Carla Neggers - The Whisper

"Did you know he'd responded to the break-in at the museum seven years ago?"

"I do now."

"He and Augustine--"

Acosta didn't let her finish. "Cliff was caught and he went out the way he wanted to go out."

"He was murdered. Did you kill him yourself?" Sophie shook her head. "No. You didn't. He was scared. He knew he was in over his head."

The door to the side entrance was unlocked, slightly ajar. Acosta pushed it open. "Sorry I got rough with you. Let's go inside and figure this out."

"You're in over your head, too, Detective, and you're scared. We need to get out of here."

He shoved her into the hall. His eyes were half closed, his jaw set stubbornly, as if he knew he had to ward off anything she said that didn't agree with his version of events. "You're smart and resourceful, Dr. Malone. You're just not that experienced."

"That was you in my courtyard."

"Yep. It was me. If you'd spotted me, I'd have said I was checking out your place because of Cliff and the missing artifacts. I needed to know what you were up to."

"Did you get inside my apartment?"

"You showed up first."

"You deliberately scared the hell out of me."

"If you'd caught me, I'd have said I wanted to see how you reacted. If you thought I was your partner in crime or if you'd made up the whole thing and knew you were caught. I bought just enough time to get out of there."

"You're saying you'd have talked your way out of it."

"I'm a cop. You're an expert and a witness."

"It's Helen, Detective Acosta. Rafferty figured out she's out of control and isn't going to stop." Sophie took in a breath, remembering Helen swooping out of her house in her bright-red sweater. She pictured the scene at Cliff Rafferty's apartment, in the bathroom at the museum. "She's a shape-shifter. She's transforming herself into some kind of a warrior queen. Listen to me. Whatever your dealings with her, you must understand--she's going to kill you."

Acosta didn't listen. Sophie turned to get out of there, but he grabbed her by the elbow and shoved her down the hall. "You'll see you're wrong."

"Cliff couldn't control Helen's violence," Sophie said, hoping she could get through to him. "He must have wanted to talk to me about the pieces from the cave--what she could want with them. He knew he was in big trouble the minute Jay Augustine was arrested. He asked you for the security job at the showroom to cover his trail."

"It's been a hell of a week," Acosta said.

"When did you know Rafferty stole the missing artifacts?" But he didn't answer, just yanked on her arm and shoved her into the kitchen. Her momentum took her into the counter. She winced in pain, stood up straight. "Did Rafferty plant the bomb or did you?"

He was staring past her, his face ashen. "My mistake wasn't violence or money."

Sophie followed his gaze to three skulls--just like the ones she'd seen at Rafferty's apartment--tacked to the courtyard door.

The branch of an oak tree was propped up against the woodwork, its dark green leaves dripping with what appeared to be blood.

The garden door opened, and Helen Carlisle stood there in a flowing, bright red cape. She wore a red wig, and she had a gun pointed at the two people in her kitchen.

"No," Sophie whispered next to the stunned detective. "Your mistake was Helen."

29

Off the Iveragh Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

The ride out to the island was horrifyingly bumpy. Tim O'Donovan had made a point of telling Josie that Sophie had never vomited on her trips out there. She was an archaeologist. Josie was a professional intelligence officer. Time to buck up. But she had never liked boats. Myles, of course, was now best friends with the fisherman, neither of whom seemed even to notice the waves, the salt spray or her seasickness.

Josie managed not to vomit. She did, however, slip on the wet rock and go down on her butt. Myles grinned down at her and offered her a hand. "I've my pride," she said, and bounced back to her feet. "I'm a Londoner. I don't do bloody rocks in the middle of the bloody ocean."

She went on in that vein for some time. The day was only slightly overcast, the light soft, the view to the Iveragh Peninsula with its breathtaking sweep of rugged mountains, the highest peaks in Ireland. The island itself was a bald mass of rock with grassy bits.

"In the old days," Tim said, "monasteries were built along the Irish coast."

"Yes, Seamus Harrigan's been trying to talk me into touring the old monastery on Skellig Michael. I understand it's very difficult to get to--even worse than here--and quite inhospitable."

The Irishman glanced down at her as if she were completely weak-kneed. "The monastery was in operation for over six hundred years."

"I can hold my own in difficult conditions, but if I had another choice, I can tell you that I wouldn't live on barren rock on a remote island. Do you suppose the artifacts Sophie saw in the cave were from Skellig Michael? I understand she believes they're pagan in origin, but if they're gold and of historic and cultural value--well, I suppose it doesn't matter."

Tim shrugged his big shoulders. "Anything's possible."

Myles pointed toward the center of the island. "Is that the way to the cave?"

"That's it. Sophie was careful not to disturb any breeding ground for birds and sea life."

"We'll do the same," Josie said, "and tread carefully."

They followed O'Donovan up and then down again over the gray, bleak rock. Occasionally Josie would look out at the view of the coastline and water and fight off an urge to chuck everything, phone Will in London and tell him she and Myles were going off to hike the Kerry Way and stay in quaint Irish bed-and-breakfasts and have picnics.

Except, of course, Myles was riveted to his adopted mission of finding Percy Carlisle.

In her own way, so was she, Josie thought, feeling less wobbly now that she was on firm ground again. She had a terrible feeling about Carlisle.

Tim stopped atop a ledge and pointed down to a rock formation. "Sophie's cave is there."

Josie stood next to him, refocusing on why they were on this inhospitable hunk of rock. "I could come out here every day for a thousand years and not notice it," she said.

Tim grunted next to her. "Sophie knows what to look for."

Myles jumped down to the mouth of the cave. Josie sighed and edged down to him. She wasn't as put off by tight, dark places as she was by boats. She tightened her jacket--she'd borrowed a waterproof one from the Malones--and crawled in for a peek. He followed her, and she imagined him and Will investigating caves in Afghanistan for weapons caches, terrorist plans. She did her part from a warm office in London.

"This is a lark for you," she said, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light just inside the cave, "much as it was for Sophie Malone."

"It's not a lark if she saw what she claims."

They crouched down amid the damp rock. "It's not a pleasant spot to spend the night, is it?" Josie shuddered. "I might have made up blood-soaked branches and whispers myself, and I've been through all sorts of training. Sophie's an archaeologist with a great deal of experience in the field, but still."

"This place gives me the bloody willies."

That did cut to the chase, Josie thought.

Myles turned to Tim, who had climbed down and stood at the cave's entrance two yards from them. "Where did Sophie plan to camp?"

"There's a spot of decent ground near where we landed. She had a tent, food, water--she was prepared and not at all worried."

Josie peered into the dark at the back of the cave. "Tell me, Tim," she said, "if you had gold treasure you wanted to keep out of the hands of the Vikings or whomever, would you hide it on this island?"

"If I knew about the cave," he said.