The Wild Mountain Thyme

by Kathryn Scarborough

  “And didn’t I tell ya, Jimmy lad.”

  “Take a hike, Seamus,” Jim thought loudly. “For once, Megan and I are getting along fine and I don’t need you hanging around messing things up. Now, since you’ve earned your wings, why don’t you take off and go back up where you belong?”

  “Ah, glad you asked, Jimmy lad. Seems there is something else that needs doin’, although I’m not quite clear on it all.”

  “Something else that needs doing?” Jim projected his mind to shoot the question to Seamus. What on earth could that mean, “something else that needs doing”?

  “Aye, so it is. Do you remember the time you asked me to see who it was that was watching the lass here? And I told you it wasn’t my department? Well, it has something to do with the promise I made to help you with one thing that might come up, don’t you know.”

  To help with one thing? Jim’s mind turned over all the possibilities of that “one” thing.

  Megan glanced at Jim, then turned fully in her seat and looked at him again. “Jim, you have that leprechaun look about you,” Megan began.

  Jim tried to ignore her comment as he thought about what Seamus had said—that he could help with one thing.

  “Listen, what did you think happened last night?” Jim asked Megan.

  She flushed and looked away.

  “No, no, not that,” Jim said and then amended his question. “Although that was really terrific, but you know, what about the guy in the car?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose everything else was pushing it from my mind. Do you suppose we are still in danger? Who could it have been?”

  “Seamus seems to think we are in danger.”

  “Seamus?”

  “Yeah, that’s what he told me, something about being able to help with ‘one other thing.’ I’d say that’s pretty ambiguous.”

  “Right. Now why doesn’t he appear to me, as well? Or did I imagine the whole thing last night?” Megan was curious.

  “No, you didn’t imagine it. But according to Seamus, we were married in the abbey, or dedicated with all the broad definitions of what that word means. Then we almost got killed going back to the hotel. We consummated our marriage, broke up, and got back together again.”

  “It was rather a full evening. Something you would read in a novel, but it wouldn’t happen in real life.”

  “That’s true enough. Do you have any ideas about who it is, this would-be assassin? Or what Seamus means by, ‘one more thing that needs doing’?”

  “No. Oh, wait. Remember when we were having lunch and the barkeep told us there’d been a man asking about Americans? He thought the man was asking about you. I wonder.”

  “Yes, we both thought the same thing, and that’s why we left in such a hurry to get to the abbey. But if that was the killer, he had no idea that we were looking for him. How could he?”

  “I don’t know. Do you suppose whoever it was went back to the pub and asked the keep about us again? Maybe the keep told the man you were an American and looking for him as well.”

  Jim turned and looked at her for a full second before he pulled his gaze back to the highway.

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call the keep at the Moffat Arms and find out.”

  Chapter 33

  He prowled the banks of River Liffy, blending in with the crowd of blue-collar workers. He pulled his coat collar up and ducked his head. The bridge was crowded with people, some going to work at this hour of the morning, others coming home from the bars. He looked at his watch. It was five thirty.

  He would go to the pub on O’Connell and see if any Americans were still about. Probably not, but he had to get in one more before he and Megan got married.

  He’d seen her last night with that Yank and he’d almost killed again. Killed them with his car, and killed them both. His rage had gotten the better of him. What if he’d hurt Meggie in his rage at the American? That would never have done. But then again, he’d not have hurt her. The angels would make sure of that. Of that he was certain. He’d narrowly missed them on that last turn. He’d had the advantage. He was going forward. The Yank had to look back to see who was in pursuit and try to keep his car on the road around the hairpin turns at the same time. That last turn had almost sent them off the road. Maybe Meggie would have survived, and he’d have put everything on hold to nurse her back to health. It wouldn’t be too bad. He could do it. She’d love him even more then.

  But now—now, the pressure had built inside of him until he thought he might burst. The pressure always built up until he released it with—

  He needed one more.

  He walked into the pub, the dim light barely illuminating the interior. The smell of sour, stale beer and soggy cigarettes was the aroma he’d become used to over the past few months. The floor was littered with napkins, toothpicks, and an occasional glass that had fallen off a table. The keep leaned against the bar and eyed him as he came in through the door.

  Several patrons were resting their heads down on the bar. A few tables still had people drinking, some whisky, and some tea. Richard looked around, trying to find a viable candidate. A man stood and scratched his thick whiskers, a woman in the corner laughed raucously, another man made toward the back knocking into a chair and upending it.

  The barkeep looked Richard up and down, as though he were trying to remember Richard from somewhere.

  “Good day, chap.” The keep scratched at his cheek again.

  “Good day.”

  “What would you like then?”

  “A whisky.”

  The barkeep poured him a jigger of scotch. Richard took the glass, saluted the bar, and downed it in one gulp. He put the glass down solidly on the bar top and spoke quietly to the man as he leaned in and looked away to the interior of the pub.

  “Are there any Americans about?”

  “Americans?” The man expelled a short, quick burst of laughter. “In here? I hardly think so, lad. They’d be on the Southside mucking it up with the high muckity mucks.”

  Richard nodded to the man and quietly made his way from the bar.

  Chapter 34

  “What did he say?”

  Megan had spent fifteen minutes consulting with the keep at the Moffat Arms about the mysterious character who had asked after Americans the day before. Megan turned her head toward Jim and her face was ashen.

  “He told me that the man had come back to the pub. He asked about you, and then, the strange thing is, he asked about me as well.”

  “About you?”

  “Aye. It seems he described me down to the clothes I was wearing last evening. Which could only mean one thing.”

  “Yeah. That he’d seen you in the abbey or the church. So we can safely assume that whoever saw us together at the Moffat Arms may have tried to run us off the road last night.”

  “Right.” Megan sat quietly for a moment, chewing on her lip. Her mind circled the questions. The idea, the question that always popped up before all the others was, why? And for that matter, who? They’d spent the last hour getting to Dublin, parking the car, and making their way up to Megan’s desk at the Irish Times. Megan, with Jim in a chair next to hers, had finished a follow-up call to the barkeep at the Moffat Arms.

  “I can think of only one explanation. This guy is the killer and we are following him around trying to find out who he is, okay? We are on his tail and he doesn’t like it. Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill us last night—maybe he was only trying to scare us.”

  “You could have fooled me. I felt like we were about to die both times he rammed into us. I’m so sore this morning,” she said as she rubbed the back of her neck and her shoulders.

  “As long as other more important parts of you aren’t sore,” Jim replied as he buzzed her lips with a kiss.

  Megan felt a blush and she smiled when she saw Jim blush as well. They stood quietly for another moment outside the editor’s office, pulling together
their turbulent thoughts before they went in to report to the editor of the Irish Times.

  ****

  “We have a possible scenario that we’ve worked up, Mr. Flynn.”

  “Aye?” The editor of the Irish Times looked at Jim over his half-moon glasses.

  What hair the man had was white, and several sprigs sprouted at odd angles on the top of his head. He had one very large vein that started at his forehead and moved toward the crown of his head and pulsed rhythmically with each breath the man took. The pulsing would become erratic when he was angered, and this oddball bit of anatomy was a stringent warning to any writer who came into the office to confer with the editor. His starched white collar, cashmere suit, and blue tie done up in a Windsor knot were at odds with his coarse working man’s face. “The Mighty Flynn,” as the journalists at the Irish Times called him behind his back, inadvertently, perhaps from habit, intimidated anyone who walked across the threshold of his office.

  In Jim O’Flannery’s case, Jim was more confused than intimidated. Jim had spent till mid-morning driving into maniacal Dublin on the wrong side of the road. It was a sure bet that the other drivers were out to get him. And after last night’s escapade, he was really convinced of it. Luckily, they had all missed.

  After Flynn’s authoritative summons, Jim pulled his notes together and made his way into the editor’s office with Megan at his side. There was no doubt in Jim’s mind that he was a good writer, but Jim also knew he wasn’t always a good speaker, especially under pressure. Jim cleared his throat; alert for any telltale signs from the pulsing vein. Megan and several of the other journalists had clued him into the phenomenon, as fair warning.

  “Yes, we think the killer is from Dublin and for some strange reason he hates Americans.” Talk about dumb one-liners.

  Jim felt like smacking himself in the forehead, but refrained from that particular bit of self-chastisement.

  Flynn heaved a great sigh, took off his glasses and tossed them with a flourish onto the desktop.

  “Yes, O’Flannery. I believe every child above the fourth form knows that.” The editor steepled his fingers, leaned his head against the chair back and waited.

  “Well, sir.” Jim cleared his throat. This could be harder than he’d bargained for. Did he have trouble with editors as a whole, or was it the hard-nose boss types that made his tongue seem to tangle into knots?

  “You’re too much of a free spirit, Jimmy lad. That’s all. You’re a fine hard-working man. Not enough time with your dad, that’s the trouble. Just think of ’em as your dad, and you’ll get along right enough.”

  Jim looked at Flynn and almost burst out laughing. He shook off the momentary hysteria and got his mind back on the subject matter. He cleared his throat roughly and again addressed Mr. Flynn.

  “Forensics have determined that he’s left-handed and a little under six two. He is wearing a raincoat that is rubberized or waterproofed in some way because no fibers were ever found and neither were any definitive footprints. In Sligo, it looked like something was used to obliterate any boot prints that were left in the soft dirt where the victim fell.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t wearing a coat at all. How about shoes now, what type would you say?”

  “Don’t know. Something soft-soled, but if he wasn’t wearing a coat, someone would have remembered. Too cold without a coat. He blended right in. We’ve got to find somebody who hates Americans, specifically Irish-Americans.”

  “And since you’ve gone to all this trouble to size this fellow up, suppose you can finish by telling me who he is?”

  “Can’t say yet. We know he’ll strike again soon, though. I’d thought of putting myself up as bait, but I can’t get the police interested in the scheme. Kennedy tried as well, but her accent is Irish, too, and besides the guy doesn’t kill women.” Jim looked at Megan, oh so grateful that she was indeed a woman.

  “True enough. Well, the piece is good. I’ve conferred with your editor. You did a good job, Kennedy. Let’s you and O’Flannery here finish this up so’s the young man can go back home.”

  “Yes, Mr. Flynn. We thought we might wait for a day or so to see if he strikes again or if the police catch him, and then we can finalize the piece and write our separate exposés.”

  ****

  Megan turned and looked at Jim. Would he really be going? Actually hearing someone say that Jim would soon leave left a lump in her throat the size of a boulder. She’d been thinking about it since he’d arrived, but she didn’t really fancy thinking about it. Hearing Flynn say it though, almost made her stop breathing. Megan looked up at Jim, noticing, and not for the first time, how his eyes crinkled at the corners, even when he was listening, as though he wore a perpetual smile.

  Jim spoke again and Megan snapped her attention back to Flynn, still mulling over some papers on his desk. He looked up at them over his glasses; his blue eyes looked first at Megan and then at Jim as though he really didn’t know who he wanted to look at first with his most intimidating stare.

  “And we have a bit of additional information. We were almost run down last night. The guy that did it might have been the one that was asking the barkeep at Castle Pollard about any Americans in the area. We called and confirmed that the man who had first asked about Americans—the one we went looking for at the abbey—had come back to the pub and asked again. The barkeep thought he was looking for us so he told the man where we were. The fellow was so ordinary that the barkeep had no description except that he was dark-haired and tall.”

  Flynn sat back and shook his head slowly. “You two stay close by the office. I’m going to call the police and tell them what happened, just to let them know, mind you. I think these things need to be reported because they may lead to more information, and to perhaps thwart the bugger from killing the two of you.”

  Jim and Megan both nodded in agreement. Jim pulled his papers together, ready to leave the office.

  “The Globe wanted a follow-up if no more murders occur in the next few days. I’m good to stay until the fourteenth of February unless, of course, you have anything else you’d like me to do,” Jim said.

  “Not at present. Well done. The two of you may leave. Kennedy, see that you bring your next piece into the night desk this evening. The editor at the Globe wants to run your piece as well.”

  Megan gasped and turned quickly toward the door. Her piece? At the Boston Globe? All thoughts of the would-be killer vanished from her mind. She looked at Flynn quickly and nodded before turning to leave with Jim. Her excitement was intense and she felt her heart flutter. Jim closed the door with quiet care.

  Megan turned to him. “Did you hear what he said? They’re going to run my piece. And they’ve sent it to Boston for The Globe. I’m so excited.”

  “Yeah, I guess you did a better job than you thought you did. See, I told you to have a little faith.”

  “Right.” Megan reached up and gave him a quick kiss. “I must go. I’ve got to finish that article.”

  “Okay. I’ll come over tonight. How about a romantic dinner for two at your place?”

  Megan gave him a smug look. What she wouldn’t do for a quiet, cozy dinner for two with him.

  “I’ll have to let you know. You work at the desk near the window and come see me before you’re off.” The knowledge that he’d actually be leaving sent Megan’s heart into a spin. If she was smart, she’d steel herself against the hurt his leaving would cause.

  “Hey! I’m not going anywhere without you, you know. Now, about that dinner?”

  “Jim, I’ll see you at lunch and we’ll discuss dinner then. There’s a lot of food talk about here, now isn’t there. I am convinced I’ll gain weight from the sound of it. Let’s get our minds off this societal eating ritual. Didn’t civilization evolve far enough not to talk about eating? Sorry,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s slow down a bit, shall we?”

  “You? Gain weight? Why you, my dear, are about the prettiest thing, and you happen to be the most slender wo
man with curves in all the right places that I’ve ever seen.”

  He pulled her to him as he leaned the two of them against the wall. His mouth came down on hers in a demanding kiss full of promise and pent-up frustration. The kiss went on and Megan felt every part of him pushing into her very compliant body. Jim’s kisses excited her like nothing ever had before. His kiss led her further and further into a world away from the office, away from life with its contradictions and frailties, away from everything but Jim. The friction and urgency of their bodies drove her to utter distraction.

  They were shielded in a little alcove, but it was still too open to the central floor. The thought, the reality pushed its way into Megan’s mind. The thought of getting caught crashed down on her like a bucket of cold water. She shoved away.

  “Jim, enough! We can’t be doing this here. What’s come over the two of us anyway?” she asked as she ran a shaky hand over her lips and then pushed her fingers quickly through her hair.

  Jim leaned against the wall, seeming to concentrate and slow down his breathing.

  “Newlyweds, I guess,” he answered with a cheeky grin after he took another deep breath. He straightened his sweater and sauntered back to the vacant desk against the outside wall.

  Megan stood quite still for a few heartbeats. Her turbulent thoughts about Jim pushed everything else out of her head.

  Jim.

  She had to stop all this nonsense. She had to stop it now before something inconsolable happened. She knew she loved him, but to actually think they were married, because they said the words in their minds? Because they’d made the most incredible love she’d ever thought could or would exist in the real world?

  You are too silly, my girl. Ah, bollocks. He’ll be leaving soon. Even the Mighty Flynn said so. She knew that he would go back to Boston and he’d leave her here with a broken heart. She couldn’t suffer that fate twice in one lifetime. She was too smart a woman for that. Her heart had already been broken into little bits by that bastard Richard, and she wouldn’t suffer the indignity, the worst hurt that she’d ever felt. No, not ever again.