by Calinda B
“I can’t say, yet, but it’s horrible.”
“Oh, dear. Go and deal with whatever it is.” She waved her hand in circles.
He ushered her into the classroom. “They’re working on an assignment about Tennyson.” He boldly placed his hand at the small of her back and guided her to his desk. “You can look at my notes.” He indicated the lesson plans he had scribed last night. “Ask them any of these questions. They’ll draw something to indicate their understanding and share it with their teammates.”
Anne flashed him a beguiling gaze. “Clever idea, Paul.”
The impulse to kiss her flooded his mouth with want. “Thank you. Some of them are struggling a bit.” He glared at Timmy. “But, I’m sure you’ll make it inspiring, Anne.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, patting his arm.
He placed his palm over her hand. The contact felt sweet and rich, like fine wine on a moonlit night.
“Thank you,” he said, before rushing from the room.
Outside, as he hustled toward his car, Father Gillespie called to him.
“Mr. Riordan. You should be in class.”
Paul halted his hurry and turned to face the good Father. The last thing he wanted to do was stand and explain things to his shitty curate. But, the man was his boss.
“There’s been an emergency. I have to deal with it.”
Father Gillespie stood, hands folded in front of his heavy robes in practiced piety. “Does it concern your immediate family?”
His droopy eyelids hung heavy over his eyes, making him resemble a Basset Hound.
Paul’s mouth dropped open. Father Gillespie had lived here for twenty years, yet he didn’t seem to get that everyone in the fecking village felt like immediate family members. “No, not a family member. But, I’ve been asked to go over, so I’m going.”
A chilling breeze blew along his face and neck.
“This is a dereliction of duty, Mr. Riordan. One that I won’t tolerate.” Father Gillespie leaned close, giving Paul a whiff of his sour, old-man smell.
Something in Paul snapped. “Father Gillespie, unlike you, I regard everyone in this village as one of my family. If I’m called to help, I’m going. Period. End of story.”
He leaned toward the priest in a rare display of challenge.
Father Gillespie took a step back, but his expression did not change. “There will be repercussions if you leave.”
“I can assure you, the repercussions will be greater if I don’t leave,” Paul said. He whirled and raced toward his car, pushing down the fear of losing his job.
Once inside his vehicle, he floored the gas pedal, screeching out of the parking lot. He sped through the center of town.
Police car lights flashed in the distance in front of him.
He beelined in their direction, coming to a stop in front of Sixpack’s cottage.
A tight-knit crowd of people huddled in the front yard, outside of a ring of police tape.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Paul said. “Not Sixpack. Say it isn’t so.” He put the Renault in Park and leaped from the seat.
His mother emerged from the huddle, rushing toward him. Her face had no color whatsoever. Lines of stress pinched the skin around her eyes, giving her a haggard appearance.
Stop, Paul, she signed. Don’t go in there.
Her hands shook as she communicated with him.
Why not? What’s wrong? He signed. Who died? I won’t be able to take it if it’s Sixpack. His fingers trembled, too.
It’s not Sixpack, his ma conveyed. It’s… Her eyes filled with tears.
He grabbed her upper arms. Who, then? He mouthed. Tell me.
It’s Pete, Sixpack’s son-in-law.
Paul whirled in place, letting a cry of anguish fall from his throat. When he came to a stop, his head fell back, and he begged the sky for answers. God, why? When no answer rang through his mind, he lowered his gaze toward his ma. Where’s Sixpack? Does he know?
His ma shook her head. He’s with Sarah at Waterford Hospital.
I need to go see. Paul stepped toward the house.
His ma gripped his arm with uncharacteristic strength. They won’t let you in. They’re not allowing anyone near who isn’t official or medical.
Why not?
Ma’s head shook back and forth. It’s too gruesome. It’s… Her head resumed shaking.
Ma. Talk to me. Why aren’t they letting anyone in?
Ma’s eyelashes fluttered, knocking tears from her eyes. It’s too gruesome. It’s horrible. I saw the body. The other killings were brutal, but not this messy.
Paul’s brow stitched together. What do you mean?
Ma’s fingers flew. The other murders were practical. Pragmatic. Like a chore needing to be done. This one was… She shuddered. It was brutal.
Paul’s eyebrows stitched together. All his brain’s synapses began firing at once. He quickly reasoned it wasn’t the killings that were the main message with Bluebeard’s murders—it was the reasons for death, like his victims all held a common thread. His hands flew as he signed. So, it’s not Bluebeard’s signature move? Pete’s throat wasn’t slashed ear to ear?
Before his ma could answer Marie pushed free from the crowd. Clad in a lightweight jacket and her usual running pants, she ran toward him and threw her arms around his neck when she reached him.
“Oh, Paul. Everything’s gone to shit.” She pushed away, glancing at Siobhan. Then, she signed, Let’s stick to sign language. Moira can’t understand it.
Why does that matter? Paul signed.
They’ve got William inside. Can you believe it? My brother. He’s a suspect. Marie looked like she might explode. He left our house a short time ago. He was in a shit mood. Worse than ever. He and my parents had a horrible fight. But, why would he come here? This doesn’t make any sense. They found him here with blood on his hands. Literally. He’s all riled up. He’s making his situation worse by not cooperating.
Paul’s ma pressed her fist to her mouth.
Marie’s hands moved like fluttering birds. Brown asked him if he ever dated Sarah. He said he did. So, since William dated her, Brown’s trying to cook up a plausible motive about William being jealous and exacting revenge on his so-called rival, Pete. It’s total bullshit. William knew Pete, but in the same way you know the postman—not close. And, he’s too absorbed in his own life messes to be jealous of a past fling. Her mouth pulled tight in a rictus of rage. William’s insistent they won’t find anything that ties him to the murder because he didn’t do it. I’m not sure I believe him. His mood when he left the house was… Tears filled her eyes. Oh, God, Paul, if William’s arrested, my mother and father will die of grief. They’ll just die.
Deep breaths, Marie. Deep breaths. Paul placed his hands on her upper arms and looked into her eyes.
Marie resorted to speech, talking in a low, rapid voice. “He swears he came over to check on Sixpack. Sixpack has been a grandfather to all of us. But why he’d do that after fighting with Ma is beyond me. Something’s missing from this story. The whole thing sounds fishy. William swears he didn’t touch anything. He said he felt Pete’s neck for a pulse. That’s how he got the blood on his hands. But he’s been so out of control lately…” She shook her head. “I just don’t know. I’m so confused.”
“Don’t worry, Marie,” Paul said. “William’s been an arse lately, but there’s no way he would fuck with an old man’s heart who’s been nothing but kind to him. We all love Sixpack.” He glanced over Marie’s shoulder to see Inspector Brown emerging from the house. We’ve got to use sign. Inspector Brown’s coming out of the house.
Marie nodded. Moira Brown won’t see it that way. She’s hellbent on a conviction and redeeming herself before she retires.
Marie’s head pivoted in his ma’s direction. Her eyebrows lifted.
Paul turned to see what she saw.
Ma shook with unreleased sobs, her fist still pressed to her mouth.
“Ma!” An alarm bell clanged in Paul’s mind. �
��What’s wrong?” he said, forgetting to sign.
Her shudders grew, shaking free fat tears.
“Marie, let’s get her out of here,” Paul said.
Standing on either side of her, Paul and Marie guided his ma down the narrow dirt road, heading toward town. They scurried the few blocks it took to arrive at the Laughing Rat.
His ma trembled like a leaf the entire time.
They ushered her into the back door and headed straight for her office.
Paul sat her down at her desk chair. He pushed aside some papers on the desk and settled his backside in their place.
“Start the kettle, Marie. Let’s make her some tea.” He pointed to the hot water kettle on the corner table, next to a box of tea bags and several tea mugs. A poster of Labor regulations hung above the tea supplies.
“Right,” Marie said, hustling across the room. She hefted the kettle. “Where can I get some water? It’s empty. We should probably add a touch of brandy, too.”
Paul turned to her. “Go ask whoever’s behind the bar for both.”
“On it,” Marie said, then hurried from the room, kettle in hand.
Paul faced his mother. Talk to me, Ma. Why the tears? What’s going on?
Ma’s knuckles found her mouth once more. She shook her head, a look of absolute terror radiating from her face.
Paul grasped her wrist and tugged it from her lips. His body tightened in fear. You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?
I know William’s innocent, Ma signed.
Marie returned with brandy and a kettle full of water. She set the kettle on the heating device and switched it on. Then, she set the brandy down on the desk. She crossed to stand near Paul and his ma.
We all hope William’s innocent, Paul signed. But, there’s more to your story. What is it?
I recognize the murderer’s mark, his mother signed.
An icy chill snaked its way along Paul’s spine as if he already knew what she was about to say.
I saw the same thing twenty years ago when your father was murdered, Ma signed. The Dearg-Due is back.
Chapter 16
Monday afternoon – Marie
When Siobhan signed the words the Dearg-Due is back, Marie bolted from the Laughing rat office, like a wild colt spooked by a rattlesnake. She hurried along the dimly lit hall, lined with photos from days gone by, heading for the back door.
“Marie. Hold up. Where are you going?” Paul called to her.
“To the grave site,” she yelled over her shoulder. “I’ve got to see for myself.” She pushed open the door and hurried outside.
The door slammed shut with a thwack of finality, leaving her standing on the sidewalk, in the cold late-winter day. She looked right, in the direction of Sixpack’s cottage. Sighing, she took off in the opposite direction, heading for the seaside grave.
As she ran, cold air frosted her lungs with burning intensity. Her foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk, and she stumbled, twisting her ankle.
“Shite,” she yelled but kept going. Her ankle began to throb, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She had to see the grave with her own two eyes. Her legs powered her through town, past the rectory and down the hill toward Great Great-Grandmother Roberta’s cottage. At the path veering from the dirt road to the cottage, she turned right.
She pulled up short when she arrived at the grave site. “No, no, no. Oh, no. This can’t be right.”
She grabbed the back of her neck with both hands and paced back and forth.
The grave lay open, leering at her like the mouth of a horrible beast.
Her lungs heaved in huge gasps. Panic seized her like claws, binding her throat, preventing her from taking a full breath.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” she cried, pacing back and forth. “Why can’t I transform? I could dive to the bottom of the sea right now and put the vampire bitch in her place. Oh, God.”
Her phone buzzed inside her coat. She jammed her hand into her pocket to retrieve it. As she scanned the screen, reading the text from Paul, her panic increased.
We’re back at the crime scene. William’s been arrested. People are physically holding your father to keep him from attacking Inspector Brown. Ma and I are worried he’s going to transform. Get back here. We need help.
“Oh, God,” she said again, unable to come up with anything more meaningful. Clutching the phone, Marie started back up the hill. Sharp pain throbbed from her ankle. Another text buzz sounded. She looked down, reading, Lassi just texted from Waterford Hospital. They got the news about Pete, and Sixpack reacted by having a heart attack. He’s in emergency surgery now, but they don’t know if he’s going to make it.
Tears pushed free from her eyes.
“How can this get any worse?” she cried, stumbling up the hill. She quickly found the answer. When she got to the road, she flinched.
Ryan, the guy she’d wrecked everything with by kissing him, strode stoically in her direction. When he saw her, he came to an abrupt stop.
She hastened her pace, then ceased moving when she saw his cold, distant-looking expression.
His hands stayed glued to his pockets as he stared in her direction with dead eyes.
He hates me now. I’ve destroyed my alliance with my best friend. She stood with too much distance between them, as the cold, wet wind peppered her face with salty sea-kisses.
“I just came from the Rat. Is it true? Did the Dearg-Due murder Pete?” he said.
The only gesture she could manage was a nod. Her hands suddenly felt clumsy, like they were too big for her body. She worried them round and round in front of her tummy.
“Ryan, I…about this morning…” she began, unsure what to say next.
He pressed his lips tight and shook his head. “Don’t. I’ve got nothing to say about the matter. I told you, it shouldn’t have happened. And, it won’t happen again.”
She nodded. Her tongue seemed to have tied itself in knots. She took hold of her wrist to stop her hands from fretting.
“I sure hope William didn’t have anything to do with setting the Dearg-Due free,” Ryan said, his expression pinched into some uncharacteristic dark and icy-cold demeanor.
“At least William’s not Bluebeard,” Marie said, in an attempt at levity. The gesture fell with a splat in the space between her and Ryan. She stared at the ground, wishing it would open wide and swallow her whole. When she lifted her gaze, the look Ryan directed at her made her cold to the bone.
“Are you really sure of that?” he said, all cop now. Not a whisker of their friendship remained.
“I’m not sure of anything,” she said. She limped toward him, intending to push past him and jog away. “Especially not of you and me.”
His expression cracked, letting her glimpse the sorrow behind the icy exterior.
Her emotions got the best of her, and a sob pushed free from her mouth. Now, it seemed, she had no one. She forged up the hill, leaving Ryan behind, heading for somewhere, anywhere to escape the pain.
“Marie,” Ryan shouted.
She whirled around. “What?”
“We have to…” he said, then closed his mouth. He lifted his hand and waved her off, heading for his own vehicle.
Chapter 17
Tuesday morning – Paul
Paul sat in his classroom, staring blankly at a pile of paper, a red pen caught between his slack fingers. He tried to force himself to think logically, but his thoughts ran in chaotic circles like squirrels on a tilt-a-wheel. The facts of the murder took precedence over grading his stupid papers. His ma was right—Pete Hornsby wasn’t killed by Bluebeard. He’d been savagely murdered by the Dearg-Due—just like his father, which chilled him to his toenails.
After Marie had left the pub last night, his ma had described Pete’s murder in horrific detail. Pete’s eyes had been plucked from his skull and placed in each hand. Then, the killer had closed the fingers around the eyeballs and shoved his hands down his pants. What had been the point? To have hi
m stare through eternity at his weenus?
His ma had explained the Dearg-Due only killed those whom she knew to be unfaithful…which didn’t make any sense. While he and Pete weren’t exactly close, he’d always considered him a good man, incapable of cheating on Sarah, his brand-new bride. But then, his own father had been a philanderer. People cheated, plain and simple.
And then his thoughts meandered into the parent zone. What kind of man had his father been? Ma bounced between bitterness and reverence toward his dad. Sometimes she spoke of his fine qualities…of how much he loved and cared for Paul…of the fun they had together. But his affair with Ailis O’Neil had almost driven his mother mad. How could his father have hurt his ma so badly?
Auntie Lassi and Uncle Cillian barely knew his father. And, Paul had never met a soul from his father’s side. How am I really supposed to feel about a man who is a mystery and a stranger to me? What if he didn’t cheat? What if it was all rumor and conjecture? His thoughts skittered back to Pete. Did he really cheat on Sarah? Is that why the Dearg-Due took his life?
His chaotic thinking came to an abrupt halt when Anne’s face appeared in the little window of his classroom door. Her face looked pale, pinched tight with worry. She disappeared, then, two seconds later, she opened the door and shuffled toward him.
Paul rose to stand. His battered wooden chair squeaked against the wood floor. “What’s the matter, Anne? Are you all right? What’s happened?”
She paused in front of him, her mouth working as if gathering the courage to speak.
The silence stretched in taut stickiness between them, setting Paul’s nerves on edge. “Out with it. Tell me what’s the matter.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth and sucked in a deep, noisy breath. Then, she dropped her hand to her side. “I’ve received the date for my novitiate training. I’m leaving at the end of the week and going to Dublin. I won’t be coming back.”
Paul’s heart squished tight in his chest like his ribcage had suddenly grown child-size. He struggled to catch his breath. Falling to one knee, he seized her hands.
