The Whisper f-4

by Carla Neggers

  She unzipped her pack but didn't open it up. "Where will that get us?"

  "I don't know. Maybe you'll remember something you wouldn't otherwise." He turned from the window. "I want to hear from Sophie, not just Dr. Malone."

  "Do I ever get to hear from Scoop, not just Detective Wisdom?"

  "Maybe you are right now."

  She glanced around her room, everything spotless, perfect. "The Whitcomb's a beautiful hotel, isn't it? Jeremiah's insisting on paying for the room, but we'll fight that one out later. It's decent of him."

  "You remind him of the high school crush he had on you."

  "Don't let him fool you. Jeremiah's as independent and driven as his brothers and cousin. When I worked at Morrigan's, I never imagined I'd stay here under these circumstances...."

  "The cave, Sophie."

  "I was terrified," she said quickly, almost as if she'd been building up to this moment. "I questioned myself for going out there on my own in the first place."

  "Why did you?"

  "I wanted to do something adventurous--something that took me away from my day-to-day work and worries. I considered Tim's story about hidden Celtic treasure a mix of legend, myth and folklore, even if it arose from an actual event." She abandoned her backpack and went over to the window. "I was filled with doubts about my work. I'd been so focused on getting my doctorate that I didn't think about what would happen after that, and all of a sudden it was upon me."

  "Think back. Put yourself in that cave that night." Scoop spoke softly, sat on the edge of the bed. "Try to remember."

  "Do you think I haven't done that?"

  "Yeah. I think you haven't done that. Not in the way I'm talking about."

  "I don't want to," she said, more to herself than to him.

  "I know you don't."

  She glanced sideways at him. "The bomb? Did you make yourself--"

  "Yes, I made myself go back there and relive every moment of what happened. I put myself back in the hours that led up to the blast and took myself right up to when I saw Bob O'Reilly sitting by my hospital bed, looking grim and pissed off. Only then could I step back and be objective about the experience itself."

  "So it helped with the investigation?"

  He shrugged and grinned. "Not really. I was badly injured, then shot up with morphine. I have gaps. I wish I could remember everything."

  "Was Cliff Rafferty at your house before the bomb went off? Looking back, can you see that he was the one who planted it?"

  "We're not talking about me right now."

  She smiled. "When do we get to talk about you?"

  "After you've told me about the cave and we've had a couple drinks."

  She turned back to the window and gazed down at the alley behind the hotel. "I was having a great time," she said, her voice steady, calm. "It was a beautiful September day, and I loved exploring the island. I was careful not to disturb any nesting sites or fragile areas. I looked for seabirds, seals--the rare Kerry spotted slug."

  "You can tell me about the rare Kerry spotted slug later."

  She was so intent on her memories that she obviously didn't notice he wasn't serious. "I didn't expect to find one given the conditions on the island. I was also on the lookout for ancient sites--a hermit-monk hut, for instance--but I had no reason to believe I'd find one.

  "Sophie," Scoop said, "could anyone else have already been on the island when you got there?"

  "I don't see how but it's possible."

  "Who else knew you planned to go out there that day?"

  She shook her head. "No one but Tim that I'm aware of. We didn't broadcast what we were doing to everyone in town, but we knew there was talk."

  Scoop let that one go. "Someone could have seen the two of you go off in his boat and put two and two together."

  She nodded. Obviously it was a scenario she'd considered herself. "Anyway, after Tim dropped me off, I watched him head back across the bay. I had binoculars. I saw other boats but none came toward the island. I had a bite to eat, then I went exploring. I heard birds calling but otherwise...I'm sure of it, Scoop. I was alone."

  She paused, but he didn't move or speak. He let her get her mind back to that day on the island.

  "I didn't hear a boat after Tim left. Whoever stole the artifacts and scared the hell out of me could have shut down the engine so that I wouldn't be alerted, or had a boat with a quiet engine, or rowed over from shore or another boat. It's not easy to drop someone off on the island. There's no dock, obviously. The shore's rocky, the waves and currents are tricky--you have to know what you're doing."

  "Which your Irish fisherman friend does," Scoop said.

  "Definitely. Fast-forward to when I first became aware I wasn't alone. It wasn't just a feeling. I'm not particularly psychic. I'd just entered the cave--it must have been five, at most ten, minutes later when I heard gravel or small stones crunching." She turned to him. "And whispers."

  "Close your eyes. Put yourself there."

  She did, but he could tell she wasn't there--the spell had been broken. She sighed and opened her eyes, gave him a quick smile. "I'm in an Irish pub with a Guinness and friends."

  "Why would someone want to scare you?"

  "I have no idea. To create a diversion, to mislead, to act out a fantasy. I suppose there are a dozen possibilities."

  "What do the whispers and the blood-soaked branches tell you?"

  "That we're dealing with a twisted son of a bitch--"

  "Professionally this time. From what you know about ancient rituals."

  "People can twist anything to justify and rationalize their own actions. Roman writers describe walking into sacred Celtic groves and discovering human flesh hanging from trees, branches smeared with human blood. Not that the Romans were all sweetness and light. But there's ample evidence that the Celts practiced human sacrifice."

  "To what end?"

  "Tribal welfare, fertility--we know actually very little about Celtic religious beliefs. Druids would study for years--decades, even--but committed everything they learned to memory. It wasn't written down. In the early days of Christianity, Irish monks wrote down epic pagan tales. They're a blend of fancy, folklore, tradition, legend and mythology, not to mention adjusted here and there to serve the purposes of the church. That doesn't mean they don't provide important insight and information on the Celts of prehistory. Early Christians in Ireland incorporated pagan traditions instead of trying to stamp them out altogether. For instance, we'll find holy wells on the same site as pagan wells." Sophie moved from the window but remained on her feet. "There's so much more to learn."

  Scoop could feel her passion for her field of study. "Whoever left that mess at Cliff's place could have their own interpretation of Celtic lore." He stood up. "Back to the cave, Sophie. You heard the whispers. You saw the branches."

  She shut her eyes, then opened them again, shaking her head. "It's just as I told you. I can't remember how I hit my head. I remember the terror I felt...scrambling deeper into the cave, knowing there was no way out but past whoever was at the entrance with the bloody branches. Then--" She stopped, her face pale, if not as pale as when he'd found her on Beacon Hill. She sighed. "Then I woke up in the pitch dark with a screaming headache."

  Scoop walked over to her and took her hand as she rose. "What you went through is tough, Sophie."

  She smoothed her fingertips over a scar on the back of his hand. "This from someone who survived a bomb blast."

  "I wasn't alone. I had people right there with me."

  "You almost bled to death. I just got banged on the head and a few scrapes and bruises, and I was cold."

  "Your Irish fisherman might not have found you in time."

  "And you could have had a piece of shrapnel hit an artery or a vital organ."

  His throat caught. "I'll be downstairs in the bar. Let me buy you dinner and a drink." He smiled. "A couple of drinks."

  He left her to regroup and shut the door quietly behind him. Downstairs in M
orrigan's, Fiona O'Reilly was sipping a soda at a table under the windows, a glossy Ireland guidebook in front of her. He sat across from her. "How's school?"

  "Intense. I'm practicing myself bloody."

  "You love it, though, don't you?"

  She beamed. "Every minute."

  "Still excited about your trip to Ireland at Christmas?"

  "Yep. I've got most of the details worked out, including where to have Christmas dinner. Not that there are many choices. Virtually every restaurant in Dublin is closed on Christmas Day. Then there's St. Stephen's Day the next day." She waved her long, slender harpist's fingers, the tips callused, the nails blunt. "It'll be so much fun."

  "I hear Jeremiah Rush has a cute younger brother who works at their Dublin hotel."

  She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks turned bright pink.

  Scoop grinned. "You look just like your father when you make that face. It's the long-suffering O'Reilly face. Except he'd never blush."

  "I'm not blushing. I'm just excited about Ireland. I'm counting down the days. We're having Christmas Eve tea at the Rush Hotel. Lizzie plans to join us." Fiona shut her guidebook, her cornflower-blue eyes--her father's eyes--wide and serious. "I keep reliving those first minutes after the bomb went off, with my Dad yelling and the smoke and the fire and all the blood. Scoop...I thought you were dead."

  "I know, Fi."

  "If you'd died saving me, how would I have gone on?"

  "You'd have figured it out. I'm glad you didn't have to."

  "My music helps," she said quietly. "Do you have anything that helps?"

  "Helps what? I'm fine. I don't even remember bleeding all over you."

  She rolled her eyes again. "You have a million scars. Don't tell me you never think about what happened."

  "I think about it a lot, Fi, but I don't let it control me."

  "Yeah. Yeah, that's what I do, too. The police officer you and Sophie Malone found dead..." She looked down at her guidebook again, rubbed her fingertips over the picturesque scene of a white-painted stone cottage on the cover. "Scoop."

  She couldn't seem to go on. "Fi, think about Ireland and your music. Let us worry about the rest of it. If you don't--"

  "I saw him."

  Scoop went still. "What do you mean, you saw him?"

  "The day before the bomb went off." She cleared her throat, her gaze clear and steady when she lifted it to him again. "I saw Cliff Rafferty."

  "Where?"

  "Jamaica Plain. A few blocks from your house. He was in a car--he drove past me on my way from the subway to see my dad."

  "You recognized him then--or only now, looking back?"

  "Then," she said. "He'd stop by to see my dad every now and then, more often when I was little than lately. I recognized him but couldn't think of his name. I didn't remember I'd seen him until I heard he'd died. Do you think if I'd remembered sooner he'd still be alive?"

  "No."

  "You didn't even hesitate. How could you not hesitate? You don't know."

  "I do know." He'd made her smile, and that was enough for now. "Rafferty turning up in the neighborhood doesn't make him guilty of planting the bomb. It's another piece of evidence and that's all it is. I'm just back from Ireland. Let me know if you want any suggestions."

  "Oh, great. Everyone will have been to Ireland before I get there."

  "You're nineteen. You've got time."

  "Like you're so old." She slid to her feet, tucking her guidebook under one arm. "I need to get ready. My friends will be here any second."

  Sophie arrived, obviously fresh out of the shower. Scoop introduced them. Fiona was gracious, but she gave him a knowing, if somewhat protective, smile as she ambled off to the end of the bar where her friends were gathering.

  "She's very talented," Sophie said, taking Fiona's place at the small table. "She seems to be doing well. She's as tough as her father in her own way, isn't she?"

  Scoop laughed, relieved to see the color back in Sophie's cheeks. "Bob's fine with her majoring in music. He doesn't want any Criminal Justice majors in the family. He knows it's not his call, but he's not shy about his opinions."

  "You always wanted to be a police officer."

  "My family couldn't keep me on the farm."

  "Did they try?"

  He shook his head. "No. We're a tight-knit group. We get along."

  "Any archaeologists among them?"

  He grinned. "Not one."

  "When will Abigail Browning return from her honeymoon?"

  "I don't know. Soon. Bob was already on her about all the drama in her life before she was kidnapped."

  "Do you think she'll remain a detective?"

  "Up to her."

  "But she's a friend," Sophie said. "Her husband, Owen Garrison, was almost killed that day, too."

  "It wasn't a great day, but we all survived. I suppose you could say we have the luxury of being frustrated because none of us spotted the bomb. We could all have blown up instead."

  "But you're still frustrated. The bomb was placed where you wouldn't see it. Is Abigail fully recovered from her ordeal? Physically, I mean."

  "She still had bruises when I saw her at her wedding, but they were healing. Norman Estabrook smacked her while he had her on the phone with her father, so March would hear her scream. Estabrook wanted to be John March's personal nemesis."

  "Director March has suffered enough," Sophie said.

  Abigail had said much the same thing about her father. At her wedding reception she'd told Scoop she wasn't convinced they'd ever know how the bomb had ended up under the grill. "This is a wedding, not a funeral, and thank God for that," Bob had said, pouring champagne.

  Sophie interrupted Scoop's drifting thoughts. "Your lives had a nice routine, and this summer destroyed it. You all must feel isolated, at least to some degree."

  Maybe so, Scoop thought. Their lives had changed this past summer. There was no going back to what they'd been before the bomb blast. He looked around at the bar, more people drifting in as Fiona and her friends laughed with each other, setting up for their two hours of Irish music.

  Finally he smiled at Sophie. "Abigail and Owen are having a baby."

  "That's wonderful."

  "It is." He sat back. "Let's forget about bombs and blood-smeared branches for a while. Let's talk about what wine you want to drink with dinner." He leaned across the table. "Trust me or don't, Sophie, but it's time to decide."

  "That's a two-way street."

  "Nope. One-way."

  She smiled. "I'll have the Malbec."

  21

  Scoop headed to Jamaica Plain after breakfast in the Whitcomb's elegant dining room with Sophie's bright blue eyes, freckles and sharp mind across from him. She planned to work on her laptop, in her room, then stop by the Boston-Cork conference offices and maybe drop in on academic friends in town.

  He didn't tell her as much about his plans. She didn't seem annoyed, but she didn't seem happy, either.

  As he parked in front of the triple-decker, he received the latest report from Ireland, this time from Myles Fletcher, not Josie Goodwin. "We don't have a bloody thing for you, mate," Fletcher said. "We're off to talk to the fisherman again. Percy Carlisle can't have vanished. We'll find him."

  Scoop hung up and got out of his car. It was warm out on the street. He ducked under the yellow caution tape. Bob O'Reilly was on the front steps with a contractor, one of his friends from Southie, who saw Scoop, mumbled something about hero cops and left.

  Bob nodded toward his departing friend. "He can't fit in the pool and cabana in the backyard."

  "Funny, Bob," Scoop said.

  "Yeah. I talked the city out of condemning the place. That might not have been smart. We could turn the lot into a community vegetable garden and pitch tents."

  "At least the damage wasn't as bad as we originally thought."

  "We?" Bob grinned. "You were on morphine. You should have seen the people trooping in and out of your hospital room. Who knew an inte
rnal affairs SOB could have so many friends?"

  His entire family had come, too, Scoop remembered. He'd faked being passed out during one of their early visits, just to spare them from having to think of what to say. Later, when he was in better shape, they'd all had an easier time. They got along, but that didn't mean they were talkers.

  Bob rubbed a big hand over the top of his head. "Fiona feels guilty, but she shouldn't. I never would have thought twice if I saw Cliff on Abigail's porch with a damn bomb in his hands, never mind passing through the neighborhood."

  "Probably the bomb would have tipped you off he was up to no good."

  "Who knows? I wasn't Cliff's biggest fan over the years, but I never figured him for blowing up this place--damn near killing my daughter. If I'd seen him with a bomb, I'd have assumed it was a dummy and he was doing a drill or some damn thing. When you're not suspicious, you're not suspicious."

  Scoop shrugged. "Maybe I'm never not suspicious."

  Bob let that one go without a response. "Acosta's here. He's in back. He's angry and frustrated, and he's looking to take it out on someone. He doesn't much like you on a good day, Scoop."

  "So why's he here?"

  "He figured out you were already looking into whether a member of the department was involved with some Boston muscle."

  Scoop noticed that Bob hadn't asked a question. He made no comment himself.

  "Acosta doesn't want to go down with Cliff," Bob said.

  They headed out back where Acosta was checking out the burned-out first-floor porch as if he could make sense of why his former partner might have wanted to plant a bomb there--for money, revenge, satisfaction? Was he being blackmailed? Was it part of some bizarre ritual he was into?

  Bob pulled out white plastic chairs he'd hosed off, although they were still stained black from soot. "Have a seat, fellas. Let's talk. View's not that great right now, but look at that sky. Not a cloud in it. It's a perfect fall day."