The Whisper

"Maybe they do."

"Police officers dig into people's most private areas, don't they?"

"Just doing a job. What rumors?"

"That Percy Sr. was in on the break-in."

"Motive?"

"He could sell the Homer to a discreet, rich friend and collect insurance on it at the same time. There were rumors he needed cash, but I don't believe that so much--I don't believe he was involved at all, but if he had been, it would be because he liked the risk and he was getting back at someone. He was very..." She paused, obviously searching for the right word. "He could be very rigid and unforgiving."

"What was his wife like?"

"Quiet, cerebral. The museum was her creation."

"Married to it and her work there. So we had the near disaster and scandal over the smuggling in Ireland and the firings, the break-in and the heist in Boston. Now you're an expert in the field Percy Sr. thought of himself as an expert in. You know all this stuff, and Percy Jr. knows you know."

"That's why I was surprised when he looked me up a year ago."

"And your brain didn't go ding-ding-ding after the island experience?"

"No."

"Did you tell the Irish police about Percy?"

"It didn't even occur to me. I can't even say he was still in Ireland at the time. I doubt it."

"Not the type to chase after you to a remote, rockbound island?"

"Definitely not the type."

"Why did he come see you in Kenmare? Go through that conversation with me again."

She debated, then nodded. "Have a seat."

He listened without interruption while she talked. He wasn't a lot of things, but he was a damn good listener. And he liked hearing her talk. She was curious, analytical and interested as well as interesting--and it didn't take long for him to figure out that she hadn't been waiting for Percy Carlisle to sweep her off her feet. Or any man, for that matter. Sophie Malone, Ph.D., was very much her own person.

She'd just finished when she got a text message. She glanced at her iPhone, then smiled, her blue eyes sparking with obvious pleasure. "Taryn's here," she said as her fingers flew, texting her back. "You get to meet my twin sister. She's right outside."

Sophie leaped up and buzzed her in, and thirty seconds later, Taryn Malone was surveying Scoop with eyes as blue and incisive as her sister's. But she spoke directly to Sophie. "I'm only blowing in here to say hello, then I'm on my way to New York. I'll be there for two days. Then it's back to London. How are you? And who is this?"

"This is the detective I told you about," Sophie said, and made the introductions.

Taryn beamed a smile at him. "So good to meet you, Detective Wisdom."

"I'll go for a walk and let you two visit," he said, looking at Sophie. "Then I'm coming back."

22

Taryn gulped in a breath after Scoop left. Sophie held up a hand before her sister could say a word. "I know. What am I doing? I should take Damian's advice and go back to Ireland and dig in the dirt."

"No argument from me," Taryn said, stretching out on the sectional. "I didn't let Damian know I was coming here. I knew he'd tell me not to. Sophie, are you in trouble with the police?"

She shook her head. "I can't be. I've told them everything and I haven't done anything wrong."

"Please don't stay here alone."

"I'm not. I'm staying at the Whitcomb."

"Good. Unless--wait. Is this detective staying there, too?"

"For now."

Taryn moaned as if she were in pain. "I suppose there isn't a Malone born who does things the easy way. All right, then. If you're not in trouble with the cops--if they don't suspect you of wrongdoing--then let them help."

"Cliff Rafferty was a police officer, Taryn. Scoop's a detective. He can't turn that off even for half a second."

"Why would you want him to? Never mind. Scratch that. Dumb question now that I've seen him." She rose suddenly, a bundle of nervous energy. "Look, I'd stay if I could, but I have this crazy thing called a living to make. You could come to New York with me."

"Thanks, but I can't. I have commitments here."

"I know. I understand." Taryn dashed into the bedroom, yanked open the closet and pulled out a pair of black heels, tucking them under one arm as she returned to the living room. "I didn't think I'd need these. I hope I don't break an ankle. Oh, Sophie. You'll stay safe, won't you? You and I are so different and yet so similar. Do you miss Ireland?"

"Yes, but I'll go back. Taryn--"

"Don't go there," she said, as if she were reading her sister's mind. "I won't ask Tim to give up his life, and he won't ask me to give up mine."

Sophie leaned against the door jamb. "What would you say if he did ask?"

"He and I are both hopeless romantics. That's what attracted me to him in the first place, but I have to be practical."

"Tim's a romantic?"

Taryn blushed and quickly led the way back out to the street. She had asked her cab to wait. It was just like her to make a separate stop in Boston for something she could easily pick up in New York, but that wasn't, Sophie knew, really why her sister was there. "Damian's worried," Taryn said in a half whisper. "I'm worried. I want to trust this detective, but what do you know about him? What if he's playing everyone? What if he's actually the one who planted the bomb?"

"He was almost killed--"

"Yeah, but he wasn't killed, and what a way to fool everyone. You must trust him or you wouldn't be alone with him." Taryn straightened abruptly, her hand on the open cab door. "Sophie! Are you falling for him? No, don't answer. It's the adrenaline. You bonded during a crisis."

"It started on the Beara Peninsula," Sophie admitted.

"Ah. Fairies, then. He's a total stud, I know--I have eyes--but..." Taryn didn't finish. "Just be careful, okay?"

"I will. Thanks for stopping by. Have fun in New York."

"Yes." She smiled, betraying a rare hint of uncertainty. "I'm not sure it's what I want."

"Maybe going there will help you figure that out."

"I can't afford to be a romantic about making a living..." Taryn brushed off her uncertainty. "Listen to me. You're dealing with a real crisis. I'm just in angst mode."

"I'm here anytime. You know that. If you want to talk about acting and a certain Irish fisherman--"

"Oh, stop. You saw that awful beard. Tim O'Donovan's not the man for me."

Sophie laughed. "He can quote Yeats by heart."

"So can Damian, and can you imagine ending up with him?"

That made them both laugh, just as Scoop returned, easing toward the gate back to the courtyard. Taryn glared at him. "Be good to my sister," she said, and quickly ducked into the cab, shut the door and waved goodbye.

Sophie half expected Scoop to question her about her sister's visit, but he just walked with her back through the archway to her apartment, letting her go in first. "I bought a few things at the grocery that I should use up," she said. "I warned you that I'm not a great cook, but I feel like putting a meal together. I don't do a bad spaghetti sauce and salad. I mean, who does? I have all the ingredients. I hate to see them go to waste."

He pulled off his jacket. "I'll help."

"Thanks, but just having you here...someone to talk to...makes a difference." She pulled open the refrigerator. "I spent long hours alone when I was working on my dissertation."

"What's it about?"

"Gad. You don't want to hear that."

He smiled at her. "Give me the short version."

She talked as she cooked. He stood next to her at the counter, chopping an onion, garlic, a carrot on a thick wooden board. It was a tiny kitchen with the refrigerator, sink and stove all on one wall and not much counter space, but surprisingly efficient and bigger, Sophie thought, than the kitchen had been in her apartment in Cork.

Once she finished describing her dissertation, Scoop asked about her time in Ireland. "I loved it," she said, watching steam rise from her pot of water for the spaghetti. "I worked hard and was always scrambling to keep the wolf from the door, but I met so many great people there."

"How long do you think you'll stay here?"

"My sister's apartment? I don't know. What about you--when can you get back into your triple-decker?"

"It'll be a few months. Depends on whether we decide to make improvements or just focus on repairs. Abigail won't be back, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I'll figure something out in the meantime. I can't stay at the Whitcomb much longer." He grinned at her. "I'll be disappointed when I don't find chocolates on my pillow."

"You live alone, though?"

"I have two cats but no live-in girlfriend, no ex-wives, no kids."

She laid dried spaghetti in boiling water, aware of Scoop inches away by the sink. "Cliff Rafferty said you were quite the ladies' man."

"I'm never sure what something like that means."

She liked his response, she decided. It wasn't defensive, but it wasn't a total dodge, either--and he hadn't just pushed her off and told her his love life was none of her damn business. She stood back from the stove while the spaghetti cooked. "Tell me about your cats."

"They're stray Russian blues I rescued two years ago." He got a colander down from a hook. "I was working a case--I'd just started in internal affairs. I nailed a cop for hiring prostitutes on the job. I set up a stakeout, and here were these scrawny little kittens mewing in an alley."

"Do you have a soft heart, Cyrus Wisdom?"

He laughed, setting the colander in the sink. "It would be a serious mistake for anyone to think that. I took the cats home figuring I'd give them to a friend, but I ended up keeping them. They adopted me more than I adopted them. Bob's two younger daughters have been taking care of them."

Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion. "You've had a terrible time, Scoop. You're so strong and so focused on the present--at least you come across that way--that it's easy to forget what you've gone through. Do you want to retire from the Boston Police Department after you put in your twenty or thirty years?"

"You're thinking about Cliff," he said.

"I want to know about you."

"The job's a good one."

"Not everything is as it appears to be with you, is it?"

His dark eyes narrowed on her. "If you're a thief and you're lying to me--"

"If you're a bad cop and you're lying to me..."

She grabbed potholders and poured the spaghetti into the colander, steam from the hot water rising in her face, probably turned her skin red. She set the empty pot back on the stove. The sauce was simmering. The salad was made. Why did she feel so out of her element?

"I'm not a bad cop," Scoop said, "and I'm not lying to you."

He caught her in his arms, and Sophie placed her hands on his waist. He was muscular, sexy. Even through his shirt, she could feel the ragged edges of the scars from the bomb. "Scoop..." Rarely at a loss for words, she couldn't think of what to say. "I'm glad I met you, and I'm glad I met you the way I did."

"Covered in mud, with a big black dog at your side. Think he's a shape-shifter?"

She smiled. "Right now anything feels possible."

His mouth found hers, and this time it wasn't a light kiss. He drew her against him, lifting her off her feet as they deepened their kiss. "Sophie, Sophie," he said, lowering his hands to her hips, lifting her higher. He smiled, setting her back down. "Ah, Sophie. I do like saying your name."

"The sauce is about to boil over."

He winked at her. "So it is."

Taryn called later that evening, when Sophie was back in her room at the Whitcomb, her laptop out on her bed as she went over study skills sheets for her tutoring students. "I'm in New York," Taryn said. "I feel guilty for leaving you alone. Damian's threatening to fly up there as soon as he can get away. Do you want me to call Mom and Dad and get them to Boston?"

"No, let them enjoy their hike. And Damian should focus on his job. I'm fine."

"Where is Scoop Wisdom right now?"

"About ten yards from me."

"Sophie!"

She smiled. "He's not stalking me. He's in the next room at the Whitcomb."

"I guess that's good. If there's anything I can do, call me. Don't hesitate. I can figure out London."

"What about Tim O'Donovan?"

Her sister gave a small laugh. "I can't figure him out at all."

23

Kenmare, Southwest Ireland

Josie stood on a stone bridge above a waterfall that tumbled over black rocks, forming whitecaps and filling the air with its soothing rhythmic sound. She'd gone on ahead while Myles showered and dressed back at the Malone house. He'd catch up with her. They'd both needed a moment to themselves before they got too deep into the day. She wasn't confused, but she was unsure of the way forward. The past was falling away, no longer tearing at her.

Myles was alive. He'd come back from the dead.

He acted as if he'd never gone, but that was Myles. The reasons he could carry on as if nothing had happened were the same reasons he'd taken on his difficult mission in the first place--the same reasons he'd survived. He was resilient. He learned from the past and planned for the future, but he lived in the moment.

She saw him coming toward her, ambling as if he were just another tourist off for a wander in the Irish hills. When he reached her, he leaned over the stone wall. "You'd hit your head on a rock if you tried to dive in there," Josie said.

"I was thinking we could spend the day fly-fishing."

She gave a mock shudder. "I'd rather take on blood-smeared branches. I tell people Will's fishing in Scotland when he doesn't want to answer questions."

"It's not questions I'm avoiding. I actually do want to go fly-fishing."

"How long has it been since you've taken time just to be yourself, Myles?"

"I'm myself now."

"I meant--"

"I know what you meant." He wasn't being abrupt, but he'd made it clear he wasn't going there, either. "You're the boss. Where to from here?"

"We need to find Percy Carlisle. I suggest we start with Tim O'Donovan."

"All right, then."

They continued on foot toward the village and walked out to the pier, but O'Donovan was already off on his boat for the day. Josie debated hiring a boat herself and chasing after him, but she hadn't a clue where to start--and she didn't particularly care for boats. Myles suggested they return to the Malone house. Not bloody likely, Josie thought. With the dreary weather, they'd be tempted to light a fire and spend the day being utterly useless, which she suspected was Myles's aim.

Instead she decided they ought to head to a quiet pub, sit by the fire and review all they knew. Myles didn't object, and as they walked to the village, she texted Seamus Harrigan to join them at his convenience. In the meantime, maybe they'd get lucky and Percy Carlisle would wander in, or someone who knew him. They had his photo and both she and Myles had committed his face to memory.

"This could end badly," Josie said.

Myles slung an arm over her shoulder and gave her a good squeeze. "We'll do all we can to make sure it doesn't."

24

Boston, Massachusetts

Sophie woke up far too early and had coffee with Jeremiah Rush in the lobby of the Whitcomb. "Do you sleep under your desk with your golden retriever? I swear you're here all the time."

"Now there's a thought. Get a dog's view of the family business." He grinned at her, clearly no longer the high school kid she'd known when she worked there. "All's well this morning, Sophie?"

"I hope so."

"Where's your detective?"

"My detective, Jeremiah?"

"Sparks, Sophie. Sparks."

"I think something weird happened in the Irish ruin where we met. I'm--I can't explain it."

"You're crazy about him."

She sighed. It seemed so soon. So fast. Maybe that was partly because everything else in her life was slow. She'd been in school forever. Her dissertation had taken forever to write. Even archaeology was by its nature painstaking, breakthroughs seldom happening fast or suddenly--certainly not as fast and suddenly as Scoop's entrance into her life. He'd been on the Beara Peninsula for two weeks before they'd run into each other. She'd been in Kenmare most of that time. Maybe being in such close proximity had had an effect.

She smiled at Jeremiah. "Tell me about what's going on with you these days."

They chatted a few minutes, Jeremiah making her laugh with tales of his family and hotel life. Finally Sophie refilled her coffee, grabbed a muffin and asked him if he'd let Scoop know she was going to the Carlisle Museum. "It's a beautiful day," she said, heading for the exit. "Tell him I'm walking."

"You don't think he has you under surveillance?"

"Thanks, Jeremiah, that's just what I needed on my mind."

"Hey, we're a full-service hotel."

Charles Street was quiet, the morning air crisp and bright. In no hurry, Sophie turned onto Beacon Street and meandered through the narrow downtown streets with her coffee and muffin, reconnecting with being back in Boston. It was a great walking city, and she loved to walk. She continued past Government Center and on to the waterfront, where the Carlisle Museum was located in a low, renovated brick building on its own wharf. By the time she got there, the main offices were open, although the museum itself wouldn't open until ten. A stone walkway took her through a garden of herbs, wild asters and coneflowers to the administrative entrance.

The receptionist, a young woman with spiky jet-black hair, was new since Sophie had done research at the museum. She recognized Sophie's name. "I'm majoring in art history," she said. "Your article on Irish Iron Age art was assigned reading in one of my classes. Helen Carlisle said you might come by now that you're back from Ireland."

"Is she here?" Sophie asked.

"Not yet. I'd love to go to Ireland some day. I want to see the Book of Kells in person."

"I hope you can. My family has a home in Ireland--I won't stay away too long--but it's good to be back in Boston, too." Sophie motioned toward the corridor behind the receptionist's desk. "I'd like to take a look around--"

"Sure. Let me know if you need anything. There aren't many people here yet."

Sophie headed down the wide hall, welcoming the natural light and simplicity of the building's design. From the beginning, the Carlisles had seen the museum as placing equal emphasis on education, research and exhibits. She'd told Scoop the truth about the break-in seven years ago, but if there was some tidbit she hadn't remembered that could help find Percy or explain what had happened to Cliff Rafferty, maybe being back here would help.

She heard a rushing sound--like a wide-open faucet--and paused at the open door to a conference suite. The table wasn't set up for a meeting, nor had anyone dropped off materials, a briefcase, a coat. She remembered the suite had an office, a small kitchen and a full bathroom. Isabel Carlisle had seen to every detail of the conversion of the building, from the exhibit halls to the comfort of the administrative offices.

Sophie entered the main room and crossed over to a hall that led to the kitchen, wondering if someone she knew might be back there cleaning up. It had to be running water she heard.

The kitchen was dark--no sign of anyone there.

The bathroom was farther down the hall. Not wanting to disturb anyone taking a shower before work, she started to turn back to the conference room, but stopped abruptly, noticing the bathroom door was open, water was streaming over the threshold into the hall.

Sophie edged down the hall. Had a toilet or sink stopped up?

Trying to stay clear of the water on the floor, she peeked into the bathroom. Directly ahead of her was a white porcelain pedestal, but the faucet wasn't on and the basin was dry.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man's foot--a black running shoe--and immediately yelled for help, hoping a security guard or the receptionist would hear her. She stepped into the bathroom, the tile floor slippery, more water pouring through the doorway, flooding the bathroom and hall.

A man was shoved headfirst into the overflowing bathtub, his legs askew, hanging over the edge onto the floor. He wasn't struggling. He wasn't moving at all.

If he was still alive, he had to get out of the water fast, or he'd drown. She ran to the tub. The man was dressed in tan slacks and a light blue shirt. She couldn't see his face, but he had dark hair. She didn't see any signs of injury, but she had no choice. She had to move him. She had to get him out of the water.

Grabbing him by the belt, she pulled him up a little, then got her arms around his middle. He was heavy, deadweight. She pushed her feet against the wall, bracing herself as best she could on the wet floor, and lifted him up and out of the tub. Momentum carried her backward, with him on top of her as she went down on her side into the cold water on the floor.

He was moving...

No, he was being lifted off her.

"Sophie." Scoop's voice. "You okay?"

She sat up, nodding, breathing hard. "He was in the tub--"

"Yeah."

It was Frank Acosta. His skin was pasty and bluish in color, waterlogged. Scoop laid his fellow police officer flat on the floor, checked his airway, his breathing. "Hell, Frank, don't make me have to do CPR on you."

Acosta coughed and vomited water, rolling onto his side.

Sophie rose, quickly shut off the faucet. A torc, fashioned out of gold wire, just like the one at Cliff Rafferty's apartment, was broken in half and set on the edge of the tub, along with a clump of vines--ivy--smeared with what appeared to be blood. "Scoop."

"I see them."

Acosta got up onto his knees, groaning, spitting into the pooled water.

"Can you talk, Frank?" Scoop asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

"You need to get checked out."

He held up a hand in protest. "No. I'm okay."

Scoop didn't relent. "Were you hit on the head? Drugged?"

"I don't know." He sat on the tile floor in the water and sank back against the tub, wincing, coughing some more. He put a hand up to the right side of his neck. "Head hurts."

Scoop took a look. "You've got some swelling."

"Yeah. I remember now." He breathed in, steadier. "Whew."

"What happened?"

"I called you. You were already on your way here. I was closer and got here first. I walked into the conference room and saw a light down the hall and came in to investigate and--bam." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which was visibly trembling. "Next thing I'm soaking wet, choking to death and looking at your ugly face."

"You came alone?" Scoop asked.

"Yeah. No one knows I'm here except you. I'm not on duty until later."

Scoop put a hand out to him. "You'll get hypothermia sitting in that cold water--"

"I can get up on my own."

Acosta started to his feet, slipped and fell back against the tub with a moan. He was shivering, drenched, water dripping out of his hair down his face.

Scoop sighed. "Screw this."

He took Acosta by the upper arm, hauled him up with one quick motion and in two strides had him out in the hall. Shivering now herself, Sophie grabbed a bath towel off a hook and followed them to the kitchen, where Scoop sat Acosta on the dry floor. He was ashen. She flipped on a light switch and handed him the towel.

His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he was still clearly weak, but he dried off his face and managed to glare up at her. "Why are you here?"

Scoop, his eyes on Acosta, answered. "She walked over from the hotel first thing this morning. She's why I came. I just didn't tell you that when you called. She's the one who pulled you out of the water. Did you see anyone when you arrived?"

"Just the receptionist."

"I must have arrived after he did," Sophie said. "I took my time. I've only seen the receptionist, too."

"Doesn't answer my question," Acosta said, clutching the towel. "Where's your friend Percy? Do you two have something going? We only have your word Cliff looked you up on Beacon Hill the other morning."

Meaning, she thought, no witnesses. She walked over to the stainless-steel sink and pulled open a drawer, got out dish towels and did her best to dry herself off. She was aware of the two men--the two police officers--watching her.

She pointed toward the conference room with her towel. "I can wait out there--"

"You could have killed Cliff yourself," Acosta interjected, not letting up. "All that ritualistic crap. That could have been you. Kill him, go back to Beacon Hill, make up that whole bit about him coming to find you. You know you've got Scoop wrapped around your little finger."

"I'm going now," Sophie said, heading for the door.

Scoop shook his head. "Stay with me. Whoever tried to kill Frank could still be out there. He can't have been in the water long or he'd be dead."

Acosta cast the towel aside and staggered to his feet, his skin, if possible, turning even grayer. "Check out your archaeologist, Wisdom." He coughed, gritted his teeth visibly as he seemed to fight off pain and nausea. "She's the one with axes to grind. We don't know what happened with her and Cliff. No one does. It's just her word."

"Take it easy, Frank. You probably have a concussion. You've had a bad scare--"

"A bad scare? I damn near drowned. This woman's the expert. If she's obsessed with Celtic whatever--art, religion, history, bones, I don't know--she could have her own game. What if she set this up--sold fake Celtic jewelry, or found the real thing and wants to keep it for herself? What if she's blackmailing Percy Carlisle to get him to buy them or get someone else to buy them?"

Scoop hadn't interrupted Acosta's rant. "You need to take it easy, Frank."

Acosta ignored him. "Your Dr. Malone could have thrown Percy Carlisle off some damn Irish cliff before she flew back to Boston."

"The Irish are looking for him," Scoop said. "We can talk about all this after the paramedics have checked you over."

"What if your archaeologist was behind the break-in here seven years ago? She's smart as hell. She could have orchestrated the mess with the old man in Ireland, then broken in here so that we'd all look to some disgruntled employee. Maybe the son suspected her but couldn't prove it. Maybe he went to Ireland to confront her."

"You're speculating," Scoop said.

"Brainstorming. There's a difference." Acosta's dark eyes--bloodshot, red-rimmed, accusatory--were riveted on Scoop. "I'm not emotionally involved."

"You are emotionally involved." Scoop's voice was calm. "Cliff was your friend."

"Friend? Cliff didn't have friends. He was a lazy, cynical SOB who blamed his problems on everyone else."

"Was he involved with the thugs Estabrook hired?"

"How the hell would I know?"

Museum security and two uniformed BPD officers arrived. Acosta shook off their help, then stumbled. They caught him as he fainted.

Scoop touched Sophie's elbow. "You okay?"

She nodded. He walked with her back to the conference room. Paramedics and the homicide detectives investigating Cliff Rafferty's death arrived next.

Bob O'Reilly was right behind them. "Damn," he said, glaring at Scoop, then at Sophie. "You two again."

By the time she finished with the BPD, Sophie was dry enough to head over to the main part of the museum. She'd loved wandering through the different collections as a student and welcomed being among the familiar paintings, sculptures and artifacts. The homicide detectives had been thorough and professional, but she had no illusions. They grilled her not just about how and why she'd come to the museum this morning, what she'd seen, what she'd done, but about everything--her life from meeting the Carlisles as a student to sitting in the conference room answering their questions.

Scoop hadn't stayed with her. She wasn't sure he would have been allowed to, and he had his own questions to answer. The police and museum security had shut down the museum and searched it for possible assailants, witnesses and evidence.

Sophie was staring blankly at a trio of Early Medieval Irish silver chalices behind a glass case when Scoop found her. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" Her voice was hoarse, but she continued. "You can see the Celtic motifs. The spirals, the knots. The museum doesn't have a lot of Irish works--these are on loan from a private collector."

"You don't have to be here."

She looked up from the chalices and saw that his gaze was on her, nothing about him easy to read--easy on any level. "I didn't wait for you this morning because I wanted to come here alone. It was a beautiful morning for a walk. It never occurred to me I'd find..." She didn't finish. "Security's obviously not as tight in the administrative offices as out here in the exhibits."

He touched a hand to her upper arm. "I can take you back to the hotel."

She nodded but moved over to a series of small, dark paintings. "If Percy's in Boston--if he's into dark pagan rituals, twisting them for his own purposes, and all this is his doing..." She shook her head. "I can't imagine. Helen would be devastated. Everyone here would be. When Detective Acosta was 'brainstorming,' all I could think about was how many possible explanations there are to what's happened. Percy could be hiding and afraid--he could think he's being framed for something he didn't do. He could have been working with Rafferty or Augustine."

"That's why you have to leave the investigation to the police. They'll follow the evidence wherever it takes them."

She turned from the paintings. "Was it blood on the torc and the ivy?"

"Yes."

"At least it wasn't Detective Acosta's blood." She glanced at Scoop. "There's much, much more to the Celts than human sacrifice."

Scoop almost smiled. "Feeling a little defensive about them?"

"I just don't want to paint too incomplete a picture."

"Makes sense a killer's not going to pick happy Celtic symbols and whatnot to latch on to, right? What a Celt who's been dead for a couple thousand years would think about what's going on here doesn't matter. I want whoever tried to drown Acosta." Scoop's expression, although still grim, softened somewhat. "You did all right in there, Sophie."

"Detective Acosta wouldn't have been here at all if I hadn't--"

"Don't go there. It won't get you anywhere."

Probably it wouldn't, Sophie thought. The police would talk to Jeremiah Rush, if they hadn't already, and find out if he'd told anyone else where she was headed. She hugged her arms to herself, suddenly cold again. "You all are taking another look at the incident with Percy Sr. in Ireland and the break-in here, aren't you?"

"We're taking care of it, Detective Malone."

She attempted a smile. "I think I like the sound of Agent Malone better, although my brother would find a way to keep me out of the FBI academy."

"What about Professor Malone?"

"That has an even better ring to it."

Helen Carlisle swept into the room, alone, wearing a long, lightweight coat as if she'd just walked in from the street. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly, her red lipstick standing out against her pale skin. "The director of the museum called me as soon as he could, and I came right away. Thank heavens no one was seriously hurt."

"Where were you?" Scoop asked.

"The house. Alone. The housekeeper might have seen me if you'd like me to provide an alibi." When he didn't respond, she turned to Sophie. "Did someone offer you something to drink? Would you like to sit down?"

"Walking around in here helps."

"Of course. It's a fantastic museum. It needs updating, but the trustees are working on a long-term plan..." Helen faltered, tears rising in her big eyes. "I'm trying to put up a brave face, but I feel so vulnerable. I keep thinking the phone will ring, or the door will open, and Percy will be there." She spun around and faced Scoop. "I don't believe my husband is involved in whatever's going on, Detective Wisdom. Not for one second."

"We just want to find him, Mrs. Carlisle," Scoop said.

She nodded, tightening her coat around her. "I'm thinking about going to New York for a few days. I just want to be on my own--away from all this. I had a moment of panic about security, but if I were a target, I'd be dead now. It seems to me police officers are more vulnerable than I am. It's frightening, but whatever's going on doesn't really involve me." She added coolly, "Or my husband."

Scoop buttoned up his own jacket. "Then you're not worried about him?"

"I wouldn't think twice about where he is if not for Cliff's death and now this with Detective Acosta."

"Did your husband ever mention the break-in here?"

"No, why should he have? You're grasping now, aren't you, Detective? I have to go. I'm meeting the director. I never..." She shuddered, a glamorous, beautiful woman caught in the middle of a violent drama. "This isn't what I signed on for. I don't know if I'm up to it."

She didn't wait for a response as she swept back out of the gallery.

Sophie felt her energy flagging. "I have to stop at the tutoring center...and I promised a friend at BU I'd come by at the same time. I'm teaching a class there next semester." She reined in her thoughts and focused on Scoop. "What about you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Hauling Detective Acosta around didn't tear open any of your injuries?"

He shook his head. "All set."

She smiled. "Would you tell me if you were about to double over in pain right now?"

It was clearly not what he'd expected her to say, and he smiled back at her. "Probably not."

"Are you kicking yourself because you didn't connect the dots and figure out sooner Cliff Rafferty was the police link to those local thugs?"

"That's still an open investigation. Whatever happens, you have your victories and your defeats in this job." He shrugged. "You hope the defeats don't get anyone killed."

"If they do, you'd rather it be yourself who's hurt than someone else?"

He didn't answer. "Come on. I have my car. I'll drop you off."

"I don't mind walking."

Scoop put his arm over her shoulders. "I can't wait to see you on that Irish panel, arguing with your colleagues about some point of ancient history. Is Celtic archaeology controversial?"

"It can be."

He laughed softly. "That's my point. Academics." He let his arm fall to her waist and held her close. "You just saved a man's life. The day could have gotten off to a worse start."

"I guess that's one way to look at it."

He tilted his head back. "What's on your mind, Sophie?"

She lifted his hand and touched her fingertips to a jagged scar on his wrist. "The bomb did this to you. It burned your house. Cliff Rafferty was hanged. Now Frank Acosta was nearly drowned. Our perpetrator seems to be obsessed with Celtic rituals, appropriating bits and pieces of Celtic lore from a variety of sources, jumbling them up to suit his or her needs. Some scholars believe that burning, hanging and drowning represent fire, earth and water--fundamental elements associated with specific Celtic deities. The god Esus with earth, Taranis with fire, Teutates with water."

"So you don't think the choice of the tub was a coincidence?"

"It might have been quick thinking, since whoever is responsible couldn't have known Detective Acosta would be here this morning. I'm not suggesting there's a coherent strategy or recreation of any particular set of sacrificial rites at work."

"Jay Augustine wasn't a scholar of the devil and evil," Scoop said. "He just latched on to what suited his purposes."

"To kill." Sophie could feel the blood draining from her face. "In 1984, the corpse of a young Celt was discovered in a bog in England. It was extremely well preserved because of the anaerobic conditions. He'd met a terribly violent death. He'd been hit on the head several times--hard enough that he'd have died soon after. But that's not what killed him."

"Was he burned, hanged or drowned?"

"Garroted, basically. The cord used was still around his neck two thousand years later. A stick had been tucked into the back of it to add to the force of the strangulation. It actually broke his neck."

"Charming."

"That wasn't the end of it. Then his throat was cut and his body deposited in the bog. He could have been a willing victim, sacrificing his life for the welfare of the tribe, victory in battle--we don't know. Whatever the purpose of his death, he'd have felt no pain after the initial blow."

Scoop grimaced. "And here I thought you just dug up pretty jewelry buried for hundreds of years. Come on. Let's go see your hockey players."

"I think I will take you up on the offer of a ride over to the tutoring center."

He slipped an arm around her. "I thought you might."

25

After he dropped off Sophie with her hockey players, Scoop parked at the Whitcomb, changed clothes and walked up Beacon Street to the bow-front, early-nineteenth-century Garrison house. He'd gone back to the conference room after she'd left and checked in with Bob O'Reilly. They'd agreed to meet here, in the first-floor drawing room. It was used for meetings, parties and, on occasion, a practice room for Fiona and her friends. The offices of the foundation named in honor of Owen Garrison's sister were located on the second and third floors. Dorothy Garrison's drowning death off the coast of Maine at fourteen was connected, indirectly, to the death of Christopher Browning, Abigail's first husband, eight years ago--four days into their honeymoon.

Lizzie Rush had a point about ripple effects, Scoop thought.

The Rushes would have put Bob up at any of their hotels, too, but he was staying here, in his niece's attic apartment.

Bright autumn sunshine streamed through the tall windows that looked across busy Beacon Street to the Common, crawling with tourists, shoppers, kids and dogs. The gold-domed Massachusetts State House was a few doors up the street.

Bob cut his gaze over to Scoop. "You have your head screwed on straight with this Sophie Malone?"

Scoop shrugged. "More or less."

"She's not one of these women who come and go in your life. Whatever's going on with you two isn't the same."

"It doesn't matter. I can do my job."

"You're not on the case," Bob said. "I'm not, either. That prick Yarborough threatened to report me when I showed up at the museum this morning."

"You'd have done the same."

"Yeah, probably."

That was the end of that. Scoop noticed Fiona O'Reilly waiting for traffic on the other side of Beacon, some kind of instrument case slung over one shoulder. "As far as we can tell, Percy Carlisle hasn't boarded a flight to the U.S. since Sophie saw him in Ireland."

"Maybe he sprouted wings," Bob said. "The way things are going, nothing would surprise me. Anyone wanting to fry, hang or drown us has had multiple opportunities."

"That's just a theory."

"I know, I know." He nodded out the window. "Here comes Fiona with her violin. She's not getting any better on that thing. Either that or I just don't like violin music."

"We can go talk somewhere else."

"Nah." He continued to stare out the window as Fiona, blonde hair flying, ran across the street. "We've all turned into shit magnets, Scoop. I thought it was Abigail. Widowed, kidnapped, John March's only daughter. It's not just her. It's you and me, too."

"It's not always the enemies you know that get you," Scoop said. "Sometimes it's ones you don't know."

"Most of the time. Talk to me, Scoop. Talk to Abigail and me."

"She's here?"

He nodded. "She and Owen got back late last night."

Owen Garrison entered the drawing room at the same time that Fiona came through the front door, smiling easily, as if she had nothing on her mind but a few hours of practicing in a quiet, pretty setting. She set her violin down and grabbed tall, angular Owen in a big hug. He looked over the top of her head at Bob and Scoop. "Abigail's upstairs. I'll stay down here with Fi."

Scoop led the way. He could feel a pull of pain in his hip now. He hadn't noticed any pain when he'd half carried Acosta down the hall. Worse had been hearing the running water, hearing Sophie yell for help--not knowing what was going on, if he'd get to her in time. He hadn't told her that.

He hadn't told her that he'd fallen in love with her. It was just that simple. Love at first sight. Him. Who'd have thought it?

He came to the attic landing and entered the small apartment. Abigail was on her feet. "Scoop," she said, hugging him. "I've missed you."

He laughed. "Yeah, right, let me go tell Owen--"

She grinned at him, a spark in her dark eyes--her father's eyes. "You know what I mean. Well, you look better than when I saw you at the wedding."

Bob grinned. "He reminds me of Herman Munster." He nodded toward Abigail as he addressed Scoop. "Looks pretty good, doesn't she? Being rich and married agrees with her. You'd never know she was kidnapped and nearly killed a month ago."

Abigail rolled her eyes. "At least you didn't make a pregnancy joke. The first one who does, I shoot."

"I'll consider that fair warning," Scoop said.

He pulled out a chair at the small table where Keira used to draw and paint. Bob hadn't done much to the place. He sat at the table, too. Pads and pencils were stacked to one side. Scoop felt a tug of emotion. He, Abigail and Bob had bought the triple-decker together because they'd all needed a place to live and were looking at the same time, and it'd been a way to pool their resources in Boston's expensive real estate market. As different as they were--in temperament, background, likes and dislikes--they'd become friends. When one would be chewing on a problem, they'd get out the pads and pens and a six-pack and brainstorm.

The past year had turned their lives upside down and changed them forever.

Abigail sat between the two men. Her baby was due in six months. Talk about big changes, Scoop thought.

"Did your father ever mention Sophie Malone to you?" he asked.

"No, but that wouldn't be unusual. He's always tried to keep a firewall between his job and his family. It hasn't worked very well, though, has it?" Abigail was quiet a moment. "Strange how things work out sometimes."

"I don't think this was strange," Scoop said.

"Destined?"

He shook his head. "Deliberate. What happened at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago and on that island a year ago and what happened here in Boston this past summer are all of a piece."

Bob distributed the pads and pencils. "We can take our time," he said. "Fiona will be practicing that damn violin for at least a couple hours. You can save me from having to go down there."

Abigail seemed comfortable to be back in her role as a detective. "All right," she said. "Let's see what we've got."

26

Kenmare, Southwest Ireland

Josie was yawning when Tim O'Donovan arrived in the pub in which she and Myles had situated themselves for most of the day, with breaks for walks back to the pier and disturbing calls from Boston. Another violent attack on a police officer. She and Myles both had felt stunningly useless. Seamus Harrigan had met with them briefly, essentially to tell them to stay out of the investigation. By dark, even Myles had seemed ready to give up and return to Dublin. He could look dead tired--he could be dead tired--but would never let his fatigue, or anything else, for that matter, interfere with his performance. It wasn't just training. It was the way the man was hardwired.

O'Donovan wasn't performing that night but had popped in for a Guinness. He looked as if he had, indeed, spent the day at sea. "I thought you'd gone back to London," he said, pulling up a low stool to their table.

"It's been a decidedly frustrating day," Josie said. "Do you mind if I come straight to the point? We'd like you to go over the time line of Sophie's adventure with us in more detail. For instance, how did she find the cave on this visit to the island but not on the earlier visits?"

"It's at the center of the island. She hadn't got that far before."

"So she stumbles on this cave, and here's a Celtic treasure, right at her feet?" Josie raised her eyebrows skeptically. "Even if no one but one priest every generation knows this story of yours, don't you think someone in the past thousand or so years would have stumbled on this cauldron by now?"

"Stranger things have happened. Celtic hoards have been found in lakes, streams and rivers right where they were offered to the gods hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Farmers have come across Celtic treasure plowing their fields. Why in 1894 and not 1794?"

Myles tipped back in his chair. "Others could have known what you and Sophie were up to."

O'Donovan shrugged. "We didn't go out of our way to tell anyone, but we weren't secretive, either."

"Were you always the one to take Sophie on her expeditions?" Josie asked.

"She tried to go on her own once and almost drowned. She's not good with boats. Everything else." His expression was warm as he added, "She and her sister both."

"Carlisle could be a killer," Josie said crisply, "or he could have hired a killer, or he could be a victim or a potential victim. We need to know what he knows. The guards are looking for him."

"So I've heard."

Josie bit back her frustration. "Tell us all you can about Sophie, won't you? Did you ever get the feeling there was anything between her and Percy? Animosity, love, friendship? Anything at all? Was she jealous of the woman he ended up marrying? Was Sophie broke and looking to Percy for money--did she ask him for a loan, a job, a recommendation?"

"You fired off all those questions at once deliberately, didn't you?" O'Donovan was obviously no one's fool. "Here's my answer to you. I trust Sophie. She's the best. She loves her work, and she's honest."

"What about her relationships in Ireland?" Josie asked.

"Men, you mean? She saw a few academics from time to time, but nothing ever worked out."

"You two?"

His eyes were unchanged. "Friends."

"What about her family? They have a house here--"

"Friends, also."

"Ah." Josie saw the look in his eyes. "What about you and Taryn, the sister--"

"You're going too far now."

"Indeed," she said.

Myles stood up. Obviously he'd heard enough. "We want to see the island for ourselves. Can you take us?"

"Tomorrow. Bring a warm jacket, and fair warning--it'll be choppy."

"Splendid," Josie muttered without enthusiasm.

The Irishman headed to the bar and joined a group of men--other fishermen from the looks of them--who'd just come in. Josie debated interrogating them, too, but Myles slung an arm around her and grinned. "Looks as if we'll be bouncing in waves tomorrow."

"I hate boats."

"We'll be fine."

She shuddered at the prospect. "You're sure we won't turn over?"

"Positive."

"Liar. You spent time on Norman Estabrook's luxurious yacht, not on what Tim O'Donovan calls a boat."

"You don't trust me, love?"

"I don't know you well enough anymore to know whether or not to trust you. Despite last night, I remain wary."

She felt hot suddenly, thinking about their lovemaking. She wasn't embarrassed so much as mystified. They'd behaved as if they were completely and utterly in love, muttering sweet things, holding each other in the dark. It'd been a long time for both of them. Perhaps they'd simply needed to make love and be done with it in order to get on with their lives.

She was aware of Myles watching her and felt quite confident his thoughts weren't remotely similar to hers. She dismissed last night and nodded to O'Donovan, who was serious, not laughing as he sat with a pint. "You know our new Irish friend is reporting everything back to Sophie, don't you?"

"Of course he is."

27

Boston, Massachusetts

Sophie locked the door to her hotel room and flopped onto her bed, lying against the pillows and staring at the moldings along the edge of the ceiling. She had met her hockey-player students. By no means was every player on the team in need of tutoring, but she looked forward to working with them. One had guessed she'd had an eventful morning and another had heard that she'd found Cliff Rafferty; they all agreed that should she need them for anything, she had only to say the word. They'd be there.

As she walked back to Charles Street, she'd heard from Tim and had reassured him that telling the Brits everything wasn't just fine but also smart. She wished he could be left out of the investigation entirely, but it was too late for that.

Meanwhile, her brother was again threatening to come up to Boston. Sophie sat up on the bed cross-legged, texting him to ask if there was anything he could do on his end to help find Percy Carlisle.

Damian's answer was immediate: Stay out of it.

She texted him back: Helen came back early. To NYC. Maybe he's in NYC?

This time he called instead of texting her. "I thought you were tutoring."

"I was. It was just a meet-and-greet. The guys are great. They can see through BS a lot quicker than I can. I always see nuances and shades of gray, complications and pitfalls. Sometimes I want to live in a black-and-white, win-lose world."

"Yeah. I know the feeling, Sophie. We could be Taryn, raked over the coals if she sneezes on stage. Get yourself some hockey tickets and go enjoy yourself. Line up those job interviews. Stay focused on what's good for you."

"Who are you advising--me or yourself?"

He laughed. "Both of us."

"Damian, based on your experience and what you might know but can't tell me--which I don't assume is very much--do you believe Percy is alive?"

"I hope so, Sophie. This morning had to be rough on you."

"I did what anyone else would have done. If Percy's involved--"

"It's not your problem. You can come here to D.C. Just head to the airport right now and get on a plane. I have an extra room."

"You let that dog of yours sleep on the bed, don't you?"

"It's not a question of 'let,'" he said. "Take care of yourself."

After they disconnected, Sophie headed down to Morrigan's. Fiona O'Reilly had arrived with several friends, her father on a stool at the bar, watching his daughter as if he couldn't quite shake the notion that something else might happen to her--that she wasn't safe and never would be again.

Sophie climbed onto a stool next to him. O'Reilly sighed at her. "Your parents are smart. Go hiking and leave the kids on their own."

"We're adults. Taryn, Damian and me. We're not teenagers, and we weren't almost killed in a bomb blast."

"This morning--"

"I was never in danger."

"You didn't know who was in the tub. Could have been someone faking being drowned, waiting for you to rush in and save him. He could have nailed you, and we'd have been drawing a chalk line around your body instead of talking to you about human sacrifice."

She ordered a Guinness. "What a way to think."

"I'm just saying. And trust me--your folks remember when you and your brother and sister were drooling little babies." He looked toward the stairs, and Sophie turned and saw Scoop heading into the bar. When she turned back to O'Reilly, he shook his head. "I don't know what happened to him in Ireland. He's still mean as hell, but he likes you."

"Lieutenant..."

He didn't back off. "He likes you a lot."

"You've all had a difficult few months."

"Yes, we have," the senior detective said as he stood up. He greeted Scoop. "I'm not staying. Time to pack up the lace from Keira's windows. My sister says she'll take them. I'm in the attic for the long haul. Keira called. She and Simon are renting a loft in Owen's new building on the waterfront. I guess Simon's getting assigned to Boston. Great, huh, Scoop? Another FBI agent to breathe down our necks."

He thumped up the stairs.

Scoop grinned. "That's Bob in a good mood." He took his friend's place at the bar. "How are you, Sophie? How's the job hunt?"

"All my years of school and I'd make a better living pouring Guinness. It'd be a great job--"

"But it's not what you're trained to do."

"It's tough out there even for the best."

"My sources tell me you are the best and you have great prospects. In fact, you yourself said you have a decent chance at a tenure-track position here in Boston."

"I'm crying in my beer?"

"Just a little. It's understandable given the past couple days. Being back here after so much time in Ireland would be enough of a transition by itself."

"You're very understanding, Cyrus Wisdom."

His eyebrows went up. "That's a first from anyone."

"You're not afraid you're losing your edge, are you?"

"Nope."

"Good, because I've seen you in action three times now, and I wouldn't want to run into you if I had ill intentions in mind."

He laughed softly. "'Ill intentions.' You crack me up, Dr. Malone. I'm just glad we got to Acosta before he drowned. He's not grateful. He still says he was just about to haul himself out of the water when we barged in."

"If that helps him get through this, then fine. I don't need credit. Except for whatever he ran afoul of you for, he's a good detective?"

"Not my judgment to make."

Which was all the answer she needed. "I wonder when Rafferty knew that he wasn't going to be a captain or the police commissioner or make detective."

"He would always say he didn't want to. He just wanted to get his full pension."

"And work as a security guard for the Carlisles? Do you believe that?"

"I think he wanted to retire in the sun."

"He faced that moment we all do when we decide to take action to turn the dream into reality. Work with the right people, put yourself out there, go for it, know that you might have to face rejection and disappointment and betrayal."

"Are we talking about Cliff or you?"

She suddenly was overwhelmed with emotion. "I'm going upstairs."

She moved fast, taking the stairs two at a time. She avoided even a glance at Jeremiah Rush in the lobby and was grateful she was alone on the elevator. Once she was in her room, she splashed cold water on her face and fought back tears.

There was a knock on the door. "Sophie--it's Scoop. You okay in there?"

She opened the door, forcing herself to smile. "Sorry. Come in. I've noticed I get walloped with jet lag right about this time of the evening. It's better every day."

"Not that the quiet homecoming you've had helps."

She held up a hand. "Don't talk. Let me explain." She led him into the room, the door shutting quietly behind him. She paced on the soft rug. "I've worked hard, and I've done well--no question. I'm grateful. It wasn't an easy path."

"There are no easy paths."

"I've encountered jealousy, envy, criticism, disappointment and broken promises along the way. Who hasn't? You do your best and in the end..." She turned back to him. "In the end you can't base your happiness on whether you achieved all your dreams. You enjoy the journey. You let go of the disappointments and betrayals."

"You weren't just on a lark last year."

She smiled. "Always the detective." Her smile faded. "I faced a dark night of the soul. Tell me, Scoop, isn't that what you were doing in Ireland?"

"It felt like I was facing a thousand dark nights of the soul."

Her breath caught. He wasn't a talkative, introspective man, but his words brought home just what he'd experienced only a few weeks ago. "You've been to hell and back, haven't you?"

"The key word is back." He brushed his knuckles along her jaw and eased his hand around the back of her neck, threading his fingers into her hair. "I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be right now, and if I had to go through hell to get here--well, then it was worth it."

He lowered his mouth to hers, slowly, as if giving her time to tell him to go back down to the bar and have a drink. She didn't. "You're why I knew I had to see the ruin on the Beara," she whispered. "I was pulled there. I knew I had to go. There was a rainbow that morning after we met. Scoop..."

"I can do a lot of things, sweetheart, but rainbows are above my pay grade."

She didn't have a chance to laugh before he kissed her, softly, tenderly, even as he lifted her into his arms and she could feel the tension in his muscles. She'd seen how he'd handled Acosta. She wasn't worried about him hurting himself with her. Clearly he wasn't, either. Their kiss deepened, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, sinking into him. He was aroused, hard against her. She could feel herself melting into him, hot and liquid.

He carried her to the bed and pulled back the covers. Her iPhone went flying. He laid her on her back. "I'm not very good with little buttons," he said, eyeing her blouse. "Either I rip it off or you--"

"It's an old top I found in Taryn's apartment."

He had it off in seconds, and then he took his time, touching her through the silky fabric of her bra, easing her pants over her hips with great care as he trailed kisses, his tongue, along her throat, then lower, tasting, lingering, sweetly torturing. She wasn't even aware he'd dispensed with her pants until she felt the sheets cool under her bare skin, his touch between her legs. She reached for him, traced his hardness with her fingertips. He thrust against her hand, a promise of what was to come.

"Scoop...I haven't..." She wasn't sure how to get the words out. "It's been a long time."

"Good," he whispered, easing his fingers into her, where she was hot, ready. "I'll be gentle."

She smiled. "Not too gentle."

She tore at his shirt, but he didn't budge, just moved his fingers deeper, probing, his thumb circling, until she cried out and gave herself up to the sensations coursing through her. He kissed her, his tongue matching the erotic rhythm of his fingers. With his free hand, he caught her nipple between his fingertips.

"I can't last," she said between kisses.

"Then don't."

"I want to feel you inside me."

"You will," he said, driving his fingers in faster, even deeper. "Trust me, Sophie, you will."

She was gone, rocking against him, letting the waves take her. He wasted no time. He got his clothes off in short order, and he came to her, easing on top of her. She ran her palms along his hips, up his back, feeling the strong muscles, the ripples of scars. Just the touch of him against her sent a bolt of urgency through her. He must have felt it, or was past his limits. He entered her, careful at first, but she was more than ready.

In seconds, they were in unison, fused, responding, giving--knowing where and when to touch, to move--and when she came this time, it was with him, together.

Later, she propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him in the fading light. "You're an amazing man, Cyrus Wisdom, but I think it was my mud-encrusted wellies that caught your eye in Ireland."

"Must have been," he said, laughing as he took her back in his arms.

28

Sophie walked over to the Boston-Cork folklore conference offices after a pleasant breakfast with Scoop. They'd agreed not to discuss anything to do with the police investigations. They had no trouble finding subjects of mutual interest. Afterward, she e-mailed Wendell Sharpe and asked him about the Carlisle Museum and anyone Percy Sr. fired who was still in the art world--who could, she thought but didn't say, want revenge.

He replied immediately: Everyone fired checks out.

She found Eileen Sullivan back in Colm Dermott's office, staring out at the Charles River. "I've been thinking about taking up rowing," she said, then shifted to Sophie. "I heard about Frank Acosta, Sophie. Even my brother's shaken by what's happened. I can't talk to him about it, but I believe Cliff planted that bomb. I've been thinking a lot about him. He was filled with entitlement and envy."

"That's a difficult place to be."

"Yes, it is. He was retiring. His wife had left him. His children didn't like being around him. He was bitter and alone." Eileen turned from the window and seemed to shake off her melancholy. "Keira and Simon will be back in Boston soon. They want to stay here. Make a home together. She thought I rejected her when I adopted a religious life. I didn't--but I hadn't chosen that life for all the right reasons."

"What kind of life do you want now?"

She smiled, a spark in her eyes now. "The one I have. I'm looking forward to going back to Ireland at Christmas with Keira and my brother and nieces. I'll go again in April for the Cork part of the conference."

"I hope all your lives will be back to normal by then." Sophie withdrew a sheet of paper from her bag and handed it to Eileen. "I brought a draft of what I want to do with the panel. I e-mailed it to Colm already."

They returned to her office and discussed the conference for a few minutes, Sophie impressed with Eileen Sullivan's knowledge and enthusiasm for her work and the topics they'd cover. She was open-minded and kind, and if she was still haunted by her encounter with a serial killer, she'd found a way to cope.

"When Keira and Simon are back," she said, "we'll have to get you together with them."

"I'd love that," Sophie said, the older woman's optimism infectious.

Tim called her on her way back down the stairs to the street. "I'm on the pier. The Brits will be here in seconds, but I wanted to tell you first. The photo you sent me of this police officer who was hanged? I just showed it to an old fisherman I know. I didn't think of it before now. He remembers seeing him."

"Last year?"

"Oh, yes. He has a great memory for faces. I don't, but I'm sure I never met him."

"Where did this fisherman see him?"

"He was on the pier asking about hiring a boat. He specifically asked about me."

"And he's sure it was Cliff Rafferty?"

"He's sure, Sophie. The Brits and the guards can check the dates Rafferty was here and see if it was the same time you had your misadventure."

"He told me he'd been to Ireland," Sophie said half to herself. "He could have been anticipating someone would remember him, or look into whether he'd been to Ireland if he came under suspicion. Was anyone with him?"

"Not that my friend saw."

Sophie became aware of Frank Acosta behind her on the wide sidewalk. He eased in alongside her just as she hung up with Tim. "That Cliff," Acosta said, shaking his head. "He never could get out of his own damn way."

"You seem to be in good shape today."

"I woke up with a hell of a headache, but, yeah, I'm fine. Relax, Doc. I'm on your side." Acosta gave her a relaxed, sexy grin. "Sophie security."

She slowed her pace, unsettled at having him there with her. "I have a feeling you're on your own side."

"Which is the same as being on your side."

"Don't you have a partner?"

"Day off. I'm recuperating. It's a beautiful autumn morning." He touched her elbow. "Let's just keep walking."

"Is that an order from a police officer?"

"Nah. We're meeting your pal Scoop at the Carlisle house. I'll keep you company while we wait."

Scoop would have told her if he wanted her to meet him anywhere. "What about Helen Carlisle? Is she--"

"She's waiting for us."

Sophie slowed her pace. Her iPhone dinged, announcing a text message. It was from Damian. She saw Don't go near Helen Carlisle before Acosta took her phone. He glanced at the screen. "You don't want your FBI agent brother to worry, do you, Sophie?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm lousy with these things. Let's see." He typed onto the screen. "N-o p-r-o-b-l-e-m. There. That'll do it. Let me hit Send and we're done." He smiled at her and tucked the iPhone into his pocket. "There. All set."

"What else did Damian say?"

"Nothing." Acosta tightened his grip on her elbow. "Come on. Helen's waiting."

"You saw my brother's warning. He's an FBI agent." Sophie's step faltered. "Detective Acosta, if Helen Carlisle isn't--"

"I didn't kill Cliff. He was a lazy son of a bitch, but we were partners." Acosta glared down at Sophie. "Helen didn't kill him, either."

"You're a dirty cop."

He laughed. "Time for a shower. I just saved your brother from a lot of fretting over nothing. Helen's not what either of you thinks." He edged in very close to her. "Don't make me throw you in handcuffs. I thought it was you and Percy. I thought you two went after Cliff because he figured out you'd hooked up with Augustine over the missing artifacts."

"Where's Percy now?"

"Hiding. He's a chicken at heart."

"Then who killed Cliff? Who do you think hit you on the head yesterday and tried to drown you? Not me, I hope. I saved your life--"

"You could have known Scoop was coming. Maybe Percy hired someone to get rid of me. He's rich." Acosta glanced down at Sophie. "Relax, Sophie. I haven't ruled you out entirely but I don't think you were a part of it."

"I wasn't," she said. "Neither was Percy. Be smart, Detective. If Helen--"

"Enough, Doc. Let's go meet Scoop and talk to Helen. I want you to see you're wrong."

Half shoving her, half dragging her, he took her to the side entrance of the Carlisle house. "For all I know," he said, "Cliff killed himself and homicide's putting out misinformation. Maybe he committed suicide after all. He was an experienced cop. He knew how to create a suspicious crime scene. He knew Scoop was onto him for the bomb and I was onto him for the missing artifacts."

"Did you know he'd responded to the break-in at the museum seven years ago?"

"I do now."

"He and Augustine--"

Acosta didn't let her finish. "Cliff was caught and he went out the way he wanted to go out."

"He was murdered. Did you kill him yourself?" Sophie shook her head. "No. You didn't. He was scared. He knew he was in over his head."

The door to the side entrance was unlocked, slightly ajar. Acosta pushed it open. "Sorry I got rough with you. Let's go inside and figure this out."

"You're in over your head, too, Detective, and you're scared. We need to get out of here."

He shoved her into the hall. His eyes were half closed, his jaw set stubbornly, as if he knew he had to ward off anything she said that didn't agree with his version of events. "You're smart and resourceful, Dr. Malone. You're just not that experienced."

"That was you in my courtyard."

"Yep. It was me. If you'd spotted me, I'd have said I was checking out your place because of Cliff and the missing artifacts. I needed to know what you were up to."

"Did you get inside my apartment?"

"You showed up first."

"You deliberately scared the hell out of me."

"If you'd caught me, I'd have said I wanted to see how you reacted. If you thought I was your partner in crime or if you'd made up the whole thing and knew you were caught. I bought just enough time to get out of there."

"You're saying you'd have talked your way out of it."

"I'm a cop. You're an expert and a witness."

"It's Helen, Detective Acosta. Rafferty figured out she's out of control and isn't going to stop." Sophie took in a breath, remembering Helen swooping out of her house in her bright-red sweater. She pictured the scene at Cliff Rafferty's apartment, in the bathroom at the museum. "She's a shape-shifter. She's transforming herself into some kind of a warrior queen. Listen to me. Whatever your dealings with her, you must understand--she's going to kill you."

Acosta didn't listen. Sophie turned to get out of there, but he grabbed her by the elbow and shoved her down the hall. "You'll see you're wrong."

"Cliff couldn't control Helen's violence," Sophie said, hoping she could get through to him. "He must have wanted to talk to me about the pieces from the cave--what she could want with them. He knew he was in big trouble the minute Jay Augustine was arrested. He asked you for the security job at the showroom to cover his trail."

"It's been a hell of a week," Acosta said.

"When did you know Rafferty stole the missing artifacts?" But he didn't answer, just yanked on her arm and shoved her into the kitchen. Her momentum took her into the counter. She winced in pain, stood up straight. "Did Rafferty plant the bomb or did you?"

He was staring past her, his face ashen. "My mistake wasn't violence or money."

Sophie followed his gaze to three skulls--just like the ones she'd seen at Rafferty's apartment--tacked to the courtyard door.

The branch of an oak tree was propped up against the woodwork, its dark green leaves dripping with what appeared to be blood.

The garden door opened, and Helen Carlisle stood there in a flowing, bright red cape. She wore a red wig, and she had a gun pointed at the two people in her kitchen.

"No," Sophie whispered next to the stunned detective. "Your mistake was Helen."

29

Off the Iveragh Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

The ride out to the island was horrifyingly bumpy. Tim O'Donovan had made a point of telling Josie that Sophie had never vomited on her trips out there. She was an archaeologist. Josie was a professional intelligence officer. Time to buck up. But she had never liked boats. Myles, of course, was now best friends with the fisherman, neither of whom seemed even to notice the waves, the salt spray or her seasickness.

Josie managed not to vomit. She did, however, slip on the wet rock and go down on her butt. Myles grinned down at her and offered her a hand. "I've my pride," she said, and bounced back to her feet. "I'm a Londoner. I don't do bloody rocks in the middle of the bloody ocean."

She went on in that vein for some time. The day was only slightly overcast, the light soft, the view to the Iveragh Peninsula with its breathtaking sweep of rugged mountains, the highest peaks in Ireland. The island itself was a bald mass of rock with grassy bits.

"In the old days," Tim said, "monasteries were built along the Irish coast."

"Yes, Seamus Harrigan's been trying to talk me into touring the old monastery on Skellig Michael. I understand it's very difficult to get to--even worse than here--and quite inhospitable."

The Irishman glanced down at her as if she were completely weak-kneed. "The monastery was in operation for over six hundred years."

"I can hold my own in difficult conditions, but if I had another choice, I can tell you that I wouldn't live on barren rock on a remote island. Do you suppose the artifacts Sophie saw in the cave were from Skellig Michael? I understand she believes they're pagan in origin, but if they're gold and of historic and cultural value--well, I suppose it doesn't matter."

Tim shrugged his big shoulders. "Anything's possible."

Myles pointed toward the center of the island. "Is that the way to the cave?"

"That's it. Sophie was careful not to disturb any breeding ground for birds and sea life."

"We'll do the same," Josie said, "and tread carefully."

They followed O'Donovan up and then down again over the gray, bleak rock. Occasionally Josie would look out at the view of the coastline and water and fight off an urge to chuck everything, phone Will in London and tell him she and Myles were going off to hike the Kerry Way and stay in quaint Irish bed-and-breakfasts and have picnics.

Except, of course, Myles was riveted to his adopted mission of finding Percy Carlisle.

In her own way, so was she, Josie thought, feeling less wobbly now that she was on firm ground again. She had a terrible feeling about Carlisle.

Tim stopped atop a ledge and pointed down to a rock formation. "Sophie's cave is there."

Josie stood next to him, refocusing on why they were on this inhospitable hunk of rock. "I could come out here every day for a thousand years and not notice it," she said.

Tim grunted next to her. "Sophie knows what to look for."

Myles jumped down to the mouth of the cave. Josie sighed and edged down to him. She wasn't as put off by tight, dark places as she was by boats. She tightened her jacket--she'd borrowed a waterproof one from the Malones--and crawled in for a peek. He followed her, and she imagined him and Will investigating caves in Afghanistan for weapons caches, terrorist plans. She did her part from a warm office in London.

"This is a lark for you," she said, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light just inside the cave, "much as it was for Sophie Malone."

"It's not a lark if she saw what she claims."

They crouched down amid the damp rock. "It's not a pleasant spot to spend the night, is it?" Josie shuddered. "I might have made up blood-soaked branches and whispers myself, and I've been through all sorts of training. Sophie's an archaeologist with a great deal of experience in the field, but still."

"This place gives me the bloody willies."

That did cut to the chase, Josie thought.

Myles turned to Tim, who had climbed down and stood at the cave's entrance two yards from them. "Where did Sophie plan to camp?"

"There's a spot of decent ground near where we landed. She had a tent, food, water--she was prepared and not at all worried."

Josie peered into the dark at the back of the cave. "Tell me, Tim," she said, "if you had gold treasure you wanted to keep out of the hands of the Vikings or whomever, would you hide it on this island?"

"If I knew about the cave," he said.

"Do you think it was a ghost or fairies?" Myles asked.

"Ireland's full of folklore."

It wasn't a direct answer, but Myles let it go.

"An archaeologist wouldn't necessarily think of this place in the same way that we do," Josie said. "To me, it's desolate, remote and inhospitable. To Sophie--"

"It's fascinating," Tim said.

They heard a sound deeper inside the cave.

A moan.

Josie glanced at Myles but saw that he'd heard it, too. At the mouth of the cave, Tim O'Donovan was silent.

Someone was back there in the dark.

30

Boston, Massachusetts

Scoop spoke briefly with Eileen Sullivan at the Boston-Cork conference offices, then walked back down to the street. He left Sophie another voice mail. "Call me as soon as you can."

He dropped his phone in his jacket pocket. He had it on Ring and Vibrate. No way would he miss her if she called him back. He'd been trying to reach her for the past twenty minutes. She'd left the conference offices fifteen minutes ago.

He'd joined forces with Bob and Abigail and pried information on the investigation out of Tom Yarborough, probably Yarborough's first tweak of protocol since he'd told his mother no at two. Cliff Rafferty had almost certainly built and planted the bomb. His trail was relatively easy to follow once they had C4 sitting on his coffee table. They knew what questions to ask. They'd found more materials in his garage and traced them to their source.

The bastard had assembled the bomb, walked into the yard of fellow officers and placed it under a gas grill, ensuring added explosive power when it went off.

"He used our trust against us," Abigail had said.

"We never saw him," Scoop had said. "None of us did. He sneaked in back with his damn bomb because he knew we'd ask questions if we saw him. It could have been anyone."

But it wasn't. It was a cop. Someone they knew.

And he'd been murdered.

Scoop walked down the street to the Carlisle house. Josie Goodwin and Myles Fletcher were checking Sophie's island, but they hadn't reported back yet. They'd be out there now, maybe even in the cave itself.

His phone rang and vibrated in his jacket. He had it out in seconds, but it wasn't Sophie. Instead it was Damian Malone, her FBI-agent brother. "Helen Carlisle took a flight from London to Boston the same day you and Sophie got back," Damian said. "She arrived a couple hours after you did. I'm checking, but I'll bet she was in Ireland when her husband met Sophie in Kenmare."

"Then she didn't come from New York. She told us a bald-faced lie. Why?"

"Good question. Is she on the skids with Percy? Does she suspect he was involved with moving stolen art with Jay Augustine?" Damian sounded focused--and worried. "And where's my sister? She texted me a little while ago that there was no problem. It was an odd message."

"I'll find her," Scoop said.

He headed into the formal front yard of the Carlisle house and turned up the walk to the side door. It was partially open. He entered the elegant house, dialing Bob O'Reilly.

"I was about to call you," Bob said. "Yarborough's on his way. He wants to talk to Helen Carlisle about a few lies she told."

"About when she left her husband in Ireland?"

"We checked the auction house where she worked. She turned up in June of last year. Before that she was at a smaller auction house--a totally different woman. Quiet, timid. Not at all glamorous." Bob paused. "Scoop, Helen Carlisle isn't who she says she is."

He entered the kitchen and saw skulls and blood-dripping branches. "Yeah, Bob," Scoop said, tightening his grip on the phone, "I can see that."

31

Helen Carlisle had transformed the large, elegant courtyard into her own notion of a sacred wood. Sophie stood next to Acosta by a potting bench. The blood dripping from the branches was definitely real. Helen had taken it from several "rodents" she'd killed, their carcasses hanging from the branches of a potted oak sapling.

In the middle of the courtyard was a giant cast-iron cauldron set on a grate over an open fire. Sophie could feel the blistering heat of the flames.

Helen kept her gun--one of Cliff Rafferty's, she'd explained--pointed at her prisoners.

Her future victims, Sophie thought. "Were you here earlier today?" she asked Acosta.

He nodded, transfixed by the frightening image Helen presented with her red wig and cape pinned at the shoulder with a gold brooch of distinctive Celtic design. His skin was gray, pasty. "I deluded myself." He slurred his words slightly, his voice barely audible. "She tried to kill me yesterday. I see that now."

"Listen to me." Sophie knew she had to pull him out of his shock and self-pity if they were to survive. "Did Helen give you anything? Tea, a glass of water--"

"Tea."

"She's drugged you. She thinks she's some kind of warrior queen or goddess. She thinks she's drawing power from you. You're a police officer. A warrior. A lover. A threat. She has wild ideas but she's not insane. She knows exactly what she's doing and what she wants."

Helen sniffed. "What are you saying, Sophie? I told Jay Augustine that you had a knack for adventure and archaeology. I told him that you had a gift and it was just a matter of time before you discovered something of value and interest. I was right." She didn't lower her weapon a fraction of an inch. "When Percy told me about you and your Irish fisherman...I knew."

"Rafferty and Augustine played you."

"Oh, they tried. Certainly. Cliff was an opportunist. Jay was a killer--I didn't know at first. Now I see he was sent to me as a sign that it was time I took action."

"You transformed yourself," Sophie said, wishing somehow she could get Helen to move closer to the flames, catch her cape on fire--fall against the bubbling cauldron.

"Jay and Cliff thought I was a mousy know-nothing who dusted artwork in one of New York's lesser auction houses. And I was, until I became the woman Percy Carlisle fell in love with." Her beautiful eyes leveled on Sophie. "I sought him out because of you."

"Because of my expertise in Celtic archaeology."

"Jay was amused by my transformation. Cliff didn't even know until after Ireland." Her tone was superior--she was enjoying telling her story. "After he and Jay did what I wanted."

Sophie kept her tone steady, unafraid. "They followed me to the island."

"Can you imagine?" Helen smiled, but she didn't lower her gun. "Percy told me about your research in Ireland and your family home in Kenmare. Everything. Cliff was stupid and lazy in many ways, but he saw you go off with your Irish fisherman. He had binoculars. He was able to follow you and figure out where you were going."

"He got lucky. If he'd followed me the first five trips out to the island, he'd have come back empty-handed."

"It wasn't luck. Those pieces were meant to find their way to me. Jay wasn't tuned in to anything except opportunities for himself, and look what it got him? He died alone in a jail cell."

"Did you know that would happen, too?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

Acosta sank onto a bench. "Get the hell out of here," he whispered to Sophie. "Save yourself. I knew she was out of control but not this. Damn."

"If we can keep her talking--"

"No, don't. Don't, Sophie. Get out of here."

Helen glanced at him with disdain. "He'll fall asleep. He won't die from what I gave him."

"How did you kill Cliff?"

"I waited for him to get back from whining to you. I hit him on the head hard enough to knock him out. Then I hanged him. It was all planned. He had to be sacrificed. I wanted what power he had left in him."

"You'd fantasized about doing just that to someone."

"I don't fantasize." She came closer to Acosta as he fought to stay conscious. "I found myself when I delved into the study of true ancient pagan Celtic ways. I have a special insight because of my past. That's one thing that mouse I used to be gave me."

"There's nothing authentic about what you've done, Helen, or what you're doing now. It's pure, self-indulgent violence. It won't get you what you want."

"It will, Sophie."

"You think you're a destructress--that you'll gain power by creating chaos. You've intentionally adopted these beliefs to justify and rationalize your violence. Your understanding of early pagan Celtic rites and rituals is limited, as well as warped."

"Don't you dare tell me what I know and don't know. Jay and Cliff underestimated me. They hid the treasure from the cave--my treasure--from me. They never thought I'd be the buyer. Then when I married Percy..." She stood up straighter, taller. "When I became Mrs. Percy Carlisle, Jay understood."

"Then he went after Keira--"

"And he was arrested for murder while my treasure was sitting in his vault."

"You seduced Detective Acosta. You got Cliff to make sure he was assigned to security at the showroom." Sophie's throat was dry, but she was focused on this woman. Helen was lost in her own reality. There was no reasoning with her. There was only delaying her. "He brought you the treasure."

"That's right. The cauldron you found is a source of rejuve-nation and abundance," Helen said, the flames glowing in her eyes. "I will use it to consolidate my power. I have no doubts, Sophie. I have absolute certainty. Look at me. Look at what I've done. I'm a Carlisle."

"You want to be here," Sophie said softly. "You belong in this beautiful house. You love this life, Helen."

"That's right. I will give up nothing."

"If you go through with this, you'll give up Percy."

"He is going through his own transformation. He will understand. He's under my control."

Acosta passed out, sinking onto the brick courtyard.

He might have been one of her butchered squirrels for the look she gave him. "For a long time, I was weak and powerless. No one noticed me. Then I changed. Now look at me. I'm Helen Carlisle. I'm Mrs. Percy Carlisle. I'm desired by warriors like Frank Acosta."

"Cliff Rafferty wanted my opinion on what you were up to, didn't he? He was going to confess--"

"I'm the one who found his bomb-making materials and laid them out for his police friends." She kept her gun pointed at Sophie. "You could join me. Think of what you could become, Sophie."

"Not in a million years. What about Percy, Helen? What have you done with your husband?"

32

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."

33

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."

34

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.

35

Sophie climbed onto a rock outcropping with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the ocean. Just across the water, the jagged ridges of the Iveragh Peninsula were outlined against a stunning clear blue sky. Tim had dropped her off and was waiting just offshore in his boat.

Scoop was already there. Her life had changed, she thought. It had changed the moment Tim O'Donovan had told her his story about hidden Celtic treasure, a haunted island and priests who'd held their secret close, and she'd gone exploring.

A lark, a break from work, a way to face her fears about the future--whatever had driven her here had led her to a man she loved with all her heart and soul.

He sat on a boulder as if he didn't have a fear in the world. But she knew that wasn't true, and it was good. "Hey, Sophie," he said. "I knew it would involve an adventure to find you."

"Did Tim bring you out here?"

"Nope. I'm not coming between you two."

She frowned and thought a moment. She'd flown to Ireland two days ago to join her worried family in Kenmare and reassure them. Damian, her FBI agent rake of a brother, had met her there.

That was it. "Damian," she said. "My brother got you out here."

"Maybe it was the fairies."

She laughed. "Anything is possible." But she looked down toward the entrance to the cave. "Percy is recovering in London. He's putting his house in Boston on the market. He'll continue to serve on the museum board of trustees, but I doubt he'll ever live in Boston again."

"Have you seen him?"

She shook her head. "He would hate it that I feel bad for him. He's always assumed that I've thought he doesn't measure up to his father, but that's just his own sense of inadequacy coming through. It's unfair to make that sort of comparison. In his case, it also proved dangerous."

"Helen resented her own failings and inadequacies, at least as she perceived them."

"Why wasn't I one of Jay Augustine's victims?"

"You were."

"He didn't kill me."

"Cliff Rafferty was with him, for one thing. For another, Augustine latched on to the narrative of a mother and daughter when he heard the story about the stone angel. That's what he did. He latched on to narratives. He was obsessed with an old murder in Boston--with the devil and evil."

"What I found was pagan Celtic."

"Which he wanted purely for profit. Scaring you and leaving you for dead were a bonus."

"He was already a killer then."

"As far as we can tell, he hadn't killed anyone in several years. He needed the narrative."

"He didn't know Tim's story. He only had what Helen told him to go on. Percy was terrified he'd done something terrible, but he couldn't put the pieces together. He didn't know that Helen had chosen to embrace a way of thinking, believing and living. She romanticized and twisted bits and pieces of what she knew of Celtic history, culture and traditions--interpreted the past to rationalize her own identity and desires."

"Good analysis, Agent Malone."

She smiled suddenly. "John March and Wendell Sharpe have asked me to consult from time to time on art recovery cases."

"You can still be a professor."

"Most certainly. I have a real shot at that tenure-track position in Boston I told you about. Then there's the Boston-Cork conference in April. My hockey players."

Scoop winked at her. "Life is good."

"My brother tells me you have a new job."

"Yeah. It's what happens when you get blown up. They promote you."

"You're a man of courage and integrity, Scoop, but you're also very kind. And sexy."

"I'm not making love to you out here on these rocks."

She laughed. "My family can't wait to meet you. Taryn's taking a break from acting. Tim swept her up from the table last night in the pub and danced with her. That was it. I think she wants a different life. She's going to stay in Kenmare and see what happens."

"Keira and Simon are inviting you to their wedding. They're working out the details to get married when they're here at Christmas. Will and Lizzie will be next. Who knows with those two? They could get married in Dublin, Boston, Las Vegas, London, Scotland. My guess is it'll be the old Rush place on the Maine coast."

"New lives getting started."

He stared out at the rugged mountains across the sparkling bay. "Bob and I figured out what to do with the triple-decker. We're busting up into the attic and adding stairs. My brothers and some of his friends from Southie are taking a look. We'll each have two floors."

"That's a lot of room."

He looked at her. "Yeah, it is. It'll have shiny new floors and white walls. Office space. Lots of light. It's close to Logan to go back and forth to Ireland."

"You like it here," she said.

"I do, but I was thinking of you."

"Scoop."

"Tim O'Donovan figures we should have an Ireland honeymoon after the Cork end of the April conference."

"He does, does he?"

"I love you, Sophie. I want to marry you."

"When did you decide this?"

"The day we met in an Irish ruin."

She smiled. "I knew it then, too. It was love at first sight." She leaned against him, felt his lips brush the top of her head. "I love you, Scoop."

A gust of wind blew in from the west, but she wasn't cold, and she realized the only whispers she heard now were those of the ocean waves.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One of the great pleasures of writing The Whisper has been the opportunity it's given me to explore Ireland in so many different ways--through trips, books, Internet sites, music, art and friends. While in Kenmare last September, I was introduced to a thick, gorgeous book that I couldn't resist and highly recommend: The Iveragh Peninsula: A Cultural Atlas of the Ring of Kerry, edited by John Crowley and John Sheehan. I also read numerous books on Irish history, archaeology and the Celts, including The Celts, by T.G.E. Powell; The World of the Celts, by Simon James; Pagan Celtic Ireland: The Enigma of the Irish Iron Age, by Barry Raftery; Celtic Art, by Ruth and Vincent Megaw. My deepest appreciation goes to these scholars and their work.

Many thanks to my cousin Gregory Harrell for his insights into the work of an Internal Affairs detective, and to my daughter, Kate Jewell, a doctoral student in history, for her help and expertise. My husband and I rushed back from Ireland to welcome her and Conor's firstborn, who decided to arrive a bit early. That very morning Joe and I had hiked a gorgeous trail on the Beara Peninsula, not far from where baby Leo's paternal great-great-grandfather was born.

Finally, a special thank you to Margaret Marbury and Adam Wilson at MIRA Books, and to Jodi Reamer at Writers House for all you do.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-5983-0

THE WHISPER

Copyright (c) 2010 by Carla Neggers.

All rights reserved.