Iron and Salt Page 5

  “Jesus,” Paul muttered, rolling his eyes. “I came here for Uncle Cillian’s sermon. I never expected this asshole. None of this even makes sense.”

  Ryan leaned close to Paul and whispered, “Truth. What a load of malarkey. What’s Father Gillespie even doing at the pulpit? I come to church to listen to Cillian Ward. Even if Cillian isn’t a bona fide priest, he sends me home with hope and joy, not this hellfire and brimstone talk.”

  “Right?” Paul said. “Bres mentioned something about Uncle Cillian deciding to give Gillespie his day at the altar. Apparently, Gillespie has been begging for a turn at the sermon. Uncle Cillian must have felt intense pressure to give Father Gillespie his way today. It’s a rare day that he skips Sunday’s sermon. He’s only done it a couple of times when the twins were small and sickly, and Auntie Lassie was on a tear about how it was his turn to step up to the parental plate.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Lassi could give Father Gillespie a run for his money when it comes to inspiring fear in the beholder.”

  Paul nodded, then tried to focus on the sermon.

  “And let thy wantonness, thy perversions, cast thine own soul to hell,” Father Gillespie said. “Let those who sin meditate on the horrors of Hell, which will last for eternity because of one easily-committed mortal sin. Try hard to be among the few who are chosen. Think of the eternal flames of Hell, and how few there are that are saved.”

  “I’ll bet he stayed up all night and practiced in the mirror,” Ryan whispered. “He’s the one whose pants are on fire today.”

  Paul snorted.

  Father Gillespie swung his gaze in Paul’s direction, pinning him to the pew.

  He clamped his lips together and nodded as if listening intently.

  When the good father cast his attention in the other direction, Paul whispered, “Oh. I just remembered one other time Cillian missed a Sunday. Remember when your group failed at giving the Dearg-Due peace that one time?”

  “One time?” Ryan whispered. “We’ve had so many failures I’ve lost count.”

  “It was the time Auntie Lassi had all the five-year-olds dress in white and sing forgiveness songs while she held a microphone to their mouths. Most of them couldn’t even pronounce the words to the songs. But Auntie Lassi persisted, telling their teacher she was going to create a recording to submit to a contest in Dublin. But she secretly recorded it to play to the vampire at midnight on the night of the blue moon ten years ago.”

  “Oh, right, right, right,” Ryan whispered. “It didn’t work. Poor Cillian took that one particularly hard. He was soul-crushed. Stayed the day at the beach, praying over the gravesite and staring at the ocean.”

  “I’m sure Auntie Lassi got all in-his-face sexy and wooed him back to life.” Paul chuckled. “That’s always her go-to move.”

  Bres removed his arm from Ma’s shoulder and elbowed Paul. “Hush.”

  “And to those who sin, I say unto you,” Father Gillespie said, “if you cannot hold your finger above a burning flame, how then will you bear Hell-fire? Surely it would be suffering enough to have the flesh blister and burn from only one finger; what then will it be to have the whole body plunged into a cauldron of fire, burning with brimstone? For that is what shall greet you upon the utterance of thy sinful thoughts and the actions that drive a stake through your heart. Hell, I tell you. Eternal hell.”

  “Where’s William?” Ryan asked, craning his neck.

  “Bres wants us to shut up,” Paul whispered. “And, I don’t know.”

  “Got it,” Ryan said, making a zip-the-lip motion with his fingertips.

  Paul’s heart grew heavy thinking about William. His friend had gone off the rails lately. They rarely hung out anymore.

  He directed his attention around the room, at the people he had grown up with. With few exceptions, none of them needed this kind of shaming sermon. The people of Ballynagaul were good people. Like Bres and his ma, who forged a deep love out of horrific circumstances. And Auntie Lassi and Uncle Cillian who had kept their passionate love ablaze all these twenty-four years. Or, Petra and Lady Freddie, sitting in the second row of pews. Those two fiercely loved each other. Or Sixpack, sitting next to Lady Freddie, who cared for the villagers so much he’d organized sign language lessons at the Rat so everyone could communicate with Paul’s ma.

  The buzz of a phone broke the monotony of Father Gillespie’s tirade.

  Ryan retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. He glanced at the screen and then leaned over Paul to tap Bres’s shoulder. Then, he inclined his head, got up, and scurried along the side of the church toward the front.

  Uncle Cillian turned his head at the sound.

  Ryan pointed toward the side door.

  Uncle Cillian leaned toward Auntie Lassi, who nodded her understanding. Then, he rose and followed Ryan.

  Bres made his way toward Ryan after signing to Paul’s ma that Ryan got a call.

  A bolt of dread-tainted curiosity shot through Paul. Don’t worry, he signed to his ma. It’s probably nothing. The knot of dread in his belly said it was more than nothing, but he didn’t want his ma to be alarmed. He pushed to standing and made his way out of the pews, leaving her with questions in her eyes. He strode to the back of the church and exited.

  “Paul! Wait up,” someone called.

  He pivoted to see Marie close on his heels.

  He lifted his hand and pointed down the winding road. “Hurry! They’re headed that way.”

  Ryan, Bres, and Uncle Cillian moved with alarming speed as they raced toward the town.

  Bres’ medic bag hung around his shoulders, bouncing against his hip as he hurried along.

  The three men turned the corner, several blocks ahead.

  Paul and Marie began to jog to catch up. They rounded the corner, too.

  Ahead, flashing lights from two Gardaí vehicles filled Paul’s gut with apprehension.

  “Shit,” Marie said. “Look. It’s Inspector Brown and the Garda at Sarah Hornsby’s cottage.” Her speed increased.

  Sixpack’s granddaughter, Sarah, had dated Paul a couple of times. They didn’t have much in common, except a benign friendship.

  Paul struggled to keep up with Marie. His heart clattered about in his chest, more from the sight of the crime team than from the run.

  A siren wailed in the distance. No doubt the medics would soon arrive.

  When he and Marie arrived, he dropped his hands to his knees and panted, trying to catch his breath.

  Marie barely looked winded.

  Ryan stood on the lawn next to Uncle Cillian and Bres, his arms folded across his chest.

  Inspector Brown, assuming command from the front walkway near the front door, barked orders. “She’s still alive, but barely. Get in there, Doctor Breslin, and see if you can save her. You can remain on standby for last rites if needed, Father Ward.” As the two men trekked toward the door, she called after them. “And you know the drill. No disturbing anything. This is a crime scene.”

  Ignoring Ryan, she turned toward the two Garda placing yellow tape around the perimeter and began talking to them.

  Marie hurried toward Ryan. Her limbs shook like fall leaves in a gusty wind.

  Paul pulled himself upright and strode toward her. “Hold up, Marie.”

  She whirled to face him, her eyes wide like a frightened deer.

  He’d always treated Marie like his sister…his to pet, to protect and, when circumstance presented itself, to torment. Now she looked as if she needed care. He closed the distance and wrapped his arms around her. “Easy, girl. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ryan glaring at them, a deep frown on his face.

  Paul tried to decipher the glare but, for the life of him, he couldn’t make sense of it. “What?” he mouthed to Ryan.

  “Not good,” Ryan called, turning away.

  Gently, he eased Marie back. “Ryan’s shooting laser holes through me with his eyes. Don’t tell me you two know someth
ing about whatever happened here?”

  “I…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I shouldn’t say. It’s conjecture on my part.”

  “What’s conjecture?” Paul said, a chill icing his spine.

  Her lips pressed together, and she shook her head. “I should go talk to him.” She pivoted and hurried toward Ryan.

  The weighted discomfort of being watched sent a chill up Paul’s spine. He turned his head. Sure enough, Inspector Brown’s beady eyes were directed at him, like twin torpedoes.

  The Inspector stalked toward him.

  “What?” he said, stepping backward.

  “Come with me,” she said, brushing past him. “I don’t want to be repeating myself.”

  Paul whirled and followed her toward Ryan and Marie who huddled together near the front stoop.

  Paul, Ryan, and Marie huddled around Inspector Brown.

  “There’s been another crime,” Inspector Brown said. “It’s Sarah Hornsby. A neighbor heard a scream this morning. When we got here, we found her in her bedroom. She’s hanging onto life by a single strand.”

  Marie grabbed Ryan’s hand.

  Paul’s stomach clenched. “What happened?”

  The Inspector’s face looked like it had been carved from stone. “Her neck was slit from ear to ear. I’m afraid Bluebeard has come to Ballynagaul.”

  Paul staggered backward.

  Marie sagged against Ryan, appearing relieved.

  How can anyone look relieved? Paul glared at her.

  She averted her gaze.

  She does know something. Paul started to step toward her.

  But then, a pickup truck came to a screeching stop in front of the house. Sixpack leaped from the cab.

  Could the elderly man’s heart endure his granddaughter’s near-death? More importantly, if Bluebeard was in Ballynagaul, how safe was sweet Anne?

  Chapter 8

  Sunday afternoon – Marie

  The hellishly long day crawled like maggots over rotting flesh. And, sitting at the Laughing Rat, as Marie finished her third brandy, washed it down with a shot of whiskey, and sipped a glass of water for good measure, it didn’t look to be speeding up any time soon. “This is awful. Poor Sarah. And poor Ballynagaul. Our fine village is being hit by murders again.”

  Sixpack sat in the booth across from her, resting his hand on his phone, should any news arrive via text. He’d matched her drink for drink, then took the lead, asking for a bottle of Bushmill’s to save Lady Freddie the trip across the bar. He lifted the half-empty bottle and sucked down a generous amount.

  “There’s a curse on our fair town, I’m telling you,” he slurred, setting the bottle down with a noisy thwack. “I’d thought the curse lifted, but, no…it’s back.”

  “Curse or no curse, Sarah’s still alive, at least,” Marie said. Her voice emerged all shrill, still strangled by her fears that the Dearg-Due was on the hunt again, thanks to her errant twin brother. When and where will she strike again?

  Sighing, she reached across the table and patted Sixpack’s gnarled hand.

  “Ai, that she is, by God’s good grace alone. At least it put an end to that blasted sermon Father Gillespie vomited from his bowels. Once word spread that a tragedy had occurred, the congregation fled like sheep let out of the barn.”

  Marie chuckled. “Father Gillespie was on a tear, true. Losing one of his staff members, poor Helen Pelletier, probably shook him to the bone. Dad said he practically begged to deliver the sermon today. And you know my father—if he can help another in need, he’ll do it. Although I’ll bet, he’s having regrets over his decision.”

  “People tend to be forgiving when it comes to Cillian Ward,” Sixpack said. “That man almost seems magic the way he soothes the soul of the community. He’s always been that way. And how he looks so good at his age is anyone’s guess.”

  If you only knew… Marie nodded and smiled, hoping to redirect the conversation away from the topic of her magical dad.

  Sixpack removed his hand from his phone, stared at the screen, and sighed. “Do you think this thing is broken?”

  “I’m sure it’s all right. Mum will call with updates. She and Bres probably beat the ambulance, what with the way she drives.”

  Sixpack nodded. “Sarah is the apple of my eye.”

  “She’s always been a good friend to me, too.” Marie twirled her empty shot glass around and around. “She trained with me from time to time. We’d race through the hills together…until she met Pete, that is. Then, she ran all the way to their wedding vows. Those two are a perfect match.”

  “Ai, they are.”

  “What a beautiful wedding they had.” Marie pictured herself stepping down the aisle toward Ryan.

  “They did. Father Ward did his finest officiating. It’s like he parted heaven to bless Pete and Sarah,” Sixpack said.

  “Sarah simply has to live.” Marie grew silent for a few seconds. “My brother tried to snag her, too, remember?”

  Sixpack nodded.

  “I hope William sorts himself out,” Marie said, a wistful tone to her voice.

  Sixpack raised one bushy eyebrow. “No offense to you, girlie, but I’m glad your brother didn’t charm the pants off Sarah the way he does most women. Pete’s a more suitable match. Steady as a rock. William’s like Billy, he is, what with his wild charm.” His eyes glazed over, no doubt drifting over a sea of memories. When he focused, he raised his bottle high. “May Billy rest in peace, chasing angels.”

  “Here’s to Billy,” Marie said, pouring the last few droplets of her whiskey into her mouth. And may my brother find peace on Earth.

  Sixpack glugged a mouthful of Bushmills whiskey. When finished, he let out a lip-smacking sigh.

  “Pete was beside himself when I called him about what happened to Sarah,” he said. “He’s racing to Waterford City Hospital from his military training in Dublin to be by her side.”

  Marie reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I know he is. You’ve been telling me that ever since we got here. I’m sure he’ll let you know when he arrives.”

  She leaned her head back against the seat and sighed.

  Sixpack pounded the table.

  Marie jerked from her alcohol-induced stupor.

  “I should be with her, too, not watering down my sorrows,” Sixpack said.

  “Mum said it was for the best you come with me,” Marie said.

  “I came with you. And I appreciate your care. But, I need to see my granddaughter.”

  “Well, you can’t be driving in that condition, old man,” Marie said. “Nor can I. Let me see if I can find someone to drive you to Waterford City.” She leaned out of the booth.

  Lady Freddie stood clearing a nearby table.

  “Lady Freddie,” Marie called.

  Lady Freddie looked up, then stepped in her direction, wiping her hands on a towel. “What is it, sweetness? You two doing okay?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Marie said, her head swimming from the drink. “But Sixpack would like to head to the hospital to see Sarah. Might you know anyone who could give him a lift? He’s in no shape to drive.”

  “Ai, love,” Sixpack said, peeking around the corner of his seat. “I’d be much obliged to whoever would take me there.”

  “Then, let me do the honors,” Lady Freddie said, untying her apron. “I’ll take you there myself. I can be finished here in two seconds. I’ll go grab my things and have Petra see about getting you a cup of coffee for the road. You’ll need your wits about you.” She turned and scurried toward the bar.

  A few minutes later, after Sixpack lurched away with Lady Freddie, Marie let out a hard sigh and closed her eyes, slipping into morbid despair. The booth seemed to collapse around her, pushing against her ribcage and abdomen. She balanced her chin in her hand, resting her elbow on the table.

  At least the Dearg-Due didn’t do it. But what kind of loser does that make me, to favor one kind of criminal over another? The whole thing is horrid. She dru
mmed her fingertips on the table. I wonder if William knows. He cared for Sarah. They dated quite a lot over summer breaks and holidays when he was attending Uni in Dublin. I didn’t see him much after they split up, but I heard he was pretty shaken up.

  She retrieved her phone from her pocket and tapped his number.

  “Hey,” he said, after the first ring. A backdrop of voices and loud music drifted through the speaker.

  “Hi, William. Where are you? It sounds like you’re at a party.”

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  She gripped the phone, annoyed with his curt response. “I wondered if you’d heard the bad news.”

  “Tell me, and then I’ll let you know if I heard it.”

  Marie ground her teeth together. “Sarah Hornsby was attacked and left for dead.”

  “Huh. Nope, hadn’t heard.”

  Someone shouted, “Hey, Ward. Get your ass over here.”

  A muffled “Fuck off, it’s my sis,” came next. Then, he said to Marie, “Anything else?”

  “Why are you such an arse, William? You cared about Sarah. And you don’t sound the least bit upset that someone tried to murder her.” Marie wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her brother.

  “So, nothing else?” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “William!” she snapped. “What is wrong with you? It’s like the compassion fairy passed you by when we were born.”

  He chuckled. “Nah, I seduced her and left her satisfied.”

  “Oh, right, a baby seducing a fairy,” Marie retorted.

  “Oh, right, there are things such as compassion fairies,” he said. “You’re always judging me.”

  “You’ve stepped off the rails,” she said, hotly.