by Erin Hart
“Of course. Of course. It may be that nothing is required. I hope that will be the case.” Michael Scully looked as if a heavy weight had been shifted from him; the deep crease in his forehead seemed to soften, either because the painkillers were kicking in or because he’d been able, finally, to unburden himself. “Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes and letting himself sink back into the chair’s upholstered softness. He looked very frail and ill, and Nora felt the urge to take his hand and offer some gesture of reassurance or comfort. But as she reached forward she realized that Michael Scully was fast asleep, and she withdrew her hand, not wishing to disturb his rest.
7
Rachel Briscoe was awakened by the beating wings of a large bird flying only a few feet over her head. She opened her eyes and for a moment felt as if the earth were falling away beneath her, but it was only the clouds moving across the deepening blue of the night sky. She had fought sleep so long, resisted closing her eyes, to keep away the terrible vision that kept rearing up in her head. And was this slumber from which she had just awakened a real sleep, or one of those mysterious absences, a blank, a hole in time? She had no idea how many minutes or hours had passed since she came to rest in this thicket, or even how she came to be here. She had seen policemen out searching for something, and had run as far as she could in the other direction.
She didn’t dare come in contact with anyone, not yet, in case they heard the change in her voice and saw it in her eyes, that she was a person capable of shedding blood, of taking a life.
In her fitful sleep she had dreamt of a giant insect, its flattened eyes only reflecting what they saw, its sharp mandibles working. The thing had reached out to her, and she had opened her mouth to speak or cry out, but what had emerged was not words nor any other sound, but a warm torrent of blood. The memory of the dream made her feel ill. She could taste the blood in her mouth. Or had it been a dream? The line between what was real and what was dreaming had grown increasingly blurred over the past two days, since she’d found herself beside Ursula’s body, her hands covered in gore.
She was in a hedgerow, thick grass beneath her back and arching brambles in haphazard latticework above her head. She was burrowed in like an animal, and yet she had no recollection of how she came to be here, just a hazy memory of panic, of searching the perimeter of the field—was it this same field?—for a way out. And of weariness, of being worn down by noise, like metal on metal, in her head. Clanking noises, one, two, three. Always three. How long had she been here? How many days? Time seemed elastic here, seemed to expand and contract at will. The long drains glowed silver in the moonlight against the black peat. Her mouth was dry, but she dared not venture from the shelter to drink. The water here wasn’t safe anyway. At times she had been certain that she was being followed. Several times she had doubled back, but found no one where she was sure someone had been. She had no idea how far she’d traveled, but the short nights were a hindrance; she couldn’t get very far before it was light again. She pressed her face into the wet grass and tasted the dew, feeling no hunger, just insatiable thirst.
The field was on a little rise, and from it she could see all the bog she’d have to cross to get to the canal. A person could walk to Dublin on the canal. She’d plucked the idea from nowhere, it seemed. It was something that held together, when everything else seemed to be breaking apart. The night noises of animals, the sounds that had been her only comfort for days, seemed suddenly sinister. She heard rustling in the grass only a few inches from her head, and turned to find a badger baring his teeth at her, his black eyes reflecting the crescent moon. She scrambled backward, her clothes and hair catching in the brambles, imagining the sharp razor teeth biting into her flesh. There was no refuge from the blood. It would follow her, find her, punish her. She could see the stonelike forms of sleeping cattle in the field, the few stars emerging into the darkening night sky. If she stayed in this place, vines and brambles would grow over her, tying her down to the earth overnight. She’d never escape. Images and sounds traveled through her consciousness, her father’s eyes, brimming with remorse. Too late. And the clanging, metal on metal, never silent, and the searing pain behind her eyes. She gathered her strength for putting one foot in front of the other, counting each step, louder and louder, the pressure building, the blinding pain, louder when she closed her eyes, even louder.
All at once before her was a pasture gate. Again she wondered how long she had been trapped here; and now the gate had appeared. As she stood still for a moment, she felt darkness gathering in her, pushing her forward. She felt its presence like the wind, knew that it was getting into her head, seeping in there. Soon there would be no daylight left at all, only darkness and noise. She climbed over the gate and began running toward the blank darkness that was Loughnabrone Bog.
She tried to stop thinking about the tattoo beating in her head, but it was always there, waking or sleeping, sometimes just a soft thrum, sometimes a deafening din. Always the same pattern. One, two, three. One, two, three. She felt as though her thoughts were in danger of being drummed right out of her head. The one imperative that remained was to get home, back to Dublin, whatever way she could. She dared not close her eyes at all anymore; she had to keep moving, keep hiding so they wouldn’t find her. She could walk back to Dublin if she had to; she could find a way. Keeping out of sight was the main thing.
Whenever she closed her eyes, it came back—the blood, the spattered walls. Even with her eyes open sometimes she could see it, and hear the noise in her head again. She had not wanted it to happen that way. But when she had opened her eyes and seen the horror there, she’d dropped the knife and run. She looked down at her wet hands, expecting them to be covered in blood once more. She felt as though the knowledge of death would seep out of her; she imagined blood oozing from her pores like sweat.
From her hiding place on top of the hill, she had seen the canal cutting through the bog, straight as a road, a line into the heart of Dublin. That would be her path, if she could only get there. A huge expanse of bog lay between her and the canal bank, and a shivering body of water. Loughnabrone, lake of sorrows. She would have to cross that way. Every time she closed her eyes she saw it: the blood, and then the looming mask, the insect face, its raspy breathing sending a panicky chill into her veins.
The drains were deep and blacker than night, and she half expected something to rise up out of them after her. A hare, frightened by her sudden movement, zigzagged out from under a clump of rushes and brushed so near her that she lost her balance and tumbled down into the inky, water-filled ditch. She went down hard on one knee; she could feel the joint pop as she landed, and a sharp pain shot through her thigh. She sucked in her breath and bit her lip to keep from crying out. She lay still for a few moments, immobilized by the tearing pain in her leg, then scrambled upward, trying to stay focused on climbing out of the murky water, on trying to outrun the cacophonous clanking noise that grew louder and more clamorous until all other sound was shut out: One, two, three. One, two, three…It grew to such a pitch that she barely felt the blow that fractured her skull.
8
Nora settled the woolen blanket over Michael Scully’s sleeping form in the chair beside her, then took up his file on the Loughnabrone hoard and rearranged herself on the sofa. She was contemplating what Scully had said about humankind’s incomplete and imperfect attempts to set down what they had seen and heard and learned—and how much more imperfect they must be if the times you tried to document had no written language. It must be nearly impossible not to misinterpret or exaggerate the significance of everything that had been passed down, since the fragments were so rare.
She found John O’Donovan’s letter to the Ordnance Survey office, with notes about the townland called Loughnabrone. The older residents he had interviewed described it as a very gentle place, by which they meant that it had more than its fair share of fairy rings and raths. The water from the holy well on the northeast side of the hill supposedly cured
all ailments of the throat.
She dug a bit deeper into the file and came across a photograph of Owen Cadogan, taken when he was appointed manager at Loughnabrone. Nora remembered her first impression of the man: restless, dissatisfied, a little dangerous. Maybe that had been the initial attraction for Ursula Downes, but maybe it was the sort of attraction that didn’t last forever.
A rap sounded on the Scullys’ front door, and Nora went to answer it. Cormac had been gone about an hour and a quarter. Remembering his warning, she checked through the window and saw him leaning on the doorjamb. The person who’d knocked was evidently Brona Scully, who stood beside him. When the door was opened, the girl darted past Nora without a glance, went straight into the sitting room to her father, and shook him gently awake. Scully clasped his daughter tightly to his chest without a word.
Nora said quietly to Cormac, “Where did you find her?”
“I didn’t. She found me. I was looking up into that tree, thinking she might be hiding there, and she was. She pulled back one of the branches and let me have it.” He rubbed the raised lump on his forehead where the tree limb had evidently made contact. “She would have done more, but I started shouting about how her father had sent me looking for her, and she came along peacefully enough then.”
“Who did she think you were?”
“I don’t know. But I think someone must have frightened the life out of her before I got there. If she hadn’t known me, hadn’t known Michael had sent me to look for her, she would have fought like a demon.”
“I’ve been wondering if Brona might have seen you leave Ursula’s house. That tree has a direct view into the back garden there. I know she might not be able to tell us anything, but do you think it’s at least worth asking?”
Cormac looked into the sitting room, where Brona was helping Michael to his feet.
“It’s nearly three o’clock. Let’s let them be for tonight,” he said. “We can talk to Brona in the morning.”
Book Five
A SACRED CHARACTER
The dark color and unfathomable depth of their water has conferred a sacred character upon some pools.
—the Roman writer Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 B.C.-A.D. 65), describing the Celtic peoples of Europe
1
Benny Smollett felt the wind raise goose pimples on his exposed, pale flesh, and knew he’d better get into the water quick. He finished stripping off down to his swimming togs, folded his shell suit neatly and placed it beneath his towel, ready for when he emerged from the lake. The sun had already been up for more than an hour, but for some reason going for a swim in midsummer always made him colder than it did in chillier times of the year. The wife thought he was off his nut coming here at all, but the lake was handy to the house, and cost nothing. Sometimes in the depths of winter he used the pool in town, but he disliked the chlorine smell that seeped from his skin all day. No, the lake was far superior. It was clean, as well, with the bog all around acting as a natural filtration system.
Benny cast a glance skyward as he walked down the dock and dived into the water with a splash. He knew he was taking a chance, being out here on his own; the place was deserted, and if he took a cramp he would sink like a stone. But the solitariness of the place was one of its attractions. He knew people around the town thought him daft, but what did that matter? Out here he imagined himself as young and strong. In his own mind, he was fit, and getting fitter. He imagined that he could stave off decrepitude and even death itself.
He pulled the water back with strong strokes. He was almost used to the chilly temperature now. The lake wasn’t large, and he would swim once across and back. That was his daily routine. He plunged forward into the small waves, sliding into the easy rhythm of a crawl, conscious of his progress when he turned his head for air. He dared not miss a day, or his rhythm would get clogged up and it would take him days to find it again. He felt his muscles glide over his bones, felt the tendons tighten and loosen as they should, propelling him forward. He was a machine, kept in good repair by constant use, leaving the dock behind and seeing his goal, the opposite shore, nearly within reach. His legs felt strong and useful. He was glad he’d started doing his rounds on the bike in good weather. Driving the postal van everywhere was death on a man. He shuddered at the prospect and kept swimming, feeling the air flowing in and out of his lungs. He reached the far shore, felt the lake bottom with his fingertips on the forward stroke and turned, starting in on the backstroke for the trip back. High overhead a tall wading bird flew by, its long legs trailing awkwardly in its wake. He would have to start learning about all the birds he saw here. There were hundreds of them, nesting ducks and other waterfowl among the reeds near the shore, tall waders and small, wrenlike birds that he’d seen catching damselflies with one quick sideways twist. The streak of fine weather had been uncanny, and it lifted his spirits. He was blessed with work he enjoyed, fresh air and freedom. In the evenings, he had the refereeing at the local football pitch, and then home to bed by ten. He never touched a drop of liquor. All in all, a good life—not without its disappointments, but whose life had none of those?
When he reached the shallow water again, he headed toward the ramp that was built down in the lake for boats. The shoreline could be boggy in places, and difficult to get over without sinking into it, so the ramp was the best place to get in and out. He stood, dripping, exhilarated from the long swim, his brain firing on all cylinders. Great for clearing the head, it was. Losing his waterborne weightlessness, he trudged up the ramp, now knee-deep, until he stumbled over a submerged branch. Not a tree in sight, but he knew that these bog lakes often held huge trunks, whorls of roots that had been preserved below in peat. If he could manage it, he’d better move the thing so it wouldn’t trip him up again tomorrow.
He grasped the branch end with both hands and heaved upward. Once it was loose he could shift it out of the way. What he didn’t anticipate was that the branch would be easily six feet long, with smaller branches and leaves still attached. As he dislodged the thing from the lake bottom, it sent bits of dirt and peat flying, flecking his face and bare chest with slimy black mud. He reached into the water again, expecting to touch rough bark, but instead he felt something smooth and slippery bob to the surface. He moved to retrieve it. That was when he saw the marks where the branches had pressed into it, and knew that what floated in the water before him was pale flesh. A body.
2
Liam Ward turned away from the lakeshore feeling light-headed. He hadn’t been prepared for the sight of Rachel Briscoe’s body floating in the lake, her long hair a dark aureole spread out around her head. The unwelcome vision dredged up memories that he did not want to face again this morning. He was rescued from his thoughts by Catherine Friel’s arrival. Ward felt his heart tighten when she glanced over at him, and was suddenly conscious of the gold band he’d replaced on his left hand.
Twenty minutes later he was consulting with the crime-scene officers on their search of the area when Dr. Friel emerged from the white police tent and signaled for him to join her. As he entered the surreal diffuse light inside the tent, the sight of the girl’s waxen face and blue lips made his stomach lurch unsteadily once more, but he fought off the nausea and stood beside her.
“I’m afraid it’s all too familiar, Liam,” Dr. Friel said. “The garrote is a narrow leather cord with three knots tied in it. And her throat was cut—looks like left to right again, just like Ursula Downes. She also seems to have been hit on the back of the head, but I’ll know more about that after the postmortem. From the temperature and the condition of her skin, she’d probably been in the water about six to eight hours when she was found, which puts time of death maybe between one and three in the morning. No obvious signs of struggle or sexual assault. She does have some unusual scarring on her wrists.” She unzipped the body bag a few inches to gently lift one of Rachel Briscoe’s arms and show him. “They look like deliberate cuts. Completely scarred over, and at least several years old. If I
had to venture a theory, I’d say probably self-inflicted.”
“You’re not saying this may have been a suicide?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think it’s possible that the fatal injuries were self-inflicted. Just that she may have had a history of self-injury. It’s not as uncommon as people might think. I don’t know if that detail might be relevant to your investigation, but I thought you should know.” She reached over and pressed his forearm. Her hand felt warm against his wrist, and surprisingly strong. “I am sorry, Liam. I know you were trying to find her.”
Ward nodded and looked out over the lake. The strong wind stirred up tiny wavelets that rippled its surface, driving a pair of mute swans on the far side of the water hard against the rushy lakeshore. How had this place come to be called Loughnabrone, and what other deeds were hidden beneath its waters? These three triple deaths—three lives sacrificed, and for what? Perhaps it was for something beyond rational understanding, something deeper than the motives he could grasp. He’d been fighting the notion. But with this third victim, perhaps he ought to admit there might be some dark connection to the past.
3
The pounding on the door downstairs gradually made its way into Nora’s consciousness. Cormac still slept soundly beside her. They’d been up half the night, over at the Scullys’ house, and had looked forward to a lie-in this morning. She climbed out of bed and went to the window, to find Liam Ward looking up at her, one hand shielding his eyes from the light. Behind him stood Detective Brennan. She hurried into her clothes and down the stairs.
