The Wild Mountain Thyme

by Kathryn Scarborough

  Teresa turned her horrified gaze on Jim.

  “Crap! Where does he live, do you know?” Jim stood quickly and began to pace so he wouldn’t grab Teresa and shake her in his frustration.

  “No, but I know who his father is. He’s a big muckity muck in the stock market. Finish your coffee while I get dressed, and I’ll take you. We’ll be off in a short bit.”

  Jim went back into the living room. He could do nothing but pace and wear a hole in the carpet.

  In ten short minutes, Teresa came into the front room, her hair up, wearing a deep plum, low cut sweater, and skin tight pants, with perfume wafting from every pore, and carrying a make-up bag. Jim looked at her inquisitively.

  “I may have to do some womanly convincing, and I’ll put this on in the taxi,” she said holding up the make-up bag.

  “Ah.” Jim nodded in understanding.

  Chapter 39

  Jim and Teresa arrived at the large stock brokerage firm within minutes of leaving the flat. But they had to wait in the outer office for over a half hour. It was too early and no one had yet arrived for the work day. Jim had taken the time to wash and comb his hair in the nearby restroom and shave with the rechargeable razor he always carried in his briefcase. He pulled out a tie he had in his case and was grateful that it matched his coat and sweater well enough. He needed to look reputable. He needed to make sure that anyone he talked to would take him seriously.

  He was angry, so very angry, and when he found that bastard Richard, screw loose or no, he’d pull his throat out of his neck.

  What if something happened to Megan and he hadn’t been there to keep her safe? What if he never saw her again?

  He couldn’t stand thinking about it and not being able to do something. Thinking about it made it all that much worse. He kept tying his tie to busy his mind, but it didn’t work, and the Windsor knot ended up looking more like a granny knot. Finally, he gave up and asked Teresa to tie the damn thing.

  They sat and waited and waited. Jim’s inability to do anything immediately to save Megan ate away at him like acid.

  Soon after nine o’clock, a man in a gray, formal suit led them into a large, plush, paneled office.

  The man sitting behind the huge mahogany desk looked like the Richard Jim had seen. He was austere, and each movement he took seemed contrived, as though he planned each second of his day, each movement, and each emotion.

  Jim wondered how far they’d get with him. Teresa held out her hand to him, practically leaning over far enough for him to get a good view of her cleavage.

  “Mr. O’Connell, I’m Teresa, Megan Kennedy’s flat mate, and this is James O’Flannery, here from America to do a story for the Times.”

  Something flickered in the man’s eyes when Teresa said “American” but Jim wasn’t sure what it was. The man looked them up and down, doing his utmost, it seemed to Jim, to keep his face impassive, but underneath probably wondering what the hell these two were doing here.

  “Mr. O’Flannery is a journalist for the Boston Globe, and he and Megan wrote articles for their respective papers about the murders here of Irish Americans.”

  A flash of something crossed the man’s impassive expression again.

  “American, are you?” Mr. O’Connell’s accent was more British than Irish, Jim noticed. Mr. O’Connell rubbed a hand across his brow, for just a second, as though he’d had a lapse in his concerted effort to stay austere.

  “Yes, sir. We were wondering if you’d seen Megan recently.”

  “Miss Kennedy? Hardly think so. She saw the error of her ways some time ago and told my son she’d have naught to do with him. Can’t understand what took her so long to see what a know-nothing ne’er-do-well the boy is. But that’s neither here nor there. Why have you come to see me?”

  “Well, Mr. O’Connell, to tell you the unbridled truth, Megan’s gone missing, and we wondered if Richard had anything to do with it.”

  There it was again, that tiny, twitch-like movement that told Jim an emotion had registered and then been squelched or dismissed.

  “Hardly think the boy had anything to do with it.”

  “Do you know where your son is at this time, Mr. O’Connell?” Jim watched for telltale signs. The man turned his impassive brown eyes on him, staring for just a moment as though to size him up.

  “Don’t know, haven’t seen the boy in quite a while. Have to check with my secretary to see exactly when the last time was. Now,” he said as he rose slowly from behind his desk. “If you’ll both excuse me.”

  “Thank you ever so, Mr. O’Connell,” said Teresa, once again giving him the benefit of her cleavage. “We’ll call you if we have any more questions.” She turned to leave as Jim shook the man’s hand.

  “American, eh? Like Americans. My second wife was American. Liked her well enough, but she and Richard didn’t get on.”

  An alarm bell loud enough to wake the dead went off in Jim’s head. Richard didn’t get along with his American stepmother. Richard had been physically and mentally abused by his father. Not an excuse, but may be a reason for…

  When they’d made the street, Jim turned to Teresa.

  “Tell me everything you know about Richard and his real mother.”

  “Don’t know much,” said Teresa, pushing through the door to a café on the corner. “Let’s get a coffee and something to eat, and we can decide what to do next. We can’t fall down from hunger before we find her. I must call to my office and tell them I’ll be late this morning.

  “Oh, cor,” she said, consulting her watch, “already quite late, I see. Ah well.” She shrugged out of her coat and signaled a waitress. “You order, and I shall make that call.”

  Jim ordered breakfast while he waited for Teresa. Every minute that ticked by could be a minute that Megan was in trouble, in danger, and he was sitting around drinking coffee. He was slowly going out of his mind, but he needed to keep cool. Going over the deep end wouldn’t help Megan now, and going without food wouldn’t help him think straight.

  She could be anywhere in the city. He had to make a methodical study to find her. If Richard had taken the opportunity to kidnap her, then he probably wouldn’t hurt her.

  Yet.

  “Took the day off. Now,” Teresa said as she sat down. She paused to sip her tea. “This is what I remember Meggie telling me. Richard’s real mum went off after years of abuse by the father. Left Richard there at ten years of age to fend for himself with his da. One lovely woman, eh? Then the father, ol’ sour puss we met this morning, meets this American witch and marries her. Then Richard has the two of them abusing him. He runs off a few years later, but Megan says he blamed the American witch for sending his own mum off, and she died before he could get to know her again properly. Screwy, if you ask me. And he didn’t like me much because I’m from Liverpool. Made snide, left-handed remarks, if you catch my meaning. Real biased one, him.”

  “Very screwy. So Richard hates Americans? And anyone else that doesn’t fit in with his exalted idea of the pure race, huh? No wonder.” Jim took a long swallow of coffee and munched for a minute on a roll the waitress had brought with a plate of some kind of fish that Jim decided to forgo. He looked at Teresa solemnly. “Does he hate Americans enough to kill them?”

  “Wha’?” Teresa’s red mouth turned into a perfect O.

  “Yeah, it’s just something I’ve been toying with. See, I thought I saw a man that fit Richard’s description in our hotel in Sligo. And the last murder happened in Sligo. The man I saw was wearing this over-sized brown raincoat, and Megan said he’s got an overcoat just like that.”

  “Not much to go on, just because someone’s got a coat like the one you think you saw.”

  “Yeah, I know. But listen to this; Megan said she thought someone was watching her in Sligo. That started me thinking. The first day I was here, in Ireland, Richard came to the Times and practically accosted Megan. He knew I’d throw him out if he didn’t leave, and since then, on and off, Megan has told m
e that she feels as though someone has been watching her.”

  Teresa shook her head slowly, making conciliatory noises.

  “Still not enough for the police to go on. If you told them you felt as though someone was watching you, you’d probably be the one they’d lock up.” Teresa wiped the crumbs from the table near her cup. She kept wiping, thinking, her mind not on her task but on the problem they had to solve.

  “Yeah, you’re absolutely—hey, I know who can help me. And he owes me a favor.”

  “Right-o!” exclaimed Teresa sitting up with excitement. “Who?”

  “Seamus.”

  “Who?”

  Chapter 40

  “Who the devil is Seamus?”

  “If I told you, you would have me locked up. Let’s just say he’s…a psychic.”

  “Oh, cor, really? Too very cool. Well, when can we see him? I fancy a séance now and again.” Teresa quivered with excitement.

  “Teresa, it’s not like that, you see, well…” Jim heaved a big sigh. He had to contact Seamus and trying to explain about him would take too much time.

  The Lord only knew how long he had before Richard became violent and hurt Megan. Would Richard kidnap her just to hurt her? Would he? With each moment that passed and with each methodical thought that went through Jim’s mind, it did look as though he had her. It was that Black Irish thing kicking in again. He knew in his gut.

  But how much time did he have before Richard’s mental state overwhelmed him, he lost touch with reality, and hurt Megan like he did the rest of his victims? And right then and there, Jim prayed that he was wrong about Richard. But something deep inside his gut told him he wasn’t. He closed his eyes for a moment. He could see her there just beyond his reach. He—

  “I think we’ve got to go to the police, too,” Jim added as he opened his eyes and stared at Teresa’s worried expression.

  Teresa took a long sip of her tea and then brought the cup down quickly so that it rattled on the saucer. She snapped her fingers and began to shrug into her coat.

  “I know—Frankie.”

  “Who?”

  “A fella I used to see. He’s a ruddy detective with the Metropolitan. We’ll go see him straight away. He’ll know what to do, and then afterward, we can get in touch with your friend. What’s his name? Oh yeah, Seamus.”

  “That’s the first good news I’ve heard all morning. Is his office near here?”

  “No, we’ll take a cab, my treat.”

  ****

  Jim and Teresa ran up the long flight of granite stairs into the bustling Dublin Metropolitan Police Department.

  Jim looked at his watch. It was 10:45 in the morning. Megan had been missing for over twelve hours. He shook his head in disbelief. If he couldn’t rescue her, how would he ever forgive himself?

  Teresa leaned toward the man behind the shoulder-high front desk.

  “I need to speak to Detective Inspector Devon, please. Frankie Devon.”

  “Yes, Miss. I’ll call him down.”

  “How come you can’t just go to his office?” asked Jim quietly as they waited, leaning against a large granite column that stood in the huge lobby.

  “You mean you can just go in and bother the coppers in your country?”

  “Sure, public access and all that.”

  “Jay-sus, I think I like that better than being always waiting and waiting. That’s how come we split. Always waiting for him to do this or that and always getting calls from the desk. Too dull by half, I can tell you. Don’t know how many dinners I ate cold waiting for that bloke.”

  “Ah, well, duty calls.”

  Teresa made a disgusted face just as a very handsome blond man came up behind her and put his arms around her.

  “Hello, sweet. Miss me so you couldn’t stay away?”

  “Oh, Frankie, you are too much. This is Jim O’Flannery from America.”

  Detective Inspector Devon held out his hand to Jim with a slight frown on his face.

  “Detective, we are at a loss and we’ve come for your help.”

  Jim saw concern replace the frown and Devon immediately gestured for them to follow him to his office.

  Chapter 41

  “Meggie, you must hold still, or I shall have to wrap you up much tighter.” Tremors raced up and down her arms and body. Her teeth clacked together involuntarily despite the gag inside her mouth and the electrical tape covering the lower half of her face. Richard chided her in a singsong voice that sounded hollow and mechanical. The sound of it, the feel of his breath on her face, frightened her more than being tied up in this strange place.

  Sharp burning pain shot through her arms and shoulders when she pulled at the electrical tape around her wrists. She made herself move her hands, scrunching her fingers in and out. Pins and needles coursed up her arms. The pain it caused almost made her stop, but she had to keep the blood flowing.

  Richard used something, some drug in a cloth he shoved over her mouth. When she awoke a short time later in the smelly, vermin-infested room, she’d tried to keep herself awake and alert; she had to find a way to escape. She was totally exhausted, her mind so befuddled, she was hard pressed to remember her own name.

  She was doing everything: talking to herself, reciting the multiplication tables, praying to St. Jude, everything to keep from passing out.

  A few hours before daybreak, Richard let her lie down on a sofa against the inside wall of the little room, but he kept her gagged and her arms tied behind her back. She imagined things crawling all over her. The thought and distinct possibility that it was indeed true had kept her squirming and thrashing around.

  Last night, when Megan had heard the knock at her door, she was sure Jim had come back for her. When Richard saw Megan in the green velvet dress, his eyes lit up. She prayed that he wouldn’t remember any time soon that she’d been out with Jim a scant hour before. He went on and on about the dress. His demeanor was so strange. He sounded insane. So she smiled and nodded until her face felt like it would crack and crumble to the floor. Then he’d slapped the cloth over her mouth. She couldn’t remember anything after that.

  Now, he rambled on without stopping and said something about his father loving him, because Richard would soon be famous. His abstract ramblings and his one-sided conversation sent chills up and down Megan’s spine. Jim had been right. His sixth sense had been spot on; now it was easy to believe listening to this madman.

  Near dawn, Richard’s monotone, one sided conversation became hard to follow. She ignored him, focusing on her task of freeing her hands. A cold chill made her shiver when she heard something about the damned Yank and how easy it had been.

  Easy? What was easy? Then it dawned on her. Jim told her and she hadn’t believed him. Could it be true that the lunatic that had kidnapped her, Richard, and the serial killer were one and the same?

  Megan’s heart beat so hard her chest felt like it would explode. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, hoping she could vanish like Seamus. Her stomach clenched and an overwhelming wave of nausea sent her face down to the floor.

  “Meggie, Meggie, what is it, love?”

  Richard picked her up and sat her against the edge of the couch, then took the gag from her mouth. She dry heaved and the contents of her stomach threatened to come up. She laid her head back on the cushion, closing her eyes, willing the room to stop spinning.

  “Richard, could I have a sip of water?”

  “Why sure, love.”

  Richard went to a cupboard and withdrew a thermos bottle. He poured Megan a drink and helped her to sip it.

  The early morning sunlight poured in through the window, and Megan’s head cleared a little. She looked around the room for the first time since she’d been brought there the night before.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a table, chair, small cot, a sofa, and cupboard. The flat reeked with odors she didn’t care to recognize.

  There were several spots on the floor and the table that looked like Ric
hard or someone had wiped them down. But overall the place was exceedingly dirty. Megan could hear the noise of traffic right outside the window. She knew she was still in Dublin, but she could be anywhere in the city. She didn’t think they had traveled far enough to be anywhere else. The smells from beyond the wall of the little room made her stomach heave again, and the tiny bit of tea she’d just swallowed came back up onto the sofa.

  Enough, her mind screamed. Get hold of yourself, girl, and find a way out.

  Megan smiled at Richard, but he was standing in front of the wall swaying rhythmically from side to side and talking to himself.

  “Dear,” she began tentatively. “Dear,” she repeated. “Richard?” Finally, he stopped his chattering and turned to look at her. “I must go to the washroom and clean up.” She kept the smile in place and she felt like her face would split open at any moment.

  “Now, Meggie, no tricks.” His hand shook a little as he pulled off the electrical tape. The hair and top layer of skin on her arm came off with the tape. She swallowed her groan of pain and rubbed furiously at her arms.

  Holding on to the wall, she stood and walked slowly into the tiny bathroom and shut the door behind her.

  The sink was almost black with grime, the toilet had a reddish rim all around the water line, and the seat hung on by one bolt. Megan turned on the tap, waiting for the water to come out clear. She looked about the tiny room, pinching her nostrils together with her fingers and breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell.

  Quickly, she washed her face and rinsed out her mouth. She continued to run the water as she lowered the lid of the toilet and sat, working to marshal her strength.

  There was a towel rack bolted to the wall to the right of the sink and a mirrored medicine cabinet above it. As the water ran down the sluggish drain, she opened the cabinet and looked inside.

  Rust, dirt, and dead bugs were on each of the four shelves. There was a blackened toothbrush and an old bottle of medication. Megan reached in, trying to avoid touching anything but the bottle. The bottle contained an over-the-counter sleeping remedy.