The Whisper

Her sudden, infectious smile reached to her eyes. “Ah. I can see you don’t like coincidences. You want to know how we both decided to come here this morning. I didn’t follow you, if that helps. I’ve never been subtle enough to follow people.”

“But you weren’t surprised to find me here,” Scoop said.

“I wasn’t, especially not after seeing those size-twelve footprints in the mud.” She eased in next to the dog. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Are you heading straight back to the village?”

“Maybe.” She patted the dog as he rose next to her. “I’ll have to see where my new friend here leads me. Good to meet you, Detective.” She smiled again. “Scoop. Maybe I’ll see you in Boston sometime.”

Scoop watched her and the big black dog duck back under the gnarly tree. She had a positive, energetic air about her. Nothing suggested she wasn’t an archaeologist. Whoever she was, he’d bet she was the type who wouldn’t let go once she got the bit in her teeth.

What bit did Sophie Malone have in her teeth? What, exactly, had brought her out here?

He slipped back into the ruin, smelling the damp stone and dirt. He reached for his backpack. This time he didn’t notice any pain in his hip. As he slung his pack onto his shoulder, he peered through the gray, dim light at the hearth where Keira claimed to have seen the ancient stone angel as the ruin partially collapsed around her. When she finally climbed out the following morning, the angel was gone. Whatever the case, no one else had ever actually seen it.

Keira would only say she believed the angel was where it was meant to be.

Scoop pictured Sophie walking upstream with the black dog next to her, her red hair flying, her bright blue eyes, her slim hips—her smile.

Yep. Love at first sight.

“Damn,” he muttered, adjusting the pack on his shoulder, feeling only a dull ache where once there’d been fiery pain.

Being in this place was definitely getting to him.

He headed back outside. The mist had subsided, and the sun was angling through the wet trees. He noticed Sophie’s and the dog’s footprints in the mud. She was right about the ongoing investigations in Boston, but she was wrong about one thing. They didn’t have all the bad guys. The major players in the violence of the past three months were dead or under arrest, but there were still unanswered questions. In particular, Scoop wanted to know who had placed a crude explosive device under the gas grill on Abigail’s first-floor back porch.

Even if it was a cop.

Even, he thought, if it was a friend.

He was an internal affairs detective, and two months ago he’d launched a special investigation into the possible involvement of a member of the department with local thugs. His bomber?

Maybe, maybe not, but Scoop didn’t much like the idea that another cop had almost blown him up.

He started back along the stream, Sophie’s and the dog’s footprints disappearing as the ground became drier, grassier. When the stream curved sharply downhill, he emerged from the trees into the open, rock-strewn green pasture high above the bay. A stiff, sudden breeze blew a few lingering raindrops into his face as he continued across the sheep-clipped grass. He came to a barbed-wire fence and climbed over it, jumping down onto the soft, moist ground. On his first hike up here two weeks ago, tackling the fence had caused significant pain, and he’d caught a still-healing wound on a barb, drawing blood. Now he was moving well and seldom felt any pain, and his scars were tougher.

A fat, woolly sheep appeared on the steep hillside above him. Scoop grinned. “Yeah, pal, it’s me again.”

The sheep stayed put. Scoop looked out across Kenmare Bay to the jagged outline of the Macgillicuddy Reeks on the much larger Iveragh Peninsula. He’d driven its famous Ring of Kerry and done a few hikes over there, but he’d spent most of his time in Ireland on the Beara.

He continued across the steep pasture to another fence. He climbed over it onto a dirt track that led straight downhill to the village. As he passed a Beware Of Bull sign tacked to a fence post, a movement caught his eye. He paused, squinting through the gray mist. Across the pasture, he saw a large black dog lope through the middle of an ancient stone circle and disappear into a stand of trees.

It had to be the same dog he’d seen with Sophie Malone.

The mysterious redheaded archaeologist was nowhere in sight, but Scoop knew—he couldn’t explain how but he knew—he’d be seeing her again.

He smiled to himself. Maybe fairies had put a spell on him.

2

Kenmare, Southwest Ireland

S ophie didn’t let down her guard until she reached Kenmare.

She drove straight to the town pier, parked and pried her fingers off the steering wheel. As if the black dog hadn’t been enough to remind her she was out of her element on the Beara, she’d had to run into a suspicious, absolute stud of a Boston detective.

She exhaled, calming herself. Going out to Keira Sullivan’s ruin would have been enough of a heart-pounding experience all by itself, without Scoop Wisdom. He was as tough, straightforward and no-nonsense as she’d expected from the accounts of the violence in Boston over the summer, but he’d looked as if he’d been awaiting the arrival of ghosts or fairies.

He’d gotten her instead.

And what was she?

She hadn’t lied. She was an archaeologist. But she hadn’t told him everything—not by far—and obviously he knew it.

Sophie got out of her little car and paused to watch a rainbow arc across the sky high above the bay. The yellow, orange, red and lavender-blue streaks deepened and brightened, tugging at her emotions. She’d miss Irish rainbows when she was back in Boston.

She shook off her sudden melancholy. She was leaving tomorrow, and her parents and twin sister were arriving in Kenmare later that afternoon for a send-off dinner. In the meantime, getting weepy over Irish rainbows wasn’t on her ever-expanding to-do list.

She squinted out at the boats in the harbor. The Irish name for the village was Neidín, which translated as “little nest,” an apt description for its location at the base of the Cork and Kerry mountains.

“Aha,” she said aloud when she recognized Tim O’Donovan’s rugged commercial fishing boat tied to the pier. The old boat looked as if it would sink before it got halfway out of the harbor, but she knew from experience that it could handle rough seas.

She spotted Tim by a post and waved to him. He was a tall, burly, Irish fisherman with a bushy, sand-colored beard and emerald-green eyes. He glanced in her direction, and even at a distance, she heard him groan. She could hardly blame him, given his unwitting involvement in her own strange experience on the Irish coast a year ago—months before Keira Sullivan’s encounter with a serial killer.

Whispers in the dark. Blood-soaked branches. Celtic artifacts gone missing.

A woman—me, Sophie thought—left for dead in a cold, dank cave.

Suppressing a shudder, she made her way onto the concrete pier. Tim had managed to avoid her for months, but he wouldn’t today. She moved fast, determined to get to him before he could jump into his boat and be off.

When she reached him, she made a stab at being conversational. “Hey, Tim, it’s good to see you.” She pointed up at the fading rainbow. “Did you notice the rainbow just now?”

“If you want me to take you to chase a pot of gold, the answer is no.”

“I’m not chasing anything.”

“You’re always chasing something.” He yanked on a thick rope with his callused hands and didn’t look at her as he spoke in his heavy Kerry accent. “How are you, Sophie?”

“Doing great.” It was close enough to the truth. “I gave up my apartment in Cork and moved into our family house in Kenmare. My parents and sister will be here later today. I’ve been here two weeks. I thought I’d run into you by now.”

“Ah-huh.”

“Have you been seeing to it I didn’t?”

“Just doing my work.”

“I’ve been back and forth to Cork and Dublin a fair amount. My father’s family is originally from Kenmare. I’ve told you that, haven’t I?”