Mercy's Chase

by Jess Lourey

  She reached the cast iron pot and removed the lid. “It hasn’t been cooking long enough to burn.” She turned off the burner, placing her hand over the mound of brown bread. Still warm.

  “I’m going to check the bedroom and the bathroom. You stay here.”

  Charlie stepped through one of two open doors, likely the bedroom. Salem was staring into the unlit pantry off the kitchen. She thought she was looking at a huge flour sack, but then as her eyes adjusted, she realized it had arms and legs.

  And eyes.

  Mrs. Molony stepped into the light. “Knew you’d be back. You’re a dead ringer for your pa, you know.”

  28

  Blessington, Ireland

  “An off day of housecleaning shouldn’t be so severely judged.” Mrs. Molony sniffed, filling Charlie’s ceramic bowl with a second serving of savory beef stew.

  Salem was full but still tempted to ask for another helping. She didn’t know when she’d have another chance to eat anything so delicious. Mrs. Molony had sworn the recipe couldn’t be easier. Cut up generous chunks of carrots, onions, and celery, heat them up with some oil for a handful of minutes, dredge the beef in flour and salt and then toss it in the pan with the mirepoix, sautéing until the beef was cooked through. Then in goes the potatoes, a bottle of Guinness, a few scoops of tomato paste and beef stock to the fill the pot. Salt as needed.

  “Oh, but you have to grow the vegetables yourself and eat it on Irish soil,” she’d cackled, when Salem insisted that such a simple recipe couldn’t have produced this thick, rich stew, perfect for a chilly Irish night.

  Salem had tried not to moan when she took her first bite of buttered bread. “What is this butter?”

  “Irish,” Charlie answered for Mrs. Molony, holding up his own slice. “Cheers. No one does it better.”

  Mrs. Molony stopped at the table where her guests were eating, her arms weighted with the clothes she’d picked off the furniture. She claimed they’d been drying about the house, not flung, that the chairs had tipped under the weight of the wet pants on them and she hadn’t bothered to lift them up. “Nice words from a Scotsman.”

  Charlies face lit up in delighted surprise. “Not many catch that. Me mum’s from the Highlands, traveled to southern England as a teenager. Sometimes her burr sneaks in.”

  “All right, then.”

  “But the butter,” Salem asked, still amazed. “I’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s sweet and salty, creamy. Is this what all Irish butter tastes like?”

  “Any worth eating.” Mrs. Molony had sat them both down and fed them, refusing to answer questions until they were done eating, insisting it was rude to talk business over dinner. She started a fire in the hearth, calling it a blessing against the coming night, and then picked up while they ate, offering fresh slices of the warm bread.

  “Can I help you clean?” Salem asked, deciding against the second bowl of stew.

  “You’re finished with the meal?”

  Salem stared longingly at the pot of butter and half loaf of bread. Curiosity won over gluttony. “Yes, I am. Thank you for a delicious meal. You knew my father?”

  “Join me by the fire for some tea. Your lad can join us when he’s done with his soup.”

  Charlie’s head was bent over his bowl. It’d take him a few more minutes at least. Salem tried to clear her spot at the table, but Mrs. Molony scolded her.

  “Take this, instead,” Mrs. Molony said, offering her a steaming mug of smoky tea, waiting to speak until Salem had taken the chair opposite her. “That’s all right now.” Mrs. Molony nodded and blew on her own mug of tea. “I wouldn’t say that I knew Daniel Wiley. Met him only once. He came by to see my stones.”

  “The ones you showed Salem?” Charlie asked without giving up his spoon.

  “Hush with you. You don’t talk with your mouth full. There’s time for questions when you’re done eating.” She returned her attention to Salem. “It was the stones I showed you.”

  Salem realized she liked Mrs. Molony a lot. She did things her own way.

  “Your father wasn’t the first to come by to see them. He was in the area to see family, that’s what he said, and asked about my wee Stonehenge with its mercy stone.”

  Salem took a sip from her tea and burnt her top lip. “You told Agent Curson and I that you’d just recently uncovered your Stonehenge replica.”

  “ ’Tis true, in a manner. Your father, before he left, said I should bury the stones and not speak of them until I received the phone call. It came last week. The women I spoke with said it was time to dig the rocks back up and give a call in to the number. Ask for a codebreaker, tell them the president’s life was at stake. So, it’s true that I had recently uncovered them.” She winked at Salem.

  Charlie tipped his bowl to pour the last of it into his mouth and showed it to Mrs. Molony. “Can I come to the fire now, grandmother?”

  Mrs. Molony smiled, revealing her tiny twisted teeth. “Bring your smart mouth with you.”

  Charlie brought his chair and took the mug of tea Mrs. Molony offered. “Can you back the story up for us, say? All the way to the time you first discovered the stones until today.”

  “Aye.” Mrs. Molony tilted a little forward and then a little back, setting her chair to rocking. “I found the stones just as I told your girl here. I was digging a well next to the grave of my mamó, except it first happened twenty years ago. I brought a neighbor over to show him what I’d discovered. Paddy Walsh was his name and he’s long dead. Paddy told someone who told someone else, and pretty soon I had visitors, mostly women.”

  The fire crackle-popped. Salem jumped.

  Mrs. Molony laughed. “Paddy saying hi is all. He was a lovely man.”

  Salem squared her shoulders and waved at the fire. “Pleased to meet you, Paddy.”

  Mrs. Molony’s eyes instantly narrowed. “That’s a kindness,” she told Salem. “And I’ll return it to you with this: do you know the three signs that someone’s a witch?”

  Salem went still. “No. What are they?”

  Mrs. Molony stopped rocking. “One, she’s a woman. Two, she’s got a long life. And third? She was born with three nipples.”

  Salem’s eyes widened.

  Mrs. Molony let that go on for only a second before she burst out cackling. “That was a joke, lass. Same with me saying the fire sparking was Paddy greeting us. You shouldn’t take everything so serious.” Mrs. Molony wiped the mirth from her eyes and started rocking again as she returned to her story. “As I was saying, all the women who visited here were grim as well. Told me the wee Stonehenge were actually a message, that there were ones like it hidden all over the Isles.”

  “Exactly like yours?” Salem asked, sore at the edges from being the butt of a joke.

  “More or less. It wasn’t until your father showed that I got more of the story. It works that my mamó was part of the Underground. You know a bit about that?”

  Salem nodded, her blood gone still. She moved only her eyes, measuring Charlie for his reaction. Vida had referred to the Order and the Underground when she’d accused Salem in the foyer, but Charlie and Salem had not yet spoken of it.

  “I know about it,” Charlie finally said.

  “Of course you do,” Mrs. Molony responded. She didn’t elaborate. “And not only was my mamó a member, she was a leader in these parts. It was those leaders who had the wee Stonehenges brought to them. Daniel Wiley said the others scattered around the Isles are identical to the one my mamó had buried near her.”

  “It’s like a gravestone?”

  “More like copies of a key,” Mrs. Molony said, jolting Salem. “You probably do the same for all your important locks? One key you keep, the other you give to your friend so you’re never locked out of your home.”

  Salem called up a mental image of Mrs. Molony’s Stonehenge. It was identical to th
e modern layout of Stonehenge, not the original stone shape that they’d gotten the word second off. “Is the whole thing the key, or only the word mercy?”

  Mrs. Molony slapped her knee and chortled. “Your father was right about you! Said you wouldn’t waste a second on fluff once you showed up. Mercy is the code. But that’s tied to Stonehenge, you see. Come with me and I’ll show you something.”

  Both Salem and Charlie stood. Mrs. Molony gestured for Charlie to remain in his seat. “Not you. I need you to keep an eye on the fire. We’ll be right back.”

  Charlie sat without an argument.

  Salem felt apprehensive as she followed Mrs. Molony out the front door. The night had gone black, not a single light beyond the cottage, the crescent moon, and the sparkle of stars. For a wild moment Salem imagined that if she could fly to them, they’d taste like Irish butter. She shivered.

  “You should really dress for the weather,” Mrs. Molony said.

  “Do you know what the forecast is for tomorrow?”

  “It could be as warm as it can be,” Mrs. Molony said absently. She stopped to grab Salem’s hand, hers rough and gnarled. “Don’t want you to stumble. We need to walk out back.”

  Salem didn’t question her, still startled by the intimacy of holding hands, reeling from the thought that her father had been here before. “You said my dad was only here for a bit?”

  Mrs. Molony stopped in her tracks and cocked her head at Salem. The shifts and shadows of the moon made her look like a raven. “Not long a’tall. He gave me a message for you, though. Said there were forces at work, ones that would break you against ones looking out for you.”

  Mrs. Molony started walking again, still holding Salem’s hand, her humping stride making it difficult to find a rhythm.

  “That’s all?”

  Mrs. Molony laughed. “He said you were impatient, that’s the truth. And no, that’s not all. Here we are then.”

  Disappointed, Salem discovered that they were back at the grave. Mrs. Molony had covered the Stonehenge, the fresh-moved dirt catching the starlight differently than the compact ground. Salem had imagined Mrs. Molony might have an actual note from her father for her, not just some more graveside fancy.

  “Do you smell it?”

  “Excuse me?” Salem asked, her eyes darting toward the grave.

  “The roses. Lean over to these and smell them.”

  Salem inhaled. The smell came to her so strongly that she was amazed she hadn’t caught it earlier. She stepped forward and leaned toward the shoulder-high tangle of wild roses. The spicy night air perfectly complemented their sweet perfume. “That’s lovely.”

  “That’s thirty-five million years old,” Mrs. Molony said firmly.

  “What?”

  “Roses have been on this planet for thirty-five million years.” She indicated the field beyond her stone wall, an inky rolling darkness covering it. “You can’t see it, but the same is true of the poppies out there, the mustard, the thrift, thistle and clover, the flowering chamomile. They seem delicate, yet they last, yeah?”

  “I suppose.” Salem wasn’t sure where she was going with it.

  Mrs. Molony squeezed Salem’s hand. “Same with women. Men build towers and walls. Women plant flowers. You see which stands the test of time.”

  Salem felt like she was speaking a foreign language. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mrs. Molony tapped the sachet at Salem’s waist. “Look for the help that’s out there, and remember the water, the flowers, and the power of women. That’s what your father wanted me to tell you when you came. He even left me a picture so I’d recognize you when you showed up, if you’d like to see it.” She drew a 3x5 photograph out of her apron pocket and handed it to Salem.

  Salem studied it underneath the sparkling stars, her face puffy with emotion: it was a photo of her and her father. Vida had snapped it the first day of summer break before ninth grade. Her father had taken her and Vida to Sebastian Joe’s ice cream parlor near Lake Calhoun to celebrate. Salem had ordered cinnamon ice cream in a waffle cone. Daniel had ordered Pavarotti in a cup because he claimed a spoon was necessary to ensure each bite contained equal parts banana, caramel, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate chips. Salem couldn’t remember what Vida had ordered, only that she had brought the camera.

  Salem and Daniel had made deliberate ice cream circles around their lips and were grinning into the camera, heads together, Daniel’s arm slung over Salem’s shoulder.

  Salem was surprised at the pain she felt. She still missed him so much, yet oddly she felt surprisingly close to him in that moment.

  Charlie’s voice coming from the front of the house broke the spell. “Everything all right back there?”

  Salem glanced up at Mrs. Molony, who was watching her with those glittering crow eyes. “It will be, right, love?”

  Salem offered the photograph back to Mrs. Molony, who waved it away. “I don’t need it any longer, not now that you’ve come.”

  Salem’s shoulders lifted with the force of her inhale. She realized she was exhausted. She hadn’t slept last night, had been on the run since she’d learned Mercy had been kidnapped.

  Mercy.

  “There you are!” Charlie said, coming around the corner. “Did she tell you what the mercy on all the little Stonehenge keys mean?”

  Mrs. Molony finally dropped Salem’s hand. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my talents.”

  “Then you won’t know what it means to refer to Stonehenge as second,” Charlie said, his tone deceptively lighthearted.

  Mrs. Molony made a pffft sound. “Well now, that’s easy for anyone’s not a cabbage. Your Stonehenge is the second rock circle on the Isles. The first is found in Scotland. The Standing Stones of Stenness, they’re called. The first true stone henge.”

  29

  The Road to Dublin

  “I should have known.”

  Charlie had been mumbling since they’d pulled out of Muirinn Molony’s. Salem had only been partially listening. Research into the Standing Stones of Stenness was calling to her. Her head was tipped so far forward that she was at risk of falling into her computer screen. “Should have known what?”

  “About other rock formations. I knew the British Isles is poxed with them, but I’d assumed Stonehenge was the first. My da would be ashamed. Tried to teach me everything he knew about working with rock. I lapped it up. Took in everything he said about Stonehenge, too, and thought myself smart. Too smart to see what I didn’t know.”

  Certainty is a prison. Be soft to the truth.

  Daniel Wiley had said that to her often, when she’d be frustrated during one of his games to release a hidden drawer on some magnificent piece of furniture, and she’d argue with him that there was no way that she hadn’t uncovered all the secret springs.

  “Learn your lesson and keep on moving,” Salem said. It was another motto of her father’s, though it sounded less harsh when he’d said it.

  “I suppose that’s all there is to it.” He slowed down for a corner. “Tell me what else I don’t know. What are these other Scottish stone circles, and please don’t tell me they’re found in the Highlands near my mother’s people. That’d be too much ignorance to wear for one day.”

  Salem input the final variables into the line of code she fed to baby Gaea. It hadn’t taken long to create a research program that would cover the Standing Stones of Stenness. She’d only had to swap out key words from the Stonehenge search, as both algorithms would serve the same function—sweep the web for historical data, collate duplicate information, create an outliers document.

  Once she had the Stenness search running, she checked Gaea’s net for more information on the London and Moscow servers that had pinged the day and time of the Parliament bomb going off. Gaea hadn’t dug up anything else bomb-related in the past communication from or between the servers, so
she’d paused herself until issued a new command. Salem fine-tuned that algorithm to wake up should anything suspicious originate in either server, and added potential terms to look for, coded or open: Parliament, environmental summit, Gina Hayes.

  Next, she checked what Gaea had caught on Stonehenge and was disappointed to see nothing there. Yet, Gaea hadn’t automatically paused this search as she’d done with the bombing algorithm when it had dead-ended. There couldn’t be many cyber-stones left unturned, yet Gaea churned. It must be a bug in her code. Salem would look at it later. For now, she’d let Gaea do as she’d been told—collate research on the Standing Stones of Stenness in the background while Salem researched old-school in the foreground.

  Salem read her screen out loud. “They’re in Orkney. Is that the Highlands?”

  “Yes, damn it all to hell.” Charlie chuckled ruefully. “But it’s off the farthest northern tip, so I’ll hardly count it. Plus, I’ve never visited. Tell me what else I don’t know.”

  “The stones were erected before 3100 BC, so still the Neolithic period, but at least a few hundred years before Stonehenge was constructed. Stenness only ever had twelve stones in its circle, plus a nearby Barnhouse Stone and Watch Stone. Only four of those original twelve remain standing, and they’re spindly, like tall gray baby teeth, and spaced far apart.” She tilted her screen so he could see it.

  “Spindly is right. What’s their height?”

  “Twenty feet, more or less, so taller than they look.”

  He returned his attention to the road. “Bit of a disappointment, those. I don’t feel so bad for never hearing about them. Is there anything circling it?”

  Salem kept reading. “Yup. There’s a ditch, six and a half feet wide and thirteen feet deep, chiseled into the bedrock. Bones were discovered in the ditch, but I haven’t found yet if they were animal or human, or a mix. There’s considerably less research on this monument than Stonehenge.”