Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  And Devil take Maggie Devereaux.

  9. Observation

  The blazing summer sun blistered the soaring summer sky. Only the thinnest wisps of clouds hovered between the radiant golden orb above and the soft emerald grass below. The lush field spread out over lazy, loping hills only to rebound off distant shrubbery and coalesce beneath the earth-stained feet of a five year old girl named Maggie Devereaux.

  Maggie looked down at her childish body, past the yellow floral sundress, at her wiggling toes, thick blades of the greenest grass shooting up between them. She raised her face to the sun, sending her thick auburn hair cascading down her back. Too bright to look at, still the sun warmed her closed eyes and smiling young face. Birds sang from nearby trees.

  She lowered her face again and when she opened her eyes she noticed for the first time the big red barn on the other side of the field, just past the ripples of gentle grassy hills ahead of her. Following her childish impulses, she began to run toward the candy-apple structure—the run of a five year old: awkward and flailing, but earnest.

  Then she heard her mother’s voice.

  “Margaret! Stop!”

  Maggie did as she was told, coming to a galloping halt still far from the barn. She turned around to see her mother standing in the tall grass behind her. She was wearing an identical yellow print dress, and a large hat shielding her face.

  “Don’t,” was all her mother said.

  Maggie’s face screwed up into a frustrated scowl. She looked over her shoulder at the barn again, then back at her mother.

  “Don’t,” her mother warned.

  Maggie frowned. Her young brow creased with decision, and she turned around again. She was going to the barn; her mother could just try and stop her.

  But the barn was gone.

  Where it had stood was now just an empty knoll, sun drenched grass beyond the gently rolling hills she’d abandoned to look at her mother. Angry as a five year old can be, she turned again to face her mother.

  But her mother was gone too.

  Alone in the desolate field, her toes stained with earth, five year old Maggie Devereaux looked up to the distant sun and began to sob.

  Then, like a bubble floating to the surface of the waves, twenty-seven year old Maggie Devereaux woke up. But the sobbing still echoed in her heart.

  Wow, she thought as she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. I didn’t like that dream very much.

  She squinted at the red digital numerals of the hotel room clock. 7:18. Way too early to get up. Way. She rolled over, pulling the covers snugly over her shoulders, and fell right back to sleep.

  ***

  Taggert looked down at his wristwatch. 7:19. Late already. He’d stayed up too long the night before, but that was no excuse. He’d spend the rest of the day playing catch up.

  With a disgusted frown he pulled his bag snugly over his shoulder and headed out the door.

  ***

  There was someone at the door.

  Knock! Knock! “Maid service!” called the Irish voice on the other side.

  “Uhnngh-uh,” Maggie tried to reply as she propped herself up in the far too soft and comfortable bed. She cursed herself for having forgotten to put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. “No,” she called out. “No, thank you. Not now.”

  “All right then, love,” came the muffled reply, and Maggie could hear the cleaning cart being wheeled away.

  She let herself plop back down onto the overly soft pillows and waited a long moment before rolling over and again squinting at the clock. 9:23.

  Ugh, she thought. Time to get up.

  She forced her feet out from under the thick covers and hung them off the edge of the bed. She also managed to lean herself up into a mostly upright position, but then she just sat there, toes brushing the carpet and eyes quite closed.

  Then, remembering the in-room coffee machine, a smile crossed her sheet-creased face. She opened one eye and confirmed the apparatus’ position on the small table across the chamber.

  “Things are looking up,” she said aloud as she finally stepped out of bed and crossed over to the coffee maker with its one bag of generically packaged ‘COLUMBIAN COFFEE.’ Soon, the machine was engaged and the sounds and smells of brewing coffee ushered Maggie off to the bathroom for her morning shower.

  A short time later found Maggie cleaned, dressed and standing before the mirror, one hand holding a half-drunk cup of coffee and the other tucking thick strands of brown hair behind her small ears. She pulled on her glasses and checked her appearance. She’d opted for the light blue summer dress she’d brought; it was sunny out and this way she could avoid long pants without looking like a ‘toorist’ in shorts. Comfortable sandals hugged her immaculate feet and with her free hand she pulled the last of her accoutrements from her jewelry bag. It was a necklace, with the silver pendant her grandmother had left her in her will. The pendant of the Innes clan crest.

  Maggie held the necklace up so the clan crest danced happily before her face, its polished silver reflecting brilliantly. The crest was the same as on the MacTary’s door knocker: a boar’s head surrounded by a representation of a leather strap. She admired the flawless silver finish, then set her coffee down just long enough to clasp the necklace around her throat and let the pendant topple onto her chest. Looking in the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile at the reflection of the motto etched inside the silver strap: ‘Be Traist.’

  ***

  ‘Do Not Cross’

  Taggert frowned at the familiar words printed on the plastic police tape. Then he shrugged and raised the barrier just high enough to duck under it, letting it slide off the back of his black leather jacket. It was the same police tape he’d once helped to wrap around older crime scenes: blue and white plastic, twisting and bouncing as Taggert walked efficiently toward the back of MacLeod’s townhouse.

  It had been easy enough to distract the two policeman assigned to guard the residence. A simple firecracker had been sufficient to convince the lad out front to call for the lad out back to ‘come round front.’ A few moments later found the back entrance unmonitored. Not that a quick phone call from MacLeod wouldn’t have resulted in similar access to the townhouse, but it would also have brought with it considerably more attention than Taggert’s now unnoticed activities.

  And it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.

  The back door was locked, of course. But Taggert had a key, of course, and he quickly slipped inside his client’s Aberdeen home. The ancestral seat of the MacLeods—both Lewis and Harris—rested some distance from Aberdeen, at Dunvegan Castle on the western Isle of Skye. But such residential occupation was a formality at best. In truth, both chieftains spent most of their days away from Skye. For his part, David MacLeod split his time between London, where he tried to keep a hand in any affairs of state which might affect him, Edinburgh, where he hoped to keep an eye on the upstart Scottish Parliament which threatened to affect him, and Aberdeen where he needed to stay abreast of his vast holdings in the North Sea oil industry which were certain to affect him. As a result, the patriarch of MacLeod of Lewis was possessed not only of an enormous residence and estate on Skye, but also a large home just outside London, a stately city residence in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, and the smaller, but lavishly furnished, Aberdeen townhome through which Taggert silently crept.

  MacLeod had not been back since the previous morning when his son’s disappearance was first reported. Neither had the nanny he took with him wherever he traveled. Only the police had haunted the abandoned townhome since then, and now they too had fled its curtain-darkened confines.

  Taggert walked through the back kitchen very slowly. Not out of fear of being seen, or out of concern of making too much noise, or even out of respect for the young boy whose disappearance had brought him there, but rather so he could thoroughly scan every visible nook and cranny for any clue the police might have overlooked—and therefore not corrupted.

  The flour canister
was approximately two inches forward from its brethren containers.

  The lace curtains on the small window over the sink were mostly closed, hanging about a half-inch apart and a bit left of center.

  The coffee maker was perfectly clean.

  Taggert noted all this and more but didn’t break his slow, measured, methodical stride as he crossed the black and white marble floor. He might well come back to inspect the room more closely, but there was another room which demanded his full attention and it would be folly to delay its inspection any more than these initial observations required. He stepped through the wooden doorframe into the hallway, then turned toward the staircase to his right. The nursery was on the third floor.

  Visual inspection of the stairwell during the ascent confirmed only one thing: at least a half dozen different police officers had repeatedly traversed the steps, rendering further examination pointless. Taggert sighed, not surprised, and began the ascent.

  Although no longer a young man, Taggert was fit and so he stepped onto the third floor breathing only slightly heavier than he had on the first. Fifteen feet later, his breathing still controlled, he stood at the threshold of Douglas MacLeod’s nursery.

  Where kitchen and stairwell had still appeared somewhat lived-in, the nursery was starkly ransacked. And although the police had undoubtedly gone over it with a fine-toothed comb, they had apparently started with a sledgehammer. The scene was thoroughly corrupted. Every last piece of fabric—from the curtains which had undoubtedly hung on the window to the sheets which must have covered the plastic coated mattress—was gone. Shipped off to forensics, no doubt. Similarly, each piece of furniture had been pulled away from the wall, leaving scuff marks crisscrossing the hardwood floor; the dresser’s empty drawers still jutted out and the changing table’s foam pad hung askew off the edge. The only piece of furniture which was still in the same place Taggert had seen the previous morning—before the police had first arrived—was the crib. The bloody words on the wall, now dried dark brown, still arched above it, and the half-legible stains on the floor still crouched evilly around the base of young Douglas’ bed.

  Taggert shrugged his bag off his back and set it on the floor. Time to get to work.

  ***

  An approving smile unfurled across Maggie’s face as she walked through the elegantly intricate archway of Regent House and into the grounds of Trinity College Dublin. As she crossed the white cobblestones of Parliament Square, with its scattering of summer tourists, cameras slung of their shoulders and multicolored jackets tied around their waists, Maggie considered Hamilton’s description of the exhibition. ‘Illuminated manuscripts … in Old Irish … one of them is known as the “Spellbook of Ballincoomer.”’

  She had her own spellbook of course, tucked safely away in the backpack she always kept with her, but she was excited at the prospect of an illuminated spellbook. For where her Dark Book had dealt with dark spells, such as human sacrifices, Maggie was hoping that an illuminated spellbook might deal with brighter spells. Spells such as healing. Hope brimming onto her smiling face, she bounded happily up the steps of Trinity College’s Old Library.

  “Good Morning, Miss,” said the woman behind the reference desk. She was a bit shorter than Maggie, several dozen pounds heavier, even more years older, and sported a loose gray mop of hair and small glasses which hung quite officially onto the ball-like tip of her nose. “How can I help you?”

  Maggie’s light grin deepened into full smile. So far on her trip to Ireland she had yet to encounter anyone who did not appear genuinely delighted to be of even the slightest assistance. “I’m looking for the exhibition,” she explained.

  The woman smiled. “All right then. Which one?”

  “Right.” Maggie realized that Trinity College probably had dozens of permanent exhibitions in addition to the multitude of temporary ones like the one she’d come to view. “The one with the ancient manuscripts.”

  The woman’s smile was joined by a warm glint in her eye. “Which one?” she repeated with a slight chuckle.

  “Right. Sorry.” Maggie laughed lightly herself. “The one with illuminated manuscripts from the 9th Century.”

  The woman’s raised eyebrow repeated her question for her.

  “In Old Gaelic,” Maggie finally explained.

  “Ah, yes.” This had narrowed down the quest sufficiently. “An excellent exhibit. Runs through tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Maggie asked, her disappointment permeating the word. “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But tomorrow’s Thursday,” Maggie protested. “Shouldn’t it run through Friday or something?”

  “Well, sometimes the books need to be returned sooner than that,” the woman explained. “Although,” she defended, “that particular exhibit will have run a full three weeks.”

  Maggie nodded and frowned at herself. It was hardly this woman’s fault that Maggie had only just learned of the exhibition. “So where is the exhibition housed?” she asked.

  “That’d be in the 1937 Reading Room,” came the reply.

  Maggie paused. “The 1937 Reading Room?” she repeated.

  “Right,” the woman assured simply.

  Maggie considered for a moment. “Should I ask?” she inquired.

  The woman smiled. “You could. But in all honesty, it’s probably not worth the answer.”

  “Okay, then.” Maggie liked that response. “So where is the 1937 Reading Room?”

  The woman pointed back at the door through which Maggie had entered. “Go back outside and turn left. It’s the smaller building, tucked between the Old Library and the Theatre. You can’t miss it.”

  Maggie thanked the woman for her help and headed back out into what she expected was probably rare Irish sunshine. The 1937 Reading Room was indeed easy enough to spot, its classical facade facing the Square immediately next door to the Old Library, just before the Public Theatre as the woman had assured. Maggie let her eyes dance lazily about the Square to her right as her feet motored toward her goal to her left. Among others, there was a group of four tourists—two married couples, Maggie guessed—standing at the edge of the grassy Library Square and pointing toward a map or some such in one of the women’s hands. A short distance away were two older women, their white tennis shoes gleaming in the sun, who were crossing the cobblestones toward the small chapel opposite the theatre. A heavy set woman with dark hair and dressed all in black was standing at the side of the chapel looking right at Maggie. And a few students were scattered about the lawns next to Regent House.

  Maggie stopped and looked again toward the chapel.

  But the woman in black was gone.

  Hmm, Maggie thought, an unexpected shiver climbing up her spine. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  Another look confirmed the woman was out of sight. Maggie wanted to think that the woman in black had been staring at her, but couldn’t quite convince herself that she was really that important.

  Not yet anyway, she joked to herself. Then she turned to her left and completed her journey to the 1937 Reading Room.

  It was smaller than she had expected. Only one story and not much larger than an average home. Once inside, however, the smallness gave way to a certain academic grandeur and Maggie quickly found herself at the welcome counter. It was attended by a rather tall, rather thin man in his late 40s, with thick black eyebrows which almost, but not quite, made up for his deeply receding hairline and badly thinning red hair. “Can I help you, then, Miss?” he asked with usual Irish warmth.

  “Yes,” Maggie replied with equal pleasantness. “I’m looking for the exhibition.”

  “Which one?” His smile was, luckily for him, disarming.

  Maggie took a calming breath. “Manuscripts. Illuminated. Ninth Century. Old Irish.”

  “Ah, right.” The man smiled. “The one we’ve here.”

  “Right.” Maggie was willing to entertain the notion that perhaps some people might start out at the
1937 Reading Room only to be directed elsewhere on campus. After all with a name like ‘the 1937 Reading Room,’ one could only suppose it housed manuscript exhibitions. “The one you have here.”

  “Well, then,” the man laughed, “you have, of course, come to the right place.” He pointed to the door past his desk. “It’s right through there.”

  “Great,” Maggie enthused. “Thank you very much.”

  She started toward the door, only to be stopped by the polite, but serious, cough of the tall, balding man. “Er, miss?”

  Maggie turned around again. The man was tapping on the sign affixed to the front of the welcome desk. The sign Maggie had overlooked when she’d first approached. The sign with the admission prices.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” She tried not to feel stupid and quickly fetched the student admission price from her bag. “Here you are.”

  The man eyed it critically. Obviously his Irish pleasantness was being tested. “I think you’re a bit short here,” he said as gently as he could, then reached down and tapped the sign again.

  Maggie double checked the sign, then explained, “I’m a student.”

  “You are?” He eyed her critically. She was twenty-seven, after all.

  “A doctoral student. At the University of Aberdeen.”

  The critical gaze intensified.

  “In Scotland.”

  The man laughed. “I know it’s in Scotland, Miss. It’s simply that you are obviously not Scottish. Are you Canadian, then?”

  Again her accent had betrayed her. Damn. “American, actually.”

  “Ah, I expected as much,” he replied with a satisfied nod.

  “But I’m a student at the University of Aberdeen,” Maggie insisted. “Directly enrolled.”

  The man pursed his lips, but then shrugged. “Well, then,” he dropped the money into a previously unnoticed cash drawer, “please go ahead. It’s the third room on the left. Enjoy the exhibition.”

  Grateful not to have had to extract her student ID from her bag, Maggie thanked the man and pushed open the door to the exhibition halls.