Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 7

  Walking into the third room on her left, she was greeted with absolute silence and only one other patron, a young woman with short red hair who was hovering near a window, whispering into a cellular phone and temporarily ignoring the exhibit behind her. Maggie grabbed a pamphlet from the introductory display standing near the entrance. ‘Old Irish Illuminated: The Vernacular Works of Ireland’s Ancient Monasteries’

  Oh goody, Maggie thought to herself, and she bounded forward into the exhibit.

  There were seven manuscripts displayed, each atop a large wooden pedestal and each quite thoroughly sealed under glass. The exhibitors had obviously elected which pages to display and visitors would simply have to content themselves with viewing whichever pages had been so chosen. Arranged in a loose scattering, with no recognizable geometric pattern, the podiums suggested a zig-zag stroll as the most appropriate method of viewing their treasures. Maggie walked up to the first manuscript.

  Sure enough, it was in Old Irish. Or Old Gaelic, she thought. Whatever. But reading it was more difficult than she’d expected. It wasn’t just that Modern Gaelic, rather than Old Gaelic, was her specialty, but also the fact that the letters had been drawn more than written. Their resultant illegibility was compounded by the fact that the 9th Century equivalents of ‘r’ and ‘s’ looked nearly identical, and that of ‘g’ almost entirely unlike the letter known today. But careful, patient study of the first sentence unlocked its prose: ‘Ocus conaca Día an leus, co fail é maith; ocus cuit Día an leus á an dub’: ‘And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness.’

  Genesis 1:1, Maggie remembered from Sunday School.

  Maggie scanned the pages. In addition to the fact that each letter had been rendered in flawless brushstrokes, the first letter of this first page of the Bible—the ‘O’—took up fully one quarter of the page. The intricate Celtic knotwork inside and behind the letter was even more stunning for the gold leafing affixed to it. Down the entire left hand side of the page was a border filled with even more knotwork, inked red beneath the evenly spaced embellishments of gold leaf. It was as beautiful as any illuminated manuscript Maggie had ever seen, and for her, the fact that the blue painted letters were in Old Gaelic rather than Latin only added to its beauty.

  Maggie then made her way through the remainder of the exhibition, only vaguely aware of the young woman with whom she shared the room. The next several texts were also translations of the Bible, and Maggie began to wonder whether any of the volumes were spellbooks as Hamilton had promised. In the event, the seventh and final text proved the professor right.

  The brass nameplate on the podium read: ‘The Spellbook of Ballincoomer.’ Apart from this title, the only indication that this equally breathtaking manuscript was not another translation of the Bible was the meaning of the ancient words themselves. Still acclimating her eyes to the ornate letters, Maggie contented herself simply to peruse the intricate green script, reading what she could and skipping for just then any words whose meaning did not immediately jump to mind. But then, as she neared the end of the page—the second page, the right hand page—her eyes darted ahead slightly and caught glimpse of a word she couldn’t help but recognize. A word she’d seen only just recently in the Modern Gaelic, but whose Old Gaelic ancestor was little different. And while it was the second word of the sentence, it was the last word on the page, and seeing it, Maggie ached to shatter the glass and turn the centuries-old page to read what lay just overleaf.

  The word: ben-slániger. ‘Healer.’

  ***

  Taggert retracted his measuring tape and jotted a final note in his notepad. Then putting both the tape and the notepad back into his bag, he slung the sack over his shoulder and turned to face the room one last time.

  He crossed his arms and surveyed the room. He was satisfied. For now.

  But just as he turned to the door, the last glimpse of the room was processed by his brain and he realized he’d just seen something he’d overlooked until that exact moment. He turned back around and confirmed what his eye had told his brain.

  Taggert frowned at the gory stains on the hardwood floor. The letters which had been scrawled in blood had eventually dried up, their liquid returning to the atmosphere and their solids sinking into the porous surface of the wooden planks. In so doing the sharp lines of the letters had become blurred, some areas being absorbed more fully than others. The result was that although one could still make out most of the original inscription, significant parts of it had disappeared into the darker areas of the wood. As a result, one word in particular stood out to Taggert from its dried up brethren. Not because of its physical appearance, but because of its new spelling. Having lost several letters to the porous wooden floorboards, the remaining letters—‘SLÁN’—stood out more or less legibly from their lighter wood to the left. And as a result, Taggert realized he would have to reassess his assumptions and form a new hypothesis.

  He’d told MacLeod that the inscription wasn’t Gaelic.

  He’d been wrong.

  Taggert spoke Gaelic, and his curious mind had wandered enough along that path during his lifetime to know at least a few of the Old Gaelic roots of the language. He knew ‘slán’ meant ‘heal’ in Old Gaelic.

  And now he knew that whoever had kidnapped Douglas MacLeod knew that as well.

  10. The Father

  “The police officer is here, Mr. MacLeod.” The intercom squeaked just slightly at the ‘s’ sounds.

  Silvery smoke wafted heavily from the cigar pinched between the fingers of MacLeod’s left hand even as his right finished the note it was scrawling in the file. He took a long drag off the cigar, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly before finally reaching over and pressing the intercom button on his telephone. “Send him in.”

  Three seconds later the door from the lobby opened and in walked a her.

  “Aw, Christ,” MacLeod spat as he leaned back in irritation. “It’s you. Where the hell is Cameron?”

  “He’s busy,” Sgt. Elizabeth Warwick replied from the doorway.

  “Too busy for my son, is he?” Another drag on the cigar. “So he sends a lass?”

  “It’s my case.” Warwick stepped into the office and over to MacLeod’s desk. “Deal with it.”

  “Listen, eh—Wilcox, was it?” MacLeod started.

  “Warwick. Like the castle.” Warwick sat down opposite her subject. “And you can do the listening. You don’t have to like me. And I’ll refrain from sharing my current opinion of you. But it’s my case, so we’re doing this. And that’s that.”

  MacLeod stared at the blond policewoman for several moments. Then he looked at the clock on his desk. Half past four. He sucked again on his cigar and exhaled the smoke slowly out of his nostrils. Warwick supposed he thought it made him look like a dragon. She thought it drew attention to the fact that he needed to clip his nose-hairs.

  “You’ve five minutes,” he said finally.

  “It’ll take seven,” Warwick replied as she retrieved her notepad from her inside jacket pocket. “And you’ll give them to me.”

  MacLeod smacked his lips, then lowered his gaze to the paperwork strewn across his desk. He took up his pen again. “You’ll no mind if I work while you interrogate me.” It was a statement, and he began scribbling more half legible entries into the file.

  “No ransom note yet,” Warwick began. This itself was barely a question.

  MacLeod paused, his writing hand momentarily stilled. Without looking up, he replied quietly, “No.”

  “All right then. Since the kidnappers have declined to divulge their identity, we can start with the more obvious suspects. Do you have any enemies?”

  MacLeod couldn’t help but smile at the question. “Aye, lass. I’ve a lot of enemies.” He looked up at her. “I’d have expected you to know that. You’ll no earn my respect with questions like that.”

  “I’m not after your respect,” Warwick retorted, although she fought an angry flush fr
om her face. “I’m after information. Let’s start with family.”

  “Family?” MacLeod set the pen down.

  “Right. Your son is family and he’s who’s missing. So we’ll start there.”

  MacLeod drew another intake from the cigar. “All right.”

  “Let’s talk about Janet.”

  “She goes by ‘Jessie,’” MacLeod replied through a cloud of smoke. “And I’d rather not.”

  “Too bad.” Warwick didn’t wave the cigar smoke away; that would have given him satisfaction. “Janet ‘Jessie’ Sterling. Douglas’ mother, correct?”

  “Aye, and soon to be my ex-wife.” MacLeod raised the tobacco to his lips again. “And not soon enough.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

  “Several months ago,” was the immediate response.

  “Months?” Warwick tried to control the surprise in her voice. “Douglas is only—”

  “A year old,” MacLeod finished her sentence for her. “Aye, and it’s been months since I’ve spoke with Jessie.”

  Warwick considered for a moment, then followed up. “Haven’t you spoken with her about this?”

  MacLeod shook his head slowly. “Nae. All contact is through our attorneys.”

  “All right then.” She jotted a note in her notepad. “Any other family?”

  “I’ve a brother in Australia,” MacLeod offered casually. “I’m fairly sure he didn’t do it.”

  Warwick had to ask. “Why Australia?”

  “Simple enough, I suppose.” MacLeod temporarily abandoned the work before him. “Business took him there. The weather kept him there. Going on twenty years now.”

  “Anyone else?”

  MacLeod rubbed his chin. “Nae. That’s the family. My parents are dead. My brother’s in Australia, I can’t stand to see my soon-to-be ex-wife, and my son has been kidnapped.” He inhaled again from the cigar. “And, I might add, you seem to be doing precious little to change that last state of affairs.”

  “Business.” Warwick ignored the barb. “What about business rivals?”

  “You think a business rival kidnapped my son?” MacLeod was incredulous. “Are you daft, lass? Why would anyone do that?”

  “It’s not always clear,” Warwick replied coolly. “Perhaps to distract you.”

  MacLeod picked up his pen again and returned to his work. “Nothing distracts me.”

  “Do you have any upcoming deals? Anything that would demand your complete attention?”

  “Everything demands my complete attention,” MacLeod snapped. Then he took a deep, smoke-free breath, and added, “If it’s my business dealings you want to know about, you’ll want to talk with Barry Nelson, my C.O.O. He handles the day-to-day.”

  Another note in the pad, then, “What about politics?”

  “What about it?” came MacLeod half-laughed reply.

  “You’ve political enemies, as well?”

  “Most likely.”

  “You oppose Scottish devolution.”

  “Absolutely,” MacLeod scowled and took another drag from the nearly spent cigar butt. “Ridiculous notion that Scotland would be better off independent within a united Europe. The U.K. was united under a Scottish king, and the Scottish parliament voted to unite with the English one. Why the bloody hell do we need our own bloody parliament when we’ve already got M.P.s in London? It makes no sense. It’s just another layer of politicians and bureaucrats who’ll nationalize every last oil field in the name of Bonny Ol’ Scotland.”

  Warwick looked at MacLeod for a moment before offering her observation. “Including yours.”

  “Well, bloody hell yes, mine!” MacLeod slapped the desk. “Christ, woman, I don’t bleeding care if they nationalize your oil fields—you don’t have any!—but they damn well better keep their greedy hands off mine!”

  “And do you find the notion distracting?” Warwick asked.

  Another smile. “Not in the least.”

  The two stared at each other for a few seconds, then MacLeod broke off the gaze to glance at his watch. “Well, lass, your seven minutes is up, it seems.”

  “Not quite.” Warwick didn’t look at hers. “It’s been six and half. I’ve one more question.”

  MacLeod crossed his arms and pushed himself back in his leather desk chair, waiting.

  “Why,” Warwick asked in a perfectly even voice, “did you lie to the police about when you discovered your son was missing?”

  MacLeod paused for a very long time before responding, “How do you mean?”

  “Don’t screw with me, MacLeod.” Warwick leaned toward the desk. “Just because I asked questions I already know the answers to doesn’t mean I don’t do my homework. Sometimes I just want to see if you’ll tell the truth. But don’t screw around on this one. We’re both above that.”

  MacLeod raised his head slightly and looked at Warwick anew.

  “You didn’t find him missing at eight o’clock that morning.”

  “No,” MacLeod admitted.

  “More like six.”

  “Seven actually. Ten before.”

  “And it wasn’t the nanny who’d found him missing, was it?”

  “No. It wasn’t the nanny.”

  Warwick narrowed her eyes. “And why hadn’t the nanny checked on him before seven in the morning?”

  MacLeod leaned forward and crossed his hands on his large desk. “I don’t believe for a moment that you don’t know the answer to that question.”

  Warwick allowed herself a smile. “You’re right.”

  “And you’re finished.” MacLeod stood up and gestured toward the door, even as he returned his gaze importantly to the work on his desktop. “You’ll let yourself out.”

  At this dismissal, Warwick nodded curtly and stepped to the door, satisfied with her eight minutes of work.

  11. The Chief Operating Officer

  “And who should I say is calling?” The handsome blond receptionist was pleasant enough, but she clearly understood and meant to perform her duty as gatekeeper—especially just before the end of the work day. Her serious brown eyes belied the warm smile on her burgundy lips.

  “Aberdeen Police Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick,” came the pleasant enough but also serious reply. “Please tell Mr. Nelson I need to speak with him regarding the MacLeod kidnapping.”

  The receptionist’s mouth screwed up into a tight little knot as her face displayed the internal balancing of her obligations to her employer against her obligations as a good citizen. “One moment please,” she finally replied. She glanced at what must have appeared to be the inadequate intercom, then stood up, straightened off her skirt and crossed the lobby to a pair of dark wooden doors through which she deftly slipped.

  A few moments later the wooden doors clicked open again and the secretary stepped back into the plush lobby.

  “Mr. Nelson will see you now.”

  Barry Nelson was standing just inside his palatial office and extended a friendly hand in greeting. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  He was the definition of professional. Warwick guessed his age at about 45. He stood six feet tall, with short brown hair, just beginning to gray at the temples. A crisp white linen shirt framed a delightfully patterned red and gold tie, while his tan suit pants hung pleasantly to obviously expensive burgundy leather shoes. The matching suit coat hung neatly from a hanger on the coat rack a few feet behind him.

  The office itself matched the man. It was a corner office, of course, and extended at least 30 feet from the entryway to the floor-to-ceiling windows which commanded a breathtaking view of the Aberdeen harbor—a similar view to that of his employer one floor above. But unlike the traditional cherry furnishings of David MacLeod, Barry Nelson had filled his office in the most modern-looking black steel and blue-tinted glass furniture, giving the distinct impression of a man both professional and modern.

  He stepped aside. “Please come in.”

  Warwick shook Nelson’s hand, they sat on opposite sides
of Nelson’s futuristic desk.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Warwick began, “particularly in light of the time of day.” Neither bothered to look at the clock; they both knew it was quarter of five.

  “Of course, Sergeant,” Nelson replied with an engaging smile. “Anything to help David. Although I should warn you,” he raised a cautious but friendly hand, “if we go much past five, you may have to take the matter up with my wife. We have rare plans for dinner tonight and she’s meeting me here at the office.”

  “Then by all means, I’ll try to be brief,” Warwick assured. “I am, of course, trying to be as thorough as possible in identifying potential suspects in the kidnapping of Mr. MacLeod’s son. Given the size and diversity of Mr. MacLeod’s business holdings I felt it prudent to pursue this area as well. And Mr. MacLeod indicated that you handle his business affairs.”

  Nelson laughed politely. “Hardly. I am the C.O.O.—Chief Operating Officer—for MacLeod Enterprises, an umbrella organization which handles most of David’s investment and business pursuits. But as you can imagine— You’ve met David, have you?”

  Warwick smiled. “Yes.”

  “Right. Then as you can imagine, David keeps a careful eye on all of his holdings.” Although,” he allowed himself a satisfied nod, “he does trust my judgment.”

  “Well, then. Let’s get started. Could you briefly describe Mr. MacLeod’s holdings, generally speaking?”

  “Of course.” Nelson leaned back and set his hands on his chest, fingertip to fingertip, as he gazed toward the ceiling. “David is clearly a very high worth individual. There is a sizeable sum which he insists be kept aside as instantly liquid. It is earning negligible interest but is available at his whim. The remainder of his assets is invested quite broadly in a variety of British, European and international vehicles. However, from a traditional standpoint, the primary industries would be oil, communications and agriculture.”

  “Agriculture?” This surprised Warwick somehow.

  “Oh yes.” Nelson was unphased. “Dairy farming primarily. And some agricultural research. Genetically enhanced foods and the like. There can be a rather high profit potential in certain areas of agriculture.”