King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  “You’ve seen grass before, Mike.”

  “Where?”

  “Connecticut. And Central Park is full of grass.”

  He laughed; it had sounded as if she was trying to dampen his enthusiasm. Kit smiled a little sheepishly, wondering how she could begrudge him his pleasure in the seemingly endless countryside.

  “It is very beautiful, Mike,” she told him, then turned her eyes back to the road. The tense time between them was over; she should be happy.

  Perhaps not completely. She was taking exactly the same road. Heading exactly the same way. She wouldn’t be normal if she didn’t feel a certain sense of dread, of nostalgia, of pain.

  Kit had forgotten how long the winding Irish miles could be. Long before they neared Cork, Mike started saying that he was thirsty. “Can you wait till we reach the city?” she asked him. “I can fill the gas tank there, too.”

  He grumbled a little, but agreed. Kit promised it would only be another ten minutes, but it ended up being closer to thirty.

  Eventually she found a cute little pub that catered more to families than to the drinking man, and Mike was happy enough to sit down and order a hot chocolate and a bowl of vegetable soup.

  Kit ordered soup herself, and a Guinness. The room-temperature beer made her lip curl a bit, but she told herself that she would learn to enjoy it.

  “I like it here,” Mike said. “So much grass!” He kept talking about all the sheep he had seen. Kit listened to him with half her mind; with the other half she paid attention to the conversation at the next table.

  “It’s disgraceful.”

  “Shameful!”

  “And all because the man has money. I tell you, Mabel, money can buy anything in this world, even innocence.”

  Kit tried not to stare at the two women in their furs and pillbox hats, but she was consciously straining to hear the rest of their words and to place their accents. They didn’t seem to be Irish—at least not from this part of Ireland.

  Mabel, who appeared to be the older of the two, was viciously stabbing her spoon in the direction of a newspaper article. “Look at that, will you, Gladys. They haven’t even brought O’Niall in for questioning. And there’s no doubt he murdered the poor girl. None at all. He had that awful row with her for all to see; then she turned up dead, practically on his doorstep.”

  “And the police claim there’s no evidence!” Gladys said indignantly, shaking her double chins.

  “Mark my words, those townspeople defending him probably know he’s a murderer. They’re just protecting one of their own—because she was an American. Of course, American women…”

  Mabel went into a long discourse on the total lack of morals to be found in American women. Kit decided at last that their accents were British, rather than Irish.

  Gladys lowered her voice, and Kit leaned closer to listen. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Yes, but, Mabel, the Irish all have a temper—the whole world knows that. He probably went into a rage and strangled her without thinking.” She folded her hands primly and nodded with great wisdom. “Manslaughter, Mabel. Not first-degree murder. The man is so good-looking, she probably drove him to it. Striking, and passionate! Why he’s as compelling as sin.”

  “Hmmph!” Mabel obviously disagreed. “Vampires are notoriously compelling, too, my dear. But deadly! What about that other poor girl, all those years ago? Her throat slit! He did it—and that was no case of manslaughter. Do you know what they say—” Mabel looked around, as if finally realizing that she was sitting in a pub full of people. She lowered her voice. “They say, Gladys, that a lot of the coastal people and farmers are almost…well, pagan, to this day! I’ve even heard it rumored that they practice strange rites. Now, I heard this from Barbara Sawyer, and you know how reliable she is. She says that Justin O’Niall is the head of that town just as his grandfathers were before him. That means he’s some kind of a head priest. Who knows? It’s quite possible that both those poor girls were offered up as sacrifices. O’Niall could very well be half-insane and convinced he’s the devil’s servant.” She leaned closer to her friend. “And tourist women are their very favorite sacrifices!”

  Gladys was breathless with horrible excitement. “Oh! Do you think we’re safe here? Oh, Mabel, maybe he rapes his victims!”

  You just wish he would, you old hag! Kit thought angrily. She wanted to say something. Anything. Oh, the power of rumor and wagging tongues!

  “Didn’t you hear about the bodies?” Mabel asked.

  “Mom!”

  Mike—almost shouting her name—kept Kit from hearing the rest. For a minute she wanted to shout at him; then she realized that she had spent years teaching him that it was rude to listen in on other people’s conversations, yet here she was, doing that very thing.

  “What is it, Mike?”

  “Shouldn’t we keep going?”

  “Yes, we’d better go,” she said resignedly. “I’ve got to pay the check, Mike. Go on out and wait for me by the car.”

  He smiled, eagerly standing and obeying her. Kit gathered her purse and dug out a few of her Irish pounds. She felt Mabel and Gladys watching her as she walked to the bar and paid the affable innkeeper.

  When she had received her change, she turned around. Mabel and Gladys were still watching her. They offered her grim smiles, but she could read their eyes. They didn’t approve of her. They obviously didn’t like her jeans, or her knit sweater—or the tennis shoes she was wearing.

  She smiled back anyway and walked by their table. “I would be very careful here if I were you, ladies. I understand that the whole country is filled with ancient druid cults, and that they’re constantly offering up sacrifices!”

  She was rewarded for her efforts with a pair of pleasing masks of horror. Gladys actually let her mouth fall open. “Oh!”

  Kit nodded at her sagely, then hurried out to meet Mike at the car.

  “All set, Dickens?” she asked, turning the key in the ignition.

  “What were those women talking about, Mom?”

  Kit watched the traffic as she pulled out into the road. “They were gossiping, Mike.”

  “About a murder?”

  She hesitated. Seven-year-olds knew all about murder these days. They had to. All the terrible things that could happen to children were drilled into their heads—at school, at church and at home.

  “Yes.”

  “Was the man caught?”

  “No. Mike, I really don’t know anything about it. Oh, look!” It had taken them only a few minutes to get out of the city of Cork, and now they were passing pastureland again. They would only be on the road another half hour or so. “Mike, look at that little pony! Isn’t he adorable?”

  “Do you think I could have a pony, Mom?”

  “Sure. Someday.” It was her standard answer.

  She found Jamie’s Bed and Breakfast right where the map said it would be, off a side road in a town that was just a little bit bigger than Shallywae and not ten minutes from it.

  Jamie himself greeted her and told her the place was empty, and that she and Mike were welcome to stay as long as they wanted—at a ridiculously low price.

  Kit paid for two nights, allowed Mike to accept a soda from Jamie and headed back to the car for their overnight bags. She dug around in the trunk for a minute, then went perfectly still as an unaccountable chill washed over her. She paused, pulling her head out of the trunk to look around. She didn’t see a thing, just the dirt road and the forest beyond it. A few sheep were grazing off to the right in a small field.

  Kit cocked her head curiously, frowned with annoyance at herself and started back to the house. But a little bit of the uneasy cold remained. She had been sure that she was being watched.

  Jamie—James Jameson, she quickly learned—was a friendly sort. His accent was deep and delightful, and Kit saw that Mike was hanging on his every word as the old man led them up a narrow stairway. “’Tis the perfect place for ye and the boy, ma’am. I’ve got thi
s big room here, leadin’ into a smaller one. Ye can make all the noise ye like, laddie. I’m hard of hearin’ meself, and the sheep don’t care none at all!”

  It was nice. Sparsely and simply furnished, but spotlessly clean. They even had their own bath, which was an uncommon treat.

  “It’s lovely, Jamie. Thank you very much.”

  “’Tis a quiet place,” Jamie said, scratching his almost bald head. “Nice to have ye, ’tis. Nice to have ye!”

  Jamie went on down the stairs. Mike started talking excitedly as he wandered into the little room beyond Kit’s, carrying his nylon duffel bag. Kit paid scant attention to him and began to unpack her own bag.

  Suddenly that eerie feeling settled over her again. It was strong this time, so strong that for a moment she was afraid to look up.

  When she finally did, she had to choke back a scream—because she was being watched. A man was staring at her from the doorway. An old, rumpled man with rheumy eyes and a face as wrinkled as a bulldog’s.

  “It is you, then. Y’er back, Mrs. McHennessy.”

  Her hand fluttered to her throat, but then she let out a long gasp, relieved.

  “Old Doug!” she exclaimed. Old Doug and his son—Young Doug—had prepared Michael’s grave. Old Doug’s wife, Molly, had been Justin’s housekeeper, and they had all been tremendously kind to her when Michael had died.

  Kit stood and walked to the doorway, offering him her hand. He didn’t look well, she thought with a tug of pity. Old and worn and not of this world.

  “Ah, girl, y’er back!”

  “I’m a writer now, Old Doug. I’m doing a book.”

  “Where’s the bairn?”

  “Bairn? Oh, my son! How did you know?”

  “I always knew, lassie. I always knew,” he told her with a little wink.

  Kit smiled. She had been watched at the car. Old Doug had seen her, and he had seen Mike.

  “Mike!” Kit called her son, but when she turned around, Mike was already behind her. She hoped he would be nice to Old Doug. Children were often repelled by older people.

  But Mike was stepping forward with the same enthusiasm he had shown for everything since he had arrived. “Hi. I’m Mike. Michael Patrick McHennessy. Do you know my mother?”

  “Sure, lad, that I do!”

  Mike looked at his mother with a little bit of the awe he had been reserving for the Irish. “He remembers you, Mom!” He looked from her to Old Doug. “It’s almost like coming home, isn’t it?”

  His words touched another note of uneasiness within her, but she kept on smiling and tried to talk her way past it. “It is nice of you to remember me, Old Doug. I wasn’t here all that long.”

  “I always knew ye’d come with the bairn, lass. I always knew.”

  Now he was definitely making her feel creepy. But weren’t gravediggers supposed to make you feel creepy? Kit began to wonder how to get him out of her room.

  “Pa! Pa, where ye be? What’re ye up to?”

  The body attached to the voice appeared at the top of the stairs behind Old Doug. Kit had to blink several times, but then she recognized Young Doug.

  “Why, ’tis you!” he murmured in surprise, recognizing her at the same instant. Kit nodded. Young Doug had grown from a strapping youth to a very handsome young man, with a debonair smile, nice gray eyes and a thatch of sandy hair. They were, Kit realized, the same age—she had just been a much older eighteen than Douglas had needed to be.

  “Young Doug!” She laughed.

  “Mrs. McHennessy!” He chuckled in return. “My apologies. I didna mean to be rude!” He gripped his father’s arm. “Nor did Pa, I’m sure.” He dropped his voice, as if by doing so his father wouldn’t hear his words. “Pa’s been…slipping a little bit lately.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Kit assured him. Was it? She placed her hand on Mike’s shoulder. “It’s very nice to see you both. Mike, this is—” She was about to say “Young Doug” again, but the name didn’t seem to fit anymore.

  “Douglas Johnston, son. And what, might I ask, are you doing out of school, lad?”

  “Traveling with my mom.” Mike wrinkled up his face. “But I’m going to have to get a tutor.”

  “Not if you stay here, lad.” He winked at Kit over the boy’s head. “I’m the teacher at the grammar school. You could start classes Monday.”

  “The teacher?” Kit asked in surprise. “That’s wonderful, Doug. But Mike and I won’t be staying more than a day or two.”

  “A pity.” This time Doug winked at Mike. “We’ll have to convince her to stay on, eh, Mike?”

  “Yes!” Mike breathed.

  Kit smiled, but her stomach tensed. “I have a book to write, Mike. You know we can’t stay in one spot.”

  Old Doug spoke up. “’Tis no better place on God’s own earth to write, lassie. No better place at all.”

  “Well, Pa and I will take our leave, Mrs. McHennessy, and let you and the boy settle in. I do hope ye’ll spare me an hour or so afore ye leave, though.”

  “Certainly,” Kit murmured.

  “Come now, Pa.”

  Young Doug—Douglas, as he was now calling himself—turned his father around, waved to Kit with a warm smile and headed down the narrow stairs.

  Kit closed the door—and locked it.

  “They remembered you, Mom!” Mike exclaimed, that look of new respect still in his eyes.

  “Yes, they were very nice,” Kit said, a little impatiently. She had thought they were staying far enough from Shallywae, but she had been wrong. Suddenly she wished they could leave right away. If not for Mike, she would have done so.

  “Hey, Dickens,” she said, a little weakly, “finish unpacking if you want me to show you the cemetery. It gets dark early here.”

  He ran off obediently. Kit mechanically unpacked the remainder of her things and dragged a brush hurriedly through her hair. Before she was done, Mike was sitting on her bed, waiting for her.

  A few minutes later, they were back on the road to Shallywae.

  “My father wanted to be buried here, right?” Mike asked her.

  “I don’t know,” Kit answered, keeping her eyes glued to the road and feeling more uncomfortable every minute. It had been a mistake—a very big mistake—to come. “Michael loved Ireland, though. And so…I had him buried here.”

  “Because it seemed right,” Mike supplied cheerfully.

  “Yes.”

  A few minutes later, they were there. Kit had to park the car at the base of a hill, and it took her several minutes to remember just where in the overgrown, ancient cemetery Michael McHennessy had been laid to rest.

  “This way, Mike,” she murmured at last, starting up the hill.

  He followed her, scampering around a number of the monuments.

  “Mom! I can read the date on this one. One-six-nine… Well, I can almost read the date! Boy, are these things old!”

  “Yes, they are,” Kit murmured. She paused, puffing a bit. She walked a lot in New York, but not uphill. She looked around and at length saw a large, weathered stone angel rising from the ground. Michael was near the angel, she knew.

  She started checking the names. She had thought Michael’s tombstone would be easy to find, but in eight years it had weathered to match the rest. She found a fairly new monument, but it wasn’t Michael’s. Then she found an old one with the name “McHennessy” barely legible, and she knew she was very near—she remembered trying to bury him near people who might have been long-lost family.

  Mike was roaming nearby, fascinated by the ancient monuments. She was about to call him back, then decided that no harm could come to him on the grassy hill.

  She closed her eyes for a minute, remembering the day of the funeral. All the townspeople had been dressed in black. Michael had been laid to rest in a simple wooden coffin. She remembered watching it being lowered into the earth, with Old Doug and Young Doug shoveling dirt on top of it when she looked back.

  Justin O’Niall had escorted her,
supporting her in her torrent of sobbing.

  Michael had been so young.

  At last she found it. Kit dropped to her knees. Grass and weeds had grown over the spot, half covering the stone. She ripped them away frantically, not caring that she broke a nail down to the quick in the process.

  MICHAEL PADRAIC MCHENNESSY WELCOMED IN CHRIST’S OWN ARMS

  “Mike!”

  He didn’t answer, and she tore her eyes away from the marker to look for him.

  He was on the far side of the hill, talking to a man. Kit frowned. He knew he should be wary of strangers. Just because this wasn’t New York…

  She stood up, dusting off her knees. She started to hurry toward the pair, then stumbled on a stone that was almost hidden by weeds, cursed softly to herself and continued.

  The man’s back was to her. His head was bare, and slightly lowered. He was tall, and his shoulders were broad beneath a dark trench coat. She quickened her pace, and she could hear Mike talking.

  “Oh, I am American, but I’m part Irish, too. My mother told me so. And my father is buried here. That’s why we’re here.”

  Kit heard the man chuckle pleasantly, and her heart seemed to catch in her throat. She knew, even before he turned around, who he was.

  “There’s Mom!” Mike said excitedly.

  The man turned around. It seemed to Kit that he was moving slowly, but he wasn’t. It was just that her mind was moving so fast.

  Then he was facing her. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t find her voice.

  He stared at her for a long time, assessing her dispassionately. It was as if he had known that she would be here.

  He had changed very little. There were those slight touches of silver at his temples, but his dark hair was as abundant as ever, though unruly now, lashed about his forehead by the wind. He still had his striking tan. His eyes were narrowed, one brow slightly lifted. His mouth was tightly compressed, severe, and his eyes looked black, though she knew they were blue. They were glinting, now, with anger.

  Kit swallowed. Finding him there seemed so much like the first time, when she had been running out into the night, calling for Michael. She’d been so young, so frightened, barely clad. She could still remember how he had turned to her that night, so tall and dark and powerful. He had taken her hand and promised to help her. No one had told her then that he was “the” O’Niall. She had known only that he was strong and capable of protecting her. After Michael had died in her arms, he had dragged her away. Through it all, he had been there for her. She had been inexplicably angry at his power, though she had needed his strength. And, against her will, against her every concept of morality, she had been fascinated.