Carla Neggers - The Whisper

It was clearly not what he'd expected her to say, and he smiled back at her. "Probably not."

"Are you kicking yourself because you didn't connect the dots and figure out sooner Cliff Rafferty was the police link to those local thugs?"

"That's still an open investigation. Whatever happens, you have your victories and your defeats in this job." He shrugged. "You hope the defeats don't get anyone killed."

"If they do, you'd rather it be yourself who's hurt than someone else?"

He didn't answer. "Come on. I have my car. I'll drop you off."

"I don't mind walking."

Scoop put his arm over her shoulders. "I can't wait to see you on that Irish panel, arguing with your colleagues about some point of ancient history. Is Celtic archaeology controversial?"

"It can be."

He laughed softly. "That's my point. Academics." He let his arm fall to her waist and held her close. "You just saved a man's life. The day could have gotten off to a worse start."

"I guess that's one way to look at it."

He tilted his head back. "What's on your mind, Sophie?"

She lifted his hand and touched her fingertips to a jagged scar on his wrist. "The bomb did this to you. It burned your house. Cliff Rafferty was hanged. Now Frank Acosta was nearly drowned. Our perpetrator seems to be obsessed with Celtic rituals, appropriating bits and pieces of Celtic lore from a variety of sources, jumbling them up to suit his or her needs. Some scholars believe that burning, hanging and drowning represent fire, earth and water--fundamental elements associated with specific Celtic deities. The god Esus with earth, Taranis with fire, Teutates with water."

"So you don't think the choice of the tub was a coincidence?"

"It might have been quick thinking, since whoever is responsible couldn't have known Detective Acosta would be here this morning. I'm not suggesting there's a coherent strategy or recreation of any particular set of sacrificial rites at work."

"Jay Augustine wasn't a scholar of the devil and evil," Scoop said. "He just latched on to what suited his purposes."

"To kill." Sophie could feel the blood draining from her face. "In 1984, the corpse of a young Celt was discovered in a bog in England. It was extremely well preserved because of the anaerobic conditions. He'd met a terribly violent death. He'd been hit on the head several times--hard enough that he'd have died soon after. But that's not what killed him."

"Was he burned, hanged or drowned?"

"Garroted, basically. The cord used was still around his neck two thousand years later. A stick had been tucked into the back of it to add to the force of the strangulation. It actually broke his neck."

"Charming."

"That wasn't the end of it. Then his throat was cut and his body deposited in the bog. He could have been a willing victim, sacrificing his life for the welfare of the tribe, victory in battle--we don't know. Whatever the purpose of his death, he'd have felt no pain after the initial blow."

Scoop grimaced. "And here I thought you just dug up pretty jewelry buried for hundreds of years. Come on. Let's go see your hockey players."

"I think I will take you up on the offer of a ride over to the tutoring center."

He slipped an arm around her. "I thought you might."

25

After he dropped off Sophie with her hockey players, Scoop parked at the Whitcomb, changed clothes and walked up Beacon Street to the bow-front, early-nineteenth-century Garrison house. He'd gone back to the conference room after she'd left and checked in with Bob O'Reilly. They'd agreed to meet here, in the first-floor drawing room. It was used for meetings, parties and, on occasion, a practice room for Fiona and her friends. The offices of the foundation named in honor of Owen Garrison's sister were located on the second and third floors. Dorothy Garrison's drowning death off the coast of Maine at fourteen was connected, indirectly, to the death of Christopher Browning, Abigail's first husband, eight years ago--four days into their honeymoon.

Lizzie Rush had a point about ripple effects, Scoop thought.

The Rushes would have put Bob up at any of their hotels, too, but he was staying here, in his niece's attic apartment.

Bright autumn sunshine streamed through the tall windows that looked across busy Beacon Street to the Common, crawling with tourists, shoppers, kids and dogs. The gold-domed Massachusetts State House was a few doors up the street.

Bob cut his gaze over to Scoop. "You have your head screwed on straight with this Sophie Malone?"

Scoop shrugged. "More or less."

"She's not one of these women who come and go in your life. Whatever's going on with you two isn't the same."

"It doesn't matter. I can do my job."

"You're not on the case," Bob said. "I'm not, either. That prick Yarborough threatened to report me when I showed up at the museum this morning."

"You'd have done the same."

"Yeah, probably."

That was the end of that. Scoop noticed Fiona O'Reilly waiting for traffic on the other side of Beacon, some kind of instrument case slung over one shoulder. "As far as we can tell, Percy Carlisle hasn't boarded a flight to the U.S. since Sophie saw him in Ireland."

"Maybe he sprouted wings," Bob said. "The way things are going, nothing would surprise me. Anyone wanting to fry, hang or drown us has had multiple opportunities."

"That's just a theory."

"I know, I know." He nodded out the window. "Here comes Fiona with her violin. She's not getting any better on that thing. Either that or I just don't like violin music."

"We can go talk somewhere else."

"Nah." He continued to stare out the window as Fiona, blonde hair flying, ran across the street. "We've all turned into shit magnets, Scoop. I thought it was Abigail. Widowed, kidnapped, John March's only daughter. It's not just her. It's you and me, too."

"It's not always the enemies you know that get you," Scoop said. "Sometimes it's ones you don't know."

"Most of the time. Talk to me, Scoop. Talk to Abigail and me."

"She's here?"

He nodded. "She and Owen got back late last night."

Owen Garrison entered the drawing room at the same time that Fiona came through the front door, smiling easily, as if she had nothing on her mind but a few hours of practicing in a quiet, pretty setting. She set her violin down and grabbed tall, angular Owen in a big hug. He looked over the top of her head at Bob and Scoop. "Abigail's upstairs. I'll stay down here with Fi."

Scoop led the way. He could feel a pull of pain in his hip now. He hadn't noticed any pain when he'd half carried Acosta down the hall. Worse had been hearing the running water, hearing Sophie yell for help--not knowing what was going on, if he'd get to her in time. He hadn't told her that.

He hadn't told her that he'd fallen in love with her. It was just that simple. Love at first sight. Him. Who'd have thought it?

He came to the attic landing and entered the small apartment. Abigail was on her feet. "Scoop," she said, hugging him. "I've missed you."

He laughed. "Yeah, right, let me go tell Owen--"

She grinned at him, a spark in her dark eyes--her father's eyes. "You know what I mean. Well, you look better than when I saw you at the wedding."

Bob grinned. "He reminds me of Herman Munster." He nodded toward Abigail as he addressed Scoop. "Looks pretty good, doesn't she? Being rich and married agrees with her. You'd never know she was kidnapped and nearly killed a month ago."

Abigail rolled her eyes. "At least you didn't make a pregnancy joke. The first one who does, I shoot."

"I'll consider that fair warning," Scoop said.

He pulled out a chair at the small table where Keira used to draw and paint. Bob hadn't done much to the place. He sat at the table, too. Pads and pencils were stacked to one side. Scoop felt a tug of emotion. He, Abigail and Bob had bought the triple-decker together because they'd all needed a place to live and were looking at the same time, and it'd been a way to pool their resources in Boston's expensive real estate market. As different as they were--in temperament, background, likes and dislikes--they'd become friends. When one would be chewing on a problem, they'd get out the pads and pens and a six-pack and brainstorm.