Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Read online

  Ireland, huh?

  7. A Single Step

  ‘Argyll Ferry Dock’

  The sign was large, blue with white letters, slightly rusted, and looming impatiently over Maggie’s shoulder.

  She looked at her watch. Eleven fifteen. “I guess I should get on board,” she tried to sound happy.

  “I guess so,” Iain replied, his smile also fading just a bit.

  “Yeah, I want to get a good seat.” She thought of the motion sickness pills in her bag. No need to share that little personality quirk with him just yet. “Next to a window or something.”

  Iain nodded and looked around at the other passengers beginning to board the ferry to Belfast. “Aye, you’ll be wanting to get on board then.”

  An awkward moment ensued as they both vainly resisted the impending parting.

  “Well, all right, then,” Iain tried.

  “Right,” Maggie echoed, trying not to be sad. She was a strong independent woman. No reason to be sad. “And you’ll pick me up Saturday?”

  Iain’s smile returned to full force. “Two-thirty,” he confirmed. “I’ll be here.”

  Maggie smiled back at him. Then she remembered the time. “Damn,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Okay. I’ve really got to go.”

  “All right then. Bye.” Iain just stood there.

  Maggie did too.

  Finally she stepped forward, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and kissed him goodbye. Hard. “See you Saturday, mo chridhe.”

  Iain wiped the lipstick, but not the puzzled smile, off his lips. “‘Mo chridhe?’”

  “Look it up,” she shot back as she pulled her bag over shoulder.

  Iain shook his head amicably. “See you Friday.”

  “Saturday,” Maggie corrected before turning around and walking toward the boat, genuinely irritated with herself for the sad, empty feeling filling her stomach.

  ***

  In the event, there were few passengers aboard the ferry and Maggie had had no difficulty in finding a forward-facing seat, a fact for which she was quite grateful once the ferry began its undulating journey. She had initially considered trying to spy Iain from a window, but had ultimately decided against it. It was only a few days after all. She needed to stop acting like a lovesick schoolgirl. Still… those blue eyes.

  Maggie shook her head and laughed quietly at herself. Time to focus on more serious pursuits. She slid her small suitcase against the ship’s hull and pulled her far too heavy backpack onto her lap. Inside the bag, she immediately spotted that morning’s Aberdeen Herald—already half-crushed under her Dark Book. She’d brought along the ancient, and heavy, tome because she was fairly certain she’d want it with her while in Dublin. Not only for her impending studies, but also for peace of mind. She couldn’t bear the thought of the book being damaged or destroyed while she was away. Better just to schlep it along. She pried the newspaper out from under the leather-bound text and unfolded it. Turning to page three, she quickly found the article she knew would be there:

  KIDNAPPED MACLEOD HEIR STILL MISSING

  Aberdeen—Police insist they are making progress in the kidnapping of one year old Douglas MacLeod, only son to David MacLeod, Chieftain of MacLeod of Lewis. While no suspect is yet in custody, police have begun contacting several persons of interest and assure that it is only a matter of time before the infant is reunited with his father…

  Blah, blah, blah. Maggie skimmed down the page.

  …The phrase ‘I am returned to fulfill the prophecy’ has naturally led to rumour that the MacLeod clan is being stalked by the ghost of the MacLeod Banshee, a mythical fairy woman who…

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. So much garbage, Maggie opined. And anyway, they won’t tell the story as well as Iain. She smiled at the thought of the handsome Scot, then shook her head and returned to her scan of the article. Aha, here we are. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and pulled the newspaper closer.

  …Much speculation has also surrounded the apparently nonsensical words written in blood near the foot of the child’s crib. Believing that the phrase might be Gaelic in origin…

  Well, duh! Maggie rolled her eyes.

  …Believing that the phrase might be Gaelic in origin, police contacted several local linguists from the University of Aberdeen. While they agreed that the words appeared similar to Gaelic, they ultimately concluded the phrase to be written in a language other than the endangered tongue.

  Idiots, Maggie sneered.

  …The words were also presented to Prof. Robert Hamilton, a visiting academic from the University of Edinburgh. Fortuitously in Aberdeen for a conference, Prof. Hamilton is widely recognized as one of the world’s leading authorities on Celtic languages and Scottish Gaelic in particular.

  All right! I told you it was a good article, Maggie thought with a smile. Go on and tell ‘em, Hammy. Tell ‘em it’s your dialect. Er, our—our dialect. Maggie suddenly regretted never having published an article about her find. But she could hardly blame herself for having wanted to keep the Dark Book to herself. No, her academic fifteen minutes of fame would have to come from some other source.

  …Prof. Hamilton also confirmed that the words were not Gaelic in origin.

  “What?!”

  Maggie looked around sheepishly at her fellow passengers, several of whom had glanced her way at the sound of her uncontrolled exclamation. Smiling weakly, she returned her attention to the newspaper article:

  …Prof. Hamilton also confirmed that the words were not Gaelic in origin. Hamilton explained that there are certain letter combinations one would expect to see in Celtic languages.

  “If this were truly a Gaelic dialect,” Hamilton said, “one would see these combinations. Even if this were some strange, forgotten dialect of the tongue, one could still expect to see consistent mutations from the standard. And although this is a rather short phrase, such combinations are simply not present here.”

  Hamilton concluded with the following foreboding opinion: “Whoever wrote this may have wanted us to believe it was Gaelic. For what reason remains to be seen.”

  Maggie set the newspaper down in disbelief.

  “Now why would he say that?”

  8. The Scientific Method

  The white cinderblock wall was fairly covered by the enormous map of Aberdeen. It was the only thing even close to a decoration in Sgt. Warwick’s spartan office. She had been meticulous in hanging the map, centering it exactly on the wall, equidistant not only from floor and ceiling but also from each of the adjoining walls. She’d measured three times to confirm exactly where the top corners should be affixed and she’d double-checked they were properly placed after hanging it. She was absolutely certain it was level and straight. Which is why it irritated the hell out of her that it looked crooked.

  It had been a small task to deduce that the apparent slant was an optical illusion generated by the asymmetry of the image itself, particularly the large blue slash of Aberdeen Harbor and the North Sea which ran down the entire right side. But this deduction had done little to alleviate her irritation at the situation, or the temptation, like just then, during the time she found herself distracted from her work by the faux-crookedness, to just rehang it, slightly askew, in order, ironically enough, to make it look straight.

  There was an undeniable logic to this solution if one accepted the premise that the entire purpose of hanging any picture straight is to make it look straight. In the case of her map, there was in fact no strictly utilitarian function in exact straightness: no robotic arm would be descending from the ceiling and relying on the exact positioning of the map to place a push-pin; and she had no intention of ever using the ceiling or floor or walls as reference points from which to locate a particular street or alley or quay. Therefore, given that the image itself created the illusion of slantedness, it should be possible to use the image to create a similar, but opposite, illusion of straightness. All she had to do was abandon the scientific method of measurement for the more holisti
c approach of artistry. Make it look straight, even if, in fact, it wasn’t. And finally be done with it.

  But then it would be crooked. And she’d know it. And it would drive her crazy.

  No, better to be straight and appear crooked than vice versa.

  And as far as being distracted by the map’s positioning, that was simply a matter of will power. Warwick tore her eyes from the veins of the cities streets and once again glared down at the file on her desk. ‘MacLeod Kidnapping’ said the file tab just above the obligatory law enforcement case number.

  Back to work, she ordered herself.

  She liked to review her files first thing in the morning, before the clamor and clatter of the shift change at eight o’clock. Refresh her memory, try to spot new angles, reconsider old ones she’d slept on. But that morning she was having trouble focusing and she let her gaze float to the green metal four-drawer file cabinet against the wall to her left, directly opposite the not crooked map.

  When she’d first started out, some seven years ago, a rookie copper, still wet behind the ears and walking her first beat, there had been no shortage of sage advice from her older, more experienced colleagues. The words of wisdom ranged from the obvious (‘Try to get to work on time’) to the dubious (‘The less detail you put in your report the more you can adjust your testimony at trial’) to the downright strange (‘You’ll want to keep a salt shaker on your windowsill’). But one pearl of wisdom had stuck with her, perhaps because it had been wrapped in a compliment—and a challenge. It had come from a grizzled old lieutenant in the major crime unit—Lt. Robertson. It was after she’d been working a few months and had begun to develop a reputation as a hard-working and efficient officer who could not only stop the crimes she witnessed, but solve the ones she hadn’t.

  She’d stopped by Robertson’s office to drop off a supplemental report for one of his cases; she’d logged some of the evidence into the property room or some such. A written report wasn’t really necessary but she’d done one nonetheless. Robertson, seated at his desk, took it from her, glanced it over, then looked up at her with an inscrutable expression tucked away in the wrinkles around his eyes.

  “Have a seat, Warwick,” his gravelly voice invited as his hand gestured amicably toward the single guest chair opposite him. He was old, at least for a cop—well into his sixties, with white hair cropped close to his wrinkled, browning scalp. Thick wrinkles creased his pudgy, white-stubbled face, while light blue eyes shone out beneath bristly white eyebrows. “You’ve a moment, no?”

  “Of course,” Warwick knew to reply. She was still new, so even though she was confident in her abilities, and growing more confident each day, still, when a senior officer—a lieutenant no less—asks one to have a seat, one has a seat. She sat down. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve been hearing about you,” Robertson began. “Good things,” he quickly assured. “All of it. And I’ve seen your work. Top notch, that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ah, well,” Robertson twisted his bulky frame in his chair, “from what I hear, you’ve got the makings of a fine copper. Likely be a detective someday. Maybe even Detective Sergeant. Although, I’ll tell you, back in my day, women—” He caught himself, and Warwick observed the slightest of blushes atop the lieutenant’s ears. “Well, never mind that. Anyway, I’m nearing the end of my run here, so I figure it’s only right if I share a few tricks of the trade with some of the younger lads. Er, and lasses,” he was quick to add.

  “Well, thank you, sir.”

  Robertson frowned slightly, then the frown gave way to a yellow-toothed grin. “And you can stop with the ‘sir.’ All it does it remind me I’m old.”

  “All right, then, er…” She wasn’t sure what to call him, so instead just trailed off.

  “See,” Robertson continued, “the thing is, the good ones—like you—they start showing themselves quick. You can always tell the future detectives, even right from the beginning.”

  Warwick wasn’t sure what to say, or whether a response was even invited. So she remained silent, satisfied to nod attentively.

  “And it’s no secret you’re going to go far here. I wouldn’t waste my breath with most of the lads hereabouts, but you—you’ve got what it takes. You’ll be sitting here one day,” he patted the arm of his chair. “So I suppose I ought to tell you a thing or two if I can manage it.”

  “Thank you, s— Thank you.”

  Robertson squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his large head back for several moments. Finally he leaned forward and opened his cobalt eyes again. “Organization,” he proclaimed. “That’s the key to this job. There’s too damned much to do really. At least there’s too much to do to have the time to do it as well as you and I would like to do. That’s the challenge, aye? Finding the time to do the job to our level of satisfaction. And that’s where organization comes in.”

  He levitated a hand across his desk. “No files,” he observed. And sure enough, the desktop was bare, save the report Warwick had just brought and a small black notebook. “A desk is no place for files. I’ve tasks to do, but I keep those written down here,” he patted the notebook. “When you need a file, get it. When you’re done, put it back. That,” he pointed to the tall metal object over Warwick’s right shoulder, “is what file cabinets are for.”

  “Now, speaking of file cabinets,” Robertson continued; he was on a roll, “Get yourself a good one. With four drawers. You’ll want four drawers.”

  “Will I then?” It seemed a polite encouragement.

  “Aye, you will. Put your open cases in the top drawer. Soon enough you’ll have too many and you’ll need the second drawer for them as well. The third drawer is for your solved cases what still need a bit of follow up, a last supplemental report or what have you.”

  “And the fourth drawer?” Warwick was curious now.

  Robert grinned. “Use the fourth drawer for your unsolved cases.”

  Warwick glanced over, casually she thought, at the bottom drawer. I won’t be needing that, she assured herself. When she turned back to Robertson he was grinning at her.

  “I see that look on your face, lass,” he half-laughed, “and that’s why you’ll be a detective someday.” His grin broadened, but his eyes grew suddenly tired looking. “But you will be needing that bottom drawer. Like or not, we all do, eventually.”

  Warwick scowled at the sturdy green metal file cabinet across her office. It was the same one Robertson had had. She’d commandeered it when he’d retired. His little talk had succeeded in convincing her to get herself a four-drawer file cabinet and to assign its drawers as he’d suggested. But only so she could make sure that the bottom drawer remained empty—physical testament to her ability to leave no case unsolved.

  And in the several years since making detective, she had indeed managed to keep the bottom drawer empty. Except for that one damned file.

  In truth, it wasn’t truly unsolved. Not in her mind. It was just that she valued her career too much to fill out the final report on how it had all turned out. If she did that, it would be her last report—before being forcibly removed to the Aberdeen Sanitarium.

  Warwick tore her eyes from the file cabinet, then crushed them shut and rubbed them with the heels of her hands.

  This wasn’t working very well. Between the not quite crooked map and the not quite empty bottom drawer she’d managed to waste enough time that the shift change was beginning. Departing officers were booming out last goodbyes while arriving policemen were greeting each other enthusiastically, catching up from yesterday afternoon, discussing what was on the tele last night and so on, all voices loud enough to penetrate easily past her mostly closed office door, and filling her office with the amicable, but distracting, cacophony.

  With some effort she glared down again at the file before her. She knew it wasn’t really the distractions; it was the case. Usually she had little difficulty ignoring whatever distractions tempted her. But usually she was also quick to find the chi
nk in the case’s armor; that point of weakness through which she could enter the enigma and unravel it from within. But that opening had avoided her as yet. And she found herself quite irritable—and easily distracted—when considering the MacLeod case.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never investigated a kidnapping before. Even one without a ransom demand; indeed, a lot of them didn’t come with ransom demands. It was pretty risky business to maintain communication, however guarded, with one’s victim, who in all likelihood had brought law enforcement into the matter. No, most kidnappings seemed to involve angry relatives who’d lost custody battles; they had no intention of returning the child and thus no need for ransom notes. Of course, most of such kidnappings also didn’t involve words in blood dripping down walls or smeared across floors.

  She reached into the case file and pulled out the photograph of the bloody words. Not the ones on the wall; she found those surprisingly uninteresting, at least relatively speaking. What she really wanted to look at were the other words. The nonsensical ones written in blood at the side of the crib. And looking at the image, Warwick couldn’t help but be reminded of the photographs of a similarly bloody pattern scrawled across the ground—the photographs in her ‘unsolved’ case file.

  She let her eyes slide again to the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, and for not the first time she wondered whether she shouldn’t contact a certain American student at the College. And the similarities between the MacLeod kidnapping and last fall’s King’s College Murders were enough to give the detective sergeant pause.

  Maybe she should abandon her usual scientific method of police investigation for a more holistic approach of solving the case with any and all resources—however arcane.

  But Warwick just shook her head and for not the first time rejected the idea of contacting the American student.

  Motive, means, and opportunity.

  Deduced through observation, hypothesis, and experimentation.

  The scientific method. It worked in the laboratory and it worked in the field. Warwick was determined to solve the case the scientific way.