The Celtic Riddle (32 page)

I went straight to the restaurant. It was closed, but I could see a
light at the back in the kitchen. Breeta wasn't there. I begged to know
where she lived. "I shouldn't tell you," the cook said. "But you seem
to be very upset. She's two doors down, the blue door, second floor."

But Breeta, when she saw me, tried to slam the door in my face. I
was ready for her, and I was desperate. I shoved the door open and
pushed past her into the room. She was thinner now, and the bulge in
her tummy more prominent. "Okay, Breeta," I said almost yelling.
"Enough is enough. I know this has been a very bad time for you. I know
that losing your father was bad enough, but then Michael, in such a
violent way. Well, it has been terrible. But you have had long enough.
From now on, you're just wallowing in it. Talk to me." She said
absolutely nothing, and kept her eyes averted from my face.

"Here," I said pulling up the map in front of her. "I have narrowed
down the location of your father's treasure to this area. The two
nearest towns are Mullingar and Athlone. You need to understand that it
is not the treasure I am after. Jennifer Luczka, whom you've met, a
young woman who is very dear to me, has gone off to find it with
Padraig Gilhooly. For all I know, he is the killer, and even if he
isn't, then the killer will be after them. I must find her. Please help
me, Breeta. I don't have anyone else to turn to. You'll be a mother
soon. You must understand what responsibility for a young person like
Jennifer means."

Still she said nothing. I felt tears of desperation forming in the
corners of my eyes. "What would be here, Breeta, that your father would
be interested in? Right here, Breeta," I said, pulling the map and
pointing at the place where the lines Alex and I had drawn intersected.
"I can't cover the whole area. There isn't time. This is life and
death, Breeta."

Silence greeted my plea. I was too upset even to cry. I turned and
walked to the door. As I put my hand out to pull it open, I heard her
move behind me. I turned. Breeta was looking at me, really looking at
me.

"Ooshna," she said. At least that is what it sounded like. "Ooshna
Hill. Find the stone, Aill na Mireann."

"Thank you, Breeta," I gasped, and dashed from the room to my car.

I blasted up the Dingle peninsula to Tralee, then picked up the
N2toward Limerick, then the Nthrough Ennis, Gort, and Loughrea, then on
through Ballinsloe to Athlone. It was a frustrating drive, two-lane
highways much of the way with few opportunities to pass, and it rained
off and on, leaving the pavement slick. It took me almost four hours
with one stop for a coffee and gas, and another to try to reach Rob at
the Inn and the garda station. I was cursing the fact that I didn't
have my cell phone. I'd left him a note, and I could only hope he too
was on his way.

That was four hours to think, as well as drive, about treasures and
broken geise, fathers and daughters, inappropriate love, ruined lives
and revenge. I knew, just as I knew that it was Jennifer who mattered,
not the treasure, that this was not about wealth, but about a stolen
life. By the time I got to Athlone, I knew who would be there. It was
all a process of elimination. There was really only one possibility
left. Denny had told a true story. Oh, he'd changed the location just a
little, had added a little fantasy, and a happy ending to bring a tear
of joy to Eamon's eye. This ending couldn't be happy, that I knew. But
I had to find Jennifer.

In Athlone, I pulled into a gas station for directions. The gas
jockey was a young man. "I'm looking for a place called Uisnech Hill,"
I said, pronouncing it Ooshna as Breeta had.

"Never heard of it," he said. "Is it around here?"

"Yes," I said. "Somewhere between here and Mullingar."

He shrugged. "You could ask my Da," he said, tossing his head in the
general direction of the office.

"I'm looking for a place called Uisnech," I said to two men in the
office, one I assumed to be the gas jockey's Da, the other, if I wasn't
mistaken, his grandfather.

"Can't say I know it," the father said.

"What did you say?" the older man asked.

"Uisnech," I repeated.

"Sure," the older man said. "Uisnech Hill. Take the valley road," he
said drawing me outside and pointing out the direction, "toward
Mullingar. You'll come to a fork at the far end of town. I'm not sure
if it's signed, and you'll probably get lost again. It's a ways yet,
but once you're on the valley road, it'll be on yer left. You'll know
you're just about there when you find the pub by that name. There'll be
a small sign, not much else. People don't visit much these days."

"Thanks," I said. I sure hoped he knew what he was talking about.
But he did, because as I got into the car he called after me.

"If you go to the pub, raise a cup to the Stone for me, will you?"

As navels of the universe go, Uisnech, the sacred center of Ireland,
is not much to look at these days, a rather unprepossessing hill
gradually rising just a few meters from the floor of the valley between
Mullingar and Athlone. There's a small sign, terribly worn, and a
cleared area for a few cars. There was no sign of Padraig's motorcycle,
nor the van he'd borrowed earlier, but there was another car, a rental
like mine. I prayed I wasn't too late. The way up to the hill was gated
and locked, with a sign on it that read

DANGER, BEWARE OF BULLS AND SUCKLER COWS, DO NOT ENTER, LANDS
PRESERVED & POISONED.

There was a old metal turnstile beside the locked gate and I went
through, undeterred. Bulls and poisoned earth be damned, I thought.
Theoretically, at least, you wouldn't have both poisoned earth and
suck-ler cows in the same field, but I reminded myself to keep my eyes
open for a bull.

The route up was relatively easy at first, an overgrown lane. Near
the top of it, though, I had to climb up some old cement stairs and
over a wire fence into an open field, which sloped gently upward to a
small plateau. I felt terribly exposed there, feeling the killer's eyes
on me at every step. The ground was wet and very, very muddy, and the
climb was an effort, my feet making a sucking sound in the mud after
every step. My pant legs were coated in mud.

A few hundred yards later on, I came upon a large cleared area. The
rain stopped for a few moments, and the sky cleared, and I found myself
on a small hill surrounded by a ring of mountains off in the distance.

With the exception of the view to the west, which was hidden by
trees, I felt I could see forever. It was a very large space, and I had
a feeling finding the treasure would be almost impossible, but then I
remembered the Stone, Aill na Mireann, the Stone of Divisions, the
large stone on the slopes of Uisnech that is supposed to represent
Ireland. I wondered where that might be.

I went on a little farther to a standing stone surrounded by a ring
of smaller stones. Seated off to one side of the ring sat Charles
McCafferty. He was wearing rain gear, including rubber boots, and an
umbrella. At his feet was a bundle, maybe a foot or two long, well
wrapped in plastic and twine. And he was pointing a gun at me.

"I have been expecting you," he said.

"And I, you," I replied.

"Is it this you came for?" he said pointing at the bundle at his
feet.

"No," I replied.

"No," he agreed. "You came looking for that young woman, what is her
name?"

"Jennifer," I said. "Where is she?"

"Gone," he said. My heart leapt into my mouth. What did gone mean?

"Gone," he repeated, seeing my dismay. "She left with that man of
hers. They had a bit of a disagreement. I believe he had a somewhat
closer relationship in mind, a reward, perhaps for bringing her here.
She didn't see it that way. She wasn't ready, apparently." He smiled.
"Then he confessed he still loved someone else. All rather sweet, I
thought. Quite right, too. He was entirely unsuitable for her. They
didn't find this," he said, pointing once again to the bundle, "because
I already had it. Nor did they see me, so I let them leave.

I am not entirely unprincipled. I see you are relieved. She's not
your daughter, is she?"

"No," I said. "She's the daughter of a friend of mine. I care about
her very much."

He nodded, and for a moment I thought he would cry. "That is as it
should be. But it is not always so."

"The lost child," I said.

"Yes," he said. "The lost child. It sounds poetic, doesn't it?
William Butler Yeats wrote a poem called 'The Stolen Child,' did you
know that? It's a story about a child being enticed away from this vale
of tears to a wonderful place by the fairies. Lovely."

I said nothing. He was going to say whatever he was going to say. I
could only hope he would get distracted and I could get away, as
difficult as that might be in the mud.

"But not so lovely when it's you who's lost, is it?" he went on.
"Not nearly so lovely and poetic. Prosaic, perhaps, when compared to
the gut-wrenching, heartbreaking stories of abuse so prevalent these
days, some of them genuine, some of them not. Prosaic, yes, even
perhaps, banal. But not when you're living it. Not when it's you. I was
bundled off to an orphanage. Awful things, orphanages, but not nearly
so bad as the home I was eventually sent to. I won't bore you with the
details, just the highlights. Drunken, abusive father, feeble put-upon
mother. Boy goes to bed hungry, gets up cold and even more hungry;
beaten regularly; dirty, worn clothes, bad teeth, poor grades, scorn of
classmates. Father beats mother almost to death; lost child beats
father, leaves home never to return. Boy hears his mother is dead,
finally, by his father's hand. Determined to be a success. Through hard
work, desperately hard work, becomes a solicitor. Uses his new skills
and knowledge to find his real family. That's it."

"And vows revenge," I said. "You forgot that part."

"Revenge," he agreed. "Beautiful, unadulterated revenge. I see it as
a bright, white light of some kind, purifying, taking the blackened
parts of my soul, and healing them."

Mad as a hatter, I thought.

"You think me mad," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "I prefer to
think of it as focused, or even, perhaps obsessed. But you may be
right. If I am, I was driven to it. These people, rich, so careless of
others, they deserve everything that has happened, and will happen, to
them.

"I found them, then I set out to destroy them. First, I had to get
their legal work. I managed some introductions, all the right people,
of course, and after giving Eamon some rather good bits of advice, if I
do say so myself, took over his legal work. Then, it was just a matter
of time. I looked after most of their banking and investments, and
gradually I lost their money. Not in such large amounts, or so fast
that they would notice it was done deliberately, but steadily. There
was a period of time when it was actually difficult to lose money in
the stock market, but I rather pride myself on having managed it. Not
much, but a little. I'd waited a long time for this, and I wasn't for
rushing it. It helped in a way that Eamon Byrne was ill. He wasn't
there to see what was happening, figure it out, and he thought the
reason his beloved empire was failing was on account of his inadequate
sons-in-law.

"I did not benefit personally from this, you understand, not
financially at least. To do so might have alerted various authorities
who are charged widi the responsibility to watch out for these things.
But I derived enormous personal satisfaction, I'm sure you will
appreciate, from the execution of my plan.

"It was something of a disappointment to me that Eamon Byrne managed
to escape my clutches by dying. Very untimely of him. I had hopes that
he would die in poverty, but unfortunately he did not. In that
objective, I ran out of time. I was there when he died. You're the only
one who knows that, although Deirdre may have guessed. And I told him
just before he died. I came down to finalize his Will and to record the
videotape. I had already hidden the clues to his specifications. When
he was all alone, gasping for life, I told him what I was going to do
to his family. He died minutes later. Shock, I like to think, in his
weakened condition. Even so, I deprived him of only a few hours, or
days, of life, hardly worth it. Possibly, he will try to haunt me from
the grave. I think I might enjoy that. But I didn't want any of the
family to die, not yet. I wanted them alive and suffering. Anyone else
was, and is, expendable." His words were full of menace, but his tone
matter of fact.

"I did consider wooing one of the daughters and marrying her. It was
easy enough to split up Fionuala and Conail, and she would be an easy
mark. There were two problems with that. One was that whether she knew
it or not, she already had very little money worth marrying, my
activities being so successful so quickly. The other is that I'm not
really that way inclined: women, I mean. I see my adoptive mother's
bleeding and bruised face in all of them. It would have been difficult,
if not impossible, for me. Perhaps you sensed that. On balance, I
decided to stay with the original plan.

"And it's working rather well. Second Chance, as you may have
noticed, is on the market, at fire sale prices. Just a word or two on
my part is all that is required to persuade potential buyers that the
property would not be suitable for them. Byrne Enterprises is on a
satisfying downward spiral. Sean and Conail, who might between them
have managed to salvage something, I have set against each other. To
each I blamed the other, when business affairs did not go well, and
they were all too eager to believe the bad things I had to say about
the other. It caused all kinds of strife in the family, all of which
suited my purposes. I expect to be able to buy the company within a
year. They'll be grateful, no doubt, for the pittance I pay them. It
will not last them long.