Do Not Go Gentle (4 page)

“Aye, aye, sir.” said Boyle, snapping to attention and saluting.

Before Jamie could retort, they heard a car door slam. The quartet turned to see another unmarked car, with two detectives getting out.

“Watch out.” called Cal. “The
really
big boys from Homicide are here. About time you got here, O'Neill.”

Timmy O'Neill, one of the two homicide detectives approaching the scene, was a good friend of Jamie and Cal. He was a tall, red-haired Irishman about their age—they'd gone through the academy together. His partner was a gorgeous African-American woman named Sally Martin. “Martin, can't you do something about the way your partner dresses?” asked Cal.

“What's wrong with the way I dress?” asked O'Neill.

“Nothing,” replied Martin. “Not everyone can look like they walked out of a fashion magazine.”

Jamie stood back from the exchange rather than jumping in, as was his usual habit. His headache was much worse—it felt like someone was peeling off the top of his head with a can opener. Jamie stepped forward to shake O'Neill's hand and staggered slightly.

“Whoa.” said O'Neill. “You been drinking already today, Griffin?”

“No more than you, ya gobshite.” They shook hands. “Just coming down with something, probably the flu.”

O'Neill jerked his hand back. “And you still shook my hand, you shit?”

Jamie managed a smile, but he felt clammy, like his whole body was being shaken in a paint mixer. “Ahh, you're too damned mean to catch anything from me.”

O'Neill shook his head. “I dunno, man. You really look like shit.”

“I told him that earlier,” added Cal.

“Well, funny you comedians should mention that.” Jamie turned away from Cal and Timmy back toward the crime scene. His vision darkened, as if twilight was settling over the bright late summer morning. “I really feel like shit.”

Jamie took two staggering steps, and the whole world receded. He could hear faraway voices calling his name, but the roar of his racing pulse drowned them out. Reeling like he was indeed drunk, Jamie turned back to face his partner and the other cops.

“Wow. Really…like…shit.” Jamie's eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the ground in a faint.

Jamie heard an alarm clock going off, but it wasn't
his
alarm clock. He rubbed his eyes and rolled over. “Ah, Jaysus Christ on a crippled crutch.” It was 6:30, not 5:00 a.m. Jamie rolled to see Eileen waking up. “Woman, did you turn off my alarm clock?”

“Aye. I think passing out at a crime scene warrants a sick day, if not a trip to the doctor.”

Jamie grimaced. “I'm not goin' to the feckin' doctor; you can get that out of your mind right now.”

“I see.” Eileen sat up, folded her arms, and fixed Jamie with ‘the stare'. “Is that your final decision?”

With a slow and painful effort, Jamie sat up beside his wife. His head felt like it was being pried open with a rusty can opener, his whole body ached, and he was exhausted, despite having slept deeply all night. He glanced at Eileen and shook his head. “Save the stare for the girls, my love. I agreed to stay home today, didn't I? Quit while you're ahead.”

“Séamus Edward Griffin, you only agreed to stay home after Cal threatened to report your collapse to Sully. Then you would have been
forced
to stay home. I'm starting to regret that he kept this under wraps. You're sick.”

Whenever Eileen used his full given name, Jamie knew he was in trouble. Jamie's mother, born in Ireland and proud of it, had given traditional Irish names to all but her eldest child. Jamie's father had won that battle and only that battle. Consequently, most of his siblings used Anglicized nicknames, which led to Jamie in his case.

Jamie made a rude noise. “It's just the flu, darlin' Aoife; just the feckin' flu. A couple of days rest and I'll be back in full gear.” Eileen's mother was also of Irish stock, but in her case, she went by her middle name, Eileen.

Eileen swung her legs out of bed, stood, and glared back at Jamie. “Sugar plum fairies, man. You can be the most vexing creature in the whole of Creation.” She stalked off to the bathroom.

“Wow. I haven't gotten a ‘sugar plum fairies' in at least a week. I must be slipping.” Eileen did not swear; instead, she used inoffensive words and phrases, often to the amusement of her family and friends.

Eileen turned at the bathroom door and shook her finger at Jamie. “Make fun of this, you bedeviled man. Go ahead. Just remember-I have a
very
long memory.”

“Aye, don't I know it,” muttered Jamie.

“I
heard
that.”

Jamie sighed and lay back down in bed. He closed his eyes and tried to stop the world from spinning about him.
Feckin' flu. I
hate
being sick.

After a few minutes, Jamie sat up again. He sat still for a while, and then got out of bed, as slow as someone twice his age. Jamie staggered and avoided falling by grabbing onto the tallboy dresser.
Feck. Feck. Feck.
Jamie stood holding the dresser until he felt like he had his balance under control, then shuffled across the room.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Jamie turned and clutched the banister, closing his eyes and waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass. He heard whining at the bottom of the stairs and opened his eyes to see Finn, dancing back and forth with impatience. “Hey, you know how to use your door, so you're just upset because breakfast is late.”

Finn's ears perked up at the word ‘breakfast' and he barked, now hopping and turning on his back legs.

“Okay, okay, give me a minute,” Jamie growled. Step by painful step, he made his way downstairs. He filled Finn's food bowl and made him wait a token couple of seconds. “Alright, you can eat.”

The dog fell on the food as if he hadn't eaten in a month.

“Chow hound,” Jamie muttered.

Jamie used the downstairs bathroom, grateful that his initial vomiting and diarrhea from yesterday had passed. He still felt like his stomach could revolt at any second. He moved like an old man as he brought in the paper, started the coffee, and sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Moments later, Jamie felt a cold nose nudging against his leg. Without thinking, he reached down and rubbed the dog's head. “You're a good boy, Finn. I'm fine—I don't need you worrying about me too.” Finn removed his nose and chuffed, then curled up on Jamie's feet.

Jamie went back to holding his head with both hands. Before long, he heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs two at a time, banging with each jump. “Riona. Can you
please
be a little quieter, love?”

Riona came around the corner into the kitchen and put her hands on her father's shoulders. “I'm sorry, Da,” she said contritely. “I forgot you weren't feeling good. That hardly
ever
happens.”

Jamie raised his head and wrapped an arm around his youngest daughter. “Not to worry, little one. Despite my head feeling like it's going to explode any minute, your descent did not set it off.” Eileen and Caitlin joined them moments later.

“You're still sick, Daddy?” asked Caitlin.

“Aye, though not at death's door as your mother would have you believe.”

Eileen got her coffee without comment and sat at the table, giving her husband an arch look. “Maybe not, but any time you're sick is significant.”

“She's right, Daddy,” chimed in Caitlin.

“You'd better listen to
Máthair
, Da. You're not going to win, you know that.” Riona gave her father a crooked grin. “We
all
know that.”

Jamie raised both hands in surrender. “I'm staying home. I'm being a good little patient.”

“You may be staying home, but you're a bad little patient,” replied Eileen.

Jamie shook his head. “I'll rest, I promise. I'll rest. I will, honestly. I do not feel good at all.”

“Then why won't you let me make you an appointment with Doctor Jasinski?”

“I'll make you a deal. If I still feel this bad tomorrow, you can call Jerry and make an appointment. Deal?”

Eileen looked at him and shook her head. “I guess. ‘Tis probably the best deal I'm likely to get.”

“Indeed,” replied Jamie.

Jamie went upstairs and changed into navy blue ND track shirt and pants, then made his way one slow step after another back downstairs to the oversized sectional couch in the family room. He lay down and closed his eyes, then was surprised when he felt Eileen feeling his forehead with her hand. “Woman. I just lay down and here you are fussing over me.”

Eileen looked at Jamie with even more concern in her eyes. “Jamie, you lay down here two hours ago. I'm getting ready to head to the store and wanted to check on you before I left.”

Jamie sat up and then stood, but swayed on his feet and dropped gracelessly back to the couch. “Ah, shite.” He held his head and waited for the waves of dizziness and nausea to subside.

“Are you going to be okay here alone?”

“No, I'm going to slip into a coma and spontaneously combust from my fever.”

Eileen shook her head. “Tsk, tsk, man. See if I show any concern again. You must be the worst patient in the world.”

Jamie reached up and grabbed her hand. “I know I am. I just hate being sick, my love.”

Eileen squeezed his hand. “I know, but you're not Superman, not matter how hard you try.”

Jamie nodded. “Alright then. I have some online work to do for Cal, but other than that, I'll rest as much as possible.”

Eileen raised one eyebrow, a trick Jamie envied. “Work? Did I just hear you say you were going to do some work?”

“Peace, woman. I can't sleep all day. When I feel up to it, I'm going to use the laptop to do some research for Cal on our current case. I promise not to overdo it, but I'm letting him down as it is.”

“I give up.” Eileen turned and picked up her purse and keys. “I love you, Jamie Griffin. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I will. Honestly.”

Jamie waved as his wife harrumphed and walked out of the family room and left for work. Eileen owned her own business, a music store called Ceoil Scoil, Irish for “music school.” Eileen had started giving music lessons in their home as a way to fill her time and earn extra money once the girls were in school all day. Several years ago, she became successful enough to take out a business loan and open a studio in Dorchester with a storefront. Ceoil Scoil was a passion in her life and was doing very well financially, which helped immensely with education and family expenses.

Jamie sat on the couch for a while, trying to will away his dizziness and nausea. After several minutes, he stood again, this time managing not to stagger or stumble as he walked across the family room to pick up his laptop. Jamie weaved a slight amount as he made his way back to the sectional.

When Jamie had agreed to stay home, he had told Cal that he would do some online research into the strange mark the medical examiner had found on the woman's neck. She had been identified as Kris Taylor, a thirty-year-old book editor. According to family members, Taylor often jogged, going over the same circuit—from her apartment at the Lofts to Neponset, the park, then back through the cemetery and home.
Only this time, she never made it out of the cemetery,
Jamie thought grimly. Marie Hanover, the ME, had found a strange mark on Taylor's neck. It looked like a circular burn mark and showed a snake looping around head-to-tail, with a lion, a bee, and a scorpion inside the snake. Hanover had never seen anything like it, nor had Jamie or Cal.
One of the beauties of the Internet. For all its faults, it sure makes our job easier when we need to research something like this.

Looking at the symbol, Jamie typed key words into a search engine. After several permutations, he found a hit.
Bingo.
Jamie found that the symbol was called a “
skandola
,” a magical iron signet ring said to have been brought back from the underworld by Hibil-Ziwa—primal man, whose consort was Zahriel—also sometimes Lilith. Some less credible sources also cited a belief that a
skandola
can be seen on images of the Shroud of Turin. Regardless, plenty of credible evidence convinced Jamie that he was looking at the image of a ring that originated in the Middle East in the time of Christ.

Wow. That's not something you see every day. Cal's gonna have a field day with some of this crap.

Unlike Jamie, Cal Cushing was a big believer in the supernatural. Jamie refused to believe in such claptrap, but Cal went in for all sorts of ghosts, demons, and spiritual crap.
For someone with Puritan ancestors, Cushing has some wild views. Nothing to be done, though. This image is clearly a skandola, whatever the hell it means.

Jamie called Hanover and told her what he'd found. “Have you ever heard of something like this, Marie? I know you and Cushing are big believers in this supernatural crap.”

“No,” replied Hanover, “but if you want any assistance from me, you'll kindly refrain from referring to this kind of stuff as crap.”

“Okay, okay,” growled Jamie. “Do you know anyone I could contact to learn more about this ring?”

Hanover was silent for several seconds. “I might, but I'll need to talk to her first and see if she's willing to speak with you.”

“Hey. I'm not
that
bad of a guy.”

“No, but she's very protective about her beliefs and doesn't suffer non-believers patiently. I'll talk to her and give you a call if she's willing to meet.”

“Alright. Thanks, Marie—I owe you.”

“Yeah, yeah, Griffin. I'll add it to the sizeable tab you've already run up with me.”

“I'm good for it.”

Jamie clicked off his cell phone and logged in to the police database to search for any other cases that might have noted this symbol. He had been at the search for a few minutes when he could no longer keep his head erect. The pain behind his eyes started to feel like someone was shoving in an ice pick. Jamie put the laptop on the floor and lay down flat on the sectional, with Finn curling in beside his legs.
I just need to rest a bit.

When Jamie awoke, he was disoriented and groggy.
What the hell time is it?
He sat up, and the room spun around madly, causing him to place his hands on either side of himself to keep from falling. He glanced at the clock and was dismayed to see that it was mid-afternoon.
Jaysus. I've been asleep for hours and
still
feel like crap.

Jamie got up and staggered to the bathroom, got some 7-Up from the refrigerator, then wove his way back to the sectional, the dog following along like a second shadow. Jamie set his soda on the end table then fell onto the sectional again.
I just need to get some more rest. This feckin' flu bug is kicking my ass right now, but I'll get over it soon enough. I always do.

The thought had no sooner passed through Jamie's mind than the image from his nightmare the other morning came blowing in to shatter his confidence.
What if I
don't
get better? What if that's what the nightmare was trying to tell me?
Jamie turned this thought over in his mind for several seconds, and then dismissed it.
Nah, that's the kind of stuff Cushing and Hanover believe in. It was just a nightmare, nothing more, nothing less.
Still, as Jamie settled back to try to get some more rest, his heart was heavy and a bitter taste filled his mouth.