The Whisper (26 page)

Off the Iveragh Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

Josie recognized Percy Carlisle, unshaven, filthy, one hand cuffed to a bolt drilled into the rock wall of the cave. He’d been left with blankets, water, minimal food and modest portable toilet facilities—just enough for basic subsistence, an ordeal for anyone, never mind a man accustomed to the creature comforts as he was. But he was alive.

Traumatized and exhausted, the poor man couldn’t speak. His graying hair was matted to his skull, his skin pasty beneath the mud. Together, Josie and Myles got him out of the cave.

Tim O’Donovan had called the guards. He looked shaken, stunned by this development. Josie welcomed the stiff, cold, wet wind as she sat atop a boulder. “It wasn’t you who left him here, was it, Tim?”

He seemed to take no offense at her question. “No, and it wasn’t Sophie, either.”

Myles saw to Carlisle, checking his vital signs, talking quietly with him. Finally Carlisle rallied a bit. “I came out here to make my peace.”

“How did you know about the island, Percy?” Josie asked gently.

“Helen. Helen told me this was the island Sophie had explored. I remembered…” He paused, talking difficult for him. “I’d told Helen about what I’d heard—that Sophie was chasing a story with an Irish fisherman. I was so afraid we both had been used by Jay Augustine.”

“Go on, mate,” Myles said.

“I came out here at dawn. A woman was already on the island.” Percy’s voice was distant, hoarse. “She wore a red cape and she had long red hair. I didn’t get a good look at her face, but it wasn’t Sophie.”

“No, it was your wife,” Josie said bluntly. Of course, she thought. Helen Carlisle hadn’t gone straight back to the U.S. after all.

But she could see Percy had figured that out. “I married first and then asked questions. I was stupid because such a woman took an interest in me.”

Josie had it on the tip of her tongue to tell him that everyone made mistakes in love, but that was absurd. Not everyone was left handcuffed to a cave on an uninhabited island off the coast of Ireland.

His wife wanted Carlisle money and power.

“She’s a shape-shifter,” Percy said. “Helen. I don’t even know if that’s her real name.”

Boston, Massachusetts

Sophie was talking about magical cauldrons when Scoop entered the courtyard, staying out of sight. “You could use this cauldron for such good,” she said in a gentle, professorial tone. “It could rejuvenate this house. It could replenish your energy and power. You deserve to live a life of plenty after all you’ve endured.”

She stood next to a large cast-iron pot on a fire, herb-scented steam rising from the boiling water. Scoop had a good view of her from the edge of a trellis covered in ivy. He had his weapon drawn. Josie had texted him that she, Fletcher and Tim O’Donovan had found Percy Carlisle alive on the island.

“I am using the cauldron for good,” Helen Carlisle said, just out of his sight behind a potted tree. “Sacrifices must be made.
You of all people must know that, Sophie. The gods demand it.
I
demand it.”

“Your cauldron, Helen? Those baubles you’re wearing? Total fakes. That’s no Tara brooch on your cloak. Not even close. All the pieces in your sacred wood here are garbage. Trust me. I’m the expert. I know.”

“You’re lying,” Helen said, cool but clearly annoyed, agitated.

“I know you’re not stupid or crazy. You believe what you’re doing will get you what you want and deserve. You know exactly what will happen if the police catch you.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, that’s good, Sophie. Let me remind you that it’s a police officer passed out at my feet. It’s a police officer I’m going to sacrifice.”

“You tried and failed to kill him yesterday.”

Acosta, Scoop thought, edging closer to the cauldron. He could hear the water boiling. Acosta was out of sight, probably by the potted oak with the woman who was about to kill him. Sophie was obviously trying to save him, just as she had yesterday, this time by distracting his would-be killer. She touched her hair, one finger pointing very slightly in Scoop’s direction. It was enough. She knew he was there.

“Yesterday wasn’t a failure,” Helen said. “It was an opportunity.”

“Fire, earth, water. I get that. He surprised you at the museum. What were you doing, drawing your own blood? Butchering a squirrel?”

“You think you’re so smart, Sophie, don’t you?”

“Come out and let me show you why your artifacts are fakes and you’re a phony.”

“Frank’s ready now,” Helen said. “I don’t want him to feel pain. I used a drug this time, but I know how to exhaust him in other ways. We’d have sex out here in the garden when Percy was away.
We’d meet in the museum—right down the hall from where he almost died yesterday. He couldn’t get over my energy, my passion. You’ve never had that experience with a man, have you, Sophie?”

Sophie didn’t rise to the bait. “Did Cliff know?”

Helen snorted. “Oh, please. He wanted me, too. He thought about having me every waking moment. You wouldn’t know, of course. You’ve never had a man completely intoxicated with you.”

“Who will you have after you’ve sacrificed Detective Acosta?”

“Whoever I want. I’ll draw strength from Frank after he is dead. He’s asleep for now.” She paused, adding casually, “He’ll wake up when I get him into the cauldron. You’ll help me, Sophie. You have no choice.”

The branches on the oak moved, and Scoop saw a flash of red—Helen, with a 9 mm pistol leveled at Sophie.

“Drop the gun,” Scoop said, his weapon pointed at her.

She turned her pistol to him, and he fired.

Acosta was a mess when he came to. “Helen set up a slow death for me. She was going to roast me over a spit.”

“Worse,” Sophie said, pacing in front of the cauldron. She left it at that.

Scoop was more blunt and added the details she’d given him. “Helen was going to boil you, eat the meat off your bones and then drink the water.”

Acosta grimaced but said nothing. Scoop sat next to him on the brick courtyard. He’d secured the scene. They weren’t touching anything. The water was still bubbling in the pot a few yards away.

Without looking at either Scoop or Sophie, Acosta continued. “So here I am, looking into this bastard Augustine’s business to see if he’d been into trafficking of stolen art in addition to killing
people, when I run into Cliff. I get him assigned to work security at the showroom. He’d had a lousy career and his wife had left him and I figured I’d do him a good turn. He played me. It never occurred to me he was doing a little cash business with Augustine on the side. Then Helen shows up and I’m done. Head over heels. Gone.”

“Did you know Rafferty was involved with the thugs who kidnapped Abigail?”

“Not in time to do anything about it. I didn’t figure it out until too late. Augustine had hired them to do some work for him. That’s how Estabrook hooked up with them. Cliff let his failures eat at him. He couldn’t let go. All it took was those guys putting cash in his hands to place a bomb at your house.”

“Any of us could have been killed. Fiona O’Reilly was an innocent teenager.”

“Norman Estabrook paid a lot of money to those guys. Cliff was about cash and an island life. Me…” He glanced toward the potted oak trees. Sophie had explained that oaks were a sacred tree. “I was about Helen. Once she was in my life there was nothing else but her.”

Scoop figured now wasn’t the time to tell Acosta what a damn fool he’d been. “Following Sophie out to the island was Augustine’s idea, after Helen told him about the rumors Sophie was investigating a story Tim O’Donovan had told her.”

“Augustine loved scaring the hell out of her. Cliff said it was his first real clue that Augustine wasn’t just an occasional thief.”

“They left Sophie for dead, Frank.”

Acosta cut his eyes to Sophie but addressed Scoop as he spoke. “She didn’t die. She’s an archaeologist. She’s used to digs, rough conditions. She had the fisherman coming back for her. She got through the night.”

“Rafferty told you all this?” Scoop asked.

“The afternoon before Helen killed him. I didn’t see it coming. I was figuring out what to do when I heard he was dead.”

“She believed Rafferty and Augustine appropriated and misused her rituals, but she was inspired to act on her violent impulses after realizing what Augustine was.” Sophie was very pale now. “More of Lizzie Rush’s ripple effects.”

Acosta looked up at Scoop. “You should have let Helen turn me into a stew.”

“When did she come into your life?”

“July. After she and Percy were married. I was under her spell. She sucked me dry. She used me.”

Scoop was unsympathetic. “You knew the merry-go-round would stop one day.”

“I figured I’d be in a penthouse with Helen when it did.” He looked ragged, exhausted. “Warrior queen. Hell.”

Bob O’Reilly and Tom Yarborough, a straight-back, fair-haired homicide detective, arrived. Abigail Browning was a split second behind them. Scoop no longer had any question about whether she was giving up the job—she was in full-blown detective mode.

Scoop knew he and Sophie had a long night ahead of them. He slipped his hand into hers. “So, Dr. Malone, what was your backup plan if I didn’t show up with guns blazing?”

A touch of color returned to her cheeks. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She squeezed his hand. “I was going to take one of her blood-soaked branches and knock her on her ass with it.”

“Whoa.” Scoop grinned at her. “You might end up as Agent Malone yet.”

But her face was pale again. “Scoop…”

“It’ll take time, Sophie. For both of us.”

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

Josie entered the little pub in Keira’s village on the Beara Peninsula and ordered herself a Midleton, because, after all, no one had chained her to a remote island cave or tried to burn, drown or hang her. A peat fire glowed in the fireplace. A dog slept on the hearth. A hurling match was on the television. Local farmers, fishermen and laborers had gathered at tables by the window, teasing each other with the familiarity of men who’d known they’d live their entire lives in their quiet village hugging the rocky southwest Irish coast.

Not far away, people who’d lived on these shores more than a thousand years ago had fashioned a bronze cauldron, gold brooches and torcs, glass bangles and beads. Someone—they’d
never know who—had slipped them into an island cave. They would be returned to the Irish. They were a national treasure. Josie supposed she might see them for herself one day, but, she had to admit, she was in no hurry.

“I’ll be back in London tomorrow,” she told Eddie O’Shea, the barman. “I’ll enjoy my Irish whiskey tonight.”

“You’re ready to be home.”

She smiled. “So I am.”

Will and Lizzie were there. Apparently her father was in town, too. Josie looked forward to meeting the legendary Harlan Rush. Simon and Keira had already returned to Boston. Of course, she was painting again. Josie had never had a doubt that she would, and soon.

After explaining what they’d been up to in Ireland to the guards and delivering Percy Carlisle to them, she and Myles had three days together at Keira’s little cottage up the lane. Josie sipped her Midleton, savoring the memories. He could have told her where he was going—she had the proper security clearances—but he hadn’t.

“Ah, Eddie, she could always drink me under the table, this one could.”

It was his voice, but she blamed the whiskey and the cold, dark Irish night. She couldn’t possibly have conjured up Myles Fletcher onto the bar stool next to her. Maybe he’d never come to her that late-September morning in Kenmare a week ago. Maybe she’d conjured him up then, too, and she’d searched for Percy Carlisle with an illusion and made love to a perfect figment of her imagination.

“I’ll have a pint of Guinness.”

Josie put down her drink and looked at the man next to her. “You look and sound just like someone I know,” she told him.

He touched the rim of her glass and peered at the amber liquid. “Just how much whiskey have you had, love?”

“Not enough.”

He smiled at her, his gray eyes crinkling in that way that was pure Myles Fletcher. There was no use pretending. He was there.

“If you leave me again,” she said, “I’ll smother you with a pillow.”

“Ah, there you have it,” Eddie O’Shea said, setting a pint in front of Myles. “She could do it, too.”

“If you’re smothering me with a pillow, love, it means you’re in bed with me. I’d die a happy man.”

Eddie roared with laughter, and Josie felt her cheeks warm with a blush, probably her first since she’d turned thirteen.

Myles drank some of his Guinness, but his eyes were serious now. “I’m ready for a desk, Josie.”

She snorted. “The hell you are.”

“Your boy needs a man in his life. His dad’s fine, but he spends more time with you. You’re too soft on him.”

Josie rolled her eyes.

“He’ll be a fine big brother one day. It’ll be good for him, having a tot or two running after him.”

That brought her up short. “Myles.” Damn if she didn’t have tears in her eyes. “You just wandered off again a few days ago.”

“I had to know that I could do this,” he said. “Now I do.”

“I’ve always known you could.”

“That’s what kept me going,” he whispered, brushing a finger over a tear on her cheek. “For two years, Josie, I counted on your certainty. And I knew I had your love.”

“All right, then.” She sniffled, collecting herself. “Shall we take our drinks by the fire and sit a while?”

He eased onto his feet. “I’ll carry your drink, love.” He
winked at her. “In case you swoon. Wouldn’t want you to spill your whiskey.”

She glanced back at the barman. “Keep the number for the guards handy, Eddie. I might kill him right here in your pub.”

Eddie grinned at them both. Myles set their drinks on a small table by the fire. Josie sat close to him and took his hand into hers. All was well in her world. Not simple, she thought, but well.