The Wild Sight (4 page)

“No . . . ” Resting his hands on his thighs, the lad Johnny took a deep breath. “Well, maybe yes. The thing is, we’ve found
a body . . . in the fens.”

“A bog body?” Sybil gasped in excitement, while Rylie gasped in alarm.

Johnny shook his head. “He’s been dead awhile, but he’s twenty-first century, or twentieth at least. I could tell by his shoes.”

“Are you sure it’s a man?” Donovan demanded, a terrible fear gripping him.

Giving him a quizzical look, Johnny nodded then turned to McRory. “Please, Professor, will you come take a look?”

“Straight away,” McRory answered, face grim. “Syb, you’d best call the authorities.” He stepped over the threshold and pulled
on his rubber boots.

Donovan plunked his cup into the sink. “I’d better come with you.”

“Me too,” Rylie quickly chimed in.

With a firm expression, McRory shook his head. “’Til we see what’s out there, you ladies need to stay here.”

Sybil, who stood with her mobile phone in hand, gave a humph of dissatisfaction and turned away.

Rylie glared but muttered, “Fine,” between her teeth.

Not pausing for further discussion, they left the two unhappy women behind in the cottage. Donovan strode rapidly across the
yard while McRory and Johnny kept pace with him.

“We were taking the top layer off the new trench when Michael’s spade struck something,” Johnny babbled as they approached
the canopied area where work tables and benches were set up. “’Twas a boot, but when he called me over to help unearth it,
we saw ’twas a pair of boots, and the feet still in ’em!”

Two men stood murmuring over one of the tables, but McRory waved them away when they moved to join the trio. Donovan was glad
to give the work area a wide berth, in case there might be an artifact or something to trigger one of his visions.

Tuning out Johnny’s nervous chatter, Donovan recalled how he stumbled upon the original dig site over two months ago. He’d
been clearing dried grass and brush in the corner of the yard when he thought he heard a dog barking. He searched, but hadn’t
found the source of the elusive sound. Frustrated, he whacked at a dead bush and when he uprooted the thing, beneath the shallow
root system lay a purposefully constructed pit. Seeing the carefully arranged bones had triggered the first vision Donovan
had experienced in over fifteen years.

Amid the painful buzzing in his ears, he’d watched a Druid sacrifice the dog and place its body along with the foreleg bones
of a horse into the pit to appease their gods Though the images had faded quickly, Donovan felt sick and frightened in their
aftermath. His worst fear had come to pass. Coming back to his boyhood home had precipitated the return of the “gift” he’d
never been able to control.

When he was a young child, he saw and heard things that no one else did.
Except his mother.
He was loath to say “things that weren’t there” for they always felt very much
there,
as real as anything else within his childish realm of experiences. However, once he realized no one else saw or heard what
he did, he never admitted anything to anyone. His mother had been right, people didn’t understand. Heaven knew, he didn’t
understand it himself.

The unique smell of dampness and decay hit Donovan’s nostrils at the same time the earth grew spongy beneath his feet. The
three of them had reached the edge of the fens. He banished all thoughts of his “gift” and the people and things he saw. He
needed to concentrate on the present and keep everything else away from his consciousness. McRory and the young man were still
talking, and he focused hard on their words.

“. . . no reason to suspect foul play,” McRory was saying.

“But what else could it be?” Johnny insisted.

“The fens have always been dangerous,” the professor pointed out. “People lose their way.”

Not this close in.
Donovan kept his agreement with the lad to himself as they negotiated single file between a thick clump of bushes and a tangle
of thorny vines. The moist ground sucked at the soles of his sneakers. A dead beech tree ahead on their right looked vaguely
familiar. Blackened scars on the trunk teased at the edge of his memory. He shook his head to clear it.

“Ho! Michael!” Johnny shouted.

Ahead, past another thicket of brush, a figure in a red cap waved.

“I’ve nearly uncovered him,” the second young man called back.

“No! Stop!” McRory ordered. “Leave that for the police.” When Johnny shot him a perturbed look, he added, “In case there might
be something to investigate.”

Still silent, Donovan sidestepped the professor’s twine markers. From the corner of his eye, he saw two trenches similar to
the ones McRory’s team had dug in the cottage yard. The second youth, Michael, stood down a slope in the midst of more twine
and a muddy pile of earth.

“’Tis sorry I am, Professor,” he rushed to apologize. “I didn’t mean . . . ”

McRory held up his hand for silence. “No matter, Michael. What is it we’ve got then?”

“A feckin’ mess!” The young man blurted, then he eyed Donovan with dismay. “Bollocks! I suppose you’re the Yank who owns all
this. Sorry. I’m Michael Carmody.”

“Close enough, my father owns it.” Donovan forced a smile as he extended his hand. “Donovan O’Shea, and I agree, looks to
be a feckin’ mess, right enough.”

He craned his neck to gaze around Michael Carmody into the hole, which was about a half meter deep. The body lay face down,
long legs and half the torso uncovered. Much too large to be a woman, at least the woman Donovan had feared it might be.

Before the wave of relief washed over him, a blinding light flashed in front of his eyes. In the next instant, the wavering
image of a big man appeared in front of him. A hand gripping a butcher knife plunged the blade into the man’s belly. Once.
Twice.

Stunned, Donovan gasped and stumbled.

The vision disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. Michael Carmody stuck out his arm and prevented Donovan from toppling
into the hole.

“Must . . . sit,” Donovan wheezed and staggered backward. His visions had never been like this!

Next thing he knew, McRory had a canvas campstool under him. With a shuddering breath, Donovan sat and dropped his head between
his knees.

“Do you know who ’tis?” the professor demanded.

“N—no,” Donovan stuttered, but when he raised his eyes in the direction of the body, the light and the terrible image struck
him again. Groaning, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Donovan!” McRory’s large hand gripped his shoulder, fingers digging through his jacket and sweater. “Christ Jaysus, man!
What’s wrong?”

He bit back the urge to reveal what he knew. “My head,” he panted, then truthfully added, “It’s never been like this before.”

McRory’s grip relaxed a fraction. Eyes squeezed shut, Donovan pivoted around on the stool so that he faced away from the body.
Very carefully, he opened his eyes and looked into Professor McRory’s worried face.

He drew in a deep breath. “I’m all right now.”

The professor’s expression shifted from concern to conjecture “I’ll be the judge of that. Michael, Johnny, help me get him
back to the cottage.” He motioned in the direction of the body. “That knacker won’t be going anywhere before the PSNI arrives.”

To Donovan’s dismay, the two young men were staring goggle-eyed at him. He shook off McRory’s hand and got to his feet. “I
really am all right.”

“Be that as it may,” McRory insisted and turned to walk back up the slope. “There’s aspirin and what-not back at the cottage,
and I for one, could do with a shot of Bushmills.”

Rylie slammed her half-empty mug of tea in the sink and stuck her head out the open cottage door to stare at the disappearing
figures of the three men. She was debating whether or not to follow them when Sybil flipped her cell phone closed and stood
next to her.

“Police are on their way.” She confirmed. Then she muttered under her breath, “Shite! Shite! Shite! This’ll make a right hames
of everything!”

“Excuse me?” Rylie turned to see the other woman sink onto the closest camp cot, toss the phone aside, and bury her face in
her hands.

Draped in an oversized green sweater, Sybil’s thin shoulders shuddered in a silent sob. “Sorry,” she mumbled between her fingers.
Then she raked her sweater sleeve across her eyes.

“Things were going so well ’til now. This was turning out to be the find of Aongus’s career.” Her voice turned sullen. “But
now the police will shut us down whilst they investigate. And who knows how long that’ll take?”

Rylie pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and offered it to Sybil. “I suppose that’s time you and Aongus can’t be together?”

The other woman nodded and wiped her nose while Rylie pulled over the stool and sat opposite her.

“Because of his wife?”

“Bloody hell!” Sybil moaned. “Am I that bleedin’ obvious?”

“Only because I’ve been there and done that,” Rylie admitted, surprising herself as well as Sybil, but some part of her wanted
to spare another woman needless pain and betrayal.

Sybil rolled her eyes and snorted. “I’m finding this hard to believe, Miss . . . Rylie. ’Tis plain that you fancy Mr. O’Shea,
and he you, and I know for a fact he’s single.”

“It happened a long time ago.” Actually less than a year, but it felt like another lifetime. Then the impact of Sybil’s second
statement hit, and Rylie looked askance. “Trust me, I’m the last person Donovan O’Shea is interested in.” She touched the
other woman’s hand and held her gaze. “But you must believe me, Sybil, an affair with your married boss will end badly. It
always does.”

“No, Aongus is different.” She threw off Rylie’s hand and jerked her head aside to break eye contact. “He only married
herself
because of her position at Queen’s. This find will secure his career, and he won’t need
herself
any more. Besides, he—”

Sybil’s words stopped suddenly and Rylie noticed a shadow flickering across the open door. She craned her neck and saw two
men approaching, one with a wild mane of carrot-red curls, the other a typical Irish brunet with his hair clubbed back in
a ponytail. Giving one last swipe to her nose, Sybil met them at the door.

“What’ve that pair of gobshites done now, Syb?” the redhead demanded, then seeing Rylie, he flushed in embarrassment. “Pardon.
Brian Finlay, and this is Frank Casey.”

“Rylie Powell.” Rylie stood and shook the brunet’s extended hand. Both men looked older than their colleague Johnny, though
several years younger than Professor McRory.

“A Yank,” Frank Casey observed, looking at her sneakers. “You must be with O’Shea.”

Before Rylie could answer Brian Finlay spoke again, his green eyes sparkling amid his mass of freckles, “I meant to ask if
Johnny and Michael have stirred up trouble.”

“This time ’tis not their fault,” Sybil’s voice sounded tightly restrained. “They’ve uncovered a body, a recent one.”

“Shite!” Frank muttered what Rylie guessed was the most common word in the Irish lexicon.

“The PSNI buggers will shut us down for sure.” Brian agreed, the sparkle extinguished from his eyes.

“I’ve already called, and they’re on their way.” Sybil sunk back onto the camp cot with a ragged sigh. Her pale blue eyes
welled with fresh tears.

Brian gave her shoulder a hesitant pat. “Sorry, Syb. I know how much this meant to you.”

“Cuppa?” asked Frank, reaching for the undisputed Irish cure-all, the teakettle.

Forced to fall into step behind the professor, Donovan and his companions carefully made their way out of the fens and back
across the yard. While he walked, Donovan replayed the two brief, horrific flashes in his mind. His visions had never gone
on and off like a strobe, and they were always rooted in Celtic antiquity, never recent. What this new variation might mean
made his stomach roil. He really must get out of here!

Just before they reached the now empty work area, a black sedan pulled into the yard. Behind it rumbled a black and white
van. The Police Service of Northern Ireland had arrived. McRory broke into a jog, but Donovan maintained his slower pace,
with Michael and Johnny on either side of him. The two either weren’t anxious to face the PSNI, or they wanted to make sure
he wasn’t too gee-eyed to walk on his own. Or both.

Sybil and a young man with red hair emerged from the cottage as a man in a trench coat got out of the sedan. The officer and
the professor were talking when Donovan, Michael, and Johnny approached.

“These are my two associates who found the body, Michael Carmody and Johnny Byrne.” McRory waved his hand by way of introduction.
“And this is the property owner’s son, Donovan O’Shea. Inspector Colm Lynch.”

Lynch offered his gloved hand to each of them in turn, but after he shook Donovan’s, his eyes narrowed.

“You’ve grown considerably since the last time we met.” He paused to look him over from top to toe before he continued. “’Tis
no surprise you don’t remember. I was new to the force then, and we called ourselves the Royal Ulster Constabulary rather
than the PSNI. I investigated the disappearance of your mother, Moira Mullins O’Shea.”

“I . . . I don’t remember much. I was only seven.” For a disconcerting moment, Donovan imagined everyone leaned forward in
eager anticipation. Other than his visions, this was the last topic he wanted to discuss. But the PSNI inspector wasn’t inclined
to let the subject drop.

“Passing strange how no trace of her was ever found,” Lynch said, playing to his audience. “For good or ill.”

Chapter 4

“READY WHEN YOU ARE, INSPECTOR,” CALLED ONE OF THE men standing at the rear of the police van.

“Carmody and Byrne, is it?” Lynch nodded at the professor’s two protégés. “Let’s go then.”

As the police inspector, Johnny, and Michael tramped off toward the fens, McRory herded everyone else back inside the cottage.
Donovan supposed he was obliged to stay, though he would’ve much rather hopped into Rylie Powell’s hired car and headed straight
back to Ballyneagh. Or better yet, gone right on to the Belfast airport and the first flight home.

Unfortunately, the vexing Miss Powell sidled up to him and cast a worried glance into his face. “You don’t look so good.”

She wrapped her delicate fingers around his forearm and guided him to one of the camp cots against the far wall. Donovan eased
himself down and she plopped next to him. “Do you want some tea?”

“Grand idea,” McRory said, then turned and disappeared up the stairs into the loft.

While Sybil and the red-haired man bustled about looking for extra cups, the other man added more tea and hot water to the
teapot. If Donovan remembered correctly, his name was Frank Casey.

“I’m really sorry about your mother.” The soft whisper near his ear startled Donovan. Then Rylie laid her small hand on his
arm again. “But at least the body wasn’t her.”

“N—no,” he managed to choke out.

Though her touch was meant in sympathy, the heat from her palm burned through his jacket and sweater like a live coal. He
pulled his arm away and put some space between the two of them.

“Right nasty business, whomever ’twas,” Frank muttered to no one in particular as he re-lit the burner and put more water
in the kettle.

“Yes, indeed!” seconded McRory, hustling back down the stairs with a flat whiskey bottle in one hand. “’Twas murder most foul.”
He poured tea into the cup Sybil offered then splashed in a generous portion of the whiskey. “Isn’t that right, Donovan?”

Donovan shifted under the questioning gazes of everyone in the crowded room. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Wouldn’t you now?” McRory poised the whiskey bottle over another cup Sybil had just poured. “A wee nip? Good for what ails
you.”

“No, thank you.” His tone came out sharper than he intended. Sybil shot a surprised glance at him and he could feel Rylie
doing the same, so he added apologetically, “I don’t drink.”

The professor’s eyebrows shot up in mock dismay. “A bit like the cobbler’s children who have no shoes, is it?”

“I suppose so.” Donovan tipped up his cup of tea to drink, thereby ending the uncomfortable conversation. He hoped.

“C’mon, Brian,” Frank motioned to the redhead. “Might as well load up everything else before they shutus down. Maybe we’ll
have enough to keep us occupied until the PSNI lets us come back.”

“’Twill be the middle of bloody freezing winter by then,” Brian grumbled as the two walked out the door.

After the two men left, Rylie spoke again, this time to the professor. “Why do you think the man was murdered?” Her voice
squeaked on the last word.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, McRory took a swig of his fortified tea, then answered. “Because our Donovan nearly took
a header into the hole after one look.” His shrewd gaze pinned Donovan before he could protest. “And don’t go prattling about
headaches, food poisoning and such. ’Tis plain to me that you have The Sight, boyo.”

Though Rylie looked confused, recognition spread over Sybil’s face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Donovan scoffed. “Only women have The Sight.”

“Not necessarily,” Sybil contradicted him. “Evidence suggests that some of the ancient Druids may have actually been clairvoyant.
And they were males.”

Crossing his arms, Donovan scowled at all three of them. “Trust me, if I could foresee the future, I’d have won the Irish
Sweepstakes long ago.”

McRory chuckled, “If only ’twere that simple, eh?” He took another slow sip of his whiskey-laced beverage. “But the truth
is that The Sight can manifest in a hundred different ways and degrees. Some people call it intuition or a hunch. Surely you’ve
had those.”

“I have,” Rylie spoke up and giggled. “But I’m wrong more often than I’m right. Does that mean my Sight is defective?”

For whatever reason, she seemed to be helping defuse the uncomfortable situation. Grateful for her unexpected aid, Donovan
was taken aback nonetheless.

“Ah, darlin’ girl,” drawled McRory. “There’s nothing defective about you that I can see.”

That remark didn’t sit any better with Donovan than it did with Sybil, whose pale eyes snapped between Rylie and the professor.
A tawny blush stained Rylie’s cheeks.

“I always know when a family member isn’t well,” Sybil offered a bit defensively. “I suppose that counts as a wee bit of The
Sight.”

“So do I,” Donovan added with complete honesty. “When my sister called in June, I knew as soon as she spoke that my father
was ill, though I suppose that could have been because of the way she said my name.” Then another memory assailed him and
he heard himself murmur, “And I was sick for a fortnight when my mother went missing.”

Unsure what had prompted that confession, Donovan quickly took a drink of tea to moisten his parched throat.

“Then perhaps the body in the fens is a relation of yours,” McRory concluded.

“I don’t see how,” Donovan replied, rising to his feet. He placed his mug in the sink. “Please excuse me a moment.” Then he
headed for the loo, for a moment’s well-deserved reprieve.

With Donovan ensconced in the bathroom, Rylie moved to the sink to wash out the used cups. Sybil rushed to help her, while
Professor McRory continued to sip from his mug. Rylie had drunk Irish coffee on St. Patrick’s Day once and found the taste
repulsive, so she couldn't image gagging down tea mixed with whiskey. She would rather have a frozen margarita any day.

Just as she heard Donovan come back into the room, she saw Michael, Johnny, and the police inspector crossing the yard. Sybil
saw them too, and put more water in the teakettle to heat. Then all four of them walked outside to meet the three men. Michael
and Johnny looked subdued, and both immediately ducked inside the cottage.

“Sorry to tell you,” said the beefy police inspector. “But this is now a homicide investigation. The victim sustained multiple
stab wounds to the abdomen.”

On one side of her, Rylie heard Sybil give a strangled gasp, while on the other side, Donovan’s face blanched. She reached
for his hand and was surprised when he didn’t jerk away. His breathing sounded ragged.

“Given the amount of decomposition, I’d say he’s been dead at least twenty years,” McRory was saying. “How can you be sure
he was stabbed to death?”

“Because when we turned him over,” Inspector Lynch fished in the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a clear plastic bag
with a large rusty kitchen knife inside. “This was still imbedded in one of his ribs.”

Rylie’s horrified gasp echoed with Sybil’s and the other woman quickly crossed herself. Even McRory flinched. Rylie felt Donovan’s
fingers tighten over her own, and from the corner of her eye, his handsome face looked even more white, cold and hard as polished
marble. But he didn’t appear all that shocked, almost as if he’d anticipated the knife.

Could the professor be right? Did her half-brother really possess the extra sensory perception they called the Sight? She
certainly didn’t have it, so he must have inherited it from his mother.

The police inspector shoved the plastic bag back into his pocket. “Sorry Professor, but since this is now a crime scene, I
can’t allow you and your crew to stay here and continue your dig.”

“I expected as much,” McRory murmured while Sybil’s head drooped in dejected defeat.

“I’ll need contact information from all of you,” Lynch’s sweeping gaze included the four of them as he extracted a small notebook
from his inside jacket pocket. He fumbled with the pen in his gloved fingers. “Probably nothing more than a few routine questions,
since I doubt my superiors will want to commit much time or manpower to a case this old.”

“My wife is a geneticist at Queen’s, who works exclusively with DNA,” Professor McRory said while beside him Sybil’s head
snapped up and color flooded her face. “If you need help in identifying the remains, I’m sure she’d oblige.”

“Appreciate the offer,” Lynch replied. “We’ll be transporting the body to Armagh City and I’ll let the county coroner know.”

Seemingly oblivious of his assistant’s mortification, McRory gave the inspector copious phone numbers and addresses for himself
and his wife. Poor Sybil squirmed like she was enduring medieval torture. So much for her claim about Aongus being different.
Rylie had to cover her derisive snort with a cough. As soon as she did, Donovan seemed to realize they were still holding
hands, and he jerked his fingers away. She cleared her throat and the inspector diverted his attention to her.

“Sorry, but I’ll only be here eleven more days,” she babbled into the awkward silence. “I’m staying in Cavanagh House B &
B in Dungannon. Do you want my American address and phone number too?”

“I don’t expect we’ll need it,” Lynch answered. Then he turned to Donovan. “However, I may need to question your father, since
he is the legal property owner and likely was at the time of the murder.”

A muscle in Donovan’s jaw twitched. “I’d rather you didn’t. My father is very ill and unable to speak. Undue stress could
be harmful to him.”

“Can he communicate at all?” the inspector asked, eyes narrowed. When Donovan gave a slight nod, he added, “Then I’ll try
to be brief.”

Still looking mutinous, Donovan gave only the name of a care facility. Then he gave his own address and phone number and the
name and phone number of his sister, Doreen Sullivan. Lynch turned to Sybil, and Donovan pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

“Excuse me a moment,” he murmured, then walked toward the parked vehicles and out of earshot.

As Rylie looked at his broad back, phone pressed to his ear, she suddenly realized she now had the information she needed
to see her father. A smug grin tugged at one corner of her mouth; Donovan would probably spit nails when the same thing occurred
to him.

A flurry of movement drew her eyes away from her half-brother. The other two police officers came into view, carrying a large
canvas bag between them. The dead body. She, Sybil, and Professor McRory watched them lug their burden across the yard to
the back of the van. Lynch closed his notebook and crossed to meet them.

While Rylie watched the three policeman conferring together, Brian and Frank rejoined them and drew the professor inside the
cottage for their own conference. She glanced at Sybil, who stood still as a stone. Then Rylie looked back at Donovan. Something
definitely was not right. His tall frame slumped against the hood of the car, arms cradling his head.

Her feet and legs operated independently from her conscious mind, for the next thing she knew she stood beside him. His cell
phone lay in the dirt next to the car’s front tire. What she could see of his face glistened with a sheen of perspiration
and his breath sounded as rapid as if he’d jogged a brisk mile.

“Donovan?” she queried, her hand poised above his shaking shoulder.

With a startled gasp, he turned and knocked against her, only a tiny rim of blue visible around his wide black pupils. With
sudden certainty, Rylie knew McRory was right. Donovan O’Shea saw things. He had The Sight.

“Are you—” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth and she struggled to get words out. “—okay?”

The jangling of his cell caused lucidity to leap back into his eyes. They both dived for the ringing phone and bumped their
heads together. Rylie almost toppled over, but managed to remain upright, hand clutching her temple.

“Sorry, I . . . I dropped the mobile,” Donovan mumbled into the device. He turned aside and took a step away.

Someone touched her arm, and Rylie jerked around to find Sybil standing next to her. Behind her, Donovan carried on a low
but intense discussion.

“Appears the two of you are leaving.” Sybil inclined her head in Donovan’s direction.

“I guess so,” Rylie acknowledged, listening to another few terse comments of Donovan’s one-sided conversation. “Can you give
the others our apologies?”

Sybil nodded, then shifting her weight from foot to foot, she stuck out her hand. “If I don’t see you again, safe journey
Miss . . . Rylie.”

Rylie bit her bottom lip as she exchanged an awkward handshake with the other woman. “Thanks, and I’m sorry about what I said.”

“’Tis no matter,” Sybil intervened a little too quickly. “You were only trying to help.” Then she looked over Rylie’s shoulder
and nodded. “Mr. O’Shea.”

Without waiting for any replies, she turned and hurried back toward the cottage. Rylie regarded her half-brother, who still
looked pale and tense.

“That was my sister,” he explained, tight lines bracketing his mouth. “She’s very upset, and I promised her I would talk to
our father before the police show up.”

Our father.
Rylie was certain he didn’t mean to include her in that phrase. Nonetheless, she
was
included, whether Donovan and his sister liked it or not.

He pulled the keys from his pants pocket and she held out her hand.

“Let me. You’re in no shape to drive.” Then before he could refuse, she added, “This is
my
car. Don’t make me throw a fit in front of our buddies over there” She nodded toward the two police officers getting into
their van.

Smart guy. He believed her threat, for he tossed the keys at her and muttered, “Fine.”

While he slumped in the passenger’s seat, she adjusted the driver’s seat and rear view mirror.

“Do you remember how to get back to the pub?” he asked sulkily. “Drop me there and I’ll take the Morris.”

The police van pulled out of the yard and down the dirt driveway. Rylie started the car, put it in gear, and followed.

“You can probably walk faster than that old heap can run. I’ll just take you to the care facility.”