The Book of Killowen (Nora Gavin #4) (42 page)

“What is it?” Stella asked. “What am I looking at?”

“Do you see the outline just here?” Catherine Friel’s gloved finger traced the air above the shape. She pointed to a jagged line on one side, a rounded curve on the other.

Stella’s brain began to distinguish the significance of the outlines before her, just as Dr. Friel’s voice sounded in her ear: “It’s a footprint, Stella. This girl didn’t jump to her death. She was pushed.”

Stella stared at the mark, remembering Molloy’s distraught voice on the phone.

“Are you all right?” Catherine Friel’s voice had become a low, echoing noise, like a sound traveling down a long tunnel. Time slowed, and all Stella could feel was the touch of his hands upon her skin, his eyes locked on to her own. It wasn’t real, any of it—it had only been a distraction, to keep her from seeing what he was. She had to force herself to focus.

“You’re sure this happened at the time of her death? It couldn’t have happened earlier?”

“The marks would be much darker if the contusions had happened a day or two earlier and the blood had had a chance to settle in the surrounding tissue.”

An image came back—those fresh red marks on the girl’s arm in the interview room. Stella had let herself imagine that they were self-inflicted, but Molloy had just been with her. Was he threatening the girl? Had he forced her to point the finger at Niall Dawson for the murder of Vincent Claffey?

Of course Molloy knew Anca. Because she was mixed up with Vincent Claffey, and so was he. How could she have been so thick? Molloy and Claffey and the Swiss book thieves, and perhaps Anca as well—they were all in on it. That secondment to the Antiquities Task Force, and all those cracks Molloy kept making about treasure hunters trying to corrupt Guards—she’d heard only what was on the surface and not the truth that lurked below.
They know we’re always skint.
He needed money, and for that he’d let himself be pulled into a hole so deep . . . Stella looked down at Anca Popescu’s fragile, battered face. Was it money that had driven Molloy to treat another human being like this? She felt the floor shift beneath her, and held on to the table for support.

“Detective?” Catherine Friel’s voice was louder now. “Stella, are you all right?”

Cormac emerged from his room at Killowen at about half-seven in the morning to find Eliana in the hallway, still in her dressing gown. She raced to his side, eyes wide and slightly frantic. “You’re awake, thanks God!” she cried. “He is gone again. I looked in his room, and the bath. Your father is not here.”

Cormac put his two hands on her shoulders. “Calm yourself. He can’t have been gone long. Have you any idea where he might have headed? Had you made plans for today?”

“Anthony was going to bring us eel fishing again, but not until later.”

“He may be mixed up about the time. Let’s see if we can find him at Anthony’s. You get dressed, and I’ll wake Nora and tell her where we’re going.”

He was trying to maintain a calm demeanor for Eliana’s sake, but Cormac could feel fear rising in his throat. It was tempting to believe that two murders had been solved with the discovery of stolen books in the storehouse, but what if Lucien and Sylvie were only book thieves and not killers?

It took nearly ten minutes to cover the fields between Killowen and Beglan’s place. They went up over the field and along the perimeter of the orchard, then down the narrow lane that separated the two farms.

Cormac turned to Eliana. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s fine. Probably having a very interesting conversation with Anthony Beglan right now.” Eliana allowed the ghost of a smile to pull at the corners of her mouth.

They turned down the lane that led to Beglan’s drive. Anthony had been here. The gate was open, the cattle grid littered with fresh dung from the morning’s milking.

“Hullo!” Cormac shouted as they approached the sheds. “Anyone here?”

No answer from the ruined cottage or the house. The shed gave off an acrid, rotten smell, as before, and Cormac held his nose as he
approached the door. Something was not right here—he could feel it. With Eliana behind him, he pushed open the first door. In the center of the room was a strangely shaped chopping block alongside a crude table holding several rounded blades, plus a dozen or more stretching frames, some with half-dried skins upon them. The light from the grimy window glowed through the rough but translucent skins, casting the room in an eerie yellowish light.
Jesus.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Eliana. “Don’t come any farther.”

Cormac crossed to the next doorway and pulled it open to reveal two large bubbling vats of opaque liquid the color of heavy cream. A sopping, pale skin lay draped across an old oar that had been adapted for use as a stirring paddle. Cormac felt his blood freeze. He ran forward and seized the paddle, and began feeling around in the cauldron, unaware of the agitator stirring up the bottom. It clamped on to his oar and practically lifted him from the ground, the oar bending and nearly snapping with the weight of him, until he was able to let go. The machinery stopped, and he dislodged the oar and finished stirring each of the vats. Nothing.

Anthony had to be here, Cormac thought. He wouldn’t leave this machinery running if he weren’t, surely. Cormac heaved himself away from the vat and surveyed the room. There was no place to hide. At the center of the third room hung a chain studded with large hooks, where Beglan evidently hung the bodies of recently slaughtered animals. One calf hung suspended by its hind legs, blood staining the metal trough below. Still dripping. So where was Beglan? Cormac inched around the corner, expecting the worst, but found only a skinned calf’s head, pink and white musculature exposed like an anatomical drawing. His eyes scoured the walls, the floors, looking for clues. All he could see were a couple of stalls in the far corner. A closer look revealed a handprint in blood on the dirt floor and a few stray bits of straw that must have been carried in by the calves. Above the print dangled a long pair of tongs on a coil of electric cable. The line ran to a control panel on the far wall. A stunning device of some kind, no doubt used on the animals. A spark leapt from the tongs and landed harmlessly on the dirt floor, prompting Cormac to cross and shut off the power.

A low moan came from the corner stall. Cormac dug through the straw, uncovering a semiconscious Anthony Beglan.

He lifted Beglan’s head and began checking for broken bones, obvious
wounds. All he found was an angry circular burn at one temple but no blood anywhere. An accident, or a foiled attack? He gripped Beglan’s face. “Anthony, can you hear me? Is my father here? Joseph Maguire, is he here?”

Beglan opened his lips and emitted another low moan. He couldn’t speak but seemed to be trying to cast his eyes in the direction of the house. “It’s all right now,” Cormac said. “You’re going to be all right.”

He shouted for Eliana, and when she came around the corner, he thrust his mobile into her hand. “Stay here with Anthony and make sure he’s warm. He may be in shock. Ring emergency services, nine-nine-nine, and do exactly what they tell you. Do you understand? I’ve got to find my father.”

Cormac burst out the door of the shed, heading toward the house. He entered by the back door, trying to remember what his father had said on the morning after the fire. Some nonsense about Free Staters. It wasn’t exactly what he was trying to say, but he just kept banging on about it, so it must have been important. Trying to wring the meaning from his mixed-up words was like trying to crack an ever-changing code. Sometimes the words came in spurts, sounds or meanings like the one he intended but not quite the thing he meant. Letters transposed, or dropped altogether.
Free Staters.
Perhaps someone else had understood.

The kitchen was in disarray, although whether from a struggle or just general neglect, it was difficult to discern. Crockery in the sink, peeling wallpaper, the table and chairs pushed from the center of the room. Cormac bent down on one knee to examine the kitchen floor. There was a small amount of blood, about an arm’s length from the table.

But for the dripping faucet, the house was eerily still until a strangled cry came from the far corner. Cormac flung himself forward and found his father bound to a toppled chair, eyes wild, his mouth stuffed with gallnuts. He was choking. Cormac scrabbled for the blackened marbles that blocked the old man’s airway, spilling a shower of galls onto the floor. But there were more—he had to keep going until he reached the very deepest one, lodged in the windpipe. He couldn’t reach it. Too far down. He ran to the sink and seized a carving knife, slicing through the tape and watching the old man go into a spasm. He was dying. Cormac lifted him from behind, and cinching his arms around his father’s middle, gave a mighty squeeze. It worked—the last gall shot out of Joseph’s mouth and pinged off a windowpane four feet away.

Cormac released his grip, letting his father slide to the floor. They were both still gasping. Stretched there, the two of them resembled a pair of knotwork figures, arms and legs at all angles. The old man’s eyes were open, and Cormac searched for any tiny glimmer of recognition, wondering if his father might have had another stroke. At the very least, the lack of oxygen couldn’t have done his overtaxed brain any favors. “Stay with me, Da. We’re not finished. Stay.”

Joseph’s hand reached out blindly, as though he couldn’t see who or what was before him. Cormac felt the old man’s palm, warm against his face.

“Sum,” Joseph said, his voice hoarse as a crow’s. “My sum.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to understand.” He smoothed the old man’s hair. “Who did this? Can you tell me who tried to harm you?”

The old man shook his head and croaked, “Free Stater.”

Cormac’s brain began searching for possibilities. It couldn’t have been Anthony Beglan—he was injured—and whoever had done this to his father must have just left. Probably still close enough to catch if he . . . no, he couldn’t leave the old man here.

Joseph’s breathing finally began to slow. He grasped Cormac’s shirtfront and pulled him down closer. “My author?” He started to reach for his breast pocket but couldn’t find whatever he was looking for. The old man began to plead: “She-she’s-my-author. My
author
.” More labored breathing. “You see?” Why was it always like this, two steps forward, one step back? Cormac felt lost once more, and frustration was rising in him again. “We’ll figure this out,” he said at last. “I’ll find some way to decipher it, I promise.”

The wail of an ambulance sounded, far away but fast approaching, and Cormac struggled to his knees. “Eliana’s managed to get through. She’s out in the shed with Anthony, I’m afraid he’s hurt.”

Joseph reached for him once more. “Stay. Stay.”

“Don’t worry,” Cormac said. “I’m going nowhere.”

Stella Cusack was flying down the N52 when she heard the keening of an ambulance and saw flashing lights overtake her on the narrow road. They turned off, headed for Killowen or Beglan’s place—there were no other options this way. She arrived in the yard at the Beglan farm a few seconds after the ambulance.

Eliana Guzmán was at the shed door. “Over here! A man is hurt!”

Cormac Maguire was coming out of the house with his father, the two of them staggering along like punters after a long night at the pub. “Help!” he shouted. “Someone help us.”

The ambulance crew split up, two in each direction. Stella headed for the Maguires.

“What’s happening here? Who’s hurt?”

“My father, and Anthony Beglan over in the shed. Someone tried to kill them. I don’t know who it was.” He held out his hand, revealing a half dozen gallnuts. “But someone tied my father up and stuffed these down his throat. If I hadn’t found him when I did . . . ” He shook his head, trying not to imagine.

Stella said, “Did he keep repeating the same word to you?”

Maguire looked at her curiously. “How did you know that? Yes, he kept saying ‘Free Stater.’ Do you know what he meant?”

“I thought I had it figured out,” Stella said. “When I talked to him yesterday morning, he kept repeating that same word over and over, and I thought he was saying ‘fire starter.’ I believe he saw the person who lit the fire in the storehouse.”

“Jesus.”

“And that person saw him speaking to me—that’s why he was targeted. I’m so sorry. You didn’t happen to hear a car just now, before the ambulance arrived?”

“No, there was no car. Whoever did this must have left on foot.”

Molloy wouldn’t have tried to escape down the lane, Stella reasoned, since that was the way the police and ambulance would have to
approach the farm. No, he’d head for the bog. Maybe he’d left his car there, out of sight of the farm.

As she set out toward the bog, Stella felt her soul begin to harden from the inside out. What on earth had possessed her? She felt ill, remembering how sorry she had felt for him, having to witness Anca Popescu’s terrible death, and realizing that he would have gotten away with it, too, if Catherine Friel hadn’t spotted his footprint on the girl’s body.

More sirens sounded in the lane; squad cars were on their way. What would she do if she found Molloy, if he tried to resist? She’d show him the same mercy he’d shown Anca Popescu.

The field in front of her started to slope downward, and a long row of furze bushes about a hundred yards away separated them now from the bog. Stella kept her eyes on the ground, letting her gaze sweep left and right, checking for bent grass, footprints, anything Molloy might have dropped along the way as he made his escape. About fifty yards from the hedgerow, she heard a low moan and glanced up, shocked to see a figure spread-eagled across the huge bank of furze. It was Molloy, hanging upside down, caught on the spiky thorns. He must have been running down the slope and somehow tripped and tumbled into the furze. When she reached the hedge, she saw that Molloy couldn’t move without two-inch barbs tearing into his flesh. “Help me, Stella,” he pleaded. “You’ve got to help me, please.”