The Whisper (14 page)

“You’ve done your investigative bit these past few months,” she said, “and you have no legal authority to start poking into this man’s affairs.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable that I’d look him up,” Keira said.

“How? You just said you don’t know him.”

“We’re both from Boston,” Keira said, “and we share an interest in art, history and archaeology. He’s a natural to approach about the Boston-Cork folklore conference. I’m surprised I haven’t thought of him before now.”

Josie put far too much clotted cream on the last bit of her scone, but she didn’t care. “That’s utterly transparent. He’ll know in a minute you have an ulterior motive.”

Lizzie dropped her feet to the floor and reached for a piece of brown bread and a small plate. “So? We’ll have found him.” She dipped a knife into soft butter and smeared it on her bread. “That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

“There’s no danger, Josie,” Keira said, the life returning to her eyes. “Even if this police officer in Boston was murdered and didn’t commit suicide, his killer is there, not here.”

Josie recognized defeat when it was upon her. “I’ll have someone meet you in London.”

“Who? Scotland Yard?” Definitely more animated now, Keira walked over to the small table and took the smallest triangle of cheese from the tray. “MI5—MI6?”

Josie smiled. “Such an imagination.”

She was spared further grilling by Myles’s belated arrival. He was freshly showered, shaved and as sexy as she’d ever seen him. She told herself her heightened emotions were a result of the troubling news from Boston and how it might intersect with the Kenmare fisherman’s tale of a cave, blood and lost Celtic gold—not, she thought, to the reemergence of one formerly dead military and intelligence officer in her life.

Well, not in her life. In her presence, at best. Myles wasn’t a man who let himself be in anyone else’s life. He preferred to stand apart. She’d known that about him even before the ill-fated firefight in Afghanistan.

She noticed his gray eyes were less red-rimmed than an hour ago, and he moved with his usual energy and purpose. He plucked two slices of brown bread from the tray, skipped a plate, jam and butter and sat next to Lizzie. “Sorry to interrupt your chat.”

“We were discussing wedding dresses,” Lizzie said with a wry smile.

“Terrifying. Put me back on the Maine coast with Norman Estabrook’s thugs. You were quite the firecracker ally that day, Lizzie, love.”

She scooted to the corner of the sofa with her knees tucked up under her chin, so that she was facing Myles. “I had no choice,” she said.

“We always have a choice. Yours was to act. Your father taught you well.”

She frowned. “It’s him. In London. It’s my father you’re having meet us, isn’t it, Josie? He was just in Ireland for the first time since my mother’s death. I haven’t heard from him in a week or so, but I know he hasn’t returned to Las Vegas.”

Josie relished another bite of scone. “Let’s chuck everything and open a tea shop on a tree-lined street in a little town on the Irish coast.” She took a moment to consider the myriad complications that the mention of Harlan Rush presented. Widower, gambler, hotelier, veteran spy—and a man very devoted to Lizzie, his only child. “If your father is in London, Lizzie, perhaps he’s there to help you site the very first Rush hotel in Great Britain.”

“Not a chance,” Lizzie said. “My dear father may be a vice president in the family business, but that doesn’t mean he knows a thing about it. My uncle would never let him get involved in opening a hotel.”

Josie ate some of her fruit, although she wanted another scone.
“When I made that comment, I had no one specific in mind. I can’t say I’ve ever met your father.”

Myles eyed Lizzie with a measure of respect he reserved for very few. They’d bonded in the last hours of Abigail Browning’s captivity, when Norman Estabrook and his thugs had holed up in the old Rush house on the Maine coast. Once Estabrook and most of his men were dead and Abigail and Lizzie were safe, Myles had jumped in a boat and disappeared. Will could have stopped him, but he hadn’t.

Lizzie seemed to curl up into an even tighter ball. “You came back here voluntarily. Simon and Will couldn’t order you. Even if they tried to, you’d only listen if you thought it was in the interest of your mission to do as they asked.”

Myles popped a chunk of brown bread into his mouth. “I’m starving. There’s a pub in this place, isn’t there?”

“Lower level,” Lizzie said. “You know I hate being ignored, don’t you?”

He grinned. “You’ll definitely keep Lord Will on his toes.”

Keira shook her head. “You people,” she said cheerfully. “If I could paint, I’d hole up here, but I can’t.” She returned to the window and looked out at the Dublin night again. “Maybe I’ll turn into a painter of dreary, depressing scenes.”

“That’s not even possible,” Josie said.

“I hope not.” She let the drape fall back in place. “Lizzie, are you going to tell them about Justin?”

“Oh, right.” Lizzie seemed to put aside trying to get more information from Myles. “My cousin Justin reminded me that Jeremiah—his older brother—had a fierce crush on Sophie Malone when she worked at our hotel in Boston. He was still in high school.”

Josie resisted the crumbs on her plate. “Where is Jeremiah now?”

“He’s working reception at the Whitcomb. I called him while I was waiting for you all to get here.” Lizzie sat up, dropping her feet to the floor. “He helped me remember that Sophie got to know John March. The FBI director. It could mean nothing—”

Josie shook her head. “In my experience, the words ‘John March’ in a sentence never mean nothing.”

“True,” Lizzie said, undeterred. “Jeremiah and I both think there’s more that we’re just not remembering. Justin, too. It’ll come to us.”

They chatted a bit more, but Josie finally felt her fatigue and walked back up the stairs to her room. She thought Myles might head to the pub, but he was right behind her. She didn’t get through her door before he had her in his arms. His mouth found hers, and a thousand responses flooded her at once—a stern reprimand, a knee to the groin, tears, another attempt at a heart-to-heart talk. He was physically stronger and an experienced combat soldier, but he was exhausted and obviously wasn’t in a defensive mode. She was well trained herself and very much on her guard, but all her options fell away with the taste of him, the feel of his hands on her.

She kicked the door shut with her heel. It’d been a month since she’d learned he hadn’t been dragged off and killed, wasn’t a traitor. She’d had time to imagine this moment and how she’d respond—or, more to the point, wouldn’t respond.

She pushed back all the warnings she’d given herself not to succumb to being near him again and do exactly what she was doing now. Kissing him back, aching for him.

“This kept me going so many times,” he said, drawing her to him, every inch of him lean and rock-hard. He lifted her as if she were slim and small, which she was not, and she could feel his arousal against her. “Just thinking about loving you again got me through one dark night after another.”

“Rubbish.” Josie draped her arms around his neck and tilted back from their kiss. “You never think about the past or the future.”

He grinned at her. “Except when it comes to you, love.”

He kissed her again, and she was hot now, her mind spinning. She responded to him, deepening their kiss, letting go of everything but that heady combination of needs she always felt with him. It’d been two years since she’d had a man. But she wouldn’t tell him. Never.

The thought rocked her to her core. She clutched his upper arms and pulled back from their kiss. “I mourned you, Myles. I didn’t have the luxury of thinking this day would come.”

He set her back on the floor. “I’ll be mature and give you time to sort this out.” He took a curl of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, as gentle a move as he’d ever made with her. “Just not too much time. You’re decisive. You’ll know.”

“There’s nothing to sort out. You were wrong for me two years ago. Now you’re just more wrong.” She adjusted her clothing and cleared her throat. “I know it’s not that late, but it’s been a long day in the car.”

He winked at her. “Now it’ll be a long night alone in our beds.”

He went back out through the hall door, and before she could change her mind, Josie threw on the dead bolt and pulled a chair in front of the connecting door. If he tried to sneak in, at least she’d have fair warning and could dry her tears. In her thirteen years with British intelligence, not once had she let a colleague see her cry.

And that was what Myles Fletcher was. A colleague.

“Bastard,” she said, picking up a pillow and flinging it to the floor.

What would she get if she trashed her five-star hotel room out of pure frustration? She could present Myles to hotel security. Lizzie Rush could intervene and explain. Having taken on armed
thugs and a violent billionaire with Myles, she would understand why Josie had been driven to breaking windows and kicking the feathers out of pillows.

Instead she picked up the pillow and sat on the bed with her knees tucked up under her chin. She touched her lips with her fingertips and looked at the connecting door. “Damn you, Myles,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I love you as much as ever.”

Which, of course, was why he’d kissed her. He knew she loved him. He’d always known—and if that
had
given him comfort during the past two years, wasn’t it a good thing? As a professional, shouldn’t she draw some satisfaction that their relationship had helped an agent on a difficult, dangerous mission—one he hadn’t expected to survive?

Some, perhaps, but never mind the past. What about the future?

Not to mention the present. Josie dipped under the silken duvet, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets. It
would, indeed,
be a long night alone in her bed.

Boston, Massachusetts

Scoop returned to his desk at BPD headquarters in Roxbury for the first time since he’d been shredded by shrapnel. Everything was just as he’d left it. He’d turned over all his notes on the possible involvement of a member of the department with the thugs who’d kidnapped Abigail Browning. The firewall was up between him and the investigation. It had gone up the second the bomb went off.

There was nothing for him to do except avoid people he didn’t want to talk to. Josie’s report was raging in his head, but he had to pull himself together before he talked to anyone—especially Sophie. He returned to Charles Street, the temperature dropping fast, the early evening air cool, even chilly. For once Jeremiah Rush wasn’t at the reception desk in the Whitcomb
lobby. Scoop rode the elevator with a couple from Houston who were in town to see as many historic sites as they could fit in. The wife wanted to be sure to visit the Louisa May Alcott house in Concord. The husband wanted to visit Bunker Hill in Charles-town.

They looked at Scoop to settle the issue. He grinned. “I’d go to a Red Sox game.”

“Do you work for the hotel?” the wife asked. “Our tub drain’s slow.”

The husband winced as if he wanted to crawl out of there, but Scoop just said, “I’ll let the front desk know.”

She blushed. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I thought—”

“Not a problem.”

They looked relieved when he got off the elevator. His room had been serviced, even his toothbrush, razor and toothpaste set in a clean glass. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He thought about having a drink at the bar. Calling O’Reilly to join him. Tracking down Abigail on her honeymoon. Before the bomb, the three of them would get together in the backyard or in one of their kitchens and talk about whatever was on their minds. Now everything was different. He, Abigail and Bob O’Reilly were stuck on the wrong side of the investigation.

He rubbed a palm over his head.

He could go up and fix the Houston couple’s drain.

Scoop grabbed a zip-up sweatshirt and returned to the lobby, bypassing Morrigan’s and heading back outside. He turned up Mt. Vernon Street, telling himself he was just getting some air, working off the last of his jet lag and the effects of his long day. The nagging questions about Cliff’s role in the bomb blast. His death. The bizarre scene at his apartment.

Sophie’s wide, blue eyes as she’d taken in the disturbing, bizarre
skulls, glass beads, DVD, cast-iron pot—the bomb-making materials and the former police officer hanging in his dining room.

As he came to the top of Beacon Hill, Scoop gritted his teeth, but he already knew what he was going to do. He continued on to the Malone twins’ apartment. The gate was unlocked, which was an issue for him. He didn’t ring the bell, just descended the steps and walked through the archway back to a cute little courtyard.

Sophie was, in fact, arranging mums. She was on her knees, a half dozen mums in apple baskets in front of her. She moved a yellow one behind a dark maroon one and rolled back onto her heels. “There. Better.” She glanced up at Scoop. “What do you think?”

He nodded back toward the street. “I think you should keep your gate locked.”

“That must have been one of the neighbors who share the courtyard. I’m in a batten-down-the-hatches mood myself.”

“Smart. The mums look great. Perfect. Don’t touch a thing.”

She stood up and smiled at him. “You don’t care, do you?”

“I like gardening when it involves something I can have for dinner.”

“Ah. What have you been up to?”

“I just got mistaken for a plumber. Thought you’d be pleased. Not everyone looks at me and thinks ‘cop.’”

She brushed loose potting soil off her hands. “Would you like to come inside?”

“I’m homeless. Sure.”

She led him into the tiny apartment. The low ceilings would have him nuts in half a day, but that was affordable Beacon Hill. Unaffordable Beacon Hill came with higher ceilings. He noticed a laptop and papers by the fireplace, but otherwise, there was no indication Sophie had truly moved in.

“I know why you’re here,” she said.

That was good because he wasn’t sure he knew.

She motioned to what passed for a kitchen. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, but help yourself.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t been able to eat a thing since that half of your sandwich. Have a seat.”

He pulled out a chair at the table by the windows and sat down, but she stayed on her feet between him and the entry, watching him as if she were wondering if she’d lost her mind inviting him in. She’d twisted her hair up into some kind of knot that was coming apart, tangled strands of dark red falling into her face.

She walked over to the low sectional and stood in front of the fireplace. “It’ll be easier if I start at the beginning.” She took a moment to study him with those smart, bright blue eyes. “But you know my story already, don’t you? Two Brits talked to a fisherman in Kenmare this morning. They’re friends of yours, aren’t they?”

“Not friends, exactly.”

“They’re reporting to you—”

“Sort of, yes. It doesn’t matter, Sophie. I want to hear you tell me what happened.”

“All right.” She stared past him out the window, but he doubted she even saw the array of autumn flowers. “Last September, I explored a tiny, uninhabited island off the Iveragh Peninsula as a break from writing my dissertation.”

Scoop smiled at her. “Couldn’t just go to the local pub?”

She seemed to relax a little. “I did some of my best writing in my local pub. My island trips were different. I’d get out on the water and in the air and not think about my page quotas, my ar
guments, my future. How many years it’d taken me to get to that point and how in debt I was, with no certainty I’d get the kind of job I wanted in the end.”

“All that cheerful stuff,” Scoop said.

“It all fell away on those trips. I was looking forward to finally getting my doctorate, but it was a transition. Going out to the island was just what I needed. A lark. No past, no future. Just the present.” She turned back to the fireplace. “Tim had told me a story that’d been handed down by priests in a local village, about Celtic treasure hidden on an island. We figured out this could be the island described in the story. I never thought I’d find anything—neither did Tim. That wasn’t the point.”

“When was your first trip out there?”

“Late August. I went four or five times. Tim would drop me off and come back after a few hours. This last time was in late September. I’d talked him into leaving me there overnight.”

“Did it take a lot of talking?” Scoop asked.

She gave him a small smile. “As a matter of fact, yes. Tim thought I was completely daft. I was curious, I was having fun. I wanted to check out the center of the island. It’s not difficult to get to—I just couldn’t do it and get back to where Tim would pick me up in a few hours.”

Scoop settled back in his chair. “Did you head there the minute you arrived on the island?”

She nodded. “I wasn’t the least bit concerned about staying out there on my own. I happened on a small cave almost right in the middle of the island. I wasn’t even sure at first it was a cave.”

“It’s not marked on a map?”

“No.” Sophie sat on the edge of the sectional, as if she knew she might jump back up and run out of there at any moment.
“It was a beautiful day. Clear, calm. By the time I discovered the cave it was getting late, but I figured I could camp there.”

“No worries at that moment, then,” Scoop said.

“None. I’ve investigated caves before. I set my pack on a ledge by the entrance and had a look inside. My flashlight hit on something. I got all excited. I was having fun, remember.” She paused and stared down at her hands, her fingers splayed in front of her, and Scoop knew she was back in that cave a year ago. “I came upon what appeared to be a spun-bronze cauldron filled with pagan Celtic metalwork. Of course, I can’t be sure what it was without further examination.”

“You didn’t get that chance.”

“That’s right.” She raised her gaze from her hands, then pushed to her feet, clearly restless. “I was still examining the find when I heard a noise—what sounded like whispers. I turned off my flashlight and ducked a bit deeper into the cave until I could figure out what was going on.”

“These whispers.” Scoop kept his voice even, calm. “Describe them.”

“I couldn’t make out any words. It sounded as if whoever was out there was deliberately trying to scare me.”

“You’re sure someone was there.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Whatever I heard wasn’t the wind or the ocean.”

Scoop glanced out the window, the late-day sun hitting the pretty courtyard. When Jay Augustine had come upon Keira Sullivan in the ruin on the Beara Peninsula, he had whispered her name before trapping her inside.

“What happened next?” he asked quietly.

Sophie came and sat down across from him. “I hid behind a boulder. I had a partial view of the entrance to the cave. There
were…” She shut her eyes, inhaling through her nose. “I saw branches—branches of a hawthorn tree—placed in the shape of an X at the entrance to the cave.”

“You could see that clearly?”

She opened her eyes again. “It was still daylight. I wasn’t that far away.”

“Any significance that it was a hawthorn tree?”

“Fairies are said to gather and dance under hawthorns. It’s considered bad luck to cut one down.”

“Ah.”

“The branches had to have been brought in by boat. There are no trees—hawthorn or otherwise—on the island. It’s mostly rock, with a few grassy spots.” She shifted her gaze back to the courtyard, her blue eyes wide now. “The leaves of the branches had been soaked in what appeared to be blood.”

“Oh, good,” Scoop said.

She managed a smile. “You knew that was coming. Tim wouldn’t have left that out of whatever he told your British friends.” Her smile faded, her skin pale in the dim light. “Whoever placed those branches knew I was there. I half rolled, half crawled deeper into the cave. I remember searching in the dark, feeling with my hands, for a loose rock I could use to defend myself.”

Scoop grimaced. “Whispers. Bloody branches. Hiding for your life in a cave. I have to tell you, sweetheart, that’d do it for me.”

“It was rather terrifying, I have to say. I don’t remember what happened next. I was hit on the head somehow.”

“Where on the head?”

“Right here.” She put her hand behind her right ear. “I could have banged into a jutting rock, or someone could have hit me.
I was knocked out—I don’t know for how long.” She pointed to her wrist. “I wasn’t wearing a watch. When I regained consciousness, it was pitch dark. I didn’t move. I swear I didn’t breathe.”

“Were you afraid you’d been trapped in the cave?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “I finally couldn’t stand it and crept forward. I was dizzy, in pain, but when I felt the fresh air and heard the ocean…” She sat up straight, collecting herself. “At least I knew there hadn’t been a cave-in while I was unconscious. I wasn’t trapped. The cauldron was gone. The branches were gone. I didn’t hear more whispers…” She trailed off, as if she were back in that cave.

Scoop could understand why the Irish police hadn’t done more to investigate.

“I was a mess,” she said, almost matter-of-fact. “I figured my backpack was a lost cause. I’d heard it fall—or get shoved—off the ledge. I was left for dead, Scoop. I’m convinced of that.”

“I have no reason to argue with you.”

“I was hurt, dehydrated, shivering nonstop.” Her voice was even, steady. “I had a concussion and mild hypothermia, but I was still coherent. I stayed in the cave, out of the wind. I knew Tim would come find me.”

“Weren’t you afraid he was responsible—”

“No, never. Not for one second.”

She got up again, pulling clips out of her hair and shaking it loose, which was almost more than Scoop could stand watching. All that red. The freckles. The eyes. He let his gaze drift to her shape under her jeans and T-shirt, then stopped himself because he just wasn’t going that far. At least not right then, anyway.

“Your fisherman friend found you?”

She nodded, more animated now. “I heard him calling me. He
was pretty frantic by then. I crawled out of the cave on my own, and Tim was standing on a ledge—he was scared to death, Scoop. He’d spotted my backpack. It looked as if it’d tipped over where I’d left it and fallen into a deep, wet crevice.”

Scoop rose next to her. “Hell, Sophie.”

“Tim gave me water and his jacket. He had a small first-aid kit with him and did what he could for my scrapes and bruises. I told him everything. It sounded crazy, there in the morning sun, with birds circling overhead, waves crashing on the rocks. Tim obviously thought I’d hit my head crawling in the cave and hallucinated or dreamed everything else, but he called the guards.”

“There wasn’t much they could do by the time they got out there,” Scoop said.

“That’s right. They didn’t find a drop of blood, a footprint, a witness, evidence of another boat.”

“Nothing to corroborate your story.”

She shoved both hands through her hair again, coming up with more pins that she set on the table. “I’m sure that was the idea. If by some miracle I lived through the night, I’d have a crazy story to tell. If I didn’t, I’d look as if I’d died of natural causes after a mishap.”

Scoop brushed a few strands of her wild hair out of her eyes. “It took some effort and planning to get those bloody branches out to that island.”

“They could have been part of a ritual, or just designed to scare me. I suppose there’s a chance the guards missed a bit of forensic evidence, but the island’s not a hospitable place for tracking the stray eyelash or blood spot. Whoever followed me out there was careful not to leave anything obvious behind.” She gave him a challenging look. “A cop would know how to do that.”

He let her comment slide. “When you heard about Keira
Sullivan’s experience on the Beara Peninsula, you thought of what happened to you on the island. You two have similar back-grounds—you’re both from Boston, you know Colm Dermott, you’re interested in old Irish stories, you’re around the same age.”