MacLeod eyes flared again and he squeezed his fists even tighter. “What I want you to do, girl, is get out of my fu—”
Bzzztt!!
MacLeod looked wildly at the phone.
Bzzztt!!
He slammed down on the red button again. “What?! What, God damn it?!!”
“Um,” the same timid voice. “Your appointment is here.”
MacLeod shook his head in disbelief. “My what?! My appoi—” Then his eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh. Right.” Then politely as a vicar, “Thank you, Miss Logan.”
He released the red button, then turned around slowly to face the two police officers. He straightened his fine white linen shirt, adjusted his expensive Italian silk tie, and took another deep breath. When he spoke, his voice held a force it had lacked even in his loudest bellows. “Leave,” he instructed, pointing to the door. “Now.”
“Mr. MacLeod—” Cameron started. He was tiring of this game.
“It was not a request,” MacLeod interrupted. “I will talk to you, Cameron. But not now. Tomorrow. I’ll send for you. But right now: leave.”
Warwick looked to the inspector. It was his call.
For his part, Cameron had not failed to notice that MacLeod had finally agreed, at least in principle, to speak with him. That was progress anyway.
“Right then,” Cameron nodded decisively. “But I’ll expect to hear from you by noon tomorrow. Or else I’ll be back tomorrow evening. And in far less patient a mood.” He turned to the door. “Come on then, Sergeant.”
MacLeod, who was still pointing at the door, did not reply, but watched with stony countenance as the police officers exited his office. Then he lowered his arm, shrugged mightily, and sat down on the front edge of his desk, head bowed and strength streaming down his back.
He didn’t look up as a side door to his office opened and in walked his appointment. Gazing floorward, he quietly greeted his guest. “Taggert.”
The man was shorter than his host by several inches, but a large man nonetheless—burly even. His broad shoulders and barrel chest were trapped inside a dark sweater and black leather jacket. Dark wool pants hung comfortably to the top of black leather shoes. Atop all this was a large head, its smooth, fine, black hair just beginning to recede, with thick dark eyebrows arching over eyes so light blue they were almost white. The chiseled jaw bore no facial hair, no scars, and, despite the gray beginning to fleck his hair, no wrinkles. He flashed strong, white teeth when he spoke. “David.”
The clan patriarch looked up then. And for the first time that day, a smile struggled across his face.
Taggert crossed the room and shook MacLeod’s hand. “You look tired, David,” he observed.
“Aye, Taggert. That I am.” MacLeod nodded. “And worried. What do you know?”
The visitor shook his head slowly. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Not much?” MacLeod stood up sharply. “I don’t pay you to know ‘not much.’”
Taggert met MacLeod’s gaze squarely. “Sure you do, David,” he replied with a grin. “That’s precisely what you pay me for. And then to find out.”
MacLeod tried, but couldn’t suppress his second smile of the day. A tired, defeated smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“You’re right, Taggert,” he admired with a slap to the man’s shoulder. “Of course you are.” Then MacLeod walked over to the various crystal decanters on the solid mahogany sideboard across the room. Picking up the Glenfiddich and two cut crystal glasses, he turned back toward the desk. “So then, what do you think?”
Taggert waited for a moment then took his freshly poured whisky from his benefactor. “I think,” he sipped from the glass, “that I don’t know what to think.”
“Damn it, man!” MacLeod slammed his drink down onto the desk. “Don’t play games! Not with Douglas.”
Taggert nodded even as he took another sip. “I’m sorry, David. I didn’t mean to sound flippant. I know this is important. The most important assignment you’ve ever given me, I’m sure. But that’s why I’m being careful. I need more information before I start making any hypotheses. I don’t want to trouble you with half-baked theories that might well prove wrong.”
“Taggert,” MacLeod’s eyes flared desperately even as the third weak smile of the day presented itself, “I’m half-mad with worry already. I don’t care if your theory is baked at all. I won’t hold you to it. But damn it, man, tell me what you’re thinking, whatever it is, so at least I’ll have some idea of what to expect.”
Taggert nodded again, then pursed his lips and thought for a moment. He set his drink down on the desk. “You’re son’s alive,” he started. Then he raised a cautionary finger, “I think. If they’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead. They could’ve killed the lad where he slept.”
MacLeod cringed and dropped his eyes.
“But you’ve no ransom note,” Taggert continued. “That’s bad.”
MacLeod looked up at this echo of the policewoman’s words, but didn’t say anything.
Taggert turned and looked out the window. “Not overly surprising, though. Those words on the wall: ‘I am returned to fulfill the prophecy.’ That might have just been for show—to make sure you paid the ransom quickly and without question. But I don’t think so. The bastard—or bastards—who did this are obviously motivated by something other, something more, than money.”
“So what’s all this about a prophecy then?” MacLeod asked, perturbed by his next thoughts. “You don’t think it’s the banshee, do you?”
“The banshee?” Taggert asked incredulously. “Well, no,” he chuckled, “I don’t think the banshee’s returned to steal your son.”
“Well, of bloody course not,” MacLeod railed. “But do you think that’s what’s meant by it? That that’s what we’re supposed to think?”
“Well, David,” Taggert sipped from his glass, “I might. And the media certainly does. Very interesting angle. But there’s one thing that gives me pause.”
“What’s that?”
“That other phrase. The one written in blood on the floor. I can’t see any reason to add that if you’re pretending to be the MacLeod Banshee returning from the Fairy Realm to steal the MacLeod heir. There’s a disconnect there that isn’t explained by any banshee.”
“So why was it written?” MacLeod asked. “And what the bloody hell does it say anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Taggert admitted. “On both counts.” He sipped again from his glass. “But I will, David. I will.”
MacLeod frowned down at his own drink, considering the bloody script. “It’s not Gaelic, is it?” He knew the language, but only as much as his position required.
“No,” Taggert replied with certainty, then hedged his bets, “At least I don’t think so. I know Gaelic well enough and it’s gibberish to me. Still…” He thought for a moment. “Have you many Gaelic-speaking enemies, David?”
MacLeod released a tired laugh. “I’ve enemies who speak every language, Taggert. English-speaking, French-speaking, German-speaking. Name the language and I’ve got enemies.”
Taggert frowned in thought. “All right then.” He crossed his arms and cocked his head at his benefactor. “I name Gaelic.”
“You want me to list my Gaelic-speaking enemies?” MacLeod laughed to the confirming nod of his companion. “Well, I don’t know for sure, of course. I’ve never catalogued them by language. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, David,” Taggert interrupted. “But I want you to consider who from the Gaelic-speaking community might be interested in taking your son away, for whatever reason. Those words may not have been Gaelic, but we may have been meant to think they were.”
MacLeod frowned. “Well, I’m not truly sure just now, Taggert. Can I think about it a bit?”
“Aye, David,” Taggert replied as he stepped back over to the desk, “but hurry. We don’t have much time. Douglas is alive—I think—but there’s no guarantee how long that will last.” He picked up
his glass and drained the last of the whisky. “So I’m back to work. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”
Taggert turned to leave, but MacLeod grabbed his arm. The force of his grip surprised both men. “Taggert.” MacLeod’s eyes were red-rimmed and pleading. “Find my son.”
Taggert paused, then laid a hand over the one seizing his bicep. “I’ll do everything humanly possible, my friend. You have my word.”
With that MacLeod released his grip and Taggert walked silently out the same side door he’d entered through.
MacLeod looked down at his clenched fists and slowly shook his head. “I hope that’s enough.”
5. Legends
‘MacTary’s Woolens - Est. 1897’
The large, handsome sign hung perpendicular to the shop’s forest green facade, and its white letters, outlined in gold, stood atop the painstakingly reproduced red, white, yellow and light blue tartan of the Clan Innes—the clan of the shop’s owners, Alex and Lucy MacTary, and also the maternal clan of their American niece, Maggie Devereaux, who hesitated for only a moment before grabbing the brass door handle and pulling open the heavy door. As she did so her eyes were filled with the large brass door knocker of the Innes Clan crest: a boar’s head inside a circular leather strap bearing the motto, ‘Be Traist.’ Middle Scots for ‘Be True.’ Maggie smiled at the familiar words as the door swung past her.
Inside, the shop was empty. No customers at nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning in late July. The floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed full with bolts of fabric, stared silently but companionably at her over the tables of sweaters, shawls and kilts. To the right was the counter, complete with computer, cash register and last minute purchases such as clan badge refrigerator magnets and clan tartan bookmarks. She nodded to herself; she’d definitely come to the right place. As if to confirm this thought, the Innes tartan curtain behind the counter parted and in walked the other reason—apart from her studies—that young Maggie Devereaux had decided to stay in Scotland.
“Well, good morning, Maggie!” called Iain Grant, the MacTary’s twenty-five year old store manager, as he walked in from the storeroom carrying several bolts of fabric. He was dressed for work in a cobalt blue button-down shirt and khakis. His large black shoes matched the thick, sable hair falling loosely over his sparkling eyes, which always looked more blue than Maggie remembered. Through the cotton shirt, Maggie could see his biceps bulging from the weight of the fabric. “I didn’t expect to see you this morn.”
“And hello to you too, Iain,” Maggie replied to the handsome Scot. She surveyed the empty store. “It doesn’t look like you expected much of anyone this time of day.”
“Och, I suppose not,” he agreed with a boyish smile. “So let me just set these down and I can give you my undivided attention.”
Maggie smiled at the thought. “Please do.”
As Iain crossed the small shop and began quickly shoving the bolts of fabric onto an already full shelf, Maggie turned her attention to the refrigerator magnets affixed to the side of the metal cash register. She quickly found the MacLeod badge—or more correctly, both MacLeod badges. One had a bull’s head between two flags and the motto, ‘Hold Fast.’ The other had a radiant sun and the motto, ‘Luceo Non Uro.’ Maggie’s four years of college Latin let her understand this second motto: ‘I Shine, Not Burn.’ But despite this fortuitous opportunity to use her rarely useful Latin, Maggie frowned at the unexpected development of encountering two separate badges for what she had presumed was only one clan. But she took solace in the fact that she’d come to the right man—a man who made his living selling Scottish memorabilia to tourists.
“So what can I do for you then, Maggie?”
“Well, Mr. Grant…” Maggie fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly at the tall Scotsman.
“Uh-oh,” Iain laughed. “You want something.”
“Just information,” she assured sweetly. “I was at home, you see, and I was thinking to myself, ‘Maggie,’ I thought, ‘if I needed to learn something about the history and legends of one of Scotland’s greatest clans, who would I ask?’ And then I thought, ‘Why, Mr. Grant, of course!’ That’s what I thought.”
Iain shook his head. “You’ve a way about you, you do, Maggie Devereaux. And you’ve that look in your eye, so I don’t suppose there’s much use in trying to resist your charms.”
Maggie drew herself up and set her fists on her hips. “What look in my eye?” she demanded.
Iain laughed again. “The one that tells me you’ve set your mind on something,” he explained. “And if I don’t be careful I may end up driving you to the ends of the Earth—or at least the ends of Scotland—on some fool’s errand that you won’t fully explain to me. That look.”
“Oh,” Maggie nodded, a grin curling in the corner of her mouth, “that one.” She thought for a moment. “Then I guess you’d better answer my questions well or I’ll drag you to Argyll and back.”
Iain considered this, then bowed deeply, an arm in full flourish, and offered, “At your service, Milady. What would you like to know?”
Maggie laughed. That’s more like it, she thought.
“First question:” she pointed to the MacLeod magnets, “Why two crests and two mottos?”
“Och,” Iain waved a disinterested hand toward the cash register, “that’s easy. There’s two Clans MacLeod.”
“Two?”
“Aye. MacLeod of Harris and MacLeod of Lewis. Harris’ badge is the bulls’ head and Lewis’ is the sun. The clan split into two branches, och, sometime in the 1300’s, when the chieftain’s two sons each claimed the chieftaincy. The two men were friendly enough to each other, but each established his own clan and became his own chieftain. One branch became the MacLeods of Harris and the other became MacLeod of Lewis. So two badges. They’ve different tartans as well. Harris’ is a blue and green; Lewis’ a fine yellow.”
“Okay,” Maggie made a mental note of the information.
“I should also point out that Clan MacKenzie has the same motto as MacLeod of Lewis. ‘Luceo Non Uro.’ That’s on account that they claimed dominion over the clan some time back, based on some questionable lineage. Or at least the MacLeods questioned it. There was a bit of fighting over it, but nothing too major.”
“Uh, okay,” Maggie accepted this additional factoid. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Well, I had to add something, didn’t I?” Iain crossed his arms and cocked his head half-critically. “To be completely honest, I’d expected better of you.”
Maggie looked up at him in surprise.
“I’d expected,” Iain continued, “something a bit more taxing of my abilities.”
“More taxing,” she confirmed with a raised eyebrow, “of your abilities?”
“Aye,” Iain said proudly. “Two Clans MacLeod is common knowledge; even the MacKenzie motto being the same is fairly well known. Haven’t you anything more interesting? Something I could regale the ‘toorists’ with? Maybe something about,” he lowered his voice dramatically, “the Fairy Flag?”
Like flies to honey, she thought with a sugar sweet smile. And he obviously hasn’t read today’s paper yet. Good.
“The what?” she asked innocently.
“The Fairy Flag,” Iain repeated, “of Clan MacLeod fame.”
Maggie smiled at how well this was progressing. “All right then, how’s this: ‘Mr. Grant, sir,’” she exaggerated her American accent into a genuinely unpleasant twang, “‘could you tell me about the Fairy Flag?’”
Iain pursed his lips. “Hm,” was all he said.
Maggie looked sideways at the reaction. “Now what’s wrong?” her normal voice had returned. “Don’t you know anything about it after all?” That would be irritating.
“No, no. That’s not it,” Iain insisted. He squinted an appraising eye down at the diminutive brunette. “I’m just trying to decide which version to tell you.”
“Which version?”
“Well, aye. There’s at least two different stories surroun
ding the origin of the MacLeod’s Fairy Flag.” He pulled the MacLeod of Harris magnet from the cash register’s side to fiddle with while he spoke. “There’s the more historic version and then there’s the more fantastic version. Although I’d wager one is about as true as the other. Still, I’d expect you to be more interested in the historic one. But then again, when I try to guess what you’re thinking, I’m usually wrong. Hence,” he concluded, “my dilemma.”
Maggie blinked. “‘Hence?’”
“Aye,” Iain stood up straight. “I read books too, you know.”
“Still. ‘Hence?’”
“In any event,” Iain pressed on, “which version would you like to hear?”
Maggie pushed her glasses back up her nose as she considered her options. “Let’s start with the historic version.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. Historic.” Maggie rolled her hand at him. “Let’s just hear it, laughing boy.”
Iain matched the description despite it. “You’re in quite the mood,” he said amicably. “All business.”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway…” She rolled her hand at him again.
“All right, then. Historic version.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Well,” he began in a voice not quite his normal one, “as you know, Scotland was long plagued with Viking invaders, and indeed many clans are descended from the Norse. That includes the MacLeods by the way. ‘Leod’ comes from the Norse ‘ljot,’ meaning ‘ugly.’”
Maggie laughed at this useless but amusing piece of information, then encouraged him to continue with another roll of her wrist.
“Anyway,” Iain complied, “in 1066, shortly before that other, slightly more famous battle against the Normans, the Anglo-Saxon King Harold fought a battle against Viking invaders on the coast of Yorkshire. The Vikings fought beneath a well-known and rightfully dreaded battle flag known as the ‘Land Waster.’ Despite the superior numbers of the Vikings, the Anglo-Saxons were victorious, and the Land Waster disappeared. It somehow later came into the possession of Godred Crovan, son of the King of Iceland, who had succeeded in establishing himself King of the Isle of Man. His descendants ruled Man until the mid-1200s. The flag then passed into the possession of the more-or-less nearby MacLeods, who by that time had set up residence in Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye. And the Fairy Flag has been there ever since.”
Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 3
