “Any idea where she is?”

“There’s no telling.”

“She give you any hints?”

Calmer now, O’Shea shook his head. “She likes to pull my leg about fairies and leprechauns. I told her I’ve no use for that nonsense.”

“Would you say she’s careful, takes normal precautions?”

“I suppose that depends on what you’d call normal, wouldn’t it, Mr. Cahill? It’s the wet and the cold and the rock I worry about. One slip.” O’Shea snapped his fingers.

“That’d do it.”

It would, indeed, Simon thought.

“I have to say…” O’Shea grabbed Simon’s coffee press and set it on the work counter behind him. “Never mind.”

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Simon waited a moment, but when the barman didn’t go on, he nudged. “What were you going to say, Mr. O’Shea?”

“I don’t recall telling you my name.”

Simon recognized that he was being tested and decided not to play games with the man. “You didn’t. You told Keira’s uncle in Boston.”

O’Shea sighed, less confrontational. “Keira had some

thing on her mind. She didn’t tell me any details, and I didn’t ask.” He snatched up a white cloth and mopped the spotless, gleaming bar. “For all I know, she’s off to kiss the Blarney Stone or some damn thing.”

“If necessary, can you help me pull together a search team at first light?”

“I can.”

Simon drank a bit more of his coffee and started to pay for it, but O’Shea waved off any money. “Thanks,” Simon said quietly, sensing the man’s worry. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

So far, it was proving to be a cheap trip to Ireland. He headed outside, debating his options. He assumed everyone else in the pub had eavesdropped on his conversation with O’Shea and would have volunteered information on Keira if they had any.

Simon noticed a man in simple farmer’s clothes smoking a cigarette at a picnic table by the pub entrance.

“Your girlie’s stirring up things best left alone.” His eyes were a piercing shade of blue, and his voice was steady, sober. “There are good spirits and evil spirits. Best to leave all of them be.”

“Did Keira talk about these spirits?”

The man smiled a little. “You have the look of an Irishman.”

That was all he had to say. He took one last drag on his cigarette, then got up and headed down the quiet street.

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Simon started to call after him, but before he could get a word out, the man had disappeared into the mist. As Simon walked back along the quiet lane, fog swept down from the hills, adding to the moodiness and the sense of remoteness of the place. Obviously, his AWOL

artist wasn’t a fainthearted type, but he had to admit he understood the draw of being out here alone. And it was the land of her ancestors and his, which had its own appeal—as well as its own dangers. Easy to get caught up in the romance of a place and think one was safe, protected. Lights in bungalows along the lane and down toward the harbor suggested life in the little village—families gathered in front of the television, getting cleaned up for the next day, settling in for the night. Simon had seldom known such normalcy himself.

When he returned to Keira’s rented cottage, he flipped through another sketchbook, pausing at a hasty-looking pencil drawing of a winding stream amid thick trees and lush undergrowth.

A real place, or a product of her obviously vivid imagination?

Simon turned to the next page. The stream again—this time, curling under a small wooden bridge on a dirt track running through open, rocky pasture.

He tore off the page, folded it and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

If the stream, the dirt track, the fence and the bridge existed, then Keira had drawn enough detail for him to find them—and, with any luck, her.

Beacon Hill

Boston, Massachusetts

4:00 p.m., EDT

June 22

Abigail joined Bob O’Reilly on the front steps of the Garrison house while Fiona and her friends practiced in the drawing room. “They’re on their millionth run-through of

‘Boil the Breakfast Early,’” Bob said. “One more time, and my fillings are going to start falling out.”

“I don’t know Irish music that well, but I like that song,”

Abigail said.

“It’s a happy tune, at least. The sad ones make me want to drive straight to the shooting range.”

“Ever take music lessons as a kid?”

“Fiddle. Hated it.”

“Irish dancing?” she asked.

“I’m taking the Fifth on that one.”

“I don’t know, Bob, I can see you as this little red

headed kid step dancing—”

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“I’m armed, Abigail.”

She leaned against the stair railing, feeling the heat and humidity building back in after a couple of dry days. “Any word from Simon?”

Bob shook his head. “You think I’m overreacting.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Any other time of year—any other place—” He broke off. “Keira’s never lived a simple life. A dead man in the Public Garden the other night, and now this.”

“Did you check with the Irish police? Any accident reports, unidentified—”

“No. I haven’t checked. I’m not going to. She’s fine.”

Abigail wasn’t sure what to say. “I imagine you’ll hear something from Simon soon. Owen says he’s one of Fast Rescue’s best, and he’s a disaster-preparedness consultant.”

Bob grunted. “Keira’s a damn disaster all by herself.”

“You don’t mean that, Bob. You’re just worried.”

Abigail tensed, noticing Charlotte Augustine walking up Beacon Street, clutching a book in one hand.

“What?” Bob asked.

“Never mind. Maybe you should go inside and see Fiona.”

He followed her gaze to Charlotte. “Who’s that?”

“Victor Sarakis’s sister. Look, let me deal with her—”

“What’s she doing here?”

“I don’t know, Bob,” Abigail said testily. “Will you just go inside and—”

“Nope. They’re playing a dirge now. I’m in a bad enough mood.” He nodded toward the street. “Go ahead. Pretend I’m not here.”

She didn’t argue with him, just descended the stairs and intercepted Charlotte. “Mrs. Augustine, what can I do for you?”

She was in her late forties, trim and average-looking 118

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except for badly dyed red-brown hair. She wore a crisp, conservative navy skirt suit that Abigail figured had to be hot for late June. They’d met yesterday at her and her husband’s house in Newton. It had been a short visit. Abigail still had nothing but gut instinct to indicate Victor Sarakis’s death wasn’t an accident. She’d left her card for Charlotte—which didn’t include the address for the Garrison house.