The Whisper (9 page)

“Backup’s on the way,” Scoop said as he disconnected.

She stepped back into the kitchen. She was shaking now. She tried to stop but bit her lip, drawing blood. Rafferty’s body was just out of view in the dining room. She controlled her emotion and said quietly, “He didn’t kill himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

She faced Scoop, his expression unchanged, nothing about him suggesting he was affected by the past few minutes—by the terrible death of a fellow police officer. “The pagan Celtic practices reenacted in the dining room and living room suggest ritual sacrifice, not suicide.” She crossed her arms on her chest, trying to keep herself from shivering. She wasn’t cold. In fact, quite the opposite. It was warm in the apartment. She saw that no windows were open. Had the killer shut them before setting to work? “Before you ask, no, I don’t know anything for certain. This isn’t an archaeological site. It’s…” She didn’t finish.

“Sophie, easy—you okay?”

“I didn’t expect this.”

“Try to remember everything Cliff said to you. Don’t try to draw conclusions on your own. Just remember.”

She forced herself to remain steady on her feet and focused on Scoop, his jaw set hard, nothing about him even close to relaxed. He was intense but under control. “I assume you saw the bomb-making materials on the coffee table,” she said. “What if Rafferty asked me here to confess his involvement with the bomb at your house?”

“Trust me, Sophie. It won’t help to speculate.”

“Maybe his guilt was weighing on him, and he arranged a suicide that made sense to him.” She felt a sting of pain on her mouth and realized she’d bit her lip. “Except I don’t believe that, based on what I see and what he told me. He said he wanted my opinion on something.”

“Something to do with archaeology or with the Carlisles?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. The glass beads, the skulls, the pot filled with smashed parts of a gun—the hanging itself—all could fit into some garbled, twisted notion of pagan Celtic rituals. I’m not talking about modern paganism—”

“It’s okay, Sophie. This scene means whatever the person who arranged it wanted it to mean, whether it was Cliff or someone else.”

Her gaze rested on toast crumbs on a plate in the stainless steel sink.

Scoop touched her arm. “Don’t try to make sense of things right now. You’re an archaeologist. You’re used to looking at evidence. You know how to be objective. You know you can’t just assume a piece of glass you find in the dirt is some ancient artifact. It could be part of a beer bottle some drunk tossed.”

“I get your point.” She pulled her gaze from the sink. “You’re right. I shouldn’t let myself be driven by assumptions and get tunnel vision. Do I stay here or—”

She broke off, suddenly overwhelmed by the stifling heat in the apartment, by the proximity of death.

She was gone, running out the back door, down the balcony steps. She didn’t breathe until she was out on the street, just as she heard sirens and the first cruiser arrived.

Kenmare, Southwest Ireland

Josie paused to admire the view of Kenmare Bay from the front steps of the Malones’ Irish holiday house and found herself yearning for a few weeks on her own, with nothing more pressing to think about than whether to spend the afternoon on a long walk in the hills or curled up with a book.

She’d missed Antonia and James Malone and Sophie’s twin sister, Taryn.

Not a total waste of a trip, Josie thought, but it was close.

Keira and Lizzie had finally caught up with Colm Dermott in Dublin that morning. He’d told them he’d talked to Sophie recently. They’d discussed the panel she was doing at the folklore conference and a bit about the violence that had touched Keira
and Lizzie—even him—over the summer. He hadn’t taken Sophie’s interest as anything but natural curiosity and her role as an archaeologist.

Otherwise, he was clueless about what she might be up to.

“Perhaps nothing,” Josie said aloud, hopping off the steps.

She started down the steep hill to her car. She noticed a man standing on the edge of the quiet road and faltered, hoping her sleepless night had got the better of her and she’d conjured him up.

She wasn’t that lucky.

The man in front of her car was, indeed, long-lost, treacherous, sexy-as-hell-itself Myles Fletcher.

Josie didn’t say a word as she navigated a series of small puddles from an early-morning shower and collected her thoughts. When she came to the road, she stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and suppressed, at least for the moment, any emotional reaction to his presence. “Will and Simon?” she asked crisply.

Myles opened the car door and dumped his rucksack in the back as if he had every right to do so. “They caught up with me and dinged me back here.”

“Did they, now?”

He shrugged. “They’re pursuing a different angle.”

“A dangerous one?”

He grinned at her. “No more dangerous than me turning up here.”

“You’re compromised,” she said, ignoring his irreverent humor. “Whoever you all are after now knows you’re a British intelligence officer. That’s why Will and Simon sent you away.”

“I’m here because there’s nothing more I can do. The next steps aren’t up to me anymore.” He stood in front of the open car door.
“I arrived back in Ireland this morning and took the bus to Kenmare looking for you. I thought you could use my help.”

“How did you know to find me here?”

“A fair guess.”

Josie wasn’t convinced. Myles would tell her what suited him. She went around and yanked open the driver’s door with a bit more force than was necessary. “Is anyone after you?”

“Other than you, you mean?”

Whatever his particular way of going about things, she had no doubt Myles wouldn’t be here now were he not confident he hadn’t been followed. She didn’t need to waste her breath telling him what they both already knew: His dangerous, solitary work over the past two years had secured critical information that Will and Simon—British intelligence and American FBI—could now use to finish the job.

In one brusque move, Josie climbed into the car and let Myles do whatever he meant to do.

He got in beside her. “It’s just you and me, love.”

“I have no illusions, Myles.” She thrust the key into the ignition. “You’re not here for me. Fasten your seat belt. I won’t have you bloodied should I ram us into a tree.”

He pulled his door shut and clicked on his seat belt, settling back comfortably in his seat. “Where are we going?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? I’ve already been to hell and back these past two years.”

She could feel his gray eyes on her as she started the car. He hadn’t shaved. He looked exhausted, irresistible and perfectly capable of slitting an odd throat or two if necessary. Why, she thought, hadn’t she simply stayed in London? She had a great deal of freedom with her job, and certainly no one had sent her to Ireland to chase after an American archaeologist.

“Let me guess, then, love.” Myles watched casually out his window as she pulled onto the road, maneuvering through a large puddle. “You’re looking into the Irish life and times of Sophie Malone.”

Josie groaned, nearly choking the engine. “There. I was right. You
did
provide Scoop Wisdom with information about her.”

“Only her name.”

“In what context? Not a good one, I imagine. And here he’d just seen her at Keira’s ruin. No wonder Scoop wants to know all he can about her. It’s not as easy as I’d hoped to find decent intel on her. Her sister’s gone back to London. Her parents have trekked into the Irish hills with tents and rucksacks.” Josie gave a mock shudder. “Will appreciates the charms of camping, but I do not. You, Myles?”

“I could do with a real bed,” he said, just a bit of huskiness to his voice.

Well-trained intelligence officer that she was, Josie saw to it no color rose in her cheeks. “I met this morning with an Irish detective I know. Seamus Harrigan. Is he the one who told you I was in Kenmare?”

Myles closed his eyes and didn’t answer.

“He’s aware that the Malones own this house but only because he lives in Kenmare—not because of anything Sophie or her family has done.”

“Did Seamus direct you here?”

“That’s a bit too strong but I was able to fill in the blanks.” She noticed Myles hadn’t opened his eyes. “He wasn’t pleased to hear from me, I have to say. Perfectly understandable. Three months ago we had Seamus crawling through a ruin in search of a serial killer. Last month we had him questioning a hired thug about a bombing and kidnapping in Boston.”

“He was doing his job,” Myles said with a yawn.

“Yes, that explains it, doesn’t it?” Josie trod too hard on the gas and took a turn far more sharply and speedily than was necessary or safe, but she’d passed various defensive driving courses. Not that the Irish guards would accept that as a reason not to ticket her. She came to a stop and glanced over at Myles. He at least had his eyes half open now. “Sophie Malone was involved in some sort of incident a year ago. Seamus wasn’t on the case but told me what he could.”

“What sort of incident?”

“The bizarre sort with no evidence. Seamus gave me the name of a local fisherman. I’m off to find him now.” She turned onto the main road back toward the village. “Does that sound too deadly dull for you, Myles?”

“A chat with an Irish fisherman would be a nice change of pace,” he said, making himself comfortable. “You look tired. Would you like for me to drive?”

“No.” She was immediately annoyed that he thought she looked tired when, of course, he was the reason for her bad night and he himself was clearly much worse off. “Are you even legal to drive these days?”

He yawned again, pushing back his seat to accommodate his long legs. He had dark shadows under his eyes, but she found him as rugged and sexy as ever. He gave her a quick smile. “You’re a madwoman behind the wheel, love. Always have been.”

“Would you like me to put you on a flight to London?”

“What would I do in London?”

“Go visit your mother. Two years, Myles. She hasn’t known if you were alive or dead.”

“No, she has. She’s known.”

“How? Carrier pigeon?”

He ignored her, and she continued over a small suspension
bridge, then turned onto a side road just before the village center. Myles had always had an uncanny ability to push right past anything he didn’t want to discuss.

She had no trouble finding parking by the town pier. As she got out of the car, a strong gust of wind buffeted her, but she found it refreshing. Just a few minutes in close proximity to Myles had her feeling hot and out of sorts. She struck off across the road without a word or a glance in her passenger’s direction. She didn’t want to think about him—where he’d come from, how long he planned to stay,
where
he planned to stay.

“I had a nice, calm life before you turned up again, Myles,” she muttered, not sure he could hear her—not caring, either. She stepped onto the concrete pier, the wind worse there, and sighed. “A very nice, calm life.”

He fell in easily next to her. “If you’d wanted a nice, calm life, you wouldn’t have gone for a career in British intelligence.”

“I must’ve landed in the wrong queue somehow. I thought I was signing up for church choir.”

She saw the glimmer of a smile beneath his beard stubble and fatigue. He moved with no apparent concern that they might run into snipers, thugs, terrorists or madmen in quiet Kenmare. Of course if he were concerned, he would move with the same nonchalance.

Josie approached an old fisherman in a traditional Irish knit sweater that had seen years—decades, probably—of wear and asked him where she might find Tim O’Donovan. The fisherman gave her a suspicious look and pretended not to understand the question. She said, “We’re friends with Sophie Malone.”

The old man’s suspicion eased. “Tim’s due anytime, please God,” he said in a heavy West Cork accent and headed down the pier toward the road.

“Let’s wait here,” Myles said, the sky and bay making his eyes seem a bluer gray. “The air feels good.”

Josie took in a sharp breath. “You didn’t expect to be alive today, did you?”

“Nor yesterday, either.” He crooked his arm toward her and smiled. “Shall we watch the tide and pretend we’re a pair of holiday lovers?”

“Damn you, Myles.” She slipped her arm into his, welcoming his warmth. She leaned against him, just for a split second. “I hate you, you know.”

He winked at her. “That’s my girl.”

Suddenly she wished they
were
tourists without a care beyond which lace shops to visit and which pub to pop into for a bite. He maintained an outward air that his two years undercover—alone, in constant danger—hadn’t affected him, but Josie knew they had. She noticed a scar on his jaw under his right ear that hadn’t been there when he’d gone off to Afghanistan.

“Did you tell yourself you’d died in that firefight?” she asked quietly. “Is that how you managed?”

“I focused on the job I was in a unique position to do.”

“Should you have been killed, did you have a plan to get word to Will, at least, that you weren’t a traitor?”

“All this talk of my demise, love.” He grinned at her. “Should I be near deep water with you?”

His humor, she knew, was his way of deflecting her questions. He wasn’t introspective. He was a man who lived in the present. “You could have let us help—”

“It was too big a risk. The people I was chasing would have won.”

“Will they win yet, Myles?”

The wind caught the ends of his dark hair. “Not the ones I was chasing.”

“Because they’re dead,” Josie said bluntly.

“There you go again.”

But his lack of a denial meant she was right. “Will and Simon are after their friends and associates, aren’t they?” she asked softly.

He brushed her fingertips with his and let that be his answer.

She could hardly breathe. “Are you free now? Safe?”

“I don’t know, love.” He angled her a wry look. “Will I be sleeping near you and a pillow tonight?”

She was tempted to elbow him off the pier, but a bearded man decades younger than the old fisherman ambled toward them. “I understand you’re looking for me. What can I do for you?”

“You’re Tim O’Donovan?” Josie asked with a smile.

No smile back. “I am.”

“I’m Josie Goodwin. This is my friend Myles. We’d like to talk to you about a friend of yours.”

“Sophie Malone,” he said. “Seamus Harrigan told me you’d be looking for me. Sophie’s gone back to Boston.”

“What happened last year, Tim?” Myles asked.

Josie winced at his blunt question. Leave it to Myles to dive in before they’d reassured the Irishman. He’d never been one for subtlety. The wind blew hard, and she thought she felt raindrops but supposed it could have been saltwater. She shook off a sudden chill as O’Donovan crossed his muscled arms over his broad chest. He stood at the edge of the pier, his back to the water as if he had no worries about taking a wrong step. “Sophie’s a restless soul, and she has a natural curiosity and an investigative mind. Put all that together…” He dropped his arms to his sides. “I suppose that’s why she’s an archaeologist and not a fisherman.”

Myles leaned casually against a post. He had no apparent worries, either, about falling into the water. “What caught the attention of her restless soul, natural curiosity and investigative mind a year ago?”

The Irishman squinted out toward the mouth of the harbor. “A tale of invaders and treasure.”

Josie gritted her teeth. “Well, that narrows things down nicely, doesn’t it?”

O’Donovan rubbed the toe of his scuffed boot across a thick rope tied to a fishing boat that presumably belonged to him. Myles nodded at the battered boat. “Looks as if she’s seen a gale or two. Did you take Sophie somewhere in her?”

“Many times. She’s a serious scholar and game for anything. Have you met her?”

Myles shook his head, and Josie said, “What about you? How well do you know Dr. Malone?”

O’Donovan leveled emerald-green eyes on her. “What business is that of yours?”

“None,” Josie said, and gave him a cheerful smile. “You seem protective of her. I can understand. Here’s a woman far from home—”

“She was born in Cork. Her family owns a house here in Kenmare.”

“All right, then. She’s Irish born but her parents are American. She attended college in Boston and did graduate work in Ireland. Now she’s returned to Boston. She’s rather rootless, wouldn’t you say?”

O’Donovan took in a breath and held it as if he didn’t want to answer Josie’s question but knew he would. Finally he exhaled and said, “I would, indeed.”

“Is she reckless?” Myles asked.

“We say a person’s reckless when things don’t work out. When they do, we say that same person is brave.”

“One can be both reckless and brave.” Josie managed not to look at Myles, although she expected he knew she was talking about
him, too. “I’d like to win your trust, Tim. Whatever happened to Sophie last year involved you and obviously troubles you.”

Myles edged closer to Josie, for no apparent reason that she could discern. “Did Sophie talk you into searching for Celtic treasure?” he asked.