“Twenty-two, actually,” he replied stiffly. “And it runs sufficiently well. People don’t drive that much round here.”
She eyed the numerous rusty spots on the exterior and the disintegrating interior with distaste. “I think we better take my car.”
“Fine.” He held out his hand for the keys.
She hesitated. “I should probably drive. The clerk at the car rental office was pretty insistent about me being the only driver.”
“I’ll spare you my opinion of the car hire clerk,” he huffed out, then rolled his eyes. His hand remained extended.
Rylie slapped the keys into his palm with a frustrated sigh.
They hadn’t gone far down the main road toward Dungannon when Donovan turned right onto a country lane. The paving was all but nonexistent, grass grew thick between the numerous cracks, and tall hedges lined either side. Rylie wondered whether, if they met another vehicle, there’d be room for them to pass. That must be why he drove so slowly.
Through an approaching gap in the hedge, she could see a whitewashed cottage surrounded by trees loaded with golden leaves. In front of the cottage, the lawn shined so green she had to squint. She’d never appreciated the description of “Emerald Isle” until she saw it for herself three days ago.
“I’ll bet your family has lived here for generations, haven’t they?” she asked as they passed by the charming house.
“Since the mid-1800s at least,” he replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Probably longer. Records weren’t terribly clear during the Hunger, what you’d call the Potato Famine.”
“I can’t imagine how great it must be to have that much family history all around you.” She didn’t bother trying to disguise the envy in her voice.
When he didn’t answer, she studied him for a moment. Even in profile he looked handsome, his features just rugged enough, without being rough or coarse. If he resembled his father—her father—then she understood why her mother had fallen in love so fast, so completely.
She cleared her throat. “Don’t you miss Ireland?”
“No, not really.”
He turned the car down another lane, this one unpaved and deeply rutted so that the car bounced and scraped a couple of times. The hedge fences on one side turned into low walls of stacked stones. A half-dozen curly-horned sheep grazed in the middle of the field in a scene that could have been lifted from a tourist brochure.
As if he read her thoughts, he shot her an exasperated glance. “In spite of how picturesque this all looks, Miss Powell, the day-to-day reality isn’t nearly so grand.”
“So that’s why you moved to America? And please, call me Rylie.” She paused for a beat before adding, “Donovan.”
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel but his voice remained impassive. “Americans don’t appreciate how good they have it. Trust me, you wouldn’t really want to be my sister, Rylie.”
The inflection he put on her name raised her ire. “Well, neither of us had any say in that, did we?” She hated how petty she sounded.
Her aggravating half-brother gave her another annoyed look. “No, indeed,” he stated, then turned the car through a gap in the stone wall.
They bounced even more over the rough track toward a ramshackle house with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof. Two Range Rovers and a jeep sat in the yard. Beyond the house Rylie could see a canvas canopy and several people moving about. Donovan pulled the car between the Range Rovers and cut the engine.
“So here we are then.”
Sybil Gallagher emerged from the house and waved in greeting. “Morning Miss Powell, Mr. O’Shea.”
“Rylie, please.” She extended her hand to the other woman. “I hope we’re not too early.”
“Oh, not at’all.” Sybil ran her palm down the leg of her pants before shaking hands. “We start working when the sun comes up, because we have to quit when it gets dark or starts raining, whichever comes first.” She bobbed her head at Donovan, but continued speaking to Rylie. “You’ll want to see inside the cottage then?”
“Yes, please.”
“Not much to see,” Donovan muttered as they stepped over the raised threshold into the shadowy interior.
“I’ll just put on the kettle, then go and fetch Aongus.” Sybil fluttered over to a camp stove, the anxious hostess. She cast a worried look at Donovan. “The lads have taken over down here, and I’m afraid they’re not much for housekeeping. Aongus and I have moved up to the loft.”
Donovan waved a dismissive hand at the clothes and other items scattered over and around a couple of camp cots set against the far wall. “Doesn’t matter. This place has been vacant for years. You’re really roughing it.”
Blushing, Sybil nodded in acknowledgment before dashing out the door. Rylie looked around the room, which was dominated by an enormous stone fireplace that had once served for both cooking and warmth. She peeked through the open doorway into the adjoining room, where the same fireplace had a second hearth. Two additional camp cots and more masculine paraphernalia littered the area.
Cold seeped from the flat gray stones of the floor through the rubber soles of her sneakers, a testament to the uncomfortable reality Donovan had mentioned earlier.
“How long did you live here?” she asked.
“My first seven years.” He motioned to a steep set of stairs built into the wall behind the front door. “My sister and I slept in the loft, same as my mother and her sister had done.” His tone and expression softened, no doubt with memories. “The roof was thatch when my mum and Aunt Fee were little, but my grandfather replaced it with tin.” He looked over his shoulder at the door in the end wall “He also added the wash room and loo onto the back, along with electricity.”
Rylie searched her mind to recall where she had lived at the same age. They had moved to California when she was five, so she didn’t remember much about New York. A year later, her mother had married Jim Powell and they moved from their two-bedroom apartment to a house in the L.A. suburbs. Four years after that, they moved into a bigger house with a pool. Her step-dad and half-brothers still lived there. She had never seen where her mother grew up in Brooklyn, but she knew for sure it had running water and electricity.
Donovan O’Shea stood with one foot resting on the bottom step, gazing up into the attic space that had once been his shared bedroom. Guilt washed over Rylie at the recollection of how she’d questioned him about moving to America. But she would be damned before she gave him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.
How much would it take before Rylie Powell had a sufficient dose of quaint, rural Ireland? Donovan sought to distract himself with speculation rather than worry about the uncomfortable tightening in his gut caused by being here in his childhood home. Time and the elements had reduced the place to little more than a hovel. Not that it had been much better when he and his family lived here, but he’d been too young to know any different. The living quarters over the pub were posh in comparison.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Rylie survey the stark, chilly room, her attractive mouth pressed into a thin line She obviously wasn’t finding this realism too pleasant. A little nudge of self-satisfaction tugged at his own lips.
The reappearance of Sybil Gallagher with Professor McRory in tow broke the awkward silence. Sybil rushed to fill the teapot with water from the kettle while McRory stood outside the open door and shed his mud-caked boots and waterproof coveralls.
“We’ve started a new trench out in the fens,” the professor explained. “’Tis nasty going at the moment.”
He stepped carefully over the threshold and walked in stocking feet to the back room. Donovan didn’t envy him washing up, for the hot water heater hadn’t been connected in years. As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw Sybil pour hot water from the kettle into the sink to wash the dishes stacked there.
“Let me help,” Rylie offered, picking up a tea towel.
To keep out of the way, Donovan settled himself on the stairs an
d rested his elbows on his knees. By the time McRory rejoined them, Sybil was pouring tea into four cups.
“I’m sorry, all we have is powdered milk,” she apologized as she reached for a covered tin.
“That’s okay, I take mine plain.” Rylie took the offered cup.
“As do I,” Donovan remarked. He watched McRory snag a three-legged stool and offer it to Rylie as Sybil passed him a mug.
“And here’s two sugars for you, Aongus,” The sudden look of censure McRory shot his assistant left her mouth agape for a moment before she murmured, “I . . . I mean, Professor.”
Donovan narrowed his eyes; so much for the cozy little domestic scene. He happened to know McRory was married. And apparently McRory was aware that he knew. A fleeting look in Rylie’s eyes as she hastily lifted her mug told Donovan that she had put it together as well. He wondered if she shared his same disgust for infidelity.
The professor sat on one of the cots and spoke quickly to cover the silence. “I’m afraid we’ve all the artifacts bundled and boxed up for Brian to take back to Queen’s this afternoon, but I can fetch the carton from the Land Rover if you’d like.”
“No!” Donovan felt all eyes jump at his sharp tone, but the last thing he wanted nearby was a passel of items that could trigger his “gift.”
“That is,” he fumbled, “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“No, please don’t,” Rylie agreed, flashing a demure smile. “Donovan and I probably wouldn’t recognize, much less appreciate, what any of those things were.”
For an uncomfortable moment, Donovan gawked, not sure which had surprised him more, her sudden support or the easy way she uttered his name. Realizing his mouth was open, he snapped it shut and nodded in agreement, then quickly gulped some tea.
McRory looked ready to protest, but Rylie spoke again before he could. “I’d like to see your dig site though, if that’s all right.” She took a sip from her cup then added, “And I’m afraid I don’t really know what a fen is.”
Donovan suspected her of being disingenuous, but the ploy worked. He could see McRory switch into professorial mode.
“Most people will tell you that a fen is nothing but a patch of marshy ground, but that’s not entirely true. Point of fact is that Irish fens are unique.”
A ruckus from outside interrupted the lecture. Someone shouted for McRory and a moment later, a young man burst into the cottage.
“Professor!” His breathless cry halted upon seeing the four of them. “So sorry, but—you—we—”
“Slow down, Johnny, and catch your breath,” McRory admonished. He rose to his feet and hurried to the young man’s side. “’Tis an emergency?”
“No . . . ” Resting his hands on his thighs, the lad Johnny took a deep breath. “Well, maybe yes. The thing is, we’ve found a body . . . in the fens.”
“A bog body?” Sybil gasped in excitement, while Rylie gasped in alarm.
Johnny shook his head. “He’s been dead awhile, but he’s twenty-first century, or twentieth at least. I could tell by his shoes.”
“Are you sure it’s a man?” Donovan demanded, a terrible fear gripping him.
Giving him a quizzical look, Johnny nodded then turned to McRory. “Please, Professor, will you come take a look?”
“Straight away,” McRory answered, face grim. “Syb, you’d best call the authorities.” He stepped over the threshold and pulled on his rubber boots.
Donovan plunked his cup into the sink. “I’d better come with you.”
“Me too,” Rylie quickly chimed in.
With a firm expression, McRory shook his head. “’Til we see what’s out there, you ladies need to stay here.”
Sybil, who stood with her mobile phone in hand, gave a humph of dissatisfaction and turned away.
Rylie glared but muttered, “Fine,” between her teeth.
Not pausing for further discussion, they left the two unhappy women behind in the cottage. Donovan strode rapidly across the yard while McRory and Johnny kept pace with him.
“We were taking the top layer off the new trench when Michael’s spade struck something,” Johnny babbled as they approached the canopied area where work tables and benches were set up. “’Twas a boot, but when he called me over to help unearth it, we saw ’twas a pair of boots, and the feet still in ’em!”
Two men stood murmuring over one of the tables, but McRory waved them away when they moved to join the trio. Donovan was glad to give the work area a wide berth, in case there might be an artifact or something to trigger one of his visions.
Tuning out Johnny’s nervous chatter, Donovan recalled how he stumbled upon the original dig site over two months ago. He’d been clearing dried grass and brush in the corner of the yard when he thought he heard a dog barking. He searched, but hadn’t found the source of the elusive sound. Frustrated, he whacked at a dead bush and when he uprooted the thing, beneath the shallow root system lay a purposefully constructed pit. Seeing the carefully arranged bones had triggered the first vision Donovan had experienced in over fifteen years.
Amid the painful buzzing in his ears, he’d watched a Druid sacrifice the dog and place its body along with the foreleg bones of a horse into the pit to appease their gods Though the images had faded quickly, Donovan felt sick and frightened in their aftermath. His worst fear had come to pass. Coming back to his boyhood home had precipitated the return of the “gift” he’d never been able to control.
When he was a young child, he saw and heard things that no one else did. Except his mother. He was loath to say “things that weren’t there” for they always felt very much there, as real as anything else within his childish realm of experiences. However, once he realized no one else saw or heard what he did, he never admitted anything to anyone. His mother had been right, people didn’t understand. Heaven knew, he didn’t understand it himself.
The unique smell of dampness and decay hit Donovan’s nostrils at the same time the earth grew spongy beneath his feet. The three of them had reached the edge of the fens. He banished all thoughts of his “gift” and the people and things he saw. He needed to concentrate on the present and keep everything else away from his consciousness. McRory and the young man were still talking, and he focused hard on their words.
“. . . no reason to suspect foul play,” McRory was saying.
“But what else could it be?” Johnny insisted.
“The fens have always been dangerous,” the professor pointed out. “People lose their way.”
Not this close in. Donovan kept his agreement with the lad to himself as they negotiated single file between a thick clump of bushes and a tangle of thorny vines. The moist ground sucked at the soles of his sneakers. A dead beech tree ahead on their right looked vaguely familiar. Blackened scars on the trunk teased at the edge of his memory. He shook his head to clear it.
“Ho! Michael!” Johnny shouted.
Ahead, past another thicket of brush, a figure in a red cap waved.
“I’ve nearly uncovered him,” the second young man called back.
“No! Stop!” McRory ordered. “Leave that for the police.” When Johnny shot him a perturbed look, he added, “In case there might be something to investigate.”
Still silent, Donovan sidestepped the professor’s twine markers. From the corner of his eye, he saw two trenches similar to the ones McRory’s team had dug in the cottage yard. The second youth, Michael, stood down a slope in the midst of more twine and a muddy pile of earth.
“’Tis sorry I am, Professor,” he rushed to apologize. “I didn’t mean . . . ”
McRory held up his hand for silence. “No matter, Michael. What is it we’ve got then?”
“A feckin’ mess!” The young man blurted, then he eyed Donovan with dismay. “Bollocks! I suppose you’re the Yank who owns all this. Sorry. I’m Michael Carmody.”
“Close enough, my father owns it.” Donovan forced a smile as he extended his hand. “Donovan O’Shea, and I agree, looks to be a fecki
n’ mess, right enough.”
He craned his neck to gaze around Michael Carmody into the hole, which was about a half meter deep. The body lay face down, long legs and half the torso uncovered. Much too large to be a woman, at least the woman Donovan had feared it might be.
Before the wave of relief washed over him, a blinding light flashed in front of his eyes. In the next instant, the wavering image of a big man appeared in front of him. A hand gripping a butcher knife plunged the blade into the man’s belly. Once. Twice.
Stunned, Donovan gasped and stumbled.
The vision disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. Michael Carmody stuck out his arm and prevented Donovan from toppling into the hole.
“Must . . . sit,” Donovan wheezed and staggered backward. His visions had never been like this!
Next thing he knew, McRory had a canvas campstool under him. With a shuddering breath, Donovan sat and dropped his head between his knees.
“Do you know who ’tis?” the professor demanded.
“N—no,” Donovan stuttered, but when he raised his eyes in the direction of the body, the light and the terrible image struck him again. Groaning, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“Donovan!” McRory’s large hand gripped his shoulder, fingers digging through his jacket and sweater. “Christ Jaysus, man! What’s wrong?”
He bit back the urge to reveal what he knew. “My head,” he panted, then truthfully added, “It’s never been like this before.”
McRory’s grip relaxed a fraction. Eyes squeezed shut, Donovan pivoted around on the stool so that he faced away from the body. Very carefully, he opened his eyes and looked into Professor McRory’s worried face.
He drew in a deep breath. “I’m all right now.”
The professor’s expression shifted from concern to conjecture “I’ll be the judge of that. Michael, Johnny, help me get him back to the cottage.” He motioned in the direction of the body. “That knacker won’t be going anywhere before the PSNI arrives.”
To Donovan’s dismay, the two young men were staring goggle-eyed at him. He shook off McRory’s hand and got to his feet. “I really am all right.”
The Wild Sight Page 4
