The Whisper

“Bob O’Reilly,” Tim said. “Yes, I know.”

Sophie wasn’t surprised. “They’ve both been out here this summer. There’s the Boston detective out on the Beara now. Scoop Wisdom.”

“None of them have looked me up. I fish, Sophie, and I play a little music. I stay away from trouble.”

“I don’t want to cause you any more problems.”

Tim stood up straight and looked out at the sparkling harbor. “I believe you, Sophie. I do. I don’t know how you hit your head, but I believe you found Celtic treasure. I believe you heard whispers, and I believe you saw hawthorn branches dipped in blood.” He turned to her, as serious as she’d ever seen him. “I wish I could tell you who or what it was in that cave with you.”

“I wish you could, too, Tim.”

“They say the woman who hid the treasure died on the island.”

If there ever were such a woman. No historical record existed of her that Sophie had been able to locate. Tim’s story told of a woman fleeing to the island with her pagan treasure to escape Viking raids in the eighth century. Then again, he’d said, maybe it had been English raids in the seventeenth century, or maybe to trade for food for the starving in the famine years.

Hard facts were a little tough to pin down.

Sophie had no intention of arguing Irish tales with an Irishman, especially one who was still irritated with her for putting him through hell. She shivered in a sudden gust of wind, but she knew it wasn’t the cold she was feeling. It was the lingering effects of that night a year ago.

Tim put a big hand on her shoulder. “Let go of what happened to you.” His voice was quiet now. “Get on with your life.”

“I am. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Worry about you?” He laughed, hugging her to him. “I want to drown you in the bay. Dragging me to that barren rock. No sign of you when I came after you. There I was with you gone and nothing but the wind, the waves, the crying birds. I get chilled to the bone thinking about it.”

Sophie couldn’t help but smile. Tim was dramatic. She glanced up at the brightening sky, no hint left of the rainbow. “I wonder if it was sheep’s blood on the branches I saw.”

Tim was thoughtful. “It was sheep’s blood at the Beara ruin.”

“Yes, but Jay Augustine left that blood for Keira Sullivan to find, assuming she lived through the night. The blood and branches I saw disappeared. If I’d managed to get a few drops on me, it would have corroborated my story. The guards could have tested it—”

“Don’t, Sophie. What’s done is done.”

She looked down at Tim’s battered boat, bobbing in the rising tide. “We could put all this out of our minds for a while and go sightseeing for seals and puffins.”

Tim obviously knew she wasn’t serious. “You’re playing with fire, Sophie,” he said heavily. “You know you are.”

“The guards must have a report in their files on what happened a year ago, and obviously they know about Keira’s experience on the Beara. They haven’t come to reinterview me. I just keep wondering if I missed something….” She didn’t finish and instead shook off her questions and smiled at Tim. “Stay in touch, okay?”

“Sophie—”

“All will be well.”

“Yes, it will be, please God,” he said, watching her as she headed back down the pier.

“Oh, and Tim,” she called cheerfully, turning back to him, “if you want to get anywhere with my sister, trim your beard and bone up on your Yeats.”

He jumped into his boat, as comfortable at sea as he was on land. “‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,’” he recited, crossing his hands over his heart. “‘A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.’”

Sophie laughed, enjoying the moment. She saw he was laughing now, too, and she felt better as she walked to her car.

After their look around the island produced nothing—not even a drop of blood on the gray rock much less a bit of Celtic gold—the guards had asked her and Tim not to discuss the incident in the cave with anyone else, in order to avoid a rush of treasure hunters. She’d tried to put her experience behind her, even to the point of wondering if she, too, should just blame a concussion, dehydration, fatigue, isolation, overwork and imagination—if not ghosts and fairies, which, she suspected, deep down Tim believed were responsible for her ordeal.

Then last week, she’d pulled her head up from her work and had lunch with Colm Dermott, back in Cork on behalf of the folklore conference, and he’d told her about the violence in Boston over the summer. She’d been vaguely aware that Jay Augustine, a fine art and antiques dealer who had turned out to be a serial killer, had latched onto Keira’s Irish story in June and finally was arrested, after trying to kill Keira and her mother. His violence and fascination with the devil and evil had inspired Norman Estabrook, a corrupt, ruthless billionaire, to act on his own violent impulses, which had led to the bomb blast in late August that had injured Scoop Wisdom and culminated in Estabrook’s death on the coast of Maine.

Sophie couldn’t shake the similarities of Keira’s experience on the Beara to her own on the island. She had to know. Had Jay Augustine followed her a year ago and left her for dead? Had he made off with the artifacts—whatever their origin or authenticity—she’d seen in the cave? Without proper examination, she couldn’t say for sure what they were, but she had a solid recollection of the pieces—a spun-bronze cauldron, gold brooches, torcs and bracelets, glass beads and bangles. She hadn’t imagined them, even if Irish and American authorities had already reviewed her account of her night in the cave and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing further.

She climbed into her car. She was tempted to head to the village and settle in her favorite pub for the rest of the day, but instead she got out her iPhone and dialed her brother Damian, an FBI agent in Washington, D.C.

“Hey, Damian,” she said. “I was just watching an Irish rainbow and thought I’d call. Taryn’s on her way, and Mom and Dad will be here in time for dinner and Irish music. We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll be in Ireland in two weeks.”

“I’ll be in Boston then. I leave tomorrow. It’s not as spur-of-the-moment as it sounds. I’m staying in Taryn’s apartment on Beacon Hill. Doesn’t that sound cozy?”

“What’s going on, Sophie?”

“They teach you that in FBI school—how to turn someone saying ‘cozy’ into something suspicious? Never mind. I was just out on the Beara Peninsula where that serial killer struck. Would you know if he was involved in smuggling and selling stolen artifacts?”

Silence.

Sophie knew she’d struck a nerve but pretended to be oblivious. “Damian? Are you there? Are we still connected?”

“We’re still connected. Any kind of stolen artifacts in mind?”

“Pagan Celtic.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my area of expertise. Keira Sullivan’s stone angel was Early Medieval Celtic from the sounds of it. I’m just curious if this Augustine character was into Celtic works in general.”

“He was interested in killing people, Sophie.”

She looked out at the pier, tourists gathering for a boat tour of the coast. “I get your point, Damian, but you know what I mean.”

“You’re the archaeologist. I’m the FBI agent. You tell me. Do you know anything about Celtic artifacts showing up on the black market?”

This time, she was the one who didn’t answer.

“Sophie?”

“My battery’s dying. I’ll call you later.”

She disconnected and dropped her phone back in her jacket pocket. As if putting herself on the radar of one law enforcement officer today wasn’t good enough, she’d had to call her FBI agent brother. She started her car and let herself off the hook. Calling Damian made sense. He was assigned to FBI headquarters in Washington. He could find out just about anything.

She wondered if she’d have a better chance if she told him about her experience last year.

“Probably not,” she whispered as she drove back down the quiet street. The Irish authorities already knew about the incident. If she told Damian, he’d look into it, and she didn’t want to send him and the FBI off on some wild-goose chase if she were totally off target.