Shade of Pale (10 page)

“I know; you said that.”

Jukes and George looked through the sheaf of poems, many of them untitled. Most were short, less than a page, and shot through with the kinds of emotions Killian probably had felt in his final days. Jukes's heart leaped when he read them, and a cold wind began to blow through his heart.

She stalks me through

The emerald night

My fate is sealed

I dare not run

Wherever I go

She is

And so I await as a lover

Should

Jukes shivered so violently that it almost made a sound through his jacket. Killian was talking about the Banshee!

He had been stalked; that much was obvious. But Killian showed an understanding of the Banshee, an acceptance, like Loomis, and that disturbed Jukes.

Something strange is going on here,
he thought. The memory of the redheaded mystery woman flooded back, and poor Loomis's rantings.

The Banshee, of course
.

He read on.

Take me in the green

Where destiny calls

Dare not wait another night

I am yours, grievous angel

Freely, and of my own free will

Proud to die in your arms

An Irish death

Jones was looking up from his paper, too, giving Jukes strange, knowing glances. Jones handed the poem he was reading to Jukes. His eyes scanned the page.

For Ireland I join the Banshee

In tears

Keening for the dead

We clamor together

For all those who dream of freedom

As we do

As we must

The terrible beauty lives on

Death, the defiant salvation

The end of suffering

The final issue

Resolved here and after

In the song of the Banshee

Jones purchased several of the loose poems, including the title poem of
Song of the Banshee
, as well as two books, and the two men left the store deep in thought.

George said, “I think it's time for a little more research on the Banshee. If there's a killer out there using it as a guise, Jesus, things could get unpleasant around here. Besides all these men being Irish, there must be another connection.”

Jukes nodded. “I think the guy at the bookstore misinterpreted all of this. It could be political, but it could be something else entirely. Killian was being stalked by the mystery woman, just like Loomis.”

Jones opened the car door and let Jukes in. This time he wasn't as lucky with the cigar smoke. The burly cop lit up and puffed on his stogie like a bellows.

“Well, Killian was a radical. He had connections to known terrorist organizations, according to the FBI. Killian had relatives within the movement.”

Jukes was surprised. He looked at Jones sternly and asked, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You didn't ask.”

“You knew he was a terrorist and you didn't tell me?”

“I didn't say he was a terrorist; I said he had relatives within the movement.”

“So? You should've leveled with me up front.”

Jones shrugged. “Hey, I'm a cop. Whadaya want? I have my information; you have yours. I don't have to share it if I think it puts a spin on the case I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to know, plain and simple. It might have influenced you, tainted your thought process. You got a problem with that?”

“I don't put a spin on anything! I deal in facts. I'm a doctor, for Christ sake!”

“Exactly,” Jones replied. “Then you should know better. I work on a need-to-know basis. When you need to, you'll know. Get used to it, Doc; that's the way things are.”

Jukes touched George's arm. “OK, I did this little errand for you, Jones; now maybe you'll help me find my sister?”

Jones blinked. “I'll see what I can do.”

As Jones slipped his unmarked car into gear and pulled away from the curb, a figure materialized from a doorway across the street.

As soon as the car turned the corner, Padraic O'Connor hurried across the street and into the bookstore.

Jukes was pleasantly surprised to find Fiona Rice to be an attractive forty-year-old woman specializing in Irish mythology and culture. She was a full professor, single, and in line to become the next department head. A bit too tall for most men, perhaps, but lithe and coltish, Fiona dressed for success in conservative tailored suits. She kept her brown hair simple and short and wore modest makeup.

Jukes felt an immediate attraction to her. Will Howard was right—she was a babe. Jukes fought off his natural inclination to be shy and slightly withdrawn in the presence of a beautiful woman.

“Dr. Wahler, so nice to meet you. Dr. Howard said you'd be stopping by. Please come in. I know it's not much of an office, but make yourself comfortable.”

She led him into a pitifully small cubicle in an office shared with several other workstations.

“Dr. Howard is a wonderful man, don't you think?”

Jukes smiled. “Well, I wouldn't use the word
wonderful
, but we've been friends a long time.”

“You're a psychiatrist?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I'm intrigued. What can I do for you?”

“I had a patient, an Irishman named Loomis, who insisted that he was being stalked by … the Banshee.”

“The Banshee? Really? That's interesting.”

“What can you tell me about the Banshee, Dr. Rice?”

“Fiona,” she said. “Nobody calls me Dr. Rice.” She smiled and her eyes twinkled.

“OK, Fiona. And you can call me Jukes.”

“Jukes, what an unusual name. Is that French?”

“No, just weird. My father was an eccentric.”

“Well, Jukes, there's nothing I love more than talking Irish mythology.” She glanced at her watch. “It's my lunch hour right now; I've got a class at one. Why don't we talk in the cafeteria?”

She gathered an armload of books and folders and led him through the door and out into the hall. After a few steps, the cargo threatened to spill from her embrace like a paper waterfall. She stopped to shift position and Jukes automatically reached out to help her. They brushed up against each other while Jukes relieved her of half her burden.

“Thank you,” she said, and they both blushed slightly.

They walked together in the direction of the cafeteria.

“The Banshee is a very complex figure,” Fiona said.

“The man who said he was being stalked was a banker, not the type to go off chasing leprechauns.”

“You say ‘was'.…”

“Well, he's dead. Murdered, actually.”

Fiona's face creased; her brow furrowed. Jukes thought her expression of condolence was priceless. It seemed she had a thousand facial expressions, all of them wonderful.

“That's terrible,” she said.

“Yes. It happened only a few days ago. Mr. Loomis was under my care. He complained of being stalked by the Banshee, and then he turns up murdered. You can see my interest. It's hard for me to gauge the sincerity of his convictions. I don't know how much he made up and how much is common knowledge, so I'm curious. The thing is, in my opinion, Loomis was suffering from paranoid delusions.”

“Banshee delusions?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, those who believe in the Banshee do so very passionately. It's not uncommon for Irishmen to experience that phenomenon. You see, the Banshee is the Irish version of the grim reaper. When an Irishman from certain families believes he's going to die, he often calls forth the myth of the Banshee I say Irish
men
because women don't seem to fall victim. The Banshee, you understand, is a woman.”

They entered the cafeteria and Fiona put her stack of folders on a table. They stepped to the food line, took trays, and slid them down the stainless-steel assembly line. Fiona selected a turkey sandwich and Jukes a bowl of soup. When they reached the cash register, Jukes pulled out his wallet and paid the tab. The total was a surprisingly cheap $3.49.

“That's the only reason I eat here,” Fiona said.

They went back to the table with Fiona's files and sat down.

Jukes looked around the room and smiled. “I'll have to remember this place; it's very atmospheric.”

Fiona laughed. Jukes noted that she laughed easily, a wonderful trait to have, he thought. His shyness eased with the blithe spirit of Fiona's company.

“The Banshee. Let's see; where should I begin? According to W. B. Yeats, the Banshee is an attendant fairy that follows the old families, and none but them, and wails before a death. The keen, or
caoine
, the funeral cry of the peasantry, is said to be an imitation of her cry.

“The Banshee has been around in myth and legend since the fifth century. She's been called the Bean Si, the Bean Nighe, the Washer Woman, even such quaint things as the Little Washer by the Ford. There are dozens of variations. She haunts certain Irish and Highland Scottish families.

“Legend has it that she appears sometimes as a woman washing the bloodstained clothes of those about to die, usually by a desolate stream in the woods.

“The most widely believed mythos is that she is the ghost of a woman who died in childbirth. I did my doctorate on Irish myths and legends, and the Banshee has always been one of my favorites, maybe because she's a woman and we women get so few good avengers.”

“Avengers?”

“Yes. You see, in a way, the Banshee is the avenging angel of womanhood. I'll tell you why I say that, but this is pretty esoteric stuff; are you sure you want to hear it?”

Jukes nodded.

“I just did an informal scan on the university's data base, based on what Dr. Howard told me.” She blushed. “He … he said you'd be inquiring about the Banshee, so I thought it might be fun to do some homework.”

Jukes got the distinct impression that Will had exerted the same type of pressure for them to meet on her as he had on him, and with the same subtle message—matchmaking.

Fiona cleared her throat and went on. Jukes was captivated; he thought she was intelligent and pleasant, more so every minute.

“Anyway, I looked back at every Banshee reference I could find in the mainframe and correlated those references to the rise and fall of the great clans, and here's what I got. The Banshee usually puts in an appearance where there has been some wrongdoing to women. Fascinating, isn't it?

“Garret More Fitzgerald, the Earl of Kildare, was said to be a tyrannical woman beater, and the Banshee is referenced there by several accounts. His nephew Conn More O'Neill is said to have suffered the same fate, as well as many others of that particular lineage.

“The most notorious was Ulick Burke, who beheaded his wife, who was, incidentally, the daughter of Kildare. He was said to have lived in fear of the Banshee for many years until she took him. That was around 1504.

“For centuries she stalked the families of the great ruling clans. Names like Geraldine, Butler, Burke, and O'Brian and others. In fact, it is said that the Banshee has visited virtually every clan in Ireland over the years, and also many of those in Scotland. Once she gets your number … it's all over. The blood of the great families still runs in hundreds of thousands of their descendants all over the world.”

“I had no idea. Tell me. What does she look like?”

“First of all, most of the people who see her die, so that cuts down on eyewitness accounts, but as far as I can deduce from what documentation exists, I'd say she has long red hair and always appears crying. She wears a gray cloak over a green dress, but that can change, depending on which family history you follow. There have been conflicting accounts over the years. She sometimes appears beautiful, other times horrible.”

Jukes was listening intently. He hadn't touched his soup. “You talk as if she really exists, as if you know her.”

Professor Rice smiled. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No, but a lot of people do.”

“Correct. Science can neither prove nor disprove their existence. So, I guess it's anybody's ball game. Since the Banshee is a type of ghost, who's to say? All I can tell you is that history is full of ghosts, in literature from the Romans to Shakespeare to Washington Irving to Stephen King.”

Jukes gave her a sly smile in return. “Do you?”

Fiona shrugged. “Kind of. I mean, I'm a historian. I spend a great deal of time hunting them down in one form or another.”

Jukes felt the warm rays of her smile, and for the first time in his life he felt at ease with a woman. He said, “Funny, you don't look like the type who believes in the spirit world.”

She blushed. “Well, I don't really.…”

“What can you tell me about the Banshee's singing?”

“Oh, the song of the Banshee is supposed to be the most terrible sound imaginable. The Banshee's wail is the sound of impending death, literally. Some of the research suggests that her wailing may actually cause the death. Ulick Burke was said to have been split in half by the sound.”

Jukes sat upright. He could scarcely believe his ears. “Did you say split in half?”

Fiona took a bite of her turkey sandwich and nodded.

“That's exactly how Declan Loomis died.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

O'Connor entered the old woman's crowded living room carefully, not wanting to bump into anything. Mrs. Willis had thousands of tiny figurines displayed on every available surface. Little statues, fragile bits of glass artwork, were everywhere. When O'Connor looked closely, he saw that they were all animals.

The centerpiece of her collection, a family of exquisite miniature giraffes, grazed in frozen splendor on the mirrored shelf of an antique display case.

“You like my little zoo?” Mrs. Willis asked, her voice as thin as a reed, her Irish accent thick. She was 102 years old, supposedly, and as tough and wrinkled as jerky.