Brown nodded, though he knew Fairly couldn’t see him. “You think she might decide to kill all of them?”
“Who can say? It’s possible.” Fairly cleared his throat. “And one more thing.”
“What’s that?” Brown asked.
“Whatever you do, don’t lose them this time.”
Chapter 26
The sun was just peeking over the hills when they arrived at the Well of the Seven Heads. The monument stood on the shore of Loch Oich, south of Invergarry, and only a short drive from Loch Ness. One of the three lochs that comprised Scotland’s Caledonian Canal, Oich was beautiful. Rolling hills and picturesque forests surrounded it on all sides. Maddock breathed in the crisp morning air as he took in the sights.
“This is weird,” Bones said as they approached the monument. “I expected something, I don’t know, older.”
Maddock nodded. After the crumbled ruins of the castles they’d visited, the monument, set on a terrace overlooking the lake, with an ornate wrought-iron fence setting it apart, had a modern feel to it. It stood opposite a small shop, from which the pleasant aromas of coffee and baked goods wafted past them.
“Build it out of marble, and this thing wouldn’t be out of place in Washington DC,” Grizzly observed, gazing up at the dark stone memorial.
“It might be a bit grotesque for the National Mall,” Maddock said.
Standing on a rectangular base, the black obelisk was topped by seven severed heads beneath a hand clutching a dagger. An inscription in an unfamiliar language covered panels on the sides.
“What language is this?” Grizzly asked.
“Gaelic. It tells the story behind the monument,” Isla said.
“If it involves a bunch of severed heads, that’s a story I definitely want to hear,” said Bones.
“In 1663, two members of the MacDonnell clan were killed by their uncle and cousins in a brawl at a family mansion.”
“Must have been some brawl,” Maddock said.
“The young men had just returned from schooling in France, and their cousins started mocking their French accents and mannerisms.”
“Okay, in that case, I’m on the cousins’ side,” Bones said.
Isla rolled her eyes. “Some say that was the reason, but others claim it was a setup. The killers, Alexander MacDonnell and his sons, were involved in a land dispute with the victims’ side of the family. Resentment had been brewing for a while. In any case, justice was never served, which was typical for Scotland at a time when the clans wielded the real power.”
“So who chopped their heads off?” Grizzly asked.
“The Poet Laureate.”
Maddock couldn’t help but laugh. “Seriously?”
“Iain Lom, known as Bald Iain, was the Gaelic Poet Laureate of Scotland, and a kinsman of the victims. He eventually decided to mete out justice himself. He set out on a crusade to make Alexander’s branch of the MacDonnell family pay for what they’d done. Using his skills as an orator, and lots of biblical allusions, he rallied men to his cause and led them to the MacDonnell home at Inverlair, where the seven known killers were decapitated. They probably killed a lot more than that before it was over, but it was the seven killers the bard was after. He wrapped up the murderer’s seven heads and took them to Invergarry Castle to present them to the father of the slain young men. On the way, he stopped here to wash the heads in the well and make them presentable. The site became notorious, and eventually, a monument was erected in 1812 by the chief of the MacDonnell Clan.”
“It really exemplifies the time period,” Maddock said. “It was the Wild West, Hatfields and McCoys.”
“Save it, history nerd,” Bones said. “You’re boring the lady.”
“Actually, I agree with him.”
Isla glanced in Maddock’s direction. They hadn’t spoken about the previous night. Maddock searched her eyes for some indication of what she was feeling, but her gaze betrayed no emotion.
“I couldn’t find a record of any monster sightings around here,” Grizzly said, “but considering its proximity to Loch Ness, if we’re accepting the theory that large, underwater channels lead to the sea, then it’s not unreasonable to think some could also lead here.”
Bones hopped the fence and circled the monument so he could examine it up close. After about ten seconds, he gave the stone obelisk a tentative shove. Then he pushed it harder.
Isla took a step forward, but Maddock pulled her back, gave a shake of his head, and held a finger to his lips.
Comprehension dawning in her eyes, she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Grizzly looked at them, frowning, but kept his silence. They watched as Bones wrapped his arms around the monument, grunted, and strained, trying to rotate it first to the right, then to the left. When Maddock could no longer watch him struggle, he cleared his throat.
“What are you doing there, big guy?”
Bones turned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and scowled at Maddock.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to find a secret door beneath the well. It would go faster if you’d help me, you know.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Maddock said, scratching his chin. “But why are you looking there?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is not the well; it’s just a memorial. The well is down those stairs over there.” He pointed to the left, where a set of steps wound down to the bottom of the terrace. A wooden sign reading TO THE WELL dangled from the metal railing.
Isla burst out laughing; Grizzly joined in a moment later.
Bones stood, hands on hips, glaring at each of them in turn. Finally, he gave his head a shake.
“Screw you guys. Every one of you.”
Stepping over the rail, he descended the stairs, laughter following him down.
From the shelter of the trees, Brown watched as Isla Mulheron and her three companions examined the monument at the Well of Severed Heads, or whatever it was called. He wished he could hear what they were saying, but there was little cover between them and his hiding place. He watched as the big Indian examined the monument with care.
It was a grisly thing. The big hand, clutching a knife, appeared to be carrying the heads. That was Scotland at the time of the clans — a place where the strong survived. Brown let out a small, rueful laugh. He could trace his lineage back through many generations of Scots, yet here he was answering to Brigid, whose ancestors weren’t even Scottish. The bloody Tuatha leader always favored the Irish. It would serve them right if the Scottish faction of the organization got hold of the treasure. After all, the stone, at least, was theirs by right, wasn’t it?
He watched as his quarry descended the steps below the monument and disappeared. He waited, but they didn’t come back up. Was there something down there, or were they exploring the lake shore? He’d have to move closer. Fairly had ordered him not to lose them again. Brown was already on the wrong side of Brigid. He didn’t need to anger Fairly, too.
He decided to make a quick phone call first to let his superiors know that it looked like their mole had given them the wrong information. That ought to be a point in his favor, shouldn’t it? Suddenly, Brown’s information was more valuable than Meikle’s. Smiling, he punched up Fairly’s number.
“I’ve tracked them down to Invergarry, to Loch Loich,” he said. “The Well of the Severed Heads.”