No time.
She had to take cover now.
She about-faced and dove under the loft, scrambling into the far corner of the hut, dropping her water bottle and emergency rations into the mud as she covered her head with her arms.
After a few seconds, the rocks and debris stopped falling. Keira held her breath, not daring to move or utter a sound. She waited. A minute passed. Two minutes. Nothing.
Hoping the worst was over, she lowered her arms from her head and, still not making a sound, peered through the dust to assess her situation.
Who was out there? Who had whispered her name? She could make out the half-crumbled fireplace and…
something. She squinted, blinked, squinted again. A small stone statue stood in the rubble in front of the fireplace.
An angel.
On the hearth.
Suspicious that her imagination, fueled by adrenaline, had conjured up Patsy’s mythical stone angel, Keira expected she’d blink once more and it’d disappear, turn out to be just more ordinary rock.
But it didn’t disappear. She could see wings, a beauti
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99 ful, delicately featured face and, in the angel’s arms, a small Celtic harp.
The three brothers in Patsy’s story all agreed they’d heard the angel playing a harp.
Saint Ita had lived in Ireland in the sixth century, but there was no way for Keira to tell if the angel was fourteenhundred or a hundred years old—or if it’d been bought off a garden-store shelf that morning and popped in here as a summer solstice prank. Maybe she wasn’t the only one in the area familiar with the story. At this point, she thought, anything was possible.
Just as she proceeded to get a closer look, she heard a loud snap and tucked herself into a tight ball as more of the ruin caved in. Even with her face pressed up against her knees, she could taste dirt and dust from the collapsing stones and mortar. If her side of the old hut gave way, she was doomed.
But she knew it wouldn’t.
It just won’t, she thought, surprised by her sense of cer
tainty.
Keira remained in her tucked-in position until all she could hear were the gentle sounds of the stream and the breeze blowing through the trees just outside. She didn’t know how long she waited—at least an hour—but when she was as sure as she could be that the hut had collapsed as much as it was going to, she raised her head and coughed in the settling dust as she took in her situation. A massive pile of stone and debris had fallen just beyond her free space under the loft, blocking her route to the door. She wouldn’t be going out the way she’d come in, but that left few options. There was no rear exit, and the tiny windows were too far up for her to reach without a ladder. Keira picked up her water bottle and her bag of snacks 100
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out of the mud, grimacing when she realized that her backpack was buried somewhere in the rubble. Even with the long Irish June days, it would be fully dark in a few hours.
She didn’t need more time to digest her situation. It was obvious to her.
She was trapped.
London, England
5:00 p.m., BST
June 22
Simon took his cell phone to a quieter corner of the bustling London hotel bar and asked Owen Garrison to repeat what he’d just said. Something about an artist who’d turned up missing in Ireland.
Keira Sullivan.
The flaxen-haired fairy princess with a penchant for trouble.
“You met her the other night in Boston,” Owen said.
“I remember.” Simon pictured her floating into the drawing room in her long skirt. “She was off to Ireland to look into an old story. What’s going on?”
“She was supposed to call her uncle this morning from the pub in the village where she’s rented a cottage. When he didn’t hear from her, he checked with the pub. The barman said he’d expected her to stop in last night, but she didn’t, and no one’s seen her today. She doesn’t 102
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have a cell phone, and there’s no phone at the cottage she rented.”
Simon felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten.
“Why doesn’t her uncle ask someone from the pub to go knock on her door?”
“He did. She wasn’t there. Her rented car’s in the drive
way.”
“She’s an adult. She’s in Ireland on her own. How do we know she didn’t just jump on the bus and go to Dublin for a few days?”
“We don’t. Bob’s not panicking, but he’s got this thing about the summer solstice. It’s bad luck for his family or something. I know it’s a lot to ask as a favor, but if you’re at a loose end and could take a look, you’d have a cop in Boston in your debt.”
“Always a good idea.”
“I’ve e-mailed you a file on Keira. Link to her Web site, directions to her cottage.”
Simon was more accustomed to diving into rescue missions following major disasters, not tracking down some flaky creative type who’d taken off into the Irish country
side. As attractive as this one was.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.” He started to hang up, but added, “I haven’t rescued a damsel in distress in a while.”
“Bob said for me to tell you Keira’s also a dead shot with a Glock.”
“Is she now?” It was obviously a warning from the uncle for Simon to behave, but he was more amused than intimidated. “Even better. And she’s pretty.”
“Alas,” Owen said, “that she is.”
Simon also knew—as Owen and Bob O’Reilly would also know—that if something had gone wrong and Keira
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103 was in trouble, the sooner they got started looking for her, the better her odds of surviving.
After he disconnected, Simon returned to his stool at the bar next to his latest partner in debate, a London banker he’d just met, also friends with Will Davenport. The banker had ordered another martini and seemed ready to settle in for an evening of putting an upstart American in his place. He was Simon’s age but dressed as if he’d just stepped from tea with Edward VIII. If not for the hotel’s dress code, Simon would have been in jeans. Instead, he’d opted for black slacks and a charcoal pullover that barely passed muster.
“Sorry, mate,” he told the banker. “Duty calls.”
“The fake English accent is annoying, Simon.”
“That’s the idea.”
Simon headed up the elevator to the elegant suite where he was supposed to be keeping a low profile while the FBI and other law enforcement entities went after Norman Es
tabrook and his pals.
Would John March consider taking off to Ireland to check on an artist late for a call to her cop uncle a way of keeping a low profile?
Probably not, Simon thought, turning on his laptop and opening up his e-mail.
“Whoa.”
Having met Keira Sullivan, he’d expected pretty, but in the publicity shot on her Web site, she was smiling, with flowers—pink roses and something purple and frothy—in her shining flaxen hair. She had gorgeous, black-lashed blue eyes, and she wore a dark green velvet dress that gave her the look of an elf princess out of Tolkien—one with a very nice cleavage. He couldn’t help but notice, although the flowers in her hair had momentarily distracted him. 104
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“Now that can’t be a good sign,” he muttered, clicking the link to her bio.
She was born in South Boston and raised in southern New Hampshire, but she’d lived all over the place since—
New York, Nashville, Sedona, San Diego. She supported herself, apparently, with her increasingly popular illustra
tions of classic poems and folktales, but she also had an academic background in folklore.
No mention of a husband or kids.
Simon dialed the number for Will’s assistant, Josie Goodwin. Josie, who was particular about people, liked Simon becaus
e he’d saved Will’s life. At least to hear Will tell it. That particular rescue hadn’t been an easy one, Simon remembered. Just him, a rope and an ax. He’d pulled Will out of a bombed-out cave in Afghanistan. Will had never explained what he was doing there, and Simon had never asked. Nor had Simon explained his own presence. He hadn’t seen Will yet this trip. Supposedly, he was ex
tending a stay in Scotland to go fishing. But he’d told friends he was in Scotland fishing when he was lying halfdead in the rubble of an Afghan cave. That was two years ago, before Simon had met Owen Garrison or had even heard of Fast Rescue and its teams of highly trained volunteers.
“I need to get to southwest Ireland,” he told Josie.
“When?”
“Now.”
“Ah. You do love to present a challenge.” A keyboard clicked in the background. “I can arrange for a flight into Kerry tonight, but you’ll have to hurry. I’ll need to have a car pick you up in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be ready.” He smiled into the phone. “Thanks, Moneypenny.”
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105
“Fancy yourself a James Bond, do you? More of a Hulk, I think, or perhaps a Conan the Barbarian.” She clicked more keys. “But let me arrange for the car, and you go pack.”
“I owe you—”
“No,” she said, serious now, “you don’t.”
Ten minutes later, he was downstairs, his car waiting. He’d be at Keira Sullivan’s cottage in a few hours. Then what?
He had no idea, but in his world, a fascination with Irish stories, fairies and magic didn’t bode well.
Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 7:00 p.m., IST
June 22
Keira bit into the last of her three energy bars. It was oatmeal raisin and not half-bad, although she’d begun to fantasize about warm rhubarb crumble at Eddie O’Shea’s pub. She’d been trapped in her Irish ruin for almost twenty-four hours. She was uncomfortable, dirty and hungry, but as dank and unpleasant as it was in her intact corner under the loft, she was strangely unafraid. She was unhurt, reasonably dry and safe, and she still had food and water. She also had a solid plan for getting out. It was just taking longer to execute than she wanted it to.
Smoky light filtered through the cracks in the cloak of ivy and debris above the rubble beyond the low ceiling of the loft. The half moon had helped last night, but she had to hurry if she didn’t want to spend another night in there. Her flashlight was in her buried backpack, along with the rest of her emergency supplies.
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107 “No more breaks,” she said aloud, pushing up the sleeves of her sweater as she stood up.
In ducking into the ruin to escape the dog, she must have dislodged a rock or tree root—or even just the ground—and started a chain reaction. Rafters, mud, mortar and stone had fallen between her and the fireplace, blocking any hope of getting out through the door. She didn’t dare fool with that mess. She wasn’t an engineer—
she couldn’t take the chance of collapsing the rest of the ruin around her.
That meant that her only practical route of escape was up. The distance between her and the loft was too great for her just to step on a rock or jump up. She’d had to build a ladder. In principle, it sounded simple. In practice—it was anything but. Safety and stability were serious concerns, and the task of finding good “steps” for her makeshift ladder and setting them in place took time, energy, muscle and a certain tolerance for bruises, scrapes and wrecked knuckles and fingernails. As impatient as Keira was to get out, she forced herself not to rush and risk injury. The bottom “rung” was a large, relatively flat rock. No problem there. Two smaller rocks that she’d exhumed from the rubble provided the next steps up. Again, no problem. Then came a hunk of wood—part of an old rafter, she assumed. It was an iffier prospect than the rocks, but she thought it would work reasonably well.
But she still lacked a few feet, and she was eyeing a sapling out toward the main area of freshly fallen rubble, wondering if she could figure out a way to make it work to bridge the gap between her top step and the edge of the loft. She noticed a fat, black slug oozing along the mud floor and grimaced. She’d seen her first slug at daylight, and her first spider about an hour later. Now that she knew she had 108
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company, she couldn’t bear the thought of being trapped in her cell-like free space for another night. She had about six square feet to work in. There were no bathroom fa
cilities, but she could make do. It was the slugs, spiders and darkness that got to her. She wanted out. Her ladder would work. She knew it would. The plan was to be free by nightfall and off to the pub before anyone missed her. She’d need to call her uncle as soon as possible, but it was a workday for him—surely he was too busy to have noticed his grown niece in Ireland hadn’t called that morning, as promised.
Bypassing the slug, Keira reached for the sapling. Her emergency whistle was somewhere in the mud and muck, but she wasn’t sure she’d have bothered with it, anyway. She much preferred to get out of here on her own and go about her business. Let everyone think she’d gone off gallery hopping in Kenmare and be none the wiser. She’d left a note in her cottage detailing her route in case of mishap, but ob
viously no one had become sufficiently concerned about her absence to check on her. She’d have heard a search party out on the hills.
Just as well no one was coming to her rescue, she thought, pulling on the sapling carefully, dislodging it an inch at a time. At the first sign of falling rock and debris, she’d duck back into her corner.
She couldn’t see the stone angel from her position under the loft—let alone reach it—but once she was free, she’d investigate from outside the ruin. Had the cave-in crushed the angel?
Or had the fairies come for it?
Keira smiled at the thought. Another hour—two hours at most—and she’d be free.
Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 8:00 p.m., IST
June 22
Turn onto lane just past pub.
Look for pink roses and a small traditional stone cottage on right.
Owen’s directions to Keira Sullivan’s rented cottage were minimal, but as he drove into her tiny village on Kenmare Bay, Simon had no reason to believe they were inadequate. Josie Goodwin had arranged a sporty car for him at the Kerry County airport, but he’d paid for it himself. He’d only go so far in accommodating her boss’s need to repay Simon for saving his life. Simon wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Will Davenport, but he wasn’t a pauper, either.
This was a personal favor to Owen, not Fast Rescue business.
Simon had spent a fair amount of time in Ireland, for both business and pleasure, and enjoyed the narrow, 110
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twisting roads out to the Beara Peninsula. He recalled someone telling him that birds from North America would occasionally cross the Atlantic by mistake and end up crash-landing on Dursey Island at the tip of the Beara. Having himself occasionally ended up in foreign lands he hadn’t realized he’d set out for, Simon could well imagine the lost birds suddenly finding themselves in an Irish sheep pasture instead of on a Brooklyn street. With only one pub in the village where Keira had set up housekeeping, the lane was easy to find. Simon slowed as he came to a small, picture-perfect tra
ditional stone cottage with masses of pink roses and wild
flowers. It had to be Keira’s rental. He pulled into a dirt driveway behind a parked Micra—presumably her rental—
and got out, pausing a moment to get a feel for the place. A fine mist had left water droplets on the grass and flowers. The air was cooler, windier down the peninsula. The cottage was unlit. As he approached the front door, he saw no sign of anyone home. Just in case, he knocked loudly. “Keira? It’s Simon Cahill.”
He waited, but the silence continued.
The door was unlocked. Now here, he thought, was a problem.
But
it wasn’t much of a lock, and an intruder could have gotten inside easily. Still, an unlocked door was an invita
tion to trouble. He pushed open the door and flipped on a light switch along the inside wall.
An overhead light glowed on the vibrant yellow painted walls of a single main room that combined the living and kitchen areas. Probably helped on dark and dreary days, Simon thought, noting the comfortable furnishings—over
stuffed sofa and chair covered in bright flowers, side tables stacked with books, a sturdy-looking pine table with two
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111 pine chairs. The table was spread with colored pencils, oil pastels, sharpeners, erasers, pads and sheets of sketch paper. He opened a medium-size sketchbook, expecting pretty, whimsical scenes of bucolic Ireland. Instead, he found three dark, atmospheric sketches of what he supposed was, or at least was inspired by, the rugged local scenery. As he started to shut the sketchbook, Simon noticed a tiny, cheerful red gnome sitting on a fence post in the top drawing. He had to smile. This was a touch of the quirky, fair-haired Keira he’d expected to find. He checked the kitchen. The electric kettle was un
plugged, cold and empty. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. No food left out. He opened up the small fridge—no clues there, either. She had a stash of butter, cheese, bread, milk, coffee, half a cucumber, carrots, two apples. He looked for a note detailing her whereabouts, but found none.
Helping himself to one of the apples, Simon headed for the bedroom. More vibrant paint—fuchsia this time. A double bed, its flowered duvet neatly pulled up over the pillows. Inside the closet were a couple of blouses and one skirt on hangers, a well-worn brocade satchel suitcase, a pair of sport sandals on the floor and a robe—white, silky—on a hook. He supposed his missing illustrator could have another suitcase, a smaller one for quick side trips. But why leave behind her robe?
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