Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  Maggie paused long enough to confirm the question in her still sluggish mind. She blinked puffy, baggy eyes, then replied, “Sleeping.”

  Then she closed the door and stepped toward her bedroom.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Maggie turned back and opened the door again.

  “What?”

  “Where have you been the last two days?” Iain demanded, shaking his hands at her.

  Again Maggie paused before answering. “Wales,” she replied and closed the door once again.

  Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Maggie opened the door and glared at Iain, but didn’t say anything.

  “Wales?” Iain was livid. “Wales?! What the bloody hell have you been doing in Wales?!”

  Maggie took a deep breath. “Witnessing a kidnapping, being interrogated by the police—rather rudely, I might add—and then screaming myself awake from nightmares of my body being hacked to pieces.”

  Iain just stared at this enigmatic reply.

  “Now,” Maggie concluded, “go away.” She shut the door a final time, latching the bolt and ignoring Iain’s knocking until it finally stopped and she was able once again to slip into viscous, restless dreams.

  ***

  All in all Maggie had stolen about three hours of poor quality sleep by the time she pushed herself again from the sweat soaked bed. The nightmares had softened slightly—the demons only hiding at the edges of her dreams, content to stalk her with red, glowing eyes—and she’d managed to get some rest.

  She crossed the foyer to the bathroom and stepped into a scalding shower. Soon, fully dressed and partially groomed, she was locking her flat door behind her and pulling on her backpack, empty save the Dark Book.

  Time to find out who the hell ‘S. MacKenzie’ is.

  35. The Professor

  The University of Aberdeen, in typical British fashion, was a stunningly beautiful affair. The Old Campus boasted a variety of breathtaking buildings, the masterpiece of which was the King’s College, a gothic cathedral of a structure with an enormous stone crown atop intersecting skyward arches. Taylor, on the other hand, was anything but beautiful.

  The Taylor Building, home to all of the university’s language departments, was a series of utilitarian longhouses strewn end to end in a zig-zag fashion to trail haphazardly away from High Street, the main bisecting artery of the Old Campus. When Maggie had first arrived in Aberdeen she had been duly disappointed in Taylor’s less than weighty appearance. Almost a year later, she still wasn’t impressed, but she was getting used to it. She pulled open the door and walked to the reader-board in the lobby.

  ‘MACKENZ E SARAH 124’

  Several thoughts came to her. First, she was surprised that ‘S. MacKenzie’ turned out to be a woman. Second, she was disappointed in herself for being surprised. And third, she wondered where all the damned ‘I’s had gone.

  Maggie quickly ascended the nearest stairs to the first floor and walked unhesitatingly to room 124. The door was open.

  Inside, cramped behind the small desk which had been squeezed into the cell-like confines of the office, sat a very pleasant-looking woman in her mid-to-late forties, thoroughly engrossed in the novel she was reading. She wore a cream-colored blouse and had long, thick, brown hair which cascaded onto her shoulders in a foam of loose, natural ringlets. Sensing Maggie’s presence, she looked up from her book and met her visitor’s gaze. Her soft face, with attractive wrinkles radiating from the corners of her eyes, was a perfect companion to the soft brown tresses. And she had the most brilliant green eyes, which absolutely sparkled as she said, “Maggie?”

  What really angered Maggie was the effect this had on her, namely to throw her completely off her game, and hand the advantage to the academic.

  “Wha— Well… Yes,” Maggie stammered. She struggled to regain her composure. “Professor MacKenzie?” she retorted. Considerably less impressive given the reader board downstairs.

  The professor stood up and extended a hand almost to the doorway. “Sarah,” she corrected warmly. “Come in, Maggie.”

  Maggie accepted the hand, warm and strong, and sat in the one guest chair that fit in the glorified closet.

  “So,” Sarah MacKenzie began before Maggie could, “the Welsh Book of Souls, eh?”

  Again Maggie was temporarily stunned. “Er, um, uh… Yes. But how—?” Then she thought for a quick moment. “Oh, of course. The library would have told you the title.”

  Sarah just smiled and nodded pleasantly as she folded her hands together.

  “Well, I,” Maggie pressed on, “I just wanted to thank you. And to meet you.” She crossed her arms. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  Quite the question, Maggie knew, for a visiting student to pose to a professor whose soft brogue clearly identified her as a Highland native. The irony wasn’t lost on Sarah and she laughed lightly.

  “No, actually,” she replied, almost pronouncing it ‘noo.’ “But I was on sabbatical last year, so you’d not have seen me about campus. You came to Aberdeen last fall, did you not?”

  Maggie narrowed her eyes. It shouldn’t have been surprising that this woman, after having somehow been forwarded Maggie’s request for access to an ancient Welsh manuscript, would have been curious enough to take whatever simple steps were required to access Maggie’s school file and discover, among other relevant facts, when she had arrived in Aberdeen. And Maggie was even willing to concede that the guess of her identity might not have been too surprising either, given the proximity in time since the request. But nevertheless it was—all of it—really quite irritating to her.

  “Yeah,” Maggie replied flatly. “And where were you?” Not pleasant, but direct. She was still tired—and still in a bad mood.

  Sarah laughed again, but not too much. “Edinburgh, actually. Doing some research. That’s where I met Robert—Professor Hamilton. When he received your request, he called me. You’re a student here, not at Edinburgh, so he thought it best if an Aberdeen faculty replied. Professional courtesy.”

  Maggie pursed her lips. “I suppose that makes sense,” she had to concede. She wanted to say something more but was unsure what.

  Instead, Sarah asked, “So how did you like it?”

  “How did I like what?” Maggie replied, still a bit slow on the uptake.

  “The manuscript,” Sarah explained patiently. “The Welsh Book of Souls. Did you enjoy looking at it?”

  Maggie just stared at the professor. She’d had a bad day yesterday. She’d had a horrible night’s sleep. Her Iain-interrupted nap hadn’t been very helpful either. Her intent had been to come to campus to grill the smarmy little academic about how she’d come to be involved in the whole sordid affair. Instead, Maggie was the one off guard, fielding unexpected questions and comments, reacting instead of acting, and despite it all, and despite herself, she thought she might actually be starting to like Sarah MacKenzie, the professor’s openness engaging and her soft face reassuring.

  “Well, yes, actually.”

  “You know Old Welsh, then?”

  Maggie was fairly certain she’d managed, except perhaps for a slight widening of the eyes, to keep a pretty good poker face. She realized for the first time that she hadn’t really thought out this encounter very well. She probably should have anticipated this line of inquiry, but on the way over, when she’d imagined the impending conversation it had been she who had posed the difficult questions and it had been the professor who had been left squirming for answers. So now Maggie had about three seconds to come up with some plausible response, without the pause itself becoming suspiciously long. Mentally flailing about for some possible response, she recalled a book she’d read once wherein the heroine, a spy of sorts, had explained that the best lies are mostly truth, with only the minimum of fabrication necessary. It would sound more sincere, and be easier to remember.

  “No, actually,” Maggie started. “My focus is more on Old Gaelic.” True. “I have taken a Modern Welsh course or tw
o along the way.” One, actually. “And I’ve been thinking maybe I need to learn Old Welsh too.” I certainly thought that the night before last. “So I wanted to see an example.” A very particular example. “I’d seen a reference to the manuscript somewhere.” The ruins of Ballincoomer Abbey. “And thought it would be a good one to look at.” To perhaps save a baby’s life.

  “Really?” Sarah seemed quite taken by the explanation. She pursed her lips and drummed her fingers gently against one another, obviously considering something. “Now, you don’t have a faculty advisor, do you?”

  “Um,” she stuttered. The question seemed to come out of nowhere. “Well, no. I had one, Prof. Macintyre, but—”

  “I understand he’s on leave for the time being,” Sarah finished the sentence diplomatically.

  “Er, right.”

  “Well, then.” Sarah’s warm smile sent her green eyes shimmering again. “I’ve a thought. You said you’re considering adding Old Welsh to your Old Gaelic. And those two happen to be my primary areas of focus. Plus I worked closely with Prof. Hamilton last year, and when I reviewed your university file, I noted that your initial research proposal involved following up on some of his work.”

  Maggie just nodded dumbly.

  “So then, would you let be your faculty advisor?”

  And Maggie’s train of thought derailed. She struggled for a response.

  “Uh.” Not a great one, so she tried again. “That is, I— I hadn’t expected to need one until the Fall. But, well, I mean, I suppose— I suppose I’ll need one eventually just the same. And I did say I wanted to learn Old Welsh.” I did say that, didn’t I? “So I suppose it would make a certain sense…”

  Maggie tried to calm herself and consider the offer. Despite Maggie’s malicious intentions, Sarah MacKenzie seemed to be a genuinely nice person. She was obviously intelligent, a good listener, and shared at least some of Maggie’s academic interests. In addition, she had also—in the form of a fax to Aberystwyth—already done Maggie a significant favor, without question or delay. And although Maggie had just met the woman, she had to admit she liked her. She reminded Maggie of someone, although she wasn’t sure who just then—but she knew it was someone she liked.

  “All right,” Maggie said at last. She extended a hand across the desk. “Let’s do it. Thank you very much, Prof. MacKenzie.”

  “Sarah,” the pretty academic corrected again as she shook the hand of her newest student.

  “Sarah,” Maggie acquiesced.

  36. Where the Light is Best

  “Next stop: Llandrindod. Connections to Cardiff, Caernarfon and Aberystwyth.”

  Taggert noted the announcement but didn’t look up from his newspaper as the Welsh countryside sped past his train compartment window. But he wasn’t reading the paper either. He was thinking.

  He couldn’t help but remember the joke about the man who was looking for a lost coin on Fifth Street.

  A friend comes upon the man, who by now is down on all fours next to the curb, searching for the coin. After discovering the man’s plight, and wishing to offer his assistance, the friend asks, ‘So where did you lose it?’

  ‘Over on Fourth Street,’ the man answers without looking up.

  The friend is puzzled; they are on Fifth Street. ‘Then why are you looking for it over here?’ he asks.

  ‘Because,’ the man replies matter-of-factly, ‘the light’s better here.’

  As the train rolled to a stop at platform 6 of the Llandrindod rail station, and he stood up to exit the train, Taggert wondered whether he was looking where the coin was, or just looking where the light was best.

  ***

  “Jessie MacLeod!” Chisholm’s shout from the office doorway sliced through Warwick’s ruminations.

  “How’s that?” Warwick looked up from the file on her desk.

  “Jessie MacLeod,” Chisholm repeated as she stepped into the room. “I’ve been thinking about her.”

  “All right,” Warwick encouraged. She leaned back in her chair. “And what have you been thinking about the Lady MacLeod?”

  Chisholm stepped around one of Warwick’s guest chairs and plopped down. She slouched down, obviously quite comfortable, and ticked off a finger. “First, clear motive. She’s about to lose her only son. And to a jerk, at that.”

  “True,” Warwick replied cautiously. She knew the next point. “And what about opportunity?”

  “Ah, see,” Chisholm touched her next finger. “Now that’s where I’ve been thinking. Opportunity can really be divided into ‘general opportunity’ and ‘specific opportunity.’”

  “Do tell.” Warwick found herself curious.

  “Right. General opportunity,” Chisholm continued, “is things like: Would she know where the child was? Is she familiar with the residence? Would she know old man MacLeod’s schedule? The nanny’s? Things like that. And see, Jessie’s got all that.”

  “And specific opportunity?”

  “Well, that’s things like: Where was she that night? Could she have used her general knowledge of the place to take advantage of the situation on that specific night?”

  Warwick nodded. She liked the analysis. “And what do you think? Could she have done?”

  Chisholm smiled. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether her alibi holds up.” Chisholm ticked off another finger. “And we know she’s lied to us once already.”

  Warwick nodded again. “What time does Le Bistro Écosse open?”

  “Eleven thirty.” Chisholm offered a lop-sided grin. “Early lunch?”

  37. Alibis

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  ‘Miss.’ Warwick had to smile at that. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had called her ‘miss.’ And the fact that the current speaker was a spritely, red-headed waitress probably fifteen years her junior only added to Warwick satisfaction.

  “Can we speak with the manager, please?” She flashed her badge and I.D. “It’s important,” she added unnecessarily.

  The young sprite swallowed hard, offered a more appropriate, “Yes, mum,” and scurried away to find her boss.

  It had taken Warwick and Chisholm some time to make their way to ‘Le Bistro Écosse.’ Kerr had called in for a sergeant just after eleven, just as the two detective sergeants were about to go check out Jessie MacLeod’s alibi, Warwick answered the call and she and Chisholm met Kerr at Aberdeen General Hospital. Apparently the teenaged son of one of the patrol officers had decided to see what would happen if he swallowed a few dozen of his old man’s pain pills. Luckily, Dad got off shift early and found him. Still, it was a delicate issue and Kerr had been right to call in a sergeant to review the situation. Once the boy was stabilized, Warwick had to spend a couple of hours interviewing dad, mom and doctor before finally returning to her other duties. And so it was shortly after five thirty when the manager of Le Bistro Écosse stepped into the waiting area of his establishment, his hand extended anxiously in greeting.

  “Good evening, officers. How can I help you?” His voice betrayed his nervousness, cracking slightly on the words ‘officers.’ Police rarely brought good news. His palm was sweaty in its limp grip and after shaking both officers’ hands, he retracted the extremity to squirm restlessly in its companion. Forty-something and noticeably overweight, he had thick, unkempt black curls atop a fatty, shaven face. His white, tie-less shirt was clean, but old, and his paunchy stomach pressed unpleasantly against his shirt as it curled under and into his black polyester pants. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Warwick assured. “Everything’s quite all right, Mr.—?”

  “Eh? Oh!” The squirmy hands flung wide. “Quentin. Michael Quentin.”

  “Everything’s fine, Mr. Quentin,” Warwick continued. “We were just hoping to have a minute of your time.”

  Michael Quentin relaxed appreciably; he exhaled audibly. “Well, of course. Of course, officers.”

  The three of them—Warwick, Chisho
lm and Quentin—took a booth near the entrance and soon Quentin was reviewing Jessie MacLeod’s driver’s license photo as he answered the detectives’ preliminary questions.

  He hadn’t been on shift that night—he rarely worked past six—but soon the three of them were joined by a fourth, a miss Mary MacLachlan, one of the waitresses who’d been working the evening of Douglas MacLeod’s kidnapping. Mary was even younger than the first waitress, with bright blond hair, cropped short and spiked with mousse or gel or whatever it was the kids were using these days.

  “‘Ello!” She immediately pointed to Jessie MacLeod’s photograph. “That’s Jessie, in’ it?”

  “You know her?” Warwick invited.

  “Oh, right I do,” Mary replied quickly. “A regular, she is. A right nice lady. An’ a good tipper, too. Aye, I know Jessie. She’s all right, she is.”

  Warwick nodded slowly, her bottom lip protruding slightly as she considered this verbal avalanche.

  “You say she’s a regular, Mary?” Chisholm inquired with a soft smile. She tucked her black curls behind her ear—a very disarming gesture.

  “Right,” Mary answered. “She comes in all the time. A right nice lady.” Then she paused, threw a look around their immediate vicinity, then lowered her voice and raised a pierced eyebrow. “She’s rich, you know.”

  Even Warwick had to smile at that.

  “So,” Chisholm pressed on, “do you think you’d remember whether she was here on a given night?”

  “Oh, aye. Aye.” Mary grinned slyly. “See I usually try to get her seated in my section, I do. Like I said, she’s rich. And a good tipper.” She tried to ignore Michael Quentin’s disapproving glare.

  “Was she here last Sunday night?” This time Warwick posed the question. Direct and to the point.

  “Last Sunday, eh?” Mary MacLachlan stuck a pinky between her lips and considered the question. “Hm, let me see.” She examined the ceiling as her other hand scribbled enigmatic calculations in the air. “Sunday, right?” she confirmed with a quick downward glance, then more ceiling scanning and air calculations. Then finally, the answer. “No. No, she wasn’t in last Sunday.”