by Erin Hart
Ward began to nod slowly. “But finding a modern victim with similar injuries only a hundred yards away…”
“Yes, that’s what’s really strange,” Nora said. “It’s a very odd coincidence, to say the least.”
Ward’s expression was thoughtful. “Or maybe it’s not just a coincidence. Is it possible that someone might have discovered the older body at some point and not reported it?”
Nora said, “Yes, I suppose. But if you’re asking whether anyone could tell whether something like that had happened, the answer is probably not. We can tell if an area is backfill, but not how many times it’s been disturbed.”
“But chances are the perpetrator in the more recent case would most likely be someone who’s at least acquainted with this whole idea of triple death.”
Cormac said, “If this Danny Brazil disappeared more than twenty-five years ago, remember that much less was known about bog remains in those days. A lot of the forensic information we have these days has only come to light since then.”
Ward pursed his lips in displeasure. “Well, thank you both for the information.” He rose and went slowly to the door; before opening it, he paused, pulled out a card, and handed it to Nora.
“I’d be obliged if you’d contact me if you think of anything else—just in case there are more similarities between your ancient man and our modern victim. Thank you again for your time.”
12
All the way to the Moors, Ward kept seeing Danny Brazil, stripped of his clothes, a prisoner in the bog. Whose prisoner? Had there been one captor, or a whole group? They would have to look for connections to other cases, anything that might resemble a kind of sacrifice: animal mutilations, victims or crime scenes marked with any significant symbols or patterns, victims treated in any ritual way. If it had been a group of people, they must have had a trigger. Something must have precipitated the death. Perhaps it was tied to the calendar, or something less regular. What was it Maguire had said? Times of great social stress. That would include famine, obviously, or danger from an invading force. What about power plants shutting down, a way of life dependent upon peat going the way of all things? He knew it took less than people imagined to push things over the edge.
Working from the date Danny Brazil was last seen, Maureen Brennan had checked the date on Brazil’s watch. Midsummer’s eve, the twentieth of June, had fallen on a Tuesday in 1978. The date hadn’t come around on a Tuesday again until 1989, then 1995, and then 2000; it was a very irregular pattern. That information, and the state of his teeth, told them that Danny Brazil had never left Offaly. He had gone into the bog at the same time he was last seen.
Ward knew he had to dig up yet another Danny Brazil—the one who had never really disappeared, who remained in memory, whose time on earth had left ripples when he sank into that bog hole. His job was to follow all those ripples and find out where they led.
Arriving at the hotel, he looked forward to seeing Catherine Friel’s face. His wife’s death had made him draw back into his tortoiseshell, closed off from the world of experience and risk. Catherine was pulling him out of that, ready to expose himself to hurt and danger. And it felt exhilarating, that primitive, mysterious chemical and biological phenomenon—an intense, unsettling feeling, rooted in the primeval senses of touch and smell. What was it that drew him to Eithne, to Catherine, to anyone?
As he walked across the gravel drive and glanced into the restaurant, lit only by candles and the setting sun, he imagined her sitting across from him at the table, glowing in the flickering candlelight, perceptive of his unspoken yearning and reflecting it back to him. How natural, then, that after they finished the meal and lingered deliberately over the last of the wine and coffee, they would climb the stairs together, she leading and he following, until they stood behind the closed door of her room…. The momentary dream was shattered as the flat-nosed grille of a gold Mercedes came to an abrupt stop only a few feet from his knees, and the driver let down the window to offer a few choice words of advice.
Ward didn’t raise his eyes to the sputtering driver, but tramped slowly toward the door with measured steps. When he got inside, he was surprised by a bar stripped down to stone walls and wooden floor, with modern leather furniture in the seductive colors of exotic spices. He caught sight of Catherine Friel’s silver hair; her back was to him, and as he approached, wondering whether he should touch her arm or call her name, she turned slightly and he saw that she was speaking on a mobile. He stopped his advance and stood a few yards away to afford her at least a small amount of privacy.
“I can’t stay on the phone now, John, I’ve got to go…. Yes, I’m having dinner with a colleague….No, no one you know, a detective. We’re going to talk over the case. He’s probably waiting for me now.” She turned to check the room and saw Ward. “There he is. I should be home tomorrow evening….Yes…. Good night now, love.”
As he heard the last phrase, Ward felt foolish for entertaining notions about Catherine Friel. Her interest was in the case, that was all. It had been so long since he’d even allowed himself to imagine such a closeness, and now he shut the notion down, psychologically boarded it up, so quickly that by the time they entered the dining room he’d nearly forgotten the vision he’d had of himself and Catherine Friel there in the candlelight, and in the darkness upstairs, just beyond the locked door.
13
“I suppose the police are always reluctant to declare any death a ritual killing,” Cormac said, digging into his second plate of pasta. “Given a choice, they’d probably prefer old-fashioned, understandable motives. And I’ll bet a good portion of ritual killings turn out to be ordinary garden-variety murders dressed up after the fact to try and put detectives off the scent.”
Nora chased the last couple of penne around her own nearly empty plate and took another sip of wine. “I wish there was more we could do to help. Think about it, Cormac—he was probably still alive when he went into the bog hole.”
“But what else can we tell Ward? We don’t know anything about the victim, the circumstances of the crime.”
“We don’t know anything about Danny Brazil, but we may know something about the circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
“We know something about the other people found with the same kinds of injuries. It would just be interesting to compare Danny Brazil to other possible triple-death victims—to take a really close look and see what the similarities and differences are. I should ask Rachel Briscoe, the girl who found him, if she removed any wood from around the body. The crime-scene people may not have been looking for stakes or branches, but if he was staked down, that would fit with earlier finds.”
“How are we going to do all this research without the materials we’d need?”
She shot him a sheepish look. “All my research files are in the trunk of the car. I figured if you were getting some work done here, I might have a chance as well.”
Cormac leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. “It’s likely that the police will come up with something sooner than we would. I mean, it is pretty coincidental that the victim turns out to be one of the two people who’d found a cache of treasure only a short time earlier. This story is probably all about money or love gone wrong, and we might just be chasing wild geese.”
“I know, but we still might find something useful. And anyway, it’s interesting. I was thinking—if the injuries were deliberate, what sort of person would have known so much at that time about triple death? Danny Brazil went missing in the late seventies. Most of the research comparing causes of death has been done in the last ten years or so. But certain people would have had access to that kind of information before it was widely known—”
“Certain people like archaeologists, you mean.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I can’t help thinking about all this. It’s a puzzle.” And it wasn’t the only one, either, she thought. There were the riddles of Owen-and-Ursula, Ursula-and-Charlie, an
d Rachel Briscoe/Rachel Power. Not to mention the difficult Cormac-and-Nora conundrum, which might not have any solution.
She got up to clear, trying to avoid Cormac’s eyes. He caught her wrist as she was about to remove the plate in front of him, took the cutlery from her other hand, and set it on the table.
“Leave it, Nora. I can do all that later.” He stood and slipped his hand into hers. “I know it’s been a long day, but are you up for a short expedition? There’s something I’d like to show you.”
“What is it?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now, would it?” He stopped. “You’ll probably want to wear your wellingtons.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Do I really want a surprise that involves wellingtons?”
He nodded. She retrieved her boots from the car and put them on while leaning against the back bumper, and Cormac did likewise. Then he led her up over the gap in the stone wall, into the pasture that rose to a small hill at the back of the house. The grass was cropped close to the ground, and the handful of cattle grazing the field watched their progress with that typical bovine mixture of curiosity and detachment.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see.” Cormac turned back to glance at her, but his close-lipped smile gave nothing away. The gentle slope had turned into a steep grade. “You can see Michael Scully’s house from here, off to our right,” Cormac said. “And the Brazils must be the next farm, way down at the other end of this ridge. The white house over there"—he indicated a plain but freshly painted bungalow just over the ridge—"is the Bord na Mona house where Ursula Downes is staying this summer.” At the mention of the name, Nora felt a twinge of discomfort, remembering the conversation she’d overheard yesterday afternoon. She didn’t ask Cormac how he happened to be in possession of that fact.
Breathing hard, they finally reached the top of the hill, a flat tabletop that afforded a view for miles around. It helped that the surrounding area was mostly bogland, stretching endlessly into the distance before them. About a quarter-mile to the northeast stood a pair of bottle-shaped cooling towers, the old Loughnabrone power plant due to be demolished soon. Far in the distance, Nora could see the red-and-white striped smokestack of the power station at Shannonbridge.
It was after ten o’clock, and the sun was setting under a bank of dark clouds, glowing golden and leaving the horizon bathed in oranges and pinks and purples. Despite its detrimental effect on the air quality, the peat dust in the atmosphere contributed to the beauty of the sunsets. There was always that tension in life, beauty walking hand in hand with danger.
“What do you suppose will happen here, when all the bogs are gone?” she asked Cormac.
“I don’t know. I try to remember that it’s in their nature to return. The moss can’t help growing.” That brainless proliferation, Nora thought; life asserting itself as it always did, and as it always would, please God.
“All right, you’ll have to close your eyes from here,” he said. “I promise I won’t let you stumble.”
Nora hesitated only a moment before closing her eyes and taking his hand. It was a strange sensation, walking through a field as though blindfolded. They were moving along the top of the hill, she thought, then down a gentle slope. She lurched dangerously a few times, but, as he’d promised, Cormac didn’t let her fall. At last he stopped and stood behind her, setting her shoulders between his hands. “Here we are.”
Nora opened her eyes. Directly before her stood a small whitethorn tree, covered in a colorful mishmash of ribbons and rags. Thick vines twisted up the trunk, and faded white blossoms peeped out from between the weathered scraps of fabric. Nora’s mouth opened in wonder, and she moved to examine the strange man-made foliage, overwhelmed by the wild assortment of fetishlike objects that had been tied to the branches: neckties, old gloves and socks, numerous rosaries, a scapular, several handkerchiefs, a hair ribbon, a frilly wedding garter, three hairbands, a holy medal of the Virgin, a hairnet, a knitted bag, several plastic bags with bits of cloth inside, a tiny stuffed bear, a Sacred Heart bookmark. Around the trunk hung a black patent-leather purse, as though the tree had grown up through its handles. It was impossible to believe that this was the work of one consciousness, one pair of hands. Despite the fact that it had been created from a jumble of mad-looking, cast-off junk, the little tree presented an aura of holiness. It was like a prayer of some kind.
She stood still beneath the branches, absorbing its weird energy, until Cormac came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. She shivered slightly and leaned back into him, feeling the roughness of his face on her neck.
“Astonishing, isn’t it? I haven’t seen anything like this in years. My grandmother’s neighbor, Mrs. Meagher, used to save bits of things all year and tie them on the whitethorn bush outside her house on the first of May. I once made the mistake of asking why she did it, and she told me I’d no business being so bold. I don’t think she even knew. I suppose she’d been doing it her whole life and didn’t think it a good idea to stop. My grandmother said people used to do it as protection against the fairies. Anyway, I hope you like it—my offering to you.”
“I love it, Cormac.” She kissed him, and in the kiss was a fervent prayer that they might stay here, forever sheltered in this sacred place. She felt a breeze come up from the east, setting all the ribbons into an excited flutter, and had an unmistakable premonition that this deceptively calm evening held mischief or malice, or both. She shivered again, and Cormac held her more tightly.
“I saw Brona Scully up here the other day,” he said.
“Tell me about Brona, Cormac. I think I saw her watching us from upstairs when we went over to the Scullys’ house last night.” The girl’s sudden, erratic movement at the window came back to her. “Is she—is she all right?”
“Right in the head, you mean? Hard to say. As a child, she used to speak, but she suddenly went silent—about ten or twelve years ago, I think. I can’t remember exactly.”
Nora thought back to Ursula’s conversation with Charlie Brazil, and her callous reference to Helen Keller. That little girlfriend of yours, Ursula had said. Who could she have meant but a girl who didn’t speak? “Why would someone just stop speaking?”
“Most people seem to think it was brought on by some sort of trauma, but they’re just guessing, and of course she can’t—or won’t—say.”
“What sort of trauma?”
Cormac hesitated, then looked away. “Well, it was right around the time of her sister’s death. Some people think Brona may have watched as the sister drowned herself.”
“How awful.”
“Nobody knows if it’s true, Nora. It’s only supposition.”
She knew from experience how uncomfortable Cormac was in the realm of supposition, and she wasn’t surprised when he changed the subject. “See that gravel ridge over there?” He pointed to a grassy knoll where the earth rose to a point and its rocky underbelly spilled out below. “Probably a bit of the Eiscir Riada that Michael Scully mentioned—the Great Road. What’s left of it, anyway.” Nora had begun to see the landscape differently since being with Cormac. She wanted to see what he saw, to know what he knew about these places, to see under the skin of the landscape down to the bones.
“I’m glad you liked the surprise,” he said, when they were back home in bed. “I only wish I had such wonders for you every day.”
Nora was silent for a while, listening to Cormac’s steady heartbeat, mustering her courage. She would never be ready; she had to just open her mouth and speak.
“Cormac, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I don’t want to do it—I’ve been putting it off, but I can’t any longer. It’s not fair.” She stopped to gather strength, preparing herself for his justifiable anger. “I can’t stay here.” She held her breath.
He was silent, unmoving against her. She hadn’t wanted to blurt it out like that, with no warning, no preparation. What a coward she was, not able to look
him in the eye.
But when he did respond, it was not in any of the myriad ways she had imagined. He only reached out and gathered her in closer until she could feel the warmth of his body all along the length of her own.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve always known you’d have to go home. We’ve both been avoiding the subject. I just hoped it might be later rather than sooner.”
She pulled away slightly and turned to look into his eyes, black pools in the encroaching darkness. “How did you know?”
“You’re not a person who gives up, Nora.” He ran one finger along the edge of her jaw and down her throat. “But neither am I.”
She searched his face for proof that he would not give up, even when she was thousands of miles away, tangled up once more in the threads of a dark web that kept spinning and would never allow an end to grief. No matter how much Cormac might reassure her, and no matter how much she might wish for it, no such proof existed.
“Don’t think about any of that right now,” he said. “Rest yourself.”
“But do you know why I have to go? I want you to understand. It’s not that I want to leave you, Cormac. I don’t. It’s not just for Triona’s sake, but for my niece, for my parents—”
“I know,” he said, pressing his lips close to her ear. “Shhh.” She felt his arm close around her, locking them together at least for tonight, and she felt safe, surrounded, quiet inside. Eventually she drifted off, worn out by the long day, the wine, and a surfeit of emotion. She slept profoundly, heavily, like a person drugged.
14
At half past eleven, Liam Ward sat washed in the golden glow of his desk lamp, going through his coins. He wasn’t a serious collector, not like the fanatical dealers with whom he’d corresponded from time to time. The coins in his collection were certainly old—mostly Roman-era English—but not all that rare; none of them could be considered extremely valuable. His was more an aesthetic appreciation; he enjoyed the artistry and symbolism of the form, liked feeling the weight of the coins in his hands, their surfaces worn smooth from touching the palms of generations before him. He liked to imagine their history, to envisage the multitude of debts each piece had paid.
