St. Patrick's Day Murder (24 page)

“I know what it is,” said Lucy, with a smile. And, suddenly, she also knew who Mikey Boy was. She’d even spoken to him and asked if she could take his picture. No wonder he’d refused. She hurried off, looking for someone to tell. Someone in authority who’d believe her, like Detective Horowitz. She spotted him walking toward his car, followed by a clutch of reporters with microphones.

“No comment,” he was saying as he opened the door.

The reporters peppered him with questions. “Are you sure it’s Mikey Boy? How do you know? Has he abducted the girl? How did he get in the country? Do you think he’s still around?”

Horowitz brushed them all off. “As soon as we have anything definite, we’ll make a statement,” he said, seating himself behind the steering wheel.

“Detective!” screamed Lucy, over the others. “I have something I have to tell you.”

He either didn’t hear or ignored her, and slammed the door shut, then slowly drove off.

“Damn!” she muttered, stamping her foot.

“You can say that again,” agreed a photographer, studying the display on his digital camera. “This light’s impossible.”

Lucy stared at him, speechless. Didn’t he realize there was more at stake here than getting a good picture? All the excitement about Michael O’Donnell’s return had distracted everyone’s attention from the missing girl. If Mikey Boy was carrying out an ancient vendetta against the Malones and had abducted little Deirdre, the child was in grave danger, and every second counted.

Chapter Nineteen

L
ucy was furious as she watched Horowitz drive away. She was sure she could identify Mikey Boy; she even had the fake name he was using: Paul Sullivan. She could certainly describe him, too: late sixties, thinning hair, average height, average weight, clean-shaven. Come to think of it, maybe her description wouldn’t be all that helpful. It was no wonder Mikey Boy had eluded capture all these years—he was so average looking, he blended in. His description fit thousands, probably millions, of men. He could sit down at a town meeting, for example, and would be indistinguishable from dozens of worthy citizens in their plaid shirts and khaki pants.

There was one way he was different from them, however. If what she’d read and heard about him was true, he was completely without a conscience. He lied and stole and cheated—and killed—without remorse.

This was a man who hadn’t quailed at beheading one victim and using the victim’s compacted brain in an attempt to murder another. Her mind balked when she tried to imagine what he had in mind for little Deirdre, but the very thought that the little girl was in his snare horrified her. Nothing was more important than finding them and rescuing the child.

The thought energized her, and she hurried to her car, determined to find Deirdre. But where? The police didn’t seem to be having any luck searching the O’Donnell house. And even if there was some sort of hidey-hole there, it would take them all night to find it at the rate they were going. Not that she blamed them. She knew they had to be very careful to preserve evidence without contaminating it.

But she wasn’t going to stand around with the rest of the press corps, watching the cops dismantle the house, she decided, starting the car and speeding off down Shore Road. She had to get moving; she had to take action, even if she wasn’t sure what that action would be. She figured she’d stop at the police station and see if anything was going on there. Then she’d stop in at the
Pennysaver
, where she was sure Ted was glued to the TV and listening to the scanner and probably had a better sense of the big picture than she did. She knew she was going faster than was wise on the curvy road that wound along the shore, the vast Atlantic Ocean on one side and dense piney woods on the other, but she couldn’t let up on the gas pedal. It was getting darker, especially in the woods, but the sky over the water was lighter, almost lavender. It was a beautiful sight, the black water and the purple sky that was beginning to show pinpricks of starlight, but it wouldn’t last. Soon night would fall, covering the town with darkness.

For a moment, she was high above the town, looking down on neat streets with rows of houses, many with lights in the windows, and then she was swooping down the hill that lead to the harbor. She was rounding the corner to turn onto Main Street when something caught her eye. A big black crow was perched on the brand-new sign pointing to Dylan’s restaurant, the Irish Pub.

She braked and stared at the bird, who cocked his head, looking right back at her, first with one eye and then the other. Then he stretched his wings and flew away, cawing, right over the pub.

Lucy wasn’t really superstitious, but she found herself turning the car into the parking lot, following the crow. This whole thing had started at the harbor, with the gulls and crows announcing the discovery of Old Dan’s body, after all. And Toby had told her that Bill and Brian had been bothered by incidents of vandalism, which they had attributed to disgruntled Bilge patrons who didn’t want to lose their favorite watering hole. But maybe something else was going on, she thought. Maybe Mikey Boy had returned to the Bilge to look for something. Something valuable, perhaps, that he believed Brigid Heaney had taken from his family and passed along to Old Dan.

She parked the car in front and stared at the door, trying to decide if she should take a closer look. Her mind was made up for her when a crow appeared, maybe the same one as before, and perched on the edge of the roof, just above the door.

She told herself she wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary as she got out of the car and approached the pub. After all, her husband was working there, and she had a definite interest in the security of the site. Nonetheless, her hands were shaking as she tentatively tried the doorknob. Much to her surprise, it turned and the door opened.

She stood there for a minute, uncertain whether it meant anything. She thought Bill usually locked up his work site, but then again, this was Tinker’s Cove, where leaving the car keys in the ignition was commonplace and locking the house was such a rarity that most people had to hunt for the key when they left on vacation. On the other hand, she knew, Bill would have thought twice before leaving his expensive tools unlocked, especially down at the harbor, where someone might be tempted to “borrow” them.

She decided the sensible thing would be to give him a call and see if he was concerned about the unlocked door. So she extracted her cell phone from her bag and dialed his cell, only to be transferred to an automatic message system. She left a message but knew there was little chance he would get it; once he was home, the cell phone sat on his dresser, ignored until the next morning. She also called home, but no one picked up there, either. Where was everybody? They ought to be making supper.

There was no creak as she pulled the door open: it was brand-new and swung easily on sturdy brass hinges. Stepping inside, she reached for the light switch beside the door. Bill had installed new wiring and dimmer switches, which could be adjusted to provide bright illumination when needed for cleaning and dimmed to create a cozy atmosphere for dining. She adjusted the switch for maximum brightness and looked around.

Bill and Brian had wrought an amazing change. There was no trace of the dingy, old Bilge. The battered paneling had been replaced with clean, fresh Sheetrock, the scarred wood floor had been sanded and gleamed with a new coat of urethane, and a row of large bay windows overlooked the harbor. It was an impressive transformation.

And, more importantly, there was no sign of any intruders. She was relieved to see Bill’s portable workbench standing in a corner, along with a neat row of cases containing his tools. Buckets of paint and nails and finishing compound were stacked nearby, along with a pile of wood scraps. Unused Sheetrock and lumber were propped against a wall. Bill was a neat workman and always cleaned up after a day’s work, leaving everything ready for the next day.

Satisfied that nothing was amiss, Lucy turned to go. But, to her amazement, the black crow was standing in the doorway. Such encounters weren’t unheard of. She’d had a similar meeting with a crow shortly after she and Bill had moved into their old farmhouse on Red Top Road. They had been using a woodstove to supplement their cranky furnace, and one summer morning she heard noises emanating from inside the cold stove. A peek revealed a crow that had somehow managed to come down the chimney and become trapped inside. Not wanting to hurt the creature, she opened a nearby window, then opened the stove door. She watched as the bird marched across the floor, as if he owned the place, then hopped up onto the windowsill and flew off. This crow, however, didn’t seem interested in flying away. In fact, it didn’t budge as she approached the door. She waved her hands, intending to shoo it away, but the bird had other ideas. It stretched its wings, making itself seem larger, then settled back in place, blocking the door.

“Oh, so you think you’re a tough guy,” she said, wagging a finger at the crow. “Well, I’ve got news for you.” She marched over to the corner where Bill had left a broom and grabbed it, then waved it as she advanced toward the crow. The bird didn’t flinch but cocked his head, fixing her with a beady black eye. It was then that she heard a whimper.

The sound electrified her. Deirdre must be here, somewhere in the building. She whirled around and began a frantic search for Deirdre. She yanked open every door; she checked the kitchen cupboards and pantry, the refrigerators, even the stove. She checked the restrooms and finally found the cellar door. Only then did she hesitate a moment before dashing down the steps, where she found herself in a dim and dank little hall with three mismatched doors. The first opened on a flight of rickety steps topped with a metal bulkhead; the second revealed the furnace. That left the third door. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself for what she might find, she opened it and discovered Deirdre, sitting alone in the cone of light produced by a single bulb, singing to herself, and playing with a pile of curly wood shavings in a cleared space, surrounded by cases of beer and liquor. She seemed unharmed but didn’t react to Lucy’s presence. That, and the fact that she wasn’t restrained in any way, made Lucy suspect she had been drugged.

Fearing that Mikey Boy would return, Lucy grabbed her by the hands and began pulling her toward the stairs. The girl didn’t resist, but she didn’t cooperate, either, so Lucy knew she had no option except to carry her. She grabbed the child under the arms and hoisted her up, then started retracing her path up the stairs. She was struggling upward with her burden when she heard a voice.

“You’re too damn nosey,” he said.

Startled and fearing the worst, she looked up and saw the man she’d known as Paul Sullivan standing at the top of the stairs, backlit by the bright lights she’d turned on.

“I’m taking this little girl back to her mother,” she said, taking one step.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” he said.

His tone was casual, matter-of-fact, and it terrified Lucy. She frantically ran through her options, including trying the other stairs, the ones that led to the parking lot, but remembered how rickety they’d looked. She also wasn’t sure that the door to the outside was unlocked. For all she knew, it had an outside padlock, and she’d be trapped inside.

“It’s time for the truth, Michael O’Donnell,” she said, making the decision to stick to the path she knew, the stairs that led to the light, to safety. “The police are on to you. They’re tearing the house apart. It’s just a matter of time before they get you.”

He laughed. “They haven’t found me yet.”

“Your time is running out,” she said, determined not to let her voice shake. “Why make things worse for yourself?”

“At this point, nothing I do will make a bit of difference,” he said, chuckling. “I’m a damned man to be sure.”

“You must have had your reasons,” she said, summoning her strength to climb another step. Deirdre was heavy, and she had to struggle to keep her balance and not to fall backwards.

“I only ever wanted what is rightfully mine,” he said, watching her. “Brigid Heaney was a witch. She stole my father’s honor and his money.”

“She blackmailed him?”

“She claimed Daniel Malone was his son,” he snorted. “As if my father would consort with the likes of her. A housemaid! But he paid, right up to the day he died.”

“It’s all in the past,” she said. Lucy’s arms and shoulders were burning, and her back was aching. Even worse, she was beginning to feel dizzy from the strain of holding the girl. Her position halfway up the staircase was precarious. She had to get moving or she would fall.

“In the past!” He pounded his fist on the doorjamb. “It’s right here in the wood and glass and shingles and paint. And I’m going to reclaim it,” he declared, hoisting a red gasoline can.

Aware it was now or never, Lucy squeezed Deirdre tighter and charged up the last few steps in a desperate attempt to escape. Thrown off balance by Deirdre’s weight, she tumbled against Mikey Boy, and taken by surprise, he fell down, dropping the gas can. It tumbled noisily down the stairs, and the pungent scent told her that gasoline was spilling out. She ignored it, concentrating on getting Deirdre out of there as fast as she could. She managed to get back on her feet and struggled to disentangle Deirdre from Mikey Boy’s grip. She kicked him in the head and pulled the girl by the arms and finally freed her and started toward the door, dragging the child, but Mikey Boy lunged after her, wrapping his arms around her legs and bringing her down hard on her elbows. As she fell, she screamed, “Run, Deirdre! Run!” but the girl simply stood staring at her. Then, before she knew what had happened, Mikey Boy had flipped her over and was on top of her, holding her down by the sheer force of his weight. No matter how she struggled, she couldn’t free herself. She felt his arm pressing against her neck, cutting off her breath. She tried to push his arm away with her hands, desperate for air, but she couldn’t budge it. From the cellar, she heard a hissing sound, and she smelled smoke. She looked around frantically for some weapon, something to hit him with, and saw the crow, perched on the bar. It cawed once, then raised its wings as if to fly, but remained in place, growing larger and larger. The light in the room began to dim, and she knew then that there was no escape for her or Deirdre. She would die, the last of Brigid Heaney’s descendants would be destroyed, and Mikey Boy would triumph.