“Who hired you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Sorry, client confidentiality.”
The frown deepened. He thought he could see the pale outline of a scar just above her left ear where it disappeared into her hair. A souvenir of the car accident?
“Why were you in Palm Springs?” she asked.
He hedged. “What makes you think I was in Palm Springs?”
“Because I saw your car at Mrs. Pearce’s. It was back by the carriage house.”
“There are a lot of beige Chevys in LA.”
“Not with an Irish Make Better Lovers bumper sticker and a rusty dent on the left rear fender.”
He mentally cursed. He’d been meaning to remove that sticker, a holdover from Shirley.
By his count the witch was two for two. He offered a conciliatory grin, hoping to disarm her anger. “You got me,” he said, spreading his hands.
She returned the cane to the ground and then signaled to Viv. Her friend waved back and disappeared into the shop.
“A bit skittish, aren’t we, Ms. Kingsgrave?” he asked.
When she glared at him, he made sure to smile back. He could tell she was assessing him, making note of his off-the-rack clothes, the lack of a ring on his left hand and the fact he wore a simple watch.
That’s right. I’m not a threat.
That was exactly what he wanted her to believe.
“Why did Mrs. Pearce hire you?” she asked.
“Since you’ve tagged me, I might as well be honest. Mrs. Pearce has concerns that you might not be on the level.”
“She’s not helping the situation. All she needs to do is tell us where Merlin is.”
“I find it hard to believe you drove all the way to Palm Springs looking for a dog.”
“That’s exactly what I did. Do you know where he is?”
He shook his head. “Why is the mutt so important?”
She delivered a smirk. “Sorry, client confidentiality, Mr.”—she studied his business card—“O’ . . . Fallon.”
“It’s a good Irish name,” he said, frowning.
She gave him an astonished look. “Really? I never would have guessed.”
They glowered at each other until a couple of bums began an argument, something to do with the rights to a particular patch of cracked pavement. Their voices grew more raucous, and a third transient intervened.
“Blessed are the peacemakers,” O’Fallon commented, and gave a low sigh. Another check of those eyes; they were darker now, more intense, the sea at midnight.
“Are you going to keep following me?” she asked.
“That would be pointless. If you’re trying to hide something, you’ll just alter your routine. I’ll do my research in other ways.”
“Or you’ll just change cars.”
“You have a devious mind.” And a lot quicker than most.
“I suspect that’s a compliment coming from you,” she snipped. “Why don’t you just ask what you want to know?”
You called it. “What are you up to with Gregory Alliford? Are you two lovers?”
She blinked in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “No, we’re not lovers. I don’t sleep with my clients.”
“So what is it you do for your clients?” he asked.
“I am a psychic. I read tarot cards and I’m a medium.” Her expression turned guarded, as if she felt she’d revealed too much. “I promise I have their best interests at heart. I’ll do nothing that will harm Mr. Alliford or his son.”
She spoke of the child as if he were still alive. He furrowed his brow. “If you’re scamming him, I’ll find out.”
“Is that what Mrs. Pearce thinks?”
“She thinks it’s a possibility.”
“I’m not surprised she’d see it that way. Mommie Dreadful views the world as her own private kingdom and Goddess help anyone who tells her ‘no.’”
The witch had pegged his client precisely.
“So how much do you charge for conjuring up a spirit?” he asked.
“I don’t conjure them. They come of their own free will. I only accept what my client wishes to pay, and that goes to charity. My psychic gift doesn’t line my pockets.”
“Your gift?” He leaned forward on the door, causing it to squeak in protest. “Don’t you mean your imagination?”
His challenge seemed to threaten her. “We’re done,” she said, stepping back. Her left leg wobbled, and she had to lean against the car to regain her balance.
“That’s from the accident, isn’t it?”
Color flooded her cheeks and her breathing grew uneven, as though he’d invoked an ancient curse. He watched her struggle for control, seeking clues as to what hidden weakness he’d targeted.
“How did you—”
“I’m an investigator,” he cut in, pressing the advantage. “It’s my job to know things.”
Her eyes shot brilliant blue. “You have no right digging into my life!”
“I have every right, especially if you’re running a game on Gregory Alliford.”
“I am not scamming him,” she retorted. She took two quick breaths in an attempt to throttle down her anger. “You don’t believe in psychics, do you?”
“Consider me . . . unconvinced.”
“Then what will it take to convince you so you’ll leave me alone and let me do my work?”
Gotcha. He barely kept the grin off his face.
“Let’s see . . .” A thought leaped into his mind. “Tell me about my father.” That would settle it. She’d come up with some nonsensical patter, and he could report back to Mrs. Pearce that the woman was a flake. After he’d determined if she was working over Alliford’s finances or his libido—or both.
As she stared over his left shoulder, he twitched, fighting the urge to turn. She nodded, more to herself than him.
“I see a short man with auburn hair standing next to you.” She listened for a moment and then added, “He’s got a thick Irish brogue.”
O’Fallon shook his head. “That’s easy enough to guess. I’ve got an accent, and the hair color is too obvious. You’ll have to do better than that.” He expected her to react in righteous indignation, but she didn’t. She was fixated, as if listening to a voice he couldn’t hear. Her pale eyebrows arched upward.
“He’s smoking a carved pipe. His mustache is big and wide. He has a merry laugh.” Her eyes reached his, and O’Fallon saw immense sadness. “He says his name is Patrick, and he’s missing his left arm.”
O’Fallon’s heart beat double.
She took a shuddering breath. “He says he’s thankful you didn’t go to the pub that day, that you stayed home and worked on the model airplane. He says it turned out really nice and he liked it that you put it in the coffin for him.”
O’Fallon’s jaw went slack. He sucked in a deep breath, his heart pummeling inside his chest.
She continued, oblivious to his reaction. “He says he didn’t feel anything; it was just over.” A faint smile appeared on her face. “He loves you and is proud of what you do. He wants you to know.”
O’Fallon reached into his pants pocket, fumbled for his rosary, and clutched it tightly, winding it around his right hand. The crucifix cut into his palm. How could she have known about the model airplane, the one he was building the morning his father died? Only his gran knew about the Corsair and that he’d placed it in the coffin.
“Blessed Mary,” he murmured, and crossed himself, closing his eyes against the onslaught of memories.
A car bomb on Easter Sunday had cost his dad his left arm. Always in good humor, he’d joked that God was intending to take him home in bits and pieces. The explosion at the pub a year later ensured there wasn’t enough of him left to bury, but they’d put what they could find in a coffin and sent him to ground, along with the Corsair.
By the time O’Fallon regained his senses, the witch was no longer in front of him. She hadn’t taken the opportunity to gloat, to demand he drop his investigation—ju
st delivered the bombshell and walked away as if she’d told him the time of day. His mind raced with questions, but he was rooted to the pavement. In truth, he feared what answers he might hear.
She paused by a cluster of bums, bending over, her golden braid swooping forward as she dropped coins into their cups. After sharing a few words with each one and darting a quick glance in his direction, she continued her journey to her car.
“My God, how did she know that?” He crossed himself again, his hand shaking, and kissed the crucifix.
As the red car pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic, he murmured, “Round One to the witch.”
Chapter Eight
As she sat at the stoplight, Gavenia tried to relax the knot at the base of her skull, massaging it with her fingers. It tightened in response and shot a bolt of pain into her left temple. She abandoned the effort. The encounter with the red-haired private detective upset her on a number of levels. He seemed so sure she was the bad guy in this pathetic drama—yet another complication she didn’t need.
A parade of pedestrians trudged in front of the car in response to the light, some dressed for business, others casual. Then the unexpected: a scruffy bum waltzed through the crosswalk, dancing to the music in his head, an invisible partner in his arms. He swirled around some of the pedestrians in the classic three-four rhythm of a Strauss waltz.
Fred Astaire lives, Bart observed.
“Actually, he’s pretty good,” Gavenia allowed, grinning. The bum’s street theatrics were a welcome relief, a reminder that not everything in the world was complicated.
I’m a much better dancer.
She chuckled. “I bet you are.” The transient reached the other side of the street, executed a courtly bow to his unseen partner, and then shuffled off into the crowd.
Show’s over, Bart said, and shook his head in disappointment.
The light changed, and Gavenia moved forward through the crosswalk, avoiding a last-minute pedestrian. “I’m wondering if it was wrong to unload on the PI like that.”
He needed to hear it, Bart said.
“Maybe. What if he finds some way to keep me from helping Bradley across?”
You must insure that doesn’t happen. The little boy has to cross soon.
She gave her Guardian a penetrating look, sensing there was more behind his words.
He has to cross, Bart repeated.
“Why the urgency, other than for his father’s peace of mind?”
Silence.
“You’re hiding things from me.”
More silence.
The anger welled up in her, seething from deep inside, fed by her insecurities and fanned by Bart’s secretive manner. She wrenched the car toward the curb, angling into a parking place. As she slammed the brakes right before rear-ending the Blazer in front of them, another driver signaled his displeasure through a long blast of a horn and a raised finger.
She turned her full wrath on her Guardian.
“Bart, stop hiding things from me. Tell me what I need to do to help this kid.”
His mouth formed a thin line, but he did not respond.
“Talk to me!”
He has to cross over because he’s vulnerable on this side.
“What do you mean, vulnerable? He’s dead. It doesn’t get any safer than that.”
You’re not called a Shepherd just because it’s quaint, he snapped.
“Meaning?”
What do shepherds do?
“You mean real ones?”
Yes.
She stammered. “They . . . herd sheep.”
And?
“They keep them safe.”
Safe from what? he pressed.
“Predators . . . like dogs and wolves.”
His voice fell to a near whisper. Your job isn’t any different.
Her breath hissed out in understanding. “You mean the souls are in danger on this side?”
He nodded. The young ones, especially. They don’t have any fear.
“What happens to them?”
What does a pack of dogs do to a lamb?
“Goddess.” She swallowed, but the knot in her throat didn’t vanish. She’d seen what a rogue pack of hounds could do to a flock of sheep. Bits of wool, tangled sinews, and gnawed bits of bone. “You’re saying something might try to harm Bradley? But what would happen to him?”
The soul is mostly light, a kind of energy. Bradley’s light is pure because he’s a child. It’s like a beacon to some of the darker things out there. The longer he stays on this side, the more likely something will find him.
“A lamb among the wolves.”
Exactly. He has to cross—soon.
She closed her eyes as her hand fluttered in her lap like a wounded bird, and she didn’t try to control it. Weight pressed down on her chest, the burden of being a Shepherd.
“Why didn’t They just have you tell me all of it, right up front?”
Not all Shepherds can handle who they are. Most end up like that bum, waltzing to the voices in their head.
“I’m not going to do that,” she insisted.
I pray that’s the case, he whispered. His eyes spoke of deep concern, almost love. It was touching. He wasn’t the enemy; he was just stuck in the foxhole with her, trying to figure out how to keep from being sprayed with shrapnel.
Gavenia stared out the driver’s side window. The scene faded from her view and she closed her eyes, thinking of that day she’d hiked into the Welsh countryside alone. After going over a stile, she’d found herself in the middle of a field of sheep, perhaps a hundred or so of the woolies. A pair of Border Collies barked their warning and she’d hesitated, unsure if she should proceed. A voice called to her, and she found an old shepherd taking his tea under a broad-leafed tree. She’d sat with him for some time, talking about the sheep, the dogs, and life. He’d offered some of his tea, but she’d declined, sipping from her water bottle instead. The day had been fine and warm, the hike strenuous. Long before the car accident ended such simple pleasures.
“What is it you do, lass?” he’d asked.
“I translate documents from one language to another,” she’d said. “It’s not much fun. Not outside like this.”
She watched as his old eyes swept the horizon, checking the locations of the dogs and the movements of the flock. He seemed at ease, but she knew he was looking for the nuances, the subtle shifts that meant something was amiss.
“What’s it like to guard sheep all day?” she’d asked.
“Pretty quiet, most of the time.”
“Do you ever think of doing something else?”
He shook his head. “I know there are other things I could put my hands to, but this is an old profession, an honorable one. God sent his angels to tell the shepherds of His newborn son. I like to think that means we’re blessed, at least in the eyes of the Almighty.”
“I have no doubt of it.” She watched the mass of moving animals. The low-pitched baas of the ewes were matched by the higher pitch of their offspring. The lambs bounced across the ground as if equipped with springs. Nearby, a small one butted his mother’s distended udder, sucking hard.
“It must be so peaceful to be a shepherd.”
The old man’s voice took on a serious tone. “A shepherd’s duty is to the sheep. They come first. A shepherd protects the flock at all cost. It’s what we do.”
Now, as she felt the rumble of passing cars and the sounds of the city return, the old man’s words burned into her heart.
A Shepherd protects the flock at all cost.
Bart observed her with solemn eyes, waiting, perhaps knowing what she intended to ask. She could not summon the courage to speak the words.
You will prevail, he said. You’re stronger than most.
Gavenia leaned against the steering wheel, feeling the hard surface press into her forehead. After a few moments, she pulled the car out into traffic, feeling as alone as that night she’d awoken inside a nightmare.
* *
*
Within the silence of the church, memories seized him. Gazing upward at Saint Bridget’s loving face, O’Fallon traveled back to the day his dad died, reliving it. The morning had been quiet, no harbinger of the horror to follow. His father hiked to his pub, the Dragon’s Forge. Doug decided to stay with his gran that day and work on a model airplane, a Corsair, his father’s birthday present. He’d made it as far as the tail section and then decided to give it a rest. He’d go to the pub after all, have lunch with his dad, listen to the other men jest with one another, inhale the rich aroma of beer and whiskey. As he placed the model in an old shoe box, the house shook, rattling crockery in the kitchen. The muffled sound of an explosion reached his ears. His gran looked up from her knitting, her face unnaturally pale. Her hand trembled as she made the sign of the cross.
In that instant he knew his father was dead, felt it deep in his bones.
“Gran . . .” Tears wove their way down her face as she hugged the nearly completed sweater to her chest—a present her son would never wear.
“Sweet Jesus,” she murmured, rocking back and forth. “How could they?”
He remembered running through the streets of his hometown, oblivious to everything but the need to prove himself wrong. The pub had vanished. Left in its place was a ruin of broken bricks, flaming rafters, and twisted metal. The stench of burned flesh filled his nose along with the acrid smell of thick, choking smoke. Sirens echoed around him.
He shoved his way through the gathering crowd, shouting his father’s name over and over. A policeman caught him as he tried to rush into the fiery ruins, and he fought, kicking and swearing. Finally, he slumped to his knees in the broken glass and wept.
When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jerked his eyes upward, a prayer of thanks on his lips—his father had survived. It was not his dad’s face that looked down at him, but Father Murphy’s. The old priest clutched a rosary to his chest, his eyes damp with tears. Fourteen men had died in the pub that day. One was Douglas O’Fallon’s father.
Now, as he knelt before Saint Bridget, he couldn’t prevent the tears from cascading down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed harder. How could that woman have known? How could she see his father’s spirit and he could not?