Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“This is Ryan,” Mrs. Tiernan explained. “And Timothy is Ryan’s brother. Timothy steals Ryan’s toys.”

Leprechaunlike, a second child’s head popped out from behind a door frame, eyes wide open, staring at the intruders.

“And that’s Timothy,” said Mrs. Tiernan.

“You’re goin’ to jail. You’re goin’ to jail,” Ryan singsonged.

Timothy’s head vanished.

“Hope you didn’t run into any traffic,” Seamus Tiernan declared as he entered the room, a Japanese chopping knife in hand.

“There’s our man, Lieutenant. He’s even got the murder weapon in hand,” said Margaret with a grin.

“I confess, I showed those carrots no mercy. Perhaps a round of Jameson’s before my arrest?”

“We mustn’t deny the culprit his last request.”

Tiernan dispensed the drinks.

Without warning, a winged thing swooped down, swallowed a beakful of Driscoll’s whiskey, and perched itself atop a curtain rod, eyeing the guests.

“My bird loves to party,” a newcomer said as she traipsed down the staircase. Entering the room, she beckoned the creature to sit on her shoulder. “Meet Chester. He’s a red-billed toucan from eastern Colombia. And you must be Lieutenant Driscoll.”

“I am.”

Driscoll studied the young woman. She was wearing iridescent mascara, a sienna blush emphasizing her cheekbones, and burnt orange pigment on her lips. She sported a diminutive skirt that framed slender legs. Driscoll figured her for fourteen or fifteen. She certainly was sure of herself, and had a curious curl to her smile that said, “I’m here. I warrant attention.” Despite himself, Driscoll was amused. He wondered what Margaret’s impression was.

“Has anyone proofed Chester?” he asked.

The bird croaked at the sound of his name and launched an attack on Margaret’s drink.

First mine, then Margaret’s, Driscoll pondered. Was that some sort of sign? He was certain Margaret would think so.

“He’s just warming up for his grand finale,” his keeper boasted.

“Is he a song-and-dance man?” Margaret asked. “He looks a little like Jimmy Durante with that beak.”

“Well, Chester here’ll let you judge for yourself. And now, without further ado, may I present, direct from South America, for your entertainment pleasure, Chester, as W.C. Fields in zero gravity.”

On cue, the bird fluttered cockeyed wings, let out a belch, and pirouetted in midair like a drunken sailor, finishing with a spiraling nosedive headlong into the shag carpet.

“Cut him off,” hollered Driscoll.

The girl picked up the inebriated bird and cradled him in her pocket.

“I’m Moira,” she announced. “Named after an Irish princess who fought valiantly against the Vikings. But, alas, I have been reduced by Mother to the menial task of research assistant, helping her write her great American detective novel about a psychopath who preys on nubile suburban teens.”

“You’re a writer?” Margaret said, turning to Mrs. Tiernan.

“Trying to be.”

“Don’t be deceived by the appearance of harmony that permeates this household, Lieutenant Driscoll. Demons fester in our midst,” Moira cautioned.

“Moira!” her mother scolded.

“My whispery mother dreams the darndest things. Acts of carnage haunt her daydreams. She’s a natural-born killer in a housewife’s dress.”

“Please excuse my daughter. She’s actually fourteen, but I’m afraid she’s never left her terrible twos.”

“Chapter eighteen, page 192,” Moira singsonged. “Mother likes to test her dialogue on unsuspecting guests.”

“The Vikings didn’t stand a chance,” muttered Margaret.

“And you are?” Moira asked.

“Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante,” Driscoll answered.

“Such a long name,” said Moira with a shrug.

“Sergeant Aligante, it is certainly a pleasure to have you grace our home,” said Mrs. Tiernan.

“Please, call me Margaret.”

“You’ve managed to thrill my mother, Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante.”

“Pay no attention to Moira. She delights in the resonance of her own voice,” said Seamus Tiernan.

“Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante, will you consider sponsoring me?”

“Your bird’s the one who needs a sponsor. I suggest you try AA,” Margaret replied, taking an instant dislike to the girl.

“I’m not talking about Chester, I’m talking about me,” said Moira, sharply. “I’d like to become a police investigator.”

“John Jay College of Criminal Justice may have what you’re looking for,” said Driscoll.

“College is for bookworms and preppies. I wanna be around cops. I need to feel the beat of police work.”

“I know you officers have entered the electronic age. Unleash her on a computer, Lieutenant, and she’ll have it doing cartwheels,” her mother said.

“What do you know about the Pentium Pro XPS 200?” Driscoll asked Moira.

“Could teach it a trick or two.”

“Can you now?” said Driscoll, suddenly seeing Nicole’s smile in the girl’s face.

The Lieutenant was drawn to the girl. The more he gazed at her, the more he saw Nicole, who was about Moira’s age when she died. It pained him to look at the girl. So many memories flooded to consciousness. He wished he could slip off somewhere, someplace where he could be alone to resolve his anguish in private. At the moment, he felt like he was on a stage with a packed house staring him in the face.

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant, are you OK?”

“Yes, Moira. I’m fine,” he managed.

“If you’ll let me, I can provide a program that can safeguard your entire system from any kind of virus. It’s a virtual vaccine for infected computers.”

“We’d have to clear it with the Captain for security’s sake,” said Driscoll.

“Of course!” Moira raced out of the room. “Just give me a minute to get the CD.”

“Higgins is not gonna like this,” Margaret warned, lips to her glass, eyes peeking over its brim.

“Not to worry, whiz kids like Moira could probably teach Higgins a thing or two,” Driscoll whispered. “And besides, what harm could she do? It’s not like we’re actually assigning her to the case. At best, we’ll get a few lessons on how to use the computer to our advantage.”

“What’s next? Recruitment straight out of nursery?”

The remark made Driscoll grin.

Moira returned with the virus-seeking CD and slipped it into Driscoll’s pocket. “Like a wonder drug,” she said with a wink.

Mr. Tiernan then motioned for his guests to take their seats around a beautifully set table.

“The Erin Society was started by Sean McManus, an Irish coal miner from Pennsylvania, in 1952,” Seamus Tiernan told Driscoll after hors d’oeuvres. “The New York chapter was established in the town of Hankins, in Sullivan County. There, McManus founded a seminary for the training of Druidic priests. But they have since gone underground.”

“Why?” asked Driscoll.

“Theological differences.”

“You said you had visited them. Did you attend their services?”

“If you ask me, the ASPCA should have gotten a call.” Moira’s voice echoed from the kitchen, where she had been beckoned to help her mother with the main course.

“How’s that?” Driscoll called out.

“They built a wicker man, then filled it with live roosters and set it ablaze at dawn in honor of the rising sun. Weren’t they sweethearts?”

“Moira tells it like it is,” said Seamus Tiernan. “I took her on a trip upstate when she was eight.”

“Next time, we go to Disney World,” Moria hollered.

“I thought you told me you hadn’t visited the site since ’88,” said Driscoll.

“I forgot the stopover with my daughter. That’s a trip I regret. It was no place for a young girl.”