Malarkey (30 page)

It was Alex Stein. He sounded as tired as I felt. He expressed
his sympathies and made the vague offer of assistance people make
when they don't know what else to say by way of comfort. I thanked
him.

"Barbara and Mike and I have to attend Kayla's inquest this
morning."

"They haven't postponed it?"

He gave a short laugh. "That would probably disrupt too
many official schedules. However, the coroner did move the hearing
to Arklow, to accommodate the press."

I wished him luck.

"How is George holding up?"

"Pretty well."

"That's a relief. We'll come over to the cottage as soon as we
can. Barbara says the Gardai suspect Liam. That's insane. He's an
artist."

I didn't comment. So Liam was an artist. Van Gogh had cut
off his own ear. Byron had fomented a revolution. Allen Ginsberg had
dropped his pants at a peace rally.

"He's a gentle man," Alex insisted, more to the point.

I cleared my throat. "That's my impression." It was what
prevented me from believing Liam had killed Kayla.

Reassured that I wasn't baying like a hound for Liam's
blood, Alex disengaged.

Our conversation roused Maeve. She trooped down to the
loo and returned for a cup of the very old coffee in the electric pot.
"Your father's stirring."

"Is he? Alex phoned. The inquest on Kayla Wheeler has been
moved to Arklow. Were you called, Maeve?"

She moaned and checked her watch. "It's set for ten o'clock.
I'd best get things rolling. But first..." She closed her eyes and
swallowed coffee. "Ah, that's more like it."

My stomach gurgled. I cut a slice of Murtagh's soda bread.
"What do I do if they finish the search before you return?"

"Wait for me." She looked at my face and said, "I'm sorry.
The waiting has to be the hardest part."

"The hardest part," I said grimly, "is imagining my husband
weltering in his own blood. Waiting comes after that."

Rather to my surprise, Maeve's first action was not to
contact her excavation team. She called Teresa Tierney, and I was
treated to an exhibition of the purest Butler blarney.

Maeve flattered and soothed the poor woman, sympathized
with her over her obnoxious son's plight, and presented her own
attempt to find the folly as something of a patriotic duty. She said
nothing negative about Teresa's menfolk but didn't hesitate to vilify
Liam. If Tommy had been involved in the abduction at any level, it
was as the mere dupe of a diabolical and cunning intelligence who
had led the innocent lad astray. Finding Jay in the folly, alive, would
somehow exonerate Tommy.

I wondered how Teresa could swallow such blather.

Teresa spoke at length, and Maeve made soothing sounds.
Finally Maeve said, "And how is poor Toss?"

A blast from the receiver. I had the feeling poor Toss was in
deep shite, with his wife as well as the Gardai. Having softened up
her target, Maeve moved to her primary text. She wanted Toss to
show her the entrance to the folly. She was sure he knew how to get
into it, and equally sure he was oath-bound not to reveal the secret,
but some things ought to take precedence over out-worn loyalties.
Saving Jay's life, for example. Maeve insinuated that Tierney
cooperation in the search would sit well with the court when it came
time to charge Tommy. Plea-bargaining is an American tradition.
Clearly, the concept was not unknown in Ireland, either.

When Maeve hung up, I said, "Did it work? Will she get Toss
to open up?"

"I don't know," Maeve said soberly. "I hope so. I can find the
area where the entrance to the folly should be, but excavation's a
slow process."

"And time is of the essence."

"It is indeed. At least now the word is out."

"Word?"

"That we need to know the way into the folly," she
explained, patient. "Teresa will call her best friends and relatives to
ask their advice, and they'll call their friends. Every republican in
County Wicklow of the right vintage will know what we need by
noon. One of them should come through."

It sounded like jungle drums to me. I hoped Toss would
remember Dad's Jameson and weaken.

Maeve made another hurried call to her assistant, looked
around for her handbag and coat, and took her leave. She meant to
stop by her father's house and freshen up. She would leave the
inquest as soon as was humanly possible, she said, but her assistant
would probably arrive at the cottage before she did. His name was
John Poole, and he would be driving a Morris Minor held together
with strapping tape. He would come as soon as the Gardai lifted the
roadblocks.

Maeve's van rattled off as my father made his way upstairs.
He was unshaven and still in his dressing gown, but his color was
better than it had been at 3:00 a.m. While I brewed him a fresh pot of
coffee, I reported my conversation with Ma. He allowed that he
would call her, but not until he'd showered and shaved. He was
downstairs with the hot water full on and the Rayburn gurgling away
when Joe came in the door.

"What have you found?" The question burst from me.

Joe rubbed his eyes. He had been with us all night, so he was
as tired as I felt, but he had been short of sleep, I thought, for several
days. He looked his age. My age.

"Is that coffee?"

I possessed my soul in patience and poured him a cup.

He sugared and creamed it, sitting at the table with the ease
of a friend. "They didn't find the folly, Lark, but I took Maeve's map
with me, and she's right. The mound extends northward. There are
boulders and a tangle of briars on the north slope, but we didn't find
an entrance."

I swallowed my disappointment.

He took a sip, grimacing as the scalding coffee touched his
lips. "Mahon's lot did find the place where Jay was captured."

My heart slammed into double time. "Where?"

"Past the rhododendrons on the drive to Stanyon. He was
headed that way, apparently. We found American coins." He set his
mug down and withdrew something from the breast of his smudged
tunic. "Do you recognize that?"

It was wrapped in protective paper. He unfolded the
covering carefully.

My tormented stomach churned. "That's the type of pen the
college in Shoalwater stocks for professors. It's not exactly
distinctive, though." The pens were cheap black ballpoints.

"I've not seen a pen like it here."

I gulped. "Then it's probably Jay's."

"So we thought." He drew a long breath, and his blue eyes
met mine with somber empathy. "There were signs of a scuffle and
shoe prints of a trainer in the earth beside the lane. We followed a
trail of bent grass and scrape marks to the stone wall around the
woods. Mahon is taking the idea that Jay may be concealed in the
woods seriously now."

"Good. That's good."

"There's a gate on the far side of the woods, though, and a
lane that connects with the Killaveen road. The abductor could have
carried Jay to the gate and removed him by automobile. We're
looking for signs of a car, though McDiarmuid's Saab was found this
morning abandoned in Limerick."

Limerick? That didn't make sense. Perhaps Liam and
Tommy had stashed Jay in the folly and headed west together. If so,
why had the Gardai not found Liam as well?

Joe watched me a moment, then said, "There was no blood
where we found the signs of struggle."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

A weight eased from my heart. "Jay's not a small man. Could
Liam have carried him through the woods unassisted?"

"Only with difficulty." He cocked his head. "Your man is tall
but not over-heavy. I could carry him." Joe was six feet tall and solid.
Liam had to be three inches shorter.

"Was someone else involved?"

He gave a short laugh. "Tommy Tierney's neck deep, and
he's a big bruiser, takes after his da."

"Has he talked?"

Joe shook his head. "They'll charge him this morning with
burglary and flight to avoid prosecution. He may change his tune
after another day in custody."

Another day. That was a long time to wait. I shivered.

"Maeve called Tommy's mother."

Joe swore. "I'll have Maeve's ears on a platter, meddling with
Mahon's witnesses. She's a damned interfering nuisance. "

"She's a good friend," I interrupted.

Silence lay between us.

Joe checked his watch. "I'm due at the inquest. The boys will
be winding down their search of the woods soon, Lark. I told Declan
Byrne to notify you when they've gone."

"Thanks."

At that point Dad came in and shook hands. Joe was so
pressed for time he left me to explain to my father what the police
had discovered. I could tell the lack of ceremony troubled Joe. At
heart, he liked to do things by the book.

I poured Dad a fresh cup of coffee as I talked. "So Mahon has
come around to Maeve's theory after all, but they didn't find the
folly."

"Maeve will find it." Dad sat and sipped.

"Breakfast?"

"I am a bit hungry." He looked guilty.

I cut bread for him and scrambled a couple of eggs. When he
had eaten, he phoned my mother. As I was pottering around the
kitchen, tidying the table, Constable Byrne walked in from the
woods. I brewed him a pot of tea. That seemed to be my role. I was
beginning to resent it.

Byrne was finishing his cuppa and Dad had joined us when a
rusty Morris Minor pulled in behind the Toyota. Three students
erupted from it, two young women and a very young man. All three
wore jeans, sweatshirts, and wellies. They began unloading gear. It
was surprising how much junk the tiny car could hold.

I invited the kids in and made some more tea. Then I
rebelled. I was not some kind of skivvy. I intended to be part of the
action. I announced that I was going downstairs to change into work
clothes.

Dad and the students and the young Garda looked at me
with so much sympathy I nearly threw the tea pot at them.

Maeve returned before noon. She came in dressed in an
Oxford gray pantsuit with her jeans and wellies over one arm. She
greeted her pupils, dashed downstairs, changed, and reappeared in
the kitchen before the kettle boiled. She waved off my offer of tea,
whipped out her ordnance map and the sketch she had made, and
began briefing her team. I told her what Joe had told me of the mixed
results of the search.

"Mahon's come over to my view? Good, good. Any word
from Teresa Tierney?"

"No."

"Right." She looked disappointed but not daunted.

"Declan Byrne said Mahon left a couple of men in the woods.
They can lead you directly to the north face of the mound, and
they're supposed to put themselves at your disposal. Mahon will
come to the site himself as soon as the coroner adjourns the inquest.
Is it over yet?"

"I don't know. I left as soon as they'd taken my testimony.
The Gardai will dig?" She made a face. "Mahon watching over my
shoulder, obviously." She looked round at her team. "So let's do
everything in text-book style. Ready?"

They were straining at the leash. So was I. So was my father.
That presented a problem.

Maeve solved it by pleading with him to stand by the
telephone in case Teresa Tierney called. Grumbling, he acceded, and
she went on with her briefing. Then we trooped outside. Johnnie
Poole shouldered the theodolite, the girls lifted the chest of tools
between them, and we headed for the stile. Before we reached it I
heard a car crunch on the gravel behind us. A door slammed. Maeve
motioned us on, impatient, but Joe Kennedy hove into sight as we
entered the woods with our Gardai guides.

Joe's arrival created a delay while he ranked Maeve down
for telephoning Teresa Tierney. They glowered at each other. Maeve
did not apologize. The students set their burdens down and listened
to the ruction with their eyes wide. The two uniformed policemen
shifted from foot to foot. I felt like screaming, but I didn't.

As the barbed exchange softened into a discussion of
excavation procedures I heard a further slamming of car doors.

"If you don't get into gear, Maeve, we'll still be standing here
at sundown. That has to be Mahon." I waved my arm in the direction
of the cottage.

Maeve and Joe exchanged looks. He made a gesture to the
two patient Gardai, and off we went.

In broad daylight the woods had lost their airiness. I was
again reminded of telephone poles. There was no birdsong—too
many people, too much commotion. Occasional blotches of red paint
showed like scabs on the tree trunks. The policemen led us north
along the stone wall the full extent of the plantation before they
turned west. They were taking us around the hill I had climbed the
day I found my stone.

The north rim of the woods fronted a long green slope
dotted with sheep. The road to Killaveen wound past with the hills of
Wicklow blue in the distance. A police van had been driven down
what must have been a farm lane along the pasture wall. It was
parked a few hundred yards from where the trees began. When I saw
it, I understood why Mahon had to investigate the possibility that Jay
had been carried through the woods and out the other side to a
waiting car. My heart sank. Maeve was sure Jay was hidden in the
folly. I hoped she was right, but my doubts stirred.

We walked along the bordering wall perhaps fifty yards. The
sight of all that open country diminished the woods. The plantation
was, after all, a small area. I could see how the mound rose up
irregularly and that the trees on the mound proper were scraggly
and stunted by comparison with the straight, sturdy growth
elsewhere. Then we were among the trees again, and I lost my
perspective.

The silent Gardai took us directly to the area Maeve had
designated in her sketch as the likeliest place for the folly entry. They
stopped and the shorter man gestured at an unremarkable slope,
stone-studded and overgrown with vines, thrusting ferns, and briars.
Overgrown with trees, too. I felt my chest tighten with panic. We'd
never find the key to Jay's prison in all that tangled greenery. Even
the students, who had been chattering among themselves as we
walked north, fell silent.