Keeper's Reach (19 page)

Martin didn’t look as enthusiastic about having Oliver join him, but he said nothing. He refused Oliver’s offer of a ride back to the farm. Martin had wanted fresh air and had walked on his own to the pub, but he would get a ride back from a friend, after he finished nursing his pint—and, Finian suspected, a whiskey, once he and Oliver had gone on their way.

* * *

“Tell me about Saint Brigid,” Colin said, alert and intense when Finian called to tell him what else he’d learned.

He sat in front of the fire in the living room while Oliver fetched glasses and more whiskey. Ruthie had left a plate of cold meat, cheese, grapes and apples, but Finian wasn’t hungry and doubted Oliver was, either. The news about the package contents and Martin’s encounter with Agent Kavanagh hadn’t gone over well with Colin—largely, Finian suspected, because they gave him no clue as to where Emma was.

“Saint Brigid’s story is intertwined with myth, legend and folklore,” Finian said. “She shares many of the same characteristics as the Celtic goddess Brigid. A traditional Saint Brigid’s cross is made of reeds. It’s often placed above a door to protect the house from fire. Saint Brigid was a contemporary of Saint Patrick. It’s said he heard her final vows when she entered the convent. She was a woman of great learning, spirituality, compassion and charity. She founded many convents but is most known for her convent in Kildare.
Cill Dara
in Irish. The Church of the Oak. The oak, of course, is sacred to pagan Celts.”

“She’s the patron saint of farmers, isn’t she?” Colin asked.

“Farmers, babies, the children of unwed parents, the children of abusive fathers, sailors, poets—it’s a long list. Saint Brigid also founded a school of art in Kildare that produced some of the most elaborate illuminated manuscripts of the time. The Book of Kildare is said to rival or exceed the Book of Kells in beauty and craftsmanship, but it disappeared three hundred years ago. Some say it actually is the Book of Kells. No matter now.” Finian tried to ease his death grip on his phone. “I don’t know if any of this helps, Colin.”

“I don’t, either. I doubt we’re dealing with someone who’s fixated on Saint Brigid. Did anyone else know about the cross?”

Finian had asked Oliver that same question on their return from the pub. “Oliver says he didn’t tell anyone, including Emma. His studio is locked but there is no alarm system.”

“And Kavanagh—he didn’t mention the package, the cross, sheepskins?”

“Not to Martin, at least not that he recalls. His memory is still uncertain.”

“All right. Thanks, Fin. I have to go.”

Oliver appeared with the whiskey and glasses as Colin disconnected and Finian pried his fingers loose from the phone, setting it on the side table.

“The iconography, mysteries and legends of Brigid of Kildare and the possible whereabouts of our missing Emma.” Oliver opened the whiskey, a newly introduced Bracken Distillers expression that Finian’s twin brother, Declan, particularly liked. “That will keep us occupied well into the evening.”

“Oliver, if you have any idea what’s happened to Emma—”

“I wish I did, Finian.”

Without further comment, Oliver poured the whiskey.

20

Southern Maine
Coast
Friday, 3:00 p.m., EST

Mike was chatting with Serena and Jamie Mason in the lobby, getting a feel for Cooper Global Security and its president and CEO from their point of view, when his mother called. He excused himself, ignoring Jamie’s grin. “A call from Mom, huh?” Serena elbowed her husband, reminding him that she’d give anything if she could talk to her mother, who’d died last year.

Mike stepped outside. “What’s up?”

“Mike, what’s going on?” Rosemary Donovan had her mother radar on. “Franny Maroney was just here with Emma’s cell phone. She found it while she was out walking. It was on a sidewalk near St. Patrick’s. She said Kevin was out there.”

“Have you talked to Colin?”

“Yes. I called him first. He said to tell you he would be delayed. He and Kevin are on their way over here.”

Mike didn’t bother asking why Franny hadn’t given Kevin the phone when she saw him. Franny was the widowed grandmother of Andy’s girlfriend, Julianne, a marine biologist doing an internship in Ireland. The Maroneys had their ways.

“Mike,” his mother said, “if you know what’s going on—”

“I haven’t heard anything. If something’s up, Kevin and Colin are taking care of it. If you need to know, they’ll tell you.”

“I already know.”

Mike wasn’t arguing with her. He got off the phone with her and called Colin. “What do I need to know?”

Colin didn’t answer at once. “I can’t find Emma.”

“Talk to me.”

“She canceled the convent and missed an appointment with Sister Cecilia. Car’s at the house.”

And now Franny Maroney had found Emma’s phone. It could mean a lot of things, not all of them bad, but Mike could guess where Colin’s mind must have gone. His had gone there, too. Emma was in trouble. Mike listened intently as Colin told him about the package Oliver York sent to the rectory and Finian Bracken’s side trip to the York farm.

“I know Naomi MacBride and Ted Kavanagh were there yesterday,” Colin said. “I need to see about Emma’s phone. Give me an hour. Mike...” His brother inhaled. “Would you recognize a Saint Brigid’s cross if you saw one?”

“Sure. Franny Maroney had us make Saint Brigid’s crosses in Sunday school when I was ten. She keeps one over her front door. Wards off evil spirits or something.”

“If you run across a silver Saint Brigid’s cross, call me. Keep this quiet. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Colin was gone. Mike slid his phone into his jacket pocket.

A Saint Brigid’s cross?

He thought of Emma. They hadn’t hit it off at first. He’d pictured Colin with a woman less complicated, and he hadn’t wanted to see his brother hurt. But he’d seen Colin’s love for her—and her love for him—and had throttled back on his distrust, and she’d won him over.

He could see her over the holidays, baking pies with his mother, laughing at all of his father’s stupid jokes.

Mike’s throat tightened. He liked Emma. He hoped her disappearance would turn out to be miscommunication. A phone she hadn’t realized she’d dropped. A call she didn’t know she needed to make.

Wherever she was, Mike wanted her back with Colin, safe and sound.

He went down the hall to the library. Reed was at a table, working on his laptop. “I’m finishing up a few things before I strap on my snowshoes,” he said. “We should be able to get in a good trek before sunset. Am I going to burn down the place with that fire? Feels hot.”

“It’s fine,” Mike said.

“I like it here this time of year better than I thought I would. It’s a good choice after London. I think it’s going to work out for us to provide security for Naomi’s doctors.” Reed tapped a few keys then looked up at Mike. “You should join us. The pay is good, and the work is good. Do what you’re good at. You’d work on a contract basis, not as a full-time employee. You can do your wilderness guide work in summers. Work with us when you can.”

Mike stepped away from the fire. It was hotter than what he was used to, but it wouldn’t burn down the place. “Other people know how to do what I do.”

Reed shook his head. “I don’t trust other people the way I trust you.”

“If you trust me, then you can tell me what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you make of Naomi’s tale today?”

“About the Brit who fell? I had nothing to do with that,” Reed said, dismissive. “Doing this work, Mike—it’s who you are. You can keep people from getting hurt. I’m not in this just for the money, although the money is damn good.”

“You’re here because of your company,” Mike said.

“Why else?”

“You brought an FBI agent.”

“I didn’t bring him. He came. I’m wide-open to talking to Kavanagh or anyone else with his kind of résumé.”

“Reed, if you’re in some kind of trouble, you should talk to Colin. He’ll be here soon.”

He shifted to the fire, his cheeks flushed from the heat. “What if our FBI agent is the problem?”

“Then all the more reason to talk to my brother.”

“I was speaking hypothetically. There is no problem, Mike. I like how you think. I like that you ask questions and don’t take anything for granted or at face value, but one thing at a time.” Reed pointed at the fire. “Sure it’s okay?”

“I’m sure,” Mike said.

He returned to his room and grabbed his coat. He stood still, listening, but he didn’t hear Naomi in her Lady Slipper room. He’d left her in the lounge, contemplating whiskey and snowshoeing, when he went to talk to the Masons. He hadn’t noticed where she’d gone from there.

He headed back down to the lobby and ducked outside to meet Colin when he arrived. He might not always appreciate his mother’s instincts, but he trusted them—and he’d heard the tension in his brother’s voice himself.

Ted Kavanagh had the trunk of his rental car open. “I didn’t know if I would be staying the night,” he said when Mike approached him. “Might as well.”

“Need a hand with anything?”

“All set, thanks.” He got out a battered, soft-sided suitcase and set it on the ground. “What’s on your mind, Mike? Having Reed and the rest of us here on your home turf has you on edge, doesn’t it?”

Mike shrugged. “From the sounds of it, it would have been easier to fly me to England. Who are you investigating, Agent Kavanagh?”

“I love that kind of question. The only good answer is for you to trust me.”

“Why should I trust you? Because you’re an FBI agent?”

“That’s a place to start.”

“Colin’s on his way here. Are you investigating him, Agent Kavanagh?”

“My presence here has nothing to do with him. I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Kavanagh shut his car trunk and picked up his suitcase. “Look, Mike, I get where you’re coming from, but you need to focus on what’s good for you. Figure out if you have a future with Cooper Global Security.”

“Will do, Agent Kavanagh.” Mike tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but he’d decide what he needed, not this FBI agent. “Naomi didn’t report the incident with this guy in England to the local police. Do you have an obligation to report it?”

“I’m not a witness. I was already on my way to Heathrow when she was helping this guy. What, do you think Naomi attacked him?” Kavanagh frowned, studying Mike. “Do you think
I
attacked him?”

“I think you know more than you’re saying. Doesn’t mean you’re lying.”

“Butt out of my business, Mike.”

Mike didn’t know Kavanagh well from Afghanistan, but he was inclined to cut him some slack because he was an FBI agent. “Have you stayed in touch with Reed since Kabul?”

“I’ve stayed in touch on and off with everyone but you, Mike. Look, I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve had a tough couple of years on the job. I’m looking at new opportunities.”

“Reed’s outfit is one of them?”

“Maybe. He and I got on well in Afghanistan. I want this thing to work out for him. He’s one of the good guys and he does good work. I know something about private contractors, and I’ve no objection to Reed going out on his own.” Kavanagh shivered, the cold turning his nose and cheeks red. “Reed was right when he said trust and reputation are everything in this work. I wouldn’t want him tainted because of his old loyalties.”

“To me, you mean,” Mike said, toneless.

“It’s not a knock on you if I did, but I don’t mean anyone specifically. More guys are arriving tomorrow—more ex-soldiers with solid résumés. I’m not ingratiating myself with Reed, but if I could keep him from making a mistake, I would. I would do the same for Naomi, too. She has a sterling reputation. One wrong move could ruin her.”

“That’s why you followed her to this English village? You were keeping her from tripping over her own shoelaces?”

“Maybe I was.”

“You don’t like the idea of Reed recruiting me,” Mike said.

“That’s up to him. My opinion? Your heart’s not in the work, Mike. I can see it. There’s a difference between now and when you were in the army.”

“No argument from me.”

“Naomi’s heart was never in the work. She’s always been chasing her father’s ghost. She knows what she’s doing and she does it well. Her commitment is real but it’s not like Reed’s. He’s in this to win. He wants to go big.”

“You told Naomi she’s playing with fire,” Mike said.

“She is. She needs to stick to her volunteer doctors and clients like them—people she can feel good about helping. You can tell her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

Mike doubted that.

Kavanagh nodded to the inn’s entrance. “A chair by a fire is calling to me. I’m going to take a nap. How’s that for excitement? Jet lag didn’t use to faze me but I’m beat.”

“You’ll miss snowshoeing.”

“Hard to believe you have a sense of humor, Mike. Tell your brother I said hello.”

“I’m not stopping him if he wants to get you up from your nap.”

Kavanagh grinned. “I think I know the mood he’s in. Is his fiancée with him?”

“She’s taking a long weekend with friends.”

“That opens up more questions than it answers. See you later, Mike.”

Kavanagh went into the inn. Mike shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, although he wasn’t cold. He wasn’t jet-lagged, either. He didn’t need a damn nap.

If having Colin as a brother and Emma as an imminent sister-in-law nixed his chances to work with Reed, that was fine with him, Mike thought. Did everyone else here believe it would be fine with him?

Didn’t matter.

Back in November, he figured Oliver York, aka Oliver Fairbairn, for an art thief the Sharpes had been hunting. He didn’t have to know the details, and he didn’t care one way or the other if York was arrested—by the Brits, the FBI or some other law enforcement agency. His fate was of zero concern to Mike.
Unless
it affected the safety and the good reputation of his brother and his fiancée.

And Naomi?

As she’d pointed out, they were even. She’d saved his life. He’d saved her life.

In between, they’d made love a few times.

He gritted his teeth, remembering her laughter. He could see her under him, biting her lower lip as they made love. The woman who’d shown up at his parents’ inn was the same Naomi MacBride he had fallen for three years ago. Smart, fearless and more vulnerable than she would ever admit—to herself or anyone else.

We’re all vulnerable
,
Mike thought. It wasn’t a big deal to him. It was a fact.

He wasn’t falling for her again.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Mike was in Naomi’s room. He’d grabbed a passkey at the front desk. Serena and Jamie weren’t keeping watch, and he knew his way around inns. Plus he didn’t care if he got caught.

The bedding was rumpled. He chose not to picture Naomi taking a catnap.

He checked her suitcase. No wheels, but a ton of zippers and compartments. Usual stuff for a business trip to London. He didn’t unzip her packing cube with her lingerie. If she had something illicit tucked in there, so be it.

Her laptop was in its own compartment, in a padded sleeve. He left it there. It would be password protected, and he only wanted to do a quick check for anything obvious. Anything that suggested she was cooking up trouble—or in trouble.

He found a brochure of the Aoife O’Byrne show at the gallery in London, with her photo and bio and “Oliver York? Finian Bracken?”
handwritten on the back.

Fin Bracken was at Oliver York’s farm, where Naomi had found a man injured. The package had gone out by then. Now it was missing, and Emma was missing.

Mike didn’t find a Saint Brigid’s cross in Naomi’s suitcase, or anywhere in her room.

He went to a glass door that opened onto a balcony. His room didn’t have a balcony—not that it was balcony weather. He noticed a movement below him and smiled.
Naomi.
She was on the walkway out from the main back porch with a pair of snowshoes and poles. She tossed them all onto the walk and put her hands on her hips as if she didn’t have a clue what to do next. But she’d figure it out. She might not be thrilled with the cold New England winter, but she was game for anything.