The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Thank you, Jesus!” Bryce wheezes.

  Wyatt’s whimper is like music to his ears. Bryce tears at the buttons on his flannel shirt and strips it off to wrap the boy. He cradles him in his arms with a rocking motion. “You’re all right, buddy. You’re going to be okay.”

  Wyatt turns his head slightly, “Mr. B?” His voice is small and scratchy, but he is conscious and alive.

  “That’s right. It’s me,” Bryce smiles. He extends his palm skyward. The light rain has let up and as if by a miracle, the moon peeks copiously through, shedding a veil of gray.

  “Ohhh, I’m gonna be—”

  Bryce holds Wyatt’s head while the child retches. In a ghostly light, the outline of a body is revealed a few feet from them. It is twisted in an abnormal position against the trunk of a fallen tree. Pain strikes with lightning speed and rips through his soul. He knows she is dead without checking.

  Bryce turns away.

  “Wyatt? We need to get you warm.”

  The boy is shivering profusely.

  “Let’s find a better place,” Bryce says, taking swift action. The moon illuminates his way and the precious sound of the river gives him a sense of direction. He will use the woods for cover until he can figure something out.

  Bryce carries Wyatt away from the sickening scene and gently lays him down under fan-like fronds in a clump of palmetto bushes. He scoops up dead leaves that blanket the ground to insulate him from a drop in temperature and possible shock. Most of the foliage is completely dry underneath the top layer.

  “I need to leave you for a minute, okay? It won’t be long.”

  Wyatt’s small hand goes to Bryce’s arm. The strength of his grip is reassuring.

  “Stay covered, now. And, don’t move from this spot. Do you hear me?”

  “I want to sleep.”

  “Yes. Sleep, Wyatt. It’s all right.”

  Wyatt groans and curls into a ball. Bryce shoves more loose brush against him. He lingers a moment to watch the boy’s still shape and listen to his steady breathing. Satisfied, he takes off.

  The sight of Chloe Katriona McIntosh-Logan is enough to make Bryce puke, and he does. Hunched over, he loses the contents of his stomach in a fit of spasms until there is nothing left. Falling to his knees, Bryce crawls to the place where she is half-propped and checks the pulse on her lifeless body. Jerking inside, he first thinks he feels something, but all hope is gone. Blowing warm air onto his stiff fingers, he confirms a true reading.

  “Oh Kat, God help me,” Bryce breaks down, emotionally falling apart. He is racked by sobs so deep there is no sound. Scooting back and sitting with his legs drawn up and his head on his knees, he squeezes his eyes shut to the horror of what he has done.

  He blames himself with a destructive fury. If he had a gun, he would use it. Gun! — Kat’s purse — Wyatt. The last impression, one of Wyatt, exposed and at great risk.

  Wiping his nose with the bottom of his damp T-shirt and crawling to Kat’s side, Bryce draws her into his arms. In a tender gesture, he brushes away the wet tendrils of hair stuck to her soft cheeks and picks a small twig from her tangled bangs. Carefully, he lifts the strap of Kat’s shoulder bag over her head. They might need her wool sweater too, but something tells him to leave it behind. The purse is enough to lie about.

  “I’m so sorry, Kat. I did this to you, and I will never forgive myself. Never!” his voice is low and fierce as he hugs her close. Kat’s head falls to one side. Her neck is broken. He prays death was instantaneous and blocks any notion of other causes.

  “If you can hear me, Kat, Wyatt is here. He’s going to be okay,” Bryce soothes and knows he must hurry. Kat’s eyes show no sign of life. Undeniably, her pupils, reflecting tiny orbs of the full moon overhead, are dilated and non-responsive. She’s gone. He covers her morbid stare with his fingertips, gently pressing each delicate lid closed.

  Bryce moves Kat under the low-growing limbs of an evergreen nearby. He adjusts her body into a more natural position and checks her pulse one last time, hating himself for it and knowing rigor mortis will soon set in. Like he did with Wyatt minutes before, Bryce scoops up ground foliage and fallen pine branches to cover her. The last thing he sees is the green silk fabric from Sophie’s shawl still gripped in her hand.

  “I’ll come back, if I can, but right now Wyatt needs me. I will take good care of him, Kat.” Bryce forces a smile that he does not feel, but his commitment is deeply felt. His somber promise and the finality of an injustice done to an innocent fill him with searing rage that burns a permanent hole in his heart.

  “If I ever get my hands on the bastards who did this, I’ll kill ’em,” Bryce growls in a feral pitch.

  Quietly, he uses Kat’s flashlight to retrieve his medical bag, then slips away into the darkness.

  Chapter 68

  THIS DIMENSION IS CLOSED

  Posed on the edge of a hard straight-back chair, the round hoop wire of her cage crinoline pressing into her backside, Sophie’s black dress marks a tragedy in her life and the status of widowhood. She and Colette have pulled two wobbly chairs from a small table for extra seating. There is only one dusty upholstered chair in the room and this has been offered to their surprise guest.

  For almost an hour, Sophie bared her soul and retraced her haunted life’s path that led up to this very moment. Running her finger around the rim of her glass, she studies Jane warily, “These enemy factions, the Salva Society and Highland Gaelic Rite — as far as we know, their motherboard is down. This dimension is closed for good.”

  Colette interjects, “We are the last through the portal.” She has offered her support where needed, but she wonders if Sophie’s friend has forgiveness in her heart.

  “Yes,” Sophie continues, “We are the end of it. Besides us, we think Salva and the Rite have other people planted in this time. I wonder if they even know what has happened?” She waits for a reaction. Jane does not seem to be troubled by her sorry news. “There is no going back. It is too horrible to think about.” There is a loud pause.

  “Not for me,” Jane firmly interjects, her green eyes reflecting red and orange flames from the fire in the hearth. “I’ve decided my place is here. This is where I belong. Open or closed. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Serious,” Sophie says, surprised by Jane’s first rejoinder. “These people have been playing God. I don’t know, aren’t you even the slightest bit bothered? They’ve wrecked our lives and untold others.”

  “Nature is nothing to tamper with,” Colette says earnestly. “There is a price to pay.”

  “Really,” Jane’s mouth twitches. “You say you work for them, Colette?” she questions suspiciously.

  “Worked, e-d past tense,” Colette corrects. “Oui, it is true. But I am not in the inner circle, nor should I have been called to serve in this capacity. With my advanced education in American and European History, I functioned as an Apprentice Research Historian. Many of us in our occupations with the Rite are not privy to the core and its innermost workings.” Colette gives Jane a steady look, “I can tell you honestly, I would never have agreed to any of this.”

  “I see,” Jane nods stiffly. It is apparent both women have had a terrible time of it. She can’t help but be sympathetic on some level. Especially when Sophie told her story about Ben and his seamy addiction that cost them everything. What if it were Matt? What wouldn’t she do to save him? Still, Sophie made her bed, as dear Anna would say. Tricked, schemed against or not, a small, disgruntled part of her thinks Sophie got what she had coming.

  Jane’s thoughts rush to Bryce and their exchange outside the chapel on her wedding day. He warned her there was some kind of evil force manipulating people to their bidding. He was positive Sophie and Ben had a hand in it. It is all making sense. At least she is finally getting the whole dirty truth.

  “So, the priest, this Father Cambrio turned out to be a murderous rat,” Jane commits.

  “Totally! Rat is an understatement,” Sophie says. She take
s a deep breath and expels the air, making her cheeks puff out.

  “Jane, I’ve told you everything. It’s crazy stuff and hurts me to know I’ve been involved. I am not going to apologize a bunch of times. It just seems, you know, two-faced. But I can tell you I have lived with guilt and regret from the day you disappeared. Then, I was innocent. But the second time around, with Bryce, it was planned. I made a bad mistake and there’s no excuse for it. The best I can do now is find a way to make it up to you. I hope you will give me a chance.”

  Jane flinches inside at Sophie’s passionate outpouring and a flicker of compassion stirs. She quickly suppresses her emotions, though, and meets Sophie’s eyes, “You say you aren’t necessarily important to this period, but—”

  “Sophie’s child is destined to do great things.” Colette rests her embroidery in her lap. She had taken up her needlework to remain calm during this very personal conversation between friends.

  Jane frowns, “So this faction, the Highland Gaelic Rite, can not only transport people back in time, but can also predict the outcome, the future.”

  She immediately thinks of White Owl. Maybe Sophie’s baby is the child in White Owl’s vision — the boy linked to a girl that bears her likeness. Jane is intrigued, but decides to save her stories for another time. She is not ready to share yet. Sophie has been open and seemingly sincere, but their trust is broken. She is not ready to talk about White Owl, or Bryce’s brief visit to Sea Oaks and the key she discovered in a Celtic box.

  “You both believe this about the baby?” Jane says. Her gaze moves from Colette to Sophie again.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Sophie says frankly. “But Father Cambrio sure as bloody hell believed it. Enough to attempt murder. I was this close to being shoved over the side of the Nannie Dee into the Atlantic,” she pauses. The thought still nauseates her.

  Sophie turns to a positive thought, “Thank God Reverend Post intervened. The reverend has had my back since we left Liverpool. A good friend. A real good friend,” Sophie smiles.

  “Good friend, huh?” Jane does not miss the sparkle in Sophie’s eyes when she talks about this new friend of hers.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Jane Peterson-Hopkins,” Sophie laughs. She is happy to see Jane brighten a little. “Clayton—”

  “Ah, you already use his Christian name freely,” Jane teases. “I see.”

  “Yeah, well, Clayton opposed it at first. Don’t you just hate the stuffy conditions of Victorian society?” Sophie grins, “We really are friends. But who knows.” She refills the bottom of their glasses again and holds the bottle up to the light. There is not much left. Sophie had raided Bernice Finch’s pantry — a crime that would surely get them evicted, if caught. Mrs. Finch uses her liquor only for emergency medicinal purposes.

  “Geez, this is strong,” Jane sputters at the burning sensation in her throat, demurely covering her mouth. “I can feel it all the way down to my toes. Your landlady’s brandy has quite a kick. You know, you shouldn’t be drinking so much,” she warns, serious again.

  Sophie throws her hand up and points to herself, “Who me?” Her movements are slightly exaggerated.

  “Yes, you. How far along are you?”

  “Far enough to want to burn this bony torture device I’m wearing.” Sophie indicates her corset.

  “Don’t I know it! Every bit as effective as the iron maiden, thumbscrews and the rack, I have no doubt,” Jane counters, making Sophie burst into giggles.

  “Jane is right, chérie,” Colette says sensibly, observing a rosy flush on Sophie’s cheeks and the tip of her nose. “Too much alcohol cannot be good for the baby. You’ve had enough, I think.”

  “All right, already,” Sophie frowns and carefully sets her glass aside. “You have to admit it does take the edge off things. I guess it is tea for me.”

  Whenever they are in their room, a kettle of steaming water is standing by on the hearth. Tea is something they are willing to splurge for, along with chips of sugar and a bit of ground cinnamon.

  “We buy our tea from Mandelbaum’s Boston Tea Store on Marlboro Street,” Colette says. “Mr. Mandelbaum offers all types, claiming they are of the latest and most approved cargoes.”

  “I like Young Hyson the best,” Sophie grins. “But there are others just as yummy. We want to try them all, don’t we Colette.” Fortunately, Sophie is left unscathed by Cambrio’s poisoned tea. She still has a taste for the flavorful brew.

  Jane sets her glass down too. “I’ve had enough. Tea sounds grand.”

  The women sit quiet and allow their racing thoughts to reconcile. They have covered a lot of ground in a short period of time.

  “Okay. So here we are. Now, what do we do?” Although Jane had only shared parts of her life that led to Boston, she did, however, tell Sophie and Colette about her husband. She explained Major Hopkins is a prisoner of war in Fort Warren across the bay. It is the reason why she is here in the North, away from family and home.

  “I still can’t get over your being married.”

  “Why?” Jane does not know how to take Sophie’s remark.

  “Well, it’s just you had such a thing for Bryce.”

  “That’s true, a special bond. It is hard to describe,” Jane sniffs and takes a sip of her tea.

  “Have you thought about him being here in this time with us,” Sophie suggests dreamily, the prolonged effects of alcohol talking.

  Jane doesn’t answer. She is careful to keep her last memory of Bryce to herself.

  “Your husband,” Colette coaxes gently. “Il t'a appris l'amour. He has taught you love, no?”

  Jane relaxes, “Matt has taught me a lot of things about relationships. With Bryce, I was always chasing something I thought I wanted, but could never have. With Matt, love sort of fell in my lap, unexpected and wonderful. It was an easy, natural thing like breathing. A strong, mutual feeling — he is mine, and I am his. Matt is everything to me. He’s my world.” With this, hot tears come. They flow down Jane’s cheeks and gather under her chin.

  “Oh dear, I’m such a mess,” Jane gushes and tries to smile, brushing crossly at the surging moisture. “I’m worried sick. I am out of a job. I have no place—”

  “Here,” Sophie presses her handkerchief into Jane’s hand. “I see you are wearing the chatelaine I gave you for your birthday.”

  “Yes,” Jane sniffs and blots her eyes. “It survived a shipwreck,” she says with a choking laugh. “Where are the Kleenex when I need them?”

  “Go ahead. Blow your nose,” Sophie chuckles. “You will stay with us, of course.”

  “But, what about—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Finch? I’m sure she won’t mind. What’s one more? I have some clout around here anyway. You know, with Clayton nearby.”

  Colette gives Sophie a look, but says nothing.

  “The room is small. It would be a hardship,” Jane says.

  “Since when do we worry about hardship?” Sophie chuckles.

  “I can make a pallet on the floor near the fireplace,” Colette chimes in. “I prefer to sleep there, anyway. It is the warmest place in the room.”

  “No way. I wouldn’t think of intruding,” Jane objects, scanning the cramped space.

  “Well, the decision is already made,” Colette stands. “Surely you have more than this carpetbag, madame?”

  “I have a trunk. Shoot! I left it behind at the hospital,” Jane slumps in her chair.

  “No worries, we can see to it in the morning. Your husband, this must be your priority. Everything else will work out.”

  “Colette’s right, we need to focus on getting your major out of that awful place.” Sophie softens, “It’s the least I can do for a friend.” She could not be more genuine. This is her chance to right a tragic wrong. “We’ll have to be clever and I have just the person to help us.”

  Sophie and Colette share their light supper of cheese, bread and leftover broth in their room and they talk lightly about general topics. Ev
entually, the three women settle in for the night.

  When Jane blows out her half-burned candle and huddles under the wool blanket that covers her body, her thoughts go to Matt, “I’m coming, sweetheart. Please stay well. It won’t be long.”

  Temporarily, sleep evades her. Watching shadows cast by the glow of the fire on the ceiling and listening to the creaks and muffled bumps of the boarding house, Jane wonders at this latest turn of events. Running into Sophie here like this is totally unreal. She finally decides they are all misplaced, all victims in their own way. Harboring deep-seated anger and holding a grudge will only fan the flames of a grievous injustice. It would be like drinking poison. She must forgive and forget, and get on with it. Above all things, Matt is her first priority.

  Chapter 69

  NO LESS THAN TREASON

  “Come now, Sophie. This can’t be that serious,” Clayton chuckles, but he is made anxious by the drum in his ears and moisture that has formed in the crease of his armpits. Torn by conflicting emotions, he feels this conversation is about to take a nasty turn.

  To still his heart, Clayton prays silently for guidance. He is compelled to take Sophie’s hand, and does so with the greatest respect, drawing her to sit by him in a front-row pew that is slick with polish. They are alone in the sanctuary. The white standing Anglican collar around his neck reflects splashes of color that filter through stained-glass windows lining the outer walls of the church. Rays of the morning sun give the impression God is peeking in.

  “What, in Heaven’s name, could have you so distraught?”

  Instinctively, he offers, “May I remind you, clergy privilege is rooted in keeping confidences. Won’t you please explain? I will do what I can. You must trust me.”

  Part of him is saddened by her cautious reserve. He waits patiently and suppresses the urge to straighten the broach that secures her collar at the tender part of her neck. Strands of blonde hair have escaped her bonnet. She has dressed in haste.

  “I’m sorry, Clayton,” Sophie says. “It is, well, complicated. My friend needs help. It seems her husband is a prisoner—”