‘Where?’
‘Here in America. New York, to be precise.’
Owain looks across the ballroom. ‘Then I should stay and not fly back tomorrow. We can rearrange my meeting with the others.’
‘No, it’s important that you stick to your agenda.’
‘Why?’
Madoc hesitates. ‘There were complications with regards to the recovery of the relic.’
‘The old man’s death?’
‘Yes. Believe me, it is best if you are out of the country as this unfolds.’
9
The girls are finally asleep and Ruth and Jack have gone to bed.
Mitzi is in Miss Piggy PJs — a Christmas present — but not ready to rest. For the past two hours, she’s gone back and forth on the witchcraft case. Donovan gave her a set of the case files and now she’s word-blind. Nothing she looks at makes sense any more.
She creeps downstairs and runs a glass of chilled water from the dispenser on the front of the giant fridge fitted neatly in the corner of Ruth’s lavish oak kitchen.
She takes her drink out onto the patio and hears crickets crackling in the darkness. Her presence triggers security lights that pick out the redwoods, giant sequoia and oaks standing sentry on the edges of the property. A vast tract of lawn is broken by a broad-leafed maple, some California laurels and a lot of Ruth’s flowerbeds.
The patio door slides open. Jack stands there in just his boxers, hairy gut sagging over stretched elastic. ‘Let me guess: you got so hot thinking about me you had to come out here to cool off?’ He grins and sneaks down on a steamer chair next to her. A newly popped bottle of beer drips condensation in his meaty hand.
‘You wish.’ Mitzi hopes to hell he’s not got anything stupid on his mind.
Jack stretches out and swigs the beer. ‘You want some?’
She can tell he’s still drunk from dinner and raises her glass of water. ‘I’m good, thanks.’ She gestures to the lawns. ‘Your garden looks as pretty at night as it does in the day.’
He swings around on the steamer and catches her eye. ‘So do you.’
Mitzi laughs him off. ‘You’ve had too much to drink.’
He stretches out a hand and grabs hers. ‘Seriously, Mitz.’ I’ve always been attracted to you. Even when I met Ruthy, it was you I wanted to be with.’
She pulls her hand free and stands. ‘I’m going to pretend I never heard that.’
He gets up and slips between her and the door. ‘Why? Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same way. I’ve seen how you look at me. How you’ve always looked at me.’
‘Back off, Jack. All you’ve ever seen is what’s in your mind.’
‘Hey’ — he sounds offended — ‘a woman like you should be grateful for attention from a man like me.’
Mitzi can’t believe her ears. ‘What?’
He lumbers into her personal space, puts a hand to her cheek and breathes beer into her face. ‘I’ve been good to you and your girls. No harm you being a little good back.’ He pulls her close.
She flips her arms outward and pushes him away. ‘This never happened.’
He grabs her again. ‘But it should.’
Mitzi whips his wrist behind his back and slams him against the wall. She kicks out his right leg, so he’s left spread-eagled and eating brickwork. ‘Never happened, Jack.’ She pulls on his wrist and gets a grunt. ‘You never said anything and you never ended up like this.’ She kicks his leg wider until he face-slides down the wall.
The patio door makes a loud shushing noise as she slides it open, enters the vault of a lounge and slams it again. Before heading to the stairs, she takes one look back at the sorry heap out on the terrace and then heads to bed.
What she misses on the way up is her sister.
Ruth has been stood in the shadows of the lounge watching them both.
10
Irish sits alone at the bar drinking whisky.
He can’t be bothered to eat. Couldn’t care less about going home.
What he wants is to get blind drunk.
He needs the alcohol to flush the toxins of murder out of his body. Clear his head of the images of the old man with his staring eyes and his opened-up stomach twitching with maggots. And he needs it quickly, before the fragile dam walls in his memory break and the other horrors burst through.
The ones from the black day.
It’s eight years since he took a deep breath and lifted the lid of a crappy chest freezer in a suspect’s basement. He’d expected the worst. Knew it would be bad. But nothing had prepared him for what lay inside.
‘Again.’ He slams the shot glass down. ‘Double.’
The bartender knows better than to expect manners. Tomorrow or the next night, when Irish comes in sober, he’ll tip him big and apologize. Which is more than most people do.
The cop raises a hand to acknowledge the arrival of another pale amber vial of Slaney Malt.
Everything is still too clear.
He welcomes the tingle of the ten-year-old whisky against his lips. It goes down his throat like a trail of lit petrol then starts a comforting fire in his gut.
Sophie Hudson’s face swims to mind — the moment when she realized the cross was missing. How can a man get killed for a crucifix? How much could it possibly be worth? Who would buy such a thing and what would they do with it?
He feels the start of a sneeze and grabs a handkerchief from his pocket. The explosion is so hard it leaves blood on the dirty cotton. Must have picked up a cold from the damned store clerk. It’s the last thing he wants.
‘Again.’ Another bang of glass on wood.
The bartend gives him a dark look as he pours another.
‘Amir Emmanuel Goldman.’ Irish raises his refill high. ‘God bless you and’ — he grasps for something appropriate — ‘and may your fucking lousy killer rot in hell.’
He throws back the whisky and bangs the glass down.
Now he waits. The shot hits his stomach like gasoline in a volcano. His head rocks. Vision blurs. Tongue goes numb.
Drunkenness. At last, it is coming. Horribly late. But like a much-loved friend, always welcome.
Irish pulls out a wad of dollars and peels off too much. He slaps it down. Climbs unsteadily off the stool pushed up against the long brown bar and heads for the door. He’s going to make it.
The freezer lid has stayed closed. He’ll survive another night.
11
The pull of the moon is strong.
Ebb and flow. Like the rush of a tide hitting a shoreline, then creeping back out to sea.
Myrddin feels the elemental shift as he arthritically descends the stairs in the ancient tower. His bare feet slap cold well-worn slabs. His thin and mottled hands scratch cotton-candy hair that covers his head and face in almost equal measure.
Once more he’s been disturbed. Jarred from his sleep in the early hours. His mind filled with doubts and demons.
A rumbling cough breaks from his lungs and escapes as an echoing hack down the dark, stony passages.
He pushes open the heavy door to the Chamber of Prophecies and savours the oaky creak it makes and the clang of iron latch and lock as he closes it behind him.
This is his Chamber. Only he has ever come in here. Only he can divine the meaning of the visions that are channelled to this sacred spot. To the Font of Knowledge that stands on the tomb of the great one.
The musty midnight air is stirred by the swish of his long and lavishly decorated robe. His long fingers find the curved rim of the receptacle and he peers down into what seems an abyss.