by David Wood
Bones let out a low whistle. “Whoa! We missed some symbols.”
“That’s why the Well of the Dead clue was a bust,” Maddock said. “Good thing Grizzly took some backup photos.”
Isla smirked. “As much as I hate to say it, he does occasionally do something right. Though it’s usually by accident.”
“Were you able to decode the actual message?” Maddock asked.
Isla nodded. “The latter part of the message, the bit about St. Columba’s beastie guarding the treasure, is the same, of course.”
Bones folded his arms and arched his eyebrows. “All right, chick, don’t keep us in suspense. Where is it?”
“Beneath the Well of the Seven Heads. I emailed your friend, Jimmy to show him what I found. He agrees with my translation. He also says you owe him an extra bottle of Wild Turkey for, and I quote, ‘wasting his time with your crappy photography.’”
Maddock winced. “We do tend to dump on him a lot.”
“You do,” Bones said. “I like to solve my own problems.”
“Only because you create so many of them for yourself.” Maddock turned back to Isla. “Do you know where this Well of the Seven Heads is?”
“I do. And it’s not far from here.” She called up a map and showed them the location.
“Good,” Maddock said. “I’m tempted to go there right now, but I’m exhausted. None of us will be at our best until we’ve had at least a few hours’ sleep.”
Bones nodded. “Up and out at 0500?”
“Works for me.” Maddock turned to Isla. “Great work. We’ll see you bright and early.” He and Bones turned to leave.
Heart racing, Isla took a deep breath. “Maddock? Can you stay for a moment? I need to talk to you.”
He and Bones both stopped and turned toward her.
“Just you,” she said.
Bones looked like he was about to protest, but then Maddock gave a quick nod and made a small motion with his hand.
Bones gave Isla a long, hard look, then turned to Maddock. “I’ll see you back in the room in a few minutes.” He emphasized the last two words. When he left, he didn’t close the door behind him.
“What’s up?” Maddock asked, his expression unreadable.
“You asked about my parents. I thought I should answer your question.”
He glanced at his watch. “Does it have to be right now?”
“Just listen. I trust you more than the others.” She hurried to the door, glanced out into the hall to make certain Bones was not around, and then closed it behind her. How much to tell him?
“My parents weren’t just obsessed with the Tuatha. They were members, and they were in deep.”
Maddock frowned. “What, exactly, does that mean? What were they into?”
“They managed to hide almost everything from me. What I did learn, I picked up by snooping, eavesdropping. I can tell you that the Tuatha isn’t all bad.”
“Except when they’re shooting at us or trying to kidnap you.”
“I’m just saying their overall aims aren’t the worst. They care about our history, our cultural heritage. They strive for unity instead of fragmentation. There’s much in the past that binds the Irish, Scottish, and even some English and French together.”
“That can be a good thing, or it can be a slippery slope toward xenophobia.”
Isla shook her head. “I’m not making a lot of sense here. Bear with me.” She took a deep breath. “For argument’s sake, let’s presume that there are,” she paused, searching for the proper word, “powers that defy the laws of science.”
Maddock nodded. “Go on.”
“Let’s also assume that at least some of the ancient legends are much more than that.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.” A strange glimmer sparkled in his blue eyes as he spoke. “It’s one of those things I haven’t told you about. I didn’t want you to think Bones and I are crazy.”
The tension drained from Isla’s body, and she smiled. “Thank the gods. I’ve been holding this back, too. I believe the gods of the Tuatha are real, or at least, they were. I don’t know if the treasures actually have any supernatural powers, but I’m open to the possibility. The Roman Empire and the Catholic Church shattered us. We lost our identity. Finding these treasures could bring back who we were.”
Maddock took a step back, held up his hands. “I hear you, I really do. But I need you to understand. On more occasions than I can count, Bones and I have run up against people who had the same, exact idea, and none of them were what I would call good guys.”
“It’s not about that. It’s about bringing back pride and hope, getting out from beneath the weight of oppression. I promise.”
“How can you know that for certain if you aren’t a part of the organization?”
Isla hung her head. “I suppose I can’t, but I know my parents. Or at least, I knew them. They were decent people, and they wouldn’t have supported a sinister agenda.” A solitary tear traced a path down her cheek. She’d tried so hard not to think about her parents.
Maddock moved closer to her, so close they were almost touching.
“What happened to them?” he asked softly.
“They died a few years ago, while I was living in America. At least, that’s what Fairly told me. They went to Patagonia in search of some lost Celtic tribe or some such. He said they died along with several other Tuatha in a massive cave collapse. Their bodies were never recovered.”
“I’m sorry.”
She felt Maddock’s strong arms wrap around her, felt his tight embrace. And then he stepped back. “I’d better get back before Bones comes knocking on the door. Thanks for trusting me with this.”
“Wait.” Before she could change her mind, Isla grabbed him around the neck and kissed him. For a brief, beautiful moment, she felt him respond. His hand moved to her shoulders.
And then, gently, he pushed her away.
“I’m sorry. I can’t right now. I’ve got…”
“A fiancée.” The bitterness of rejection tinged her words. “I understand.”
“Exactly.” He couldn’t quite meet her eye as he spoke. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He stepped out the door and gently closed it behind him, leaving Isla simmering in a stew of her own disappointment, jealousy, and anger.
The loud rumble of tires on gravel told Brown he’d once again drifted off the road. He was in desperate need of sleep, but after losing Isla Mulheron and her crew, his neck was on the chopping block. Literally. Brigid had told him as much when Brown had reported the tires being slashed on both of their vehicles.
There had been no dressing down from the leader of the Tuatha de Dannan. Not even a disapproving stare. Brigid simply made a call and had the tires replaced. Afterward, she handed the keys to Brown and said, “If you have not found Isla by the time I see you next, I will cut off your head.”
The cold, matter of fact way in which she made the promise was the most chilling thing Brown had ever heard. In fact, the memory brought some life back to his fatigue-soaked brain.
He’d driven everywhere searching for any sign of Mulheron or the big American Indian with whom she appeared to be working. He’d searched all over Culloden, in case she’d tried to fool him by staying put. Then he drove around Inverness, checking hotel parking lots for a vehicle that resembled hers. The problem was, there were a fair number of red Kia Sportages in the city, all of which he had to check out, but none of those he saw bore the Scottish Adventure window sticker he was searching for. Finally, half on a hunch, half out of desperation, he’d driven to Loch Ness. It seemed like the sort of place the Tuatha would hide their treasure, though Brigid and Fairly insisted otherwise.
He’d circled the Loch half a dozen times, but still no sign of his quarry. He had to find her.
“Hells bells. What am I going to do?” he whispered. “I can’t go back.” Not for the first time tonight, he wondered what would happen if he just fled the co
untry. Would Brigid bother to send someone after him? After all, the woman had said, “When I see you next.” Maybe if she never saw Brown again…
The blare of a car horn brought him back to full alert. He had drifted into the oncoming lane! He yanked the wheel hard to the left to avoid an oncoming SUV. He jerked his head around to see a man giving him the finger. He couldn’t believe it. It was the Indian!
His spirits buoyed, he watched in his rear-view mirror until the vehicle rounded a bend out of sight, then he made a quick U-turn. He’d follow them and try to avoid notice, but he was not going to let them out of his sight this time.
Should he report in now? Call for backup? Had he completed his task by finding Isla, or was the order to eliminate her companions still in play? He hadn’t had the courage to ask. He mulled it over. Reaching out to Brigid was out of the question. The woman had hung a sword of Damocles over Brown’s head, and she was a notoriously impatient type.
He’d take his chances with Fairly. He dialed the number and waited, heart in his throat, as it rang five, six, seven times before a tired voice answered.
“You’re up early.”
“Sorry,” Brown said, “but I found Isa Mulheron, and I thought I should report in.”
“And you didn’t want to tell Brigid?”
“I got the impression she didn’t want to hear from me until I’d finished the job. And I’m not sure if that job still includes killing Isla’s traveling companions. Still, I thought her whereabouts shouldn’t be kept a secret.”
“Where is she?”
“Leaving Loch Ness. Heading south in a hurry.”
Fairly fell silent for a moment. “Heading south. Must be on her way to Borthwick. But how did she know? Damn that Meikle. He’s playing both sides.”
“Borthwick?” Brown asked.
“Isla found a clue at Culloden. Meikle decoded it, says it points to Borthwick Castle.”
Brown considered this new bit of information. It didn’t sit well with him. He was certain Mulheron and her party had arrived at Culloden after the Tuatha, and had turned around and left right away.
“I think it’s a red herring,” he said.
“I’ve considered that possibility myself,” Fairly said. “Follow them. Keep me apprised of their whereabouts.”
“Brigid wanted them killed. At least, she wanted Isla’s companions killed. Are those still my orders?”
The line went silent. After a few confused seconds in which Brown worried he’d dropped the call, Fairly cleared his throat.
“No. At least, not for the moment. Let Isla be our hound, sniffing out the treasure. It might be that her companions are providing essential support. I’ve kept an eye on her for years, and she made little progress until she joined forces with these men. Let’s see what they accomplish. We can kill as many of them as we like when the time comes, assuming, of course, Brigid doesn’t change her mind.”
Brown nodded, though he knew Fairly couldn’t see him. “You think she might decide to kill all of them?”
“Who can say? It’s possible.” Fairly cleared his throat. “And one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Brown asked.
“Whatever you do, don’t lose them this time.”
Chapter 26
The Well of the Seven Heads, Invergarry
The sun was just peeking over the hills when they arrived at the Well of the Seven Heads. The monument stood on the shore of Loch Oich, south of Invergarry, and only a short drive from Loch Ness. One of the three lochs that comprised Scotland’s Caledonian Canal, Oich was beautiful. Rolling hills and picturesque forests surrounded it on all sides. Maddock breathed in the crisp morning air as he took in the sights.
“This is weird,” Bones said as they approached the monument. “I expected something, I don’t know, older.”
Maddock nodded. After the crumbled ruins of the castles they’d visited, the monument, set on a terrace overlooking the lake, with an ornate wrought-iron fence setting it apart, had a modern feel to it. It stood opposite a small shop, from which the pleasant aromas of coffee and baked goods wafted past them.
“Build it out of marble, and this thing wouldn’t be out of place in Washington DC,” Grizzly observed, gazing up at the dark stone memorial.
“It might be a bit grotesque for the National Mall,” Maddock said.
Standing on a rectangular base, the black obelisk was topped by seven severed heads beneath a hand clutching a dagger. An inscription in an unfamiliar language covered panels on the sides.
“What language is this?” Grizzly asked.
“Gaelic. It tells the story behind the monument,” Isla said.
“If it involves a bunch of severed heads, that’s a story I definitely want to hear,” said Bones.
“In 1663, two members of the MacDonnell clan were killed by their uncle and cousins in a brawl at a family mansion.”
“Must have been some brawl,” Maddock said.
“The young men had just returned from schooling in France, and their cousins started mocking their French accents and mannerisms.”
“Okay, in that case, I’m on the cousins’ side,” Bones said.
Isla rolled her eyes. “Some say that was the reason, but others claim it was a setup. The killers, Alexander MacDonnell and his sons, were involved in a land dispute with the victims’ side of the family. Resentment had been brewing for a while. In any case, justice was never served, which was typical for Scotland at a time when the clans wielded the real power.”
“So who chopped their heads off?” Grizzly asked.
“The Poet Laureate.”
Maddock couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously?”
“Iain Lom, known as Bald Iain, was the Gaelic Poet Laureate of Scotland, and a kinsman of the victims. He eventually decided to mete out justice himself. He set out on a crusade to make Alexander’s branch of the MacDonnell family pay for what they’d done. Using his skills as an orator, and lots of biblical allusions, he rallied men to his cause and led them to the MacDonnell home at Inverlair, where the seven known killers were decapitated. They probably killed a lot more than that before it was over, but it was the seven killers the bard was after. He wrapped up the murderer’s seven heads and took them to Invergarry Castle to present them to the father of the slain young men. On the way, he stopped here to wash the heads in the well and make them presentable. The site became notorious, and eventually, a monument was erected in 1812 by the chief of the MacDonnell Clan.”
“It really exemplifies the time period,” Maddock said. “It was the Wild West, Hatfields and McCoys.”
“Save it, history nerd,” Bones said. “You’re boring the lady.”
“Actually, I agree with him.”
Isla glanced in Maddock’s direction. They hadn’t spoken about the previous night. Maddock searched her eyes for some indication of what she was feeling, but her gaze betrayed no emotion.
“I couldn’t find a record of any monster sightings around here,” Grizzly said, “but considering its proximity to Loch Ness, if we’re accepting the theory that large, underwater channels lead to the sea, then it’s not unreasonable to think some could also lead here.”
Bones hopped the fence and circled the monument so he could examine it up close. After about ten seconds, he gave the stone obelisk a tentative shove. Then he pushed it harder.
Isla took a step forward, but Maddock pulled her back, gave a shake of his head, and held a finger to his lips.
Comprehension dawning in her eyes, she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Grizzly looked at them, frowning, but kept his silence. They watched as Bones wrapped his arms around the monument, grunted, and strained, trying to rotate it first to the right, then to the left. When Maddock could no longer watch him struggle, he cleared his throat.
“What are you doing there, big guy?”
Bones turned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and scowled at Maddock.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to
find a secret door beneath the well. It would go faster if you’d help me, you know.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Maddock said, scratching his chin. “But why are you looking there?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is not the well; it’s just a memorial. The well is down those stairs over there.” He pointed to the left, where a set of steps wound down to the bottom of the terrace. A wooden sign reading TO THE WELL dangled from the metal railing.
Isla burst out laughing; Grizzly joined in a moment later.
Bones stood, hands on hips, glaring at each of them in turn. Finally, he gave his head a shake.
“Screw you guys. Every one of you.”
Stepping over the rail, he descended the stairs, laughter following him down.
From the shelter of the trees, Brown watched as Isla Mulheron and her three companions examined the monument at the Well of Severed Heads, or whatever it was called. He wished he could hear what they were saying, but there was little cover between them and his hiding place. He watched as the big Indian examined the monument with care.
It was a grisly thing. The big hand, clutching a knife, appeared to be carrying the heads. That was Scotland at the time of the clans—a place where the strong survived. Brown let out a small, rueful laugh. He could trace his lineage back through many generations of Scots, yet here he was answering to Brigid, whose ancestors weren’t even Scottish. The bloody Tuatha leader always favored the Irish. It would serve them right if the Scottish faction of the organization got hold of the treasure. After all, the stone, at least, was theirs by right, wasn’t it?
He watched as his quarry descended the steps below the monument and disappeared. He waited, but they didn’t come back up. Was there something down there, or were they exploring the lake shore? He’d have to move closer. Fairly had ordered him not to lose them again. Brown was already on the wrong side of Brigid. He didn’t need to anger Fairly, too.
