Carla Neggers - The Whisper

"Think back. Put yourself in that cave that night." Scoop spoke softly, sat on the edge of the bed. "Try to remember."

"Do you think I haven't done that?"

"Yeah. I think you haven't done that. Not in the way I'm talking about."

"I don't want to," she said, more to herself than to him.

"I know you don't."

She glanced sideways at him. "The bomb? Did you make yourself--"

"Yes, I made myself go back there and relive every moment of what happened. I put myself back in the hours that led up to the blast and took myself right up to when I saw Bob O'Reilly sitting by my hospital bed, looking grim and pissed off. Only then could I step back and be objective about the experience itself."

"So it helped with the investigation?"

He shrugged and grinned. "Not really. I was badly injured, then shot up with morphine. I have gaps. I wish I could remember everything."

"Was Cliff Rafferty at your house before the bomb went off? Looking back, can you see that he was the one who planted it?"

"We're not talking about me right now."

She smiled. "When do we get to talk about you?"

"After you've told me about the cave and we've had a couple drinks."

She turned back to the window and gazed down at the alley behind the hotel. "I was having a great time," she said, her voice steady, calm. "It was a beautiful September day, and I loved exploring the island. I was careful not to disturb any nesting sites or fragile areas. I looked for seabirds, seals--the rare Kerry spotted slug."

"You can tell me about the rare Kerry spotted slug later."

She was so intent on her memories that she obviously didn't notice he wasn't serious. "I didn't expect to find one given the conditions on the island. I was also on the lookout for ancient sites--a hermit-monk hut, for instance--but I had no reason to believe I'd find one.

"Sophie," Scoop said, "could anyone else have already been on the island when you got there?"

"I don't see how but it's possible."

"Who else knew you planned to go out there that day?"

She shook her head. "No one but Tim that I'm aware of. We didn't broadcast what we were doing to everyone in town, but we knew there was talk."

Scoop let that one go. "Someone could have seen the two of you go off in his boat and put two and two together."

She nodded. Obviously it was a scenario she'd considered herself. "Anyway, after Tim dropped me off, I watched him head back across the bay. I had binoculars. I saw other boats but none came toward the island. I had a bite to eat, then I went exploring. I heard birds calling but otherwise...I'm sure of it, Scoop. I was alone."

She paused, but he didn't move or speak. He let her get her mind back to that day on the island.

"I didn't hear a boat after Tim left. Whoever stole the artifacts and scared the hell out of me could have shut down the engine so that I wouldn't be alerted, or had a boat with a quiet engine, or rowed over from shore or another boat. It's not easy to drop someone off on the island. There's no dock, obviously. The shore's rocky, the waves and currents are tricky--you have to know what you're doing."

"Which your Irish fisherman friend does," Scoop said.

"Definitely. Fast-forward to when I first became aware I wasn't alone. It wasn't just a feeling. I'm not particularly psychic. I'd just entered the cave--it must have been five, at most ten, minutes later when I heard gravel or small stones crunching." She turned to him. "And whispers."

"Close your eyes. Put yourself there."

She did, but he could tell she wasn't there--the spell had been broken. She sighed and opened her eyes, gave him a quick smile. "I'm in an Irish pub with a Guinness and friends."

"Why would someone want to scare you?"

"I have no idea. To create a diversion, to mislead, to act out a fantasy. I suppose there are a dozen possibilities."

"What do the whispers and the blood-soaked branches tell you?"

"That we're dealing with a twisted son of a bitch--"

"Professionally this time. From what you know about ancient rituals."

"People can twist anything to justify and rationalize their own actions. Roman writers describe walking into sacred Celtic groves and discovering human flesh hanging from trees, branches smeared with human blood. Not that the Romans were all sweetness and light. But there's ample evidence that the Celts practiced human sacrifice."

"To what end?"

"Tribal welfare, fertility--we know actually very little about Celtic religious beliefs. Druids would study for years--decades, even--but committed everything they learned to memory. It wasn't written down. In the early days of Christianity, Irish monks wrote down epic pagan tales. They're a blend of fancy, folklore, tradition, legend and mythology, not to mention adjusted here and there to serve the purposes of the church. That doesn't mean they don't provide important insight and information on the Celts of prehistory. Early Christians in Ireland incorporated pagan traditions instead of trying to stamp them out altogether. For instance, we'll find holy wells on the same site as pagan wells." Sophie moved from the window but remained on her feet. "There's so much more to learn."

Scoop could feel her passion for her field of study. "Whoever left that mess at Cliff's place could have their own interpretation of Celtic lore." He stood up. "Back to the cave, Sophie. You heard the whispers. You saw the branches."

She shut her eyes, then opened them again, shaking her head. "It's just as I told you. I can't remember how I hit my head. I remember the terror I felt...scrambling deeper into the cave, knowing there was no way out but past whoever was at the entrance with the bloody branches. Then--" She stopped, her face pale, if not as pale as when he'd found her on Beacon Hill. She sighed. "Then I woke up in the pitch dark with a screaming headache."

Scoop walked over to her and took her hand as she rose. "What you went through is tough, Sophie."

She smoothed her fingertips over a scar on the back of his hand. "This from someone who survived a bomb blast."

"I wasn't alone. I had people right there with me."

"You almost bled to death. I just got banged on the head and a few scrapes and bruises, and I was cold."

"Your Irish fisherman might not have found you in time."

"And you could have had a piece of shrapnel hit an artery or a vital organ."

His throat caught. "I'll be downstairs in the bar. Let me buy you dinner and a drink." He smiled. "A couple of drinks."

He left her to regroup and shut the door quietly behind him. Downstairs in Morrigan's, Fiona O'Reilly was sipping a soda at a table under the windows, a glossy Ireland guidebook in front of her. He sat across from her. "How's school?"

"Intense. I'm practicing myself bloody."

"You love it, though, don't you?"

She beamed. "Every minute."

"Still excited about your trip to Ireland at Christmas?"

"Yep. I've got most of the details worked out, including where to have Christmas dinner. Not that there are many choices. Virtually every restaurant in Dublin is closed on Christmas Day. Then there's St. Stephen's Day the next day." She waved her long, slender harpist's fingers, the tips callused, the nails blunt. "It'll be so much fun."

"I hear Jeremiah Rush has a cute younger brother who works at their Dublin hotel."

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks turned bright pink.

Scoop grinned. "You look just like your father when you make that face. It's the long-suffering O'Reilly face. Except he'd never blush."

"I'm not blushing. I'm just excited about Ireland. I'm counting down the days. We're having Christmas Eve tea at the Rush Hotel. Lizzie plans to join us." Fiona shut her guidebook, her cornflower-blue eyes--her father's eyes--wide and serious. "I keep reliving those first minutes after the bomb went off, with my Dad yelling and the smoke and the fire and all the blood. Scoop...I thought you were dead."