《Black Ash》


 Prologue

    Prologue.


    410 A.D. Rome, like a prizefighter, focused on past victories rather than future challengers, had lowered its guard, and a great defeat loomed. Evidence of that fact was but a stone''s throw away, for Alaric and his barbarian horde were already camped outside the city gates, dictating terms of surrender, confident in their advantage and in their ruthlessness. Darkness settled over Rome and all the lands under its standard. An empire, prosperous for a millennium, was coming to a swift and certain end.


    Within the city walls, few beyond Pope Innocent contemplated that possibility. He alone understood the hopelessness of the situation. Inevitably, the city would fall, and the Black Ash would be lost, if not in the current crisis, then in others sure to follow. Enemies, smarter and stronger, would one day rise and take that which the church sought so desperately to protect. The Black Ash, an evil hidden for four centuries, would once more be unleashed onto an ill-prepared world.


    Alone in his private chapel, he knelt before a large marble cross. Will your sacrifice be in vain? He bowed his head and prayed, not just for his life but for all lives to follow. He considered his options carefully. Faith, however, and the strength he always derived from it, gave not the slightest hint to help steer a decision.


    Then, as the fortifications crumbled and the slain screamed, desperation forced his hand. He hurried to the deepest vault, retrieved the Ash, and entrusted it to two loyal aides. They escaped the city under cover of night and fled north, hoping isolation alone would protect their burden. For years they lived in the forests and valleys, beneath snow-covered mountain tops, always on the run and constantly fearful of discovery. They awaited further instructions.


    As the invaders and the dispossessed swarmed across the land, the threat of discovery grew. The Black Ash needed to be hidden and forgotten, placed far beyond the possibility of chance discovery or deliberate seizure. In desperation, Innocent dispatched envoys to all corners of the empire to find such a place, somewhere that needed no fortifications or armies to protect, since neither would survive civilization''s inevitable plunge into the abyss.


    Far from Rome, at the very edge of the empire, lay Ireland. Roman legions had never marched upon its soil; it was of no interest to empire builders. Yet, as Rome fought for her survival, events in Ireland were unfolding that would make it a beacon of Christianity for all ages to come. A lone missionary, a freed slave, returned to the land of his captivity, sowed the seeds of that transformation. His name, Patricius, would be forever linked with Ireland and the church.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    In 440 A.D, a new pope, Leo the Great, was ordained. When word reached Patricius, he dispatched one of his followers, Munis, to Rome to bring news of his missionary work. As Leo listened, he began to understand the significance of Ireland''s extraordinary embrace of the Christian faith. It was clear that God himself had intervened. Ireland had a higher calling: it was there that the Black Ash could be hidden.


    As related in the Annals of Clonmacnoise, Pope Leo sent Munis back to Ireland bearing gifts and sacred relics, among them the Black Ash and a letter bestowing its eternal safekeeping to Patricius and the people of Ireland.


    To Patricius of Hibernia


    I, Leo, am writing with my hand that which you alone may read. Such is the need for great secrecy in this concern. The great city of Rome has fallen to the barbarian assault, and the heretics are among us. I have heard his warnings, by heavenly signs, by the precepts of the prophets, and through visions and dreams. I must heed them, for I have seen it to the end, to the destruction of Rome. Wars, immeasurably long, stretch out before us. None shall be safe. None shall be spared.


    It is at this time that I must turn to thee, my most venerable of brothers. I have marveled at the accounting of thy mission. You are uncommonly divine. The Spirit of sanctification fills thy deeds, and the blood of redemption flows through thy veins. What seemed beyond comprehension because no nation has embraced our God and Savior so readily has now been made clear.


    Dear brother, I must implore your blessedness to assume a great burden. Into thy hands, I must place the Black Ash, the most terrible of relics. Satan''s soul lives within it, and it can turn to vile and perfidious acts those who encounter it. It craves Armageddon and his ascendance. Be wary of his agents who will seek it, for they will act in its favor. None among us, even the most revered, are to be trusted beyond those you choose.


    I also send you the Sacred curio. It alone, above all earthly contrivances, can subdue the beast. Therefore, keep them as one, for shall they be separated, Satan can act. Do not look to the heavens or to the east, for your plea will go unanswered. And do not seek to stand an army, for non will be enough. Take, therefore, that which I have given you, and hide them from all eyes, for all times to come.


    I pray that you find the strength and the wisdom to assume this cross that I must place on your shoulders.


    Patricius hid the Black Ash together with the Sacred Curio. In time, rumor and legend faded. They were forgotten by all but a few.

 Chapter 1.

    Chapter 1.


    The ringing of a phone stirred Michael Clarke from a nap. His head was pounding, as had been the case all day. Payback for another end-of-term party and a night of Guinness with whiskey chasers. Too many to count. The rigor mortis in his neck, he put down to the tattered sofa where he was lying. A halfhearted massage of forehead and neck did nothing to ease his discomfort.


    The phone clicked to the answering machine. "Mike, it''s Christine. Are you there? I hope you are not going to be late for the flight like last time."


    He jumped up, and his world spun. He grabbed the phone.


    "Hey babe," he groaned. "I''ll be leaving soon. No way I will miss Pete''s wedding."


    He reached for a TV remote and turned on the thirty-inch hand-me-down sitting on a stool in a corner of the room. The six o''clock news on BBC1 was starting.


    "Ok," he said, "I''ll see you at the airport about seven-thirty. Love you."


    He sat down fatigue and throbbing head still significant barriers to action.


    Extrapolating backward from the flight time, he settled on a plan: pack, shower, and eat before seven, then on the road missing the worst of evening rush hour. With no check-in baggage and the optimism of the always-late, he calculated he could even arrive at eight and still make the eight-thirty flight.


    He settled in for five more minutes of rest. After twenty, he jumped up and bailed on his carefully thought-out schedule, opting to eat first, then shower, then pack. Dinner was a piece of dry toast. A facecloth rubdown approximated a shower. With some express packing, forgetting toiletries, and a change of underwear, he was on the road a little behind schedule.


    On the car radio, Cool FM''s The Seventies at Seven played vaguely familiar golden oldies. The evening rush had not eased, though delays were not enough to jeopardize his plan. Just before eight, he pulled into Belfast City Airport''s short-term parking.


    At an enthusiastic trot, he found a British Airways self-service console and entered his reservation number. The broad smile on his face, evidence of another perfectly timed, last-minute rush to the airport, held and then slowly turned to a frown as the message lingered on the screen.


    Looking up your reservation. Please wait.


    When the screen refreshed, he felt his guts churn.


    Cannot process request. Please go to Customer Service.


    Cursing himself for his tardiness, he looked around and spotted the desk at the other end of the concourse. He took off like a thief fleeing a bank heist. No one was waiting in line.


    "I couldn''t check-in," he said to the agent behind the desk.


    "Can I see your ticket, please?" She was young and cute, with the enthusiasm of someone new to the job.


    Michael handed it over.


    "Ok, Mr. Clarke, let''s see here." The attendant studied the ticket and started typing.


    She reviewed the screen for a few seconds. "I''m sorry, but you have missed your flight. I can rebook you first thing in the morning. We have seats available on the 7:00 A.M. departure."


    "What do you mean I missed my flight?" Michael asked in mild disbelief.


    The attendant''s face registered confusion. "Well, sir," she said slowly, "the eight-thirty flight has already left."


    "This is ridiculous. Did it leave early?" He glanced at her ID tag¡ªRose O''Boyle¡ªand made a mental note of her name for the letter of complaint he would soon be writing.


    "Sir, the flight left on time, almost an hour ago. Do you want to rebook for the morning flight?" The delivery was sharp.


    "It left an hour ago?" he said slowly and looked at a digital clock on the wall behind Rose. Nine-fifteen. He looked back at Rose and her no-nonsense stare.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "What time is it?" he asked.


    Rose looked over her shoulder at the clock. "Nine-fifteen precisely."


    "Nine-fifteen," Michael mumbled and checked his watch. "But that''s not possible. I got here at eight."


    "Well, it''s nine-fifteen now. If you don''t wish to rebook, could you please step to the side. Other customers are waiting." She motioned to an elderly couple standing well behind him, keeping their distance from the time-challenged lunatic at the counter.


    Michael picked up his ticket and walked away, shaking his head. The attendant said something about being happy to help. He didn''t hear her.


    He left the terminal in a trance, searching for a rational explanation for what had occurred. Back in his car, he checked his parking ticket; it read 7:55 P.M.


    He sat for a time in silence, his mind racing. Somehow, everything from the six-o''clock news and the Seventies at Seven, to his arrival at the airport had lagged behind the rest of the universe by one hour. Repeated replay of the events contributed nothing to an understanding. His analysis quickly gave way to growing anxiety.


    "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he groaned as he rubbed his eyes.


    He called Christine. The call went to voicemail.


    "Hey, babe. I''m really sorry, but I missed the flight. Please call me back once you land. I can catch the first flight in the morning and make it to the reception by noon. Love you."


    In anticipation of a heated return call, he opted for a flat tire excuse, thus absolving himself from all blame. Christine was a physics major and would not buy any time-shift nonsense.


    He started the engine and turned on the car radio. As if waiting for that precise moment, a reporter''s low, stressed voice interrupted with a breaking headline:


    "We are receiving reports that the eight-thirty British Airways Belfast-to-London flight has crashed on approach to Heathrow Airport. Eyewitnesses at the scene describe the plane as falling from the sky and exploding into a fireball after hitting the ground."


    Michael frowned, assuming he had misheard.


    The reporter continued, "The pilot had reported engine problems earlier and was making an emergency landing."


    For a moment, time stood still. Then, in a flash of clarity, so vivid no recounting could ever do it justice, he understood everything.


    He had missed the flight and lived. Christine, his girlfriend of two years, was in all likelihood dead. He stumbled out of the car into a cold wind and light rain, struggling for breath. Two police cars, sirens screaming and lights flashing, pulled up to the terminal. The occupants ran inside. Michael fell to his knees, his head in his hands, and cried.


    A passing security guard, hurrying towards the terminal, enquired if he needed help. He didn''t answer, and the guard continued on. Suddenly the airport was alive; raised voices, people running, an ambulance siren wailing, a helicopter overhead.


    By the time Michael got back into the car, he was shivering, and his clothes were soaked. A reporter, live at the scene, provided updates. Michael listened, praying for anything that could restore a shred of hope. A fire chief came on and brought his world crashing down.


    "I regret to say that at this time, we do not expect any survivors."


    Michael turned off the radio and sobbed. Quickly the sobs turned to deep cries that came from somewhere that had never before been wounded.


    His cell phone rang seven times¡ªpanicked friends and family. He answered none. Each caller left a voicemail.


    At the terminal, cars continued to arrive. People jumped out¡ª mothers, fathers, husbands, and wives. Many still clinging to hope, some obviously beyond it.


    Eventually, as exhaustion numbed his distress, Michael started back home, wiping tears from his eyes as he drove. Then, out of nowhere, it dawned on him, and grief instantly turned to fear.


    He was not alive from simple good fortune, a chance turn of events that had dealt him a winning hand. Instead, he had survived because one hour of his life was unaccounted for. He had arrived at the airport at just before eight. He was sure of it. The parking ticket showed 7:55 P.M. Explain that, Rose O''Boyle. Tell me how I could have missed my fucking flight.


    Unable to frame any rational explanation, his thoughts soared into the dark night sky. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he was dreaming. Neurons fired in vain. Nothing made sense. He recalled his grandmother, who had Alzheimer''s and had once got lost while out walking a few streets from home. How must she have felt? There would have been fear, lots of it, panic, confusion, and profound isolation. And that''s how he now felt. He was on that street, looking around at unfamiliar houses, frozen in place, and cursing the universe for breaking its own rules.


    To fill the void, he entertained the idea that he was at fault. Maybe he had passed out in the car when he had arrived and came around without realizing it. Was the headache, now worse than before, a sign of a more serious problem? Deep down, he knew it was a forced fit, a pathetic attempt to reduce the pain by explaining the irrational with the rational. He was not willing to give himself an easy out. Not on that night, and not on any night in the years that followed.


    He drove home in a trance, his thoughts unbounded from traffic lights and stop signs, conjuring up dire images of an uncertain future. He got very drunk that night and for many nights after that.


    He told no one about the lost hour. What would be the point, and how could he possibly explain it? His life quickly spiraled downwards; booze, drugs, and what looks to many like self-pity. Friends and family tried to understand, but his distance and their bewilderment eroded sympathy and patience. Eventually, all parties found side-stepping issues easier than confronting them.


    For years he struggled with the one question that filled his days and haunted his nights. Why had he been singled out to live while all others had been left to perish? No addiction or distraction could silence the dark voices in his head. Though time would gradually ease his pain and fear, they would always be there, ready to cripple when stray memories cast a faint light on them. However, a day would come when he would find answers to the questions that haunted his nights. Michael would accept his destiny.

 Chapter 2.

    Chapter 2.


    Fifteen years later.


    The narrow coastal road clung precariously to the cliff''s edge. An unforgiving wall of rock on one side, the Irish Sea, and a watery grave on the other. Jim O¡¯Neil, eighteen, squinting from the summer sun, sped nevertheless. His masculinity in some way proportional to the overage from posted speed limits. Cara Campbell sat to his left. She shifted nervously in her seat, the prospects of death by crushing or drowning equally unattractive.


    A mile and a half of uncomfortable silence had left Jim anxious. Only thirty minutes into the evening, and he was already running out of material.


    Hoping to get a read on his passenger, he took a discreet sideways glance. Cara looked straight ahead, oblivious to or completely ignoring his lecherous stare. A look of terror on her face reminded him to focus back on the road and the wall of rock he was racing toward. His whispered curse and a lifesaving swerve did nothing to shore up his plummeting expectations for the evening.


    As was often the case, self-doubt had found legs.


    Was Cara out of his league? His best friend Rick Kilroy certainly thought as much and never missed an opportunity to say so. "She¡¯ll dump your sorry ass in a couple of weeks," Rick had said earlier in the day. "You¡¯re just filling in until something better comes along."


    "Are you hungry?" Jim asked, desperately seeking to seed a conversation.


    "Not really," Cara answered, distant and uninterested.


    "What did you have for dinner?"


    "A salad and a little fruit."


    "Very healthy," Jim said. "I had a greasy burger!"


    And back to square one. He started to sense that the evening had already slipped away from him. His earlier rhetoric to friends was looking like the prefight bluster of a prizefighter destined to take a fall in the first round.


    Then, unexpectedly, salvation. Cara turned to face him. "Where is this mystery picnic spot?"


    As Jim explained, he pulled off the main road onto a narrow, winding dirt track. Down its center ran a single strip of long grass with deep ruts cut on either side. Jim avoided the large muddy holes as best he could. Cara was mildly concerned about getting stuck in one and having a long walk back to civilization.Stolen story; please report.


    Eventually, he pulled over into a clearing. They got out, gathered the picnic gear, and started walking. A little further on, they climbed over a rusty gate and started up a rocky path. A freshly painted and oddly out of place No Trespassing sign recommended they do otherwise.


    They found the spot. Behind them was the majestic Dunluce Castle. Roofless, its gray stone walls and turrets had survived six centuries of harsh Irish weather and gave every indication that they would survive another six. In front, laid out like a silk sheet, stretched the blue Irish Sea.


    Jim put down a blanket, unpacked the basket, and uncorked a bottle of wine. They talked and ate. He opened a beer, a move calculated to leave more wine for Cara. She drank slowly, too slowly for his liking. He offered to refill her glass, she declined, and he tried to relax. There was an almost tangible expectation of things to come but little urgency, at least on Cara''s part, to get there.


    As the sun slowly set, they laid back and looked up at the sky. Jim prepared to make his move. Cara contemplated the silence, the smell of the ocean, the beauty of the night. For the first time since her father¡¯s death in January, she felt at ease. Exams were over and against all odds, she had passed; medical school would start in September. She was sure the summer would bring renewal. The long, dark months that had threatened an endless winter were coming to an end.


    She turned and looked at Jim. He stared back, biting his lip. She put a hand on his cheek and pulled him to her.


    Suddenly, an intense heat exploded in her chest, replaced in a heartbeat by a surge of cold that froze her lungs. Matter annihilated by antimatter, leaving behind a void and some vague memory of darkness that once filled it. She gasped and leaped to her feet. Jim followed, clutching his chest.


    "That was weird," he said, struggling for breath.


    Cara kept one hand on her chest and looked down at the blanket, and then out to the open sea, hoping for anything that could provide an explanation. The cool night air held tight its secrets.


    "Hey, Cara, are you okay?" Jim asked. Seeing tears in her eyes, he stepped toward her, attempting a reassuring smile.


    "What was that?" she asked, panic in her voice.


    "Maybe something we ate?" Jim offered up unconvincingly.


    Cara shook her head. "I don¡¯t think so. I don''t like it here. Can we leave now?" she asked.


    "What . . . why now?" he stuttered. "There''s no rush."


    "I want to go." Her voice was firm. It was clear she was not going to entertain a counter-proposal.


    Although on the verge of such a proposal, Jim refrained, realizing that the night was already lost. "Okay, let''s get the gear," he said.


    "No! We can get it some other time. Let¡¯s just go, please."


    In the fading light, it was dangerous negotiating the path back to the car. Cara traded caution for speed; Jim struggled to keep up. Neither one talked on the drive back to town. Jim''s thoughts lingered on their unfinished business, and he tried a couple of times to resurrect the evening. Cara just wanted to be home. He suggested they meet the following morning, but she was noncommittal. He dropped her off without even a kiss goodnight.

 Chapter 3. Sunday.

    Chapter 3. Sunday.


    6:15 A.M. Jim awoke with Cara and the missed opportunity, immediately on his mind.


    Across town, Cara''s bedside radio came on. A current hit played. It was one she liked. She turned it off and placed one hand on her chest. Condition normal.


    She was exhausted and anxious. For most of the night, she had struggled to understand an uneasy feeling, a fear of sorts, without structure. Sleep had quickly turned to bizarre nightmares that left no residue beyond dark shadows and vague whispers. She awoke many times in a panic and lay awake, afraid of the images that sleep would bring.


    She looked around the room, seeking comfort in the familiar surroundings that had welcomed her tired morning eyes for as far back as she could remember. The creamy pink wallpaper, the yellow curtains, the posters of some long-forgotten boy band she had liked a year ago, a lifetime ago. Until recently, she had felt safe and secure in the room. It was filled with her fondest memories captured in photos on the walls and trinkets on her desk. However, since her father¡¯s death, the room had changed, or more accurately, she had changed. Memories were now painful. She yearned to forget the past, to take down the photos, to box the ornaments and souvenirs and move beyond them. For a moment at Dunluce, everything had seemed to fall into place. She had found renewed hope for the future and an acceptance of the past. Now, as she surveyed the dimly lit room, she felt further from both than she ever had.


    Outside, the sun rose into a cloudless sky. By six-thirty, she was asleep.


    Rick Kilroy and Jim had been best friends since they were five years old. They were brother close and shared similar tastes in just about everything. Academically they were average, although, for both, effort was much more of a hindrance to good grades than potential.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Rick arrived behind schedule at the harbor caf¨¦. Jim was at a table on his phone. Rick approached him with a broad smile.


    "Come on, Cara. It¡¯ll be fun," Jim said.


    He pointed at the phone and made a talking hand gesture. They both started sniggering.


    "Sorry, Cara, uh, interference," Jim said. He was the master of the self-sourced distraction.


    "Okay, if you don''t want to go back up there, could we meet tonight?"


    Initiated by a pained frown, he transitioned into listen-only mode, confirming his presence on the line with occasional incoherent mumbles.


    Finally, the call came to an abrupt end with, "Don''t be crazy! Don''t call the police!" Then, "Cara? Cara, you there?"


    "You blew it, Romeo. What''s up with the police? She''s bringing charges?" Rick quipped. "Did you nail her last night?"


    "Yeah, what do you think?" Jim looked distracted. "We were up near Dunluce Castle and . . . and something strange happened."


    "I like it. Something strange," Rick said.


    Jim went over the events of the previous night. "Cara doesn¡¯t want to go back up there," he said. "I need to pick up the stuff. You game?"


    "Let¡¯s go, man," Rick said, rubbing his hands and ready for adventure.


    Cara sat on the edge of her bed, holding the phone. The more she thought about Jim¡¯s call, the madder she became. The reasons were obvious. One, he had woken her when she desperately wanted to sleep. Two, he had shone a light onto the events of the previous evening, events she wanted to forget. And three, the one that bothered her most; he was going back up there. She had no explanation for her trepidation about his plan, and that perplexed her.


    With her mind racing and further sleep not an option, she dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother stood by the sink, looking out a window. Cara walked over and embraced her gently.


    "What would I do without you?" her mother asked, tears in her eyes.


    Cara had heard the question many times before. She hated it and could not avoid a pained frown. By September, she would be away at college in Belfast. Her dreams of escape were her mother''s nightmare.


    "You''ll be fine," Cara replied as she always did. Neither believed it.

 Chapter 4.

    Chapter 4.


    Jim parked in the clearing, then he and Rick raced up to the picnic spot. Everything was as it had been left: the blanket on the ground, the ice cooler, the half-empty wine bottle.


    Jim froze. "Dam. I forgot the spade." He turned and started back down the path.


    "What? You brought a spade? You never mentioned anything about digging," Rick shouted after him.


    When Jim returned, Rick was sitting on the cooler, beer in hand, stuffing crisps into his mouth.


    "Nothing worse than warm beer," he said. He took another slug.


    Jim grabbed the blanket and threw it aside. The flattened grass outlined the dig site.


    "What are you digging for?" Rick asked.


    "I¡¯m not sure," Jim snapped, already anticipating further questioning, and hoping to nip them in the bud.


    "Then why bother? Let¡¯s grab the stuff and head back."


    "Just give me fifteen minutes. You can sit and watch."


    "I''m good for watching," Rick said happily, relieved that he would not have to break a sweat. "But I want a half share."


    The ground was damp and heavy, unforgiving to an out-of-shape youth. After twenty minutes of frantic effort, Jim had cut a shallow hole, about two feet on each side. Surprised at finding nothing and already fatigued, he held the spade up to Rick. Rick stared at it, yawned, and folded his arms. He was not up for digging.


    "Let¡¯s head," he suggested, looking at his watch. "What the hell do you expect to find?"


    Jim knew no explanation would be satisfactory and therefore offered none. He was not even sure himself why he was so intent on digging. The whole thing was starting to look like a bad idea, especially with Cara''s plea against going back echoing in his head.


    "You''re just going to sit there?" Jim muttered.


    "That''s the way it looks."


    "You really are a useless bastard."


    Rick smiled. "I don¡¯t disagree."


    "Ten more minutes, and I¡¯m done. You okay with that?"Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Rick nodded.


    Jim started over with renewed vigor, knowing that the clock was now ticking and his day¡¯s work would be soon done. He reduced the dig to a narrow vertical shaft. After twenty minutes, his enthusiasm waned, and he decided to call it a day. With a final angry thrust, he drove the spade down the shaft. It sliced through the damp earth at the bottom and hit something with a low thud.


    *  *  *


    Jolted out of his daydream, Derek Crogan slammed his tractor into neutral and turned the engine off.  Like someone waking from a deep sleep, he focused his thoughts, seeking to determine a reason for his arousal. Had he sensed something, or was his mind playing tricks? He quickly opted for the latter, thus avoiding a line of investigation he was unwilling to entertain. He started the tractor and went back to work.


    *  *  *


    "Found something," Jim shouted.


    Suddenly interested, Rick offered to help. After a little more digging, they recovered two small wooden boxes, each about the size of a box of cigarettes. When shaken, something powdery moved inside. Rick was not impressed and said so. Jim was marginally satisfied that his intuition had garnered at least some result.


    They each took a box and scraped the earth off. Neither box appeared to have a lid or any way to open it.  Each seemed to be made from a solid block of wood.


    *  *  *


    A spray of earth shot skyward from the rear tractor tires, fighting for traction in the damp soil. "Come on!" Derek Crogan shouted as he slammed his clenched fist into the steering wheel. "Come on!"


    *  *  *


    "Could be antiques," Jim suggested. "They may be worth something."


    "Maybe." Rick did not sound convinced. He put the box to his cheek. "It feels warm."


    Jim thought back to the previous evening; the explosive heat, then the cold. He put out his hand. "Can I see it?"


    Rick did not reply. He was trying to open the box and quickly becoming irritated at his inability to do so. He pushed and pulled on all sides. Jim watched in amusement. Finally, Rick placed the box on a rock that had been unearthed during the excavation. He grabbed the spade and raised it in both hands about his head.


    "What are you doing?" Jim shouted. "You''ll destroy¡ª¡±


    Rick swung the spade with the precision of a medieval executioner. It crashed down, striking the rock but missing the box.


    "Okay, let¡¯s try again." He raised the spade and brought it down¡ªanother close miss. Jim laughed; the scene oddly comical yet mildly disturbing.


    "Now, can I see it before you destroy it?" Jim said.


    Rick slowly lifted his gaze and looked at Jim. "It¡¯s too late. The bitch can¡¯t stop me now."


    Jim was lost for words; the clown had gone psycho. "The bitch?"  he mumbled. "What do you mean?"


    Rick stared back, his face slowly easing into uncertainty.


    "I¡¯m sorry," he said in a calmer tone. "Don''t know why I said that!¡±


    He bent down and picked up the box. "See, it''s not damaged."


    Jim smiled. "I think it¡¯s best you avoid morning beer. Let¡¯s collect the stuff and head; this place gives me the creeps."


    As they gathered up the gear, they discussed Jim''s plans for the evening. Cara was hopefully back in play, and Jim promised a complete account the following day.


    *  *  *


    Although the fuse had been lit, Derek Crogan kept to the speed limit, fighting the temptation to speed. He needed time to gather his thoughts, formulate a plan, and, above all, to pray.


    For more than three decades, he had lived with the ever-present possibility of this moment. Though he was fearful, he had accepted his mission with no hint of uncertainty. A pledge, made sixteen hundred years before to a pope of Rome, would be fulfilled. The Black Ash would be secured. The future of mankind depended on it.

 Chapter 5.

    Chapter 5.


    On the drive back to town, Rick developed a headache and decided to go home. He put the symptoms down to the beer and hard work. Jim lazed around in town until early afternoon before finally heading home, where he went straight to his room, put on some music, and stretched out on the bed.


    A restlessness slowly set in, more bothersome than boredom, that neither the TV nor game console could satisfy. He retrieved the box, examined it, and quickly concluded that Rick''s classification of the morning as a ¡®big waste of time¡¯ had been accurate.


    In the bathroom, he ran warm water over the box. Faded shapes began to appear ¡ª crosses, animals, and unfamiliar symbols. He cleared stubborn patches of dirt with his toothbrush and soon had the box as clean as he was prepared to spend time making it.


    He held it up to the bathroom light. The wood, dull and damp, bore no signs of damage. After shaking, tapping, twisting, and sniffing, he gave up on finding a lid.


    At the limit of his investigative know-how, he sat down at his computer and searched for ¡®small wooden box.¡¯ He scanned the list of matches ¨C cigar boxes, urns, music boxes ¡ª endless possibilities. One item caught his eye:Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Buy Wooden Puzzle Boxes.


    He clicked on the link and spent the next few hours becoming much more knowledgeable on puzzle boxes than your average Northern Irish youth.


    By early evening, he was satisfied that they had found antique puzzle boxes. The best news, based on wildly optimistic assumptions about age, condition, and origin, was that they might be worth a few hundred pounds.


    He called Rick with the good news. Rick was out. His mother took a message. After a few minutes, the phone rang.


    It was Cara. She did not feel well and did not want to go out for the evening. She said goodnight before Jim could grovel for any compromise. Despondent, he left the house.


    Although Cara had not dumped his sorry ass as Rick had predicted, all indicators pointed in one indisputable direction: they were finished.


    As he wandered around his neighborhood, his mood darkened. Eventually, the pain of anticipated separation grew to a point where its proportions bore no relation to the ten days and three dates that summed up their affair.


    That night he lay in bed, unable to sleep. Two miles away, Cara slept soundly. She had been tense earlier in the evening, dreading another night of nightmares. However, the unease of the previous night and an anxiousness that had continued to rise and fall for most of the day suddenly lifted, leaving no hint of an aftertaste. She was well again, and sleep came quickly.

 Chapter 6.

    Chapter 6.


    It was twilight when Derek Crogan reached Dunluce Castle. He parked and walked to the entrance. Silhouetted against the darkening sky, he swiftly climbed over the gate like a thirty-year-old. That illusion faded as he jumped down on the other side and stumbled forward to one knee, a hand pressing his back. The slow rise to his feet correctly suggested an older man, still sturdy but inevitably feeling his years.


    A light, warm breeze, heavy with the scents of sea and summer, blew across the ruins. Crogan filled his lungs, struggling to clear his head and slow his pounding heart. He already knew what he would see, but he needed absolute proof.


    Although he had not visited in more than three decades, the memories were precise in every detail. The sky now, as before, was a magnificent dark blue. Wispy gray clouds blurred the horizon, embers of the setting sun projecting flares of orange and red.


    It was a truly spectacular evening, the heavens obviously unaware of the gravity of the situation.


    Stopping just short of the access bridge to the main castle ruins, he felt apprehensive. For the first time that day, or more accurately, the first time in many years, he was unsure. Since leaving home that morning, his actions had been reflex, driven by instinct. Now, on the eve of mobilization, he felt exposed to growing uncertainty about things that he had always held as absolute. He was alone and without a plan. He had driven all day formulating a plan that, in the end, had amounted to no more than the belief that he would succeed. He knew the Black Ash was gone. Soon he would see for himself. Then what? What could he do to save humanity?If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Midway across the access bridge, he stopped and quickly identified the markers¡ª a large rock on the left and a smaller one farther down. He triangulated along the side of the cliff to a green, grassy slope above a narrow rocky beach. Straining his eyes, he found the spot and saw the mound of excavated earth.


    A flash of fear exploded through his body. His prior assuredness of what he would see did not ease the shock of certainty. He gripped the damp rail and lowered his chin to his chest in prayer. Minutes passed before he turned and started back to the car, fear slowly giving way to a renewed confidence that came from surrender to his mission rather than from a plan to succeed. He understood that faith would be more important than strategy, that the will to succeed would be more important than the means.


    On his way back to Portrush, he stopped at a petrol station. Inside he found a payphone and dialed a number from memory. After the first ring, a woman answered in a soft English accent.


    "Hello."


    "Kate, it''s Derek."


    After a pause, she spoke, her voice low. "What did you find?"


    "I was up at Dunluce. Both have been taken."


    "Oh my god!" Kate said in a whisper. "Do you think they¡¯ve been separated?"


    "I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m going to stay here and watch for signs. Things may turn bad quickly. You need to stay away."


    The line went dead for a moment as they both lost themselves in fears for the future.


    "Derek, take care of yourself, " Kate said. "Remember, you¡¯re a farmer from Westport, not Superman."


    "Don''t worry; I have my cape in the car."


    "My prayers are with you."


    "Thank you. I¡¯ll call soon."

 Chapter 7.

    Chapter 7.


    Rick slept through the alarm. When he finally woke, he was groggy and momentarily unfamiliar with his surroundings, like a drunk waking up in a holding cell.


    He reached under his pillow for the box. It was warm, pulsating, practically alive. For a moment, he was overcome by an intense desire to run. Such choices, however, were no longer his to make. His eyes shut against his will, and his breathing slowed. The Black Ash claimed its first victim.


    "Breakfast is ready," his mother shouted.


    After changing, Rick put the box in his backpack and went downstairs to the kitchen. His mother and father were at the table. John Kilroy was headmaster of the local secondary school. His wife, Anne, taught English part-time and filled the rest of her week with charity and church work. Rick was their only child.


    He sat down, said nothing, and took a piece of cold toast that disintegrated under his knife.  He pushed it to the side.


    "Not hungry?" his mother asked. "Are you not feeling well?"


    "I''m fine," he shot back. "Dad, I have to meet Jim. Can you drop me off?"


    "Sure, once I finish." John gave his wife a what-do-you-think-is-wrong glance. She shrugged, content to ignore a little teenage angst.


    Rick¡¯s simmering impatience quickly brought breakfast to an end. He headed for the front door without a customary goodbye.


    Riding into town, he stared out the window while his father detailed his plans for the day. Rick offered nothing to the conversation. After a time, he took the wooden box out of his backpack and turned it in his hands.


    "What¡¯s that,¡± his father asked.


    Rick didn¡¯t answer. Suddenly his father raised one hand to his chest and started gasping for breath.


    Rick watched, more intrigued than concerned, much like a scientist observing the reactions of a lab animal to a new formulation. Suddenly, realizing that the car was drifting toward the curb, he grabbed the steering wheel and shouted at his father to stop. The car hit the curb, crashed through a wooden fence, and came to rest in the middle of a well-tended garden.


    John¡¯s face was red, his eyes closed. The intense explosion of fire in his chest peaked and started to ease.


    "Rick, I think it''s my heart," he said. "Can you get help?"


    By the time an ambulance arrived, John was feeling much better. The pain had subsided quickly, leaving him embarrassed that he had called out the emergency services for a case of heartburn. The medic examined him, dismissed the heartburn theory, and asked him to go to the hospital for tests. John resisted but finally agreed and left in an ambulance. Rick stayed behind and dealt with the police and an unhappy homeowner, then drove the car home.


    On his way to the hospital, John called his wife and briefed her. He knew the words ''heart'' and ''hospital'' would set off alarms, no matter how he phrased it. After much debate, he persuaded her to stay at home. He was fine and would be home soon.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    *  *  *


    Anne Kilroy found John changing in the bedroom. "Where are you going?" she asked. "The doctor said you have to rest."


    "I¡¯ve been resting all morning," he answered, clearly annoyed. "I need to go to work for a couple of hours to finish some things up."


    "Why not do it tomorrow, dear? You really should take it easy."


    He took a slow breath, then started, as he always did, to negotiate the compromise.


    With conditions agreed to by all parties, he drove to the school. The stack of paperwork on his desk held his attention for a time, but he remained distracted, and by mid-afternoon, had achieved very little.


    Torn between staying and leaving, he sat back and closed his eyes. His thoughts immediately turned to the accident. He recalled the fire explode in his chest and his lungs fighting for breath. Beyond the pain, however, there was something else. With memories more subliminal than conscious, he recalled a vague, shadowy form envelop him.  In slow motion, he could see it seep through his skin. The chest pain had grown as the ghostly invader came together, like the debris from an exploded star retracing its path to reform the whole.


    He opened his eyes. Had he been dreaming? Was he going crazy? Both seemed equally reasonable.


    Jumping up, he reached to the table for balance. He walked to an open window. The cool breeze provided no relief. He desperately wanted to be home, getting the ''I told you so'' treatment from his wife. He locked up the office and set off.


    On the drive home, his mood darkened and steadily gave way to a nagging fear; had the accident had changed him in some way? He had a sense that some internal switch had flipped, and he was now a different person. His emotions danced across the conscious spectrum: rage, sorrow, fear, love, hate. They surged through him like drugs injected into his veins.


    His cell phone rang. He snatched it as if it was a bomb about to explode.


    "What?" he answered angrily.


    "John, what¡¯s wrong?" his wife asked, immediately concerned at his tone.


    "I''m sorry, dear. I''m just a little tired."


    "You should come home and rest."


    "I know. I know.  I¡¯m on the way now."


    "That''s good. Can you pick up a few groceries on the way?"


    John sighed as a flash of unfamiliar anger shot through him. He was tired; he had told her so, for God¡¯s sake, he had almost died that morning. Didn''t she get it? Could she never give him a fucking break?


    "Okay, what do you want?" he answered after a long pause.


    He scribbled the list on a scrap of paper.  Pulling into a car park, he said, "I''m at Tesco now. I''ll see you soon." He hung up.


    Anne said, "Love you," to the dial tone.


    He found the milk quickly but walked the aisles looking for the sugar. Finally, he was down to a can of Ovaltine.


    Up and down the aisles he walked before giving up, frustration bubbling in his veins; a more pissed-off shopper it would have been hard to find. He approached a couple of female employees who were chatting.


    "I''m sorry to interrupt," he said. "Can you tell me where I can find the Ovaltine?"


    The two ladies looked at him, clearly annoyed at the interruption. One pointed down a few aisles, then revised her advice and pointed in the other direction. She then resumed her conversation.


    "To the left, or right?" John asked, his voice sharp.


    "The left."


    John started to walk away, but the desire to speak his mind was unquenchable. He turned back to face the two women.


    "I don''t know what your definition of customer service is," he said, "but you are two unhelpful bitches."


    The women looked at him. They said nothing, sensing in this customer a level of dissatisfaction far beyond casual annoyance and, noticing his clenched fists, the real possibility of violence. John stepped forward, looking forward to an escalation of the encounter. The women turned and walked away quickly, not daring to look back. John suddenly felt a little better.


    Back home, he parked in the garage and grabbed the shopping bags. At the door, he noticed his golf clubs in a corner under a pile of clothes Anne was planning to donate to their church charity drive. He tossed the clothes onto the ground, picked up his golf bag, and put it in the trunk. Tomorrow he would have a game, the perfect cure for all his worries.

 Chapter 8.

    Chapter 8.


    Jim had been contemplating calling Cara all day and was ready for the end that he felt sure was coming. When the phone rang, and his mother handed it to him with a knowing smile, he realized that breaking the news to friends and family would be more difficult than he thought. He had effectively told everyone he had won the lotto and was now going to have to admit to misreading a number.


    As they talked, he tensed, waiting for Cara to pull the trigger. She didn''t, nor did she remove the gun from his head. She sounded down, with none of the usual sparkle in her voice. It had the undeniable ¡¯we''re finished¡¯ air. She asked if he could come over after dinner.


    He arrived at Cara''s at seven. When she opened the door, he immediately sensed a remoteness to her smile. In that frozen moment between eyes meeting and an awkward embrace, Jim felt all remaining hope fade.


    In the many years that he had stared at her from afar and in the few weeks that he had known her up close, Cara had always conveyed a magical, mysterious aurora. Her smile was always bright and refreshing, her beauty far beyond any of the other girlfriends he had managed to snare. She radiated an inner strength and vulnerability that had intrigued him as an onlooker, and now fed his infatuation as a boyfriend, or at least something close to a boyfriend.


    He had been there in the church at her father''s funeral and had cried along with the whole congregation as she delivered the eulogy, tears sparkling in her eyes but her voice steady. From that moment, he was sure that they were part of some grand cosmic plan that sought to unite them. Now, however, struggling in his usual fashion for an icebreaker, he wondered why destiny had played him for a fool.


    In a reflex move, he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Cara took a step forward and kissed him gently on his lips. She took his hand in hers.


    "Can we go for a walk on the beach?" she asked, showing the barest hint of a smile that lifted Jim¡¯s spirits to the heavens.


    On the drive, Jim was happy to do most of the listening as Cara detailed an unsuccessful shopping trip to find a birthday present for her mother. He enjoyed her stories and was always mesmerized by both the teller and the telling. Cara combined an astounding factual accuracy with perfect theatrical delivery. She quoted verbatim conversations with people, with no detail too trivial to leave out.


    By the time they reached the beach, Jim was sure his lotto ticket was once again a winner. The only question remaining was when he could collect the grand prize? They parked and walked hand in hand onto the sand.


    "It''s a beautiful evening," Cara said.


    "Sure is."


    Cara seemed to drift into thought. Jim jumped to fill the dead air with one of his standards.


    "Have you eaten yet?"


    "Mum made dinner before I left. Did you have something?"


    "Yeah," he lied, as digestive acids cut into the lining of his empty stomach.


    They stopped at the water¡¯s edge. Cara took off her sandals and walked into the water. Jim jumped back as a wave threatened to soak his shoes.


    "Is it cold?" he asked.


    "No, it''s nice. You should come in."


    He took off his shoes and walked out to her.


    "It''s freezing," he said, faking a shudder.


    "Let''s walk. You¡¯ll soon warm up." She took his hand, and they strolled in the shallow breakwater.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Did you hear about Mr. Kilroy¡¯s accident? You know, Rick¡¯s father," Jim asked.


    "No. What happened?"


    "Well, I don''t know all the details yet, but he was driving into town this morning and had a heart attack or something like that."


    Cara stopped. "Oh my God! How is he?"


    "I think he¡¯s okay."


    "Is he in the hospital?"


    "I don''t know, but if it was serious, I would have heard something by now."


    "Rick is your friend," Cara said, concern turning to annoyance. "You should check." She let go of his hand and started walking again.


    "I¡¯ll call," Jim said, catching up with her. "I just didn¡¯t want to bother him."


    "Really," Cara said in a tone rich with sarcasm. "That was considerate of you."


    They walked on in silence; Cara was lost in thought.


    "You know, my father died of a heart attack earlier this year," she said. "I came home from school and found him lying on the kitchen floor. Mum was out shopping."


    Jim said nothing.


    "He was not ill," Cara said. "There were no symptoms, no warning.¡±


    "I know your father died," Jim said, nervously biting his lip. "I went to his funeral."


    "Did you know my father?"


    "No, not really."


    "Why did you go to his funeral if you didn''t know him?"


    Jim hesitated, weighing up various versions of the truth. "Cara," he said. "You¡¯ve known me for about two weeks, but I¡¯ve known you for years. I used to stand outside your school just to catch a glimpse of you. I wandered around town on weekends, hoping to see you. I wanted to talk to you a hundred times, but I never had the balls."


    "Nicely put."


    "I''m sorry. I mean, I couldn''t approach you. I guess I was scared. When your father died, I wanted to say I was sorry and help you somehow. It was a stupid idea to attend the funeral."


    "Did you speak to me at the church? I don''t remember seeing you."


    "No. I left right after the service. I realized there was nothing I could do to help you."


    They walked on. Cara¡¯s eyes filled with tears.


    "I am sorry," Jim said.


    "Jim," Cara said softly, "I wish you had talked to me that day. It would¡¯ve helped." She turned to him and took his hands. "You weren¡¯t the stranger you thought you were."


    Cara took the lead and they kissed.


    "I was sure you were going to dump me tonight," Jim said.


    "Why?"


    "Well, you didn¡¯t want to go out last night, and earlier on the phone, you sounded down. I figured you¡¯d enough of me."


    "No, it wasn¡¯t you. These last few days, my mother has been having a hard time. She has good days, and then suddenly, she¡¯s back to tears. She¡¯s not over my father''s death."


    "I understand," Jim said. "I¡¯m sure it¡¯s hard for both of you."


    "We manage. We''re a good team."


    "This may be six months late, but if there¡¯s anything I can do, let me know."


    Cara smiled. "Sure, you can start with cutting our lawn."


    Jim laughed. "I¡¯m on it."


    "How about we head to Morellies and get some ice cream," Cara said.


    Back at the car, Jim retrieved the small wooden box and presented it to Cara.


    "Look. We found this up at the picnic spot."


    Cara took the box and turned it in her hands.


    Acting the scholar, Jim said, "I did some research. I think it¡¯s an antique puzzle box. It may be worth a few hundred with any luck. We found two of them. Rick has the other one."


    Cara tried to open the box.


    "I couldn''t open it," Jim said. "Rick tried to smash his with a spade." He forced a laugh. "He gets crazy sometimes."


    Cara placed the box on her lap. "Did you find anything else?"


    "No. The boxes were buried where we were sitting."


    "Do you think it has anything to do with what happened?"


    The question did not surprise Jim as much as Cara¡¯s manner ¡ª matter of fact, as if asking had he seen a television program the night before. There was no embarrassment or nervousness, yet the question was on one level ridiculous and on another unspeakably bizarre with implications too absurd to entertain.


    "Of course not. Don''t be silly," Jim answered.


    Cara pressed on. "I don''t know what it is, but I¡¯ve had a strange feeling since then. That night I had nightmares. I can''t remember them, but I kept waking up terrified. And yesterday, I was bothered off and on all day. It was as if I had something to dread, but I couldn¡¯t figure out what it was. I¡¯m not neurotic, but I was scared." She paused.  "Jim, am I going crazy? Did you feel anything like that?"


    Jim put an arm over her shoulder, pulled her close, and answered the easier question.


    "You¡¯re not going crazy. You¡¯re the most rational person I know."


    "But what about you?" she asked. "I know you felt something that night."


    The sparkle of tears in her eyes shocked him. He suddenly felt vulnerable to her disquiet and his repressed anxiety.


    "Cara, I''m not sure what you¡¯re getting at, but I don''t think it¡¯s worth worrying about."


    "You¡¯re right. It''s like a toothache. The more you think about it, the more it bothers you." She smiled. "How about we get that ice cream?"


    "Good idea."


    Cara continued to examine the box.


    "My Aunt Jane owns an antique shop in town, the one on Market Street. I could take the box and ask her to have a look at it. She might be able to tell us something about it."


    "Sure. You keep it and check with her tomorrow."


    He dropped her off home at 11:00 PM. Back in her room, Cara could not sleep, thinking of Jim and giddy from the evening. For the first time in months, she fell asleep looking forward to the morning.

 Chapter 9. Tuesday

    Chapter 9.


    At a quarter to five, John Kilroy gave up on sleep. His night had been long and troubled, marked by bursts of untargeted rage and needless trips to the bathroom. Each time he stood at the mirror, searching for hints to his distress. In his eyes, dark and sunken, he sensed his sanity slipping away.


    Thoughts of the car accident, the incident at the store, and a pointless argument earlier with his wife swirled through his head. Even prayer, a companion that had never failed him, was no relief. As desperation eventually turned to hopelessness, he tossed his rosary beads across the room. They shattered and fell to the wooden floor. As each bead rolled to its final resting place, lost and forgotten in the nooks and crannies of the room, he felt a peculiar, though satisfying moment of contentment.


    He looked at the bedside clock for the hundredth time, then eased out of bed and dressed. Anne slept on, exhausted. From a different vantage point, she too had spent much of the night in silent contemplation, also searching for an understanding.


    Downstairs in the kitchen, he found Rick sitting at the table. Neither seemed surprised to see the other. John was lost for words. He turned to leave, then stopped and stood for a moment.


    "I couldn''t sleep. I¡¯m going out for a drive. Are you ok?" He paused, waiting for a reply.


    Rick looked away.


    As John closed the front door, he turned and stared back at the house, his home for twenty-five years. He looked to the heavens seeking guidance. Finding none, he drove away¡ªdestination unknown.


    Rick had left the house when his mother awoke at six. Anne was surprised not to see John beside her and quickly became troubled when she realized both he and Rick had left the house. Throughout the morning, she busied herself with the usual chores, but nothing provided an escape from the foreboding feeling that was growing with every minute that passed. As the morning progressed, her unreturned calls to John''s cell phone increasingly signaled trouble.


    -----


    After leaving the house, John had driven to the beach. The Irish sun rises early in July. At five in the morning, dawn was breaking. He parked and walked along the seafront and down onto the deserted beach. The air was fresh with the promise of better times and recovery. He found neither as his thoughts turned to Anne. His absence adding further to the worry he had already burdened her with.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    He pictured her searching for an explanation for his behavior, a lifetime of predictability erased in an instant. The patterns of their life together had always been mathematically precise. In every action, there was always a predictable and compassionate reaction. Anger was met with calm, regret with understanding, and uncertainty with guidance. Each was equally willing to compromise and move on; differences were always resolved before bed.


    He walked slowly, staring at his feet. Each step promised to be his last before returning home to undo the damage he was causing. Each step, however, was followed by another. He did not turn. The need to find an answer to his distress was more important than easing Anne¡¯s.


    Eventually, he stopped and looked out to sea. Further reflection, he reasoned, would be unproductive. He started to rationalize and quickly dismissed any worries as simply a response to the accident. He shook his head at his stupidity and looked around, ready to admit to anyone passing what a fool he had been.


    He started back to the car with a sense of urgency. Rather than go home, he decided to drive to the school and finish up some paperwork. When he called Anne, he would have the perfect cover story. No need to report a soul-searching walk on the beach.


    Approaching the school, he slowed to turn into the car park. Suddenly, in an involuntary action, he pressed hard on the accelerator. The car raced forward. A car coming towards him blared its horn and braked to avoid a collision. The vehicles passed with atoms to spare.


    His foot remained on the accelerator. It was numb, yet he felt his leg pushing down, the calf flexed and strained.


    With the car going forty miles an hour and a stoplight ahead, he slammed his left foot down on the brake. The car stalled and skidded to a halt. John lurched forward, striking his nose on the steering wheel.


    Loosening his grip on the steering wheel, he pushed back in the seat and breathed slowly, working to quiet the voices that were again growing in his head.


    In the mirror, he saw blood flowing from his nose. Shit. He found a tissue in the glove compartment. The morning that had looked so promising moments before was now slipping away from him.


    His cell phone shattered the silence. It was Anne. He let it go to voicemail, then turned it off.


    He headed north out of town along the coastal road with no particular destination in mind. At Ballycastle, he stopped to eat a full Irish breakfast. Then on to Cushendun, a seaside village he and Anne had often visited when they were courting. As he drove down the main street, vivid memories flooded back. Their cinematic brilliance unnerved him.  Leaving the village, he wiped tears from his eyes.


    On then to Cushendall and Carnlough, before turning inland and west toward Ballymena. With each mile, he felt the demons returning, seeping inexorably through his porous defenses. For John, the battle was all but lost.


    Just before noon, he pulled up in front of a white two-story house on a tree-lined, residential street. He lifted his golf bag out of the trunk and selected his favorite two wood. On a good day, he could drive 230 yards.


    Stepping onto the well-groomed lawn, he assumed the stance and took a practice swing.


    An older man out walking witnessed the performance from across the street. He was uneasy with the spectacle. The large bloodstain on the golfer¡¯s chest only added to his concerns. John glared at him, and the man took off in a trot.

 Chapter 10. The attack

    Chapter 10.


    Rick returned home just before noon. Anne was at the front door to meet him.


    "Where have you two been?"


    Rick pushed past her and did not answer. She looked out, expecting to see John following up the path.


    "Where''s your father?"


    "Don¡¯t know," Rick answered as he headed for the kitchen.


    "Do you know where he went?"


    "I said I don''t know where he is."


    Rick opened the fridge, took out an apple, and sat down at the table. As Anne teetered on the edge of another question, the phone rang. She rushed over to answer, sure that it was John.


    "Hello."


    "Hi, Mrs. Kilroy. It''s Jim. Is Rick there?"


    Anne''s heart sank. "Hold on. I¡¯ll get him."


    * * *


    John Kilroy walked across the lawn toward the front door of the house. He held the golf club behind his back. The older man started back up the street, straining for a look at what the stranger was now up to.


    * * *


    Anne handed the phone to Rick and walked into the front room to watch for John.


    "What''s up?" Rick asked.


    "Is your father feeling better?" Jim asked with concern in his voice, and Cara''s admonishment still fresh in his mind.


    "Yeah, he''s fine," Rick said indifferently.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    "That''s good. Guess what. I checked on the boxes. I think they could be old puzzle boxes."


    "Big deal."


    "They may be antiques and worth a few hundred." Jim paused, sure that the prospect of easy money would ignite Rick''s interest. It didn''t. "I gave mine to Cara to have her aunt look at it. She''s an antique dealer and might . . ."


    "You what?" Rick interrupted. "Why the fuck did you do that? Did she give it back to you yet?"


    "She still has it," Jim answered, bewildered. "What''s the problem? I¡¯ll see her tonight, and I can get it then."


    "You idiot. That will be too late."


    Jim''s doorbell rang.


    "Wait a second," he said. "Someone at the door. Maybe Cara has come around for a little afternoon fun."


    At the front door, Jim was shocked to see Rick''s father. John Kilroy looked as if he had been in a fight. Both eyes were black, and his nose was bent to one side, clearly broken.


    "Mr. Kilroy, are you hurt?"


    "Oh, it''s nothing. Can we chat?" Kilroy''s voice was unnervingly flat. It sent a shiver down Jim''s spine.


    "Sure, I¡¯m on the phone. Let me finish up." Jim hurried back, hoping for a moment to confer with Rick. Suddenly, something hit him hard on his left arm. He stumbled and crashed into a coffee table. Looking back, he could see a long metal spike in Kilroy¡¯s hand. On the floor beside him was the head of a golf club. It was immediately apparent that Kilroy had struck him with the club, hard enough to break it, and, given the throbbing in his arm, likely a couple of bones.


    "What do you want?" Jim shouted as he looked around the room, his mind on escape.


    "Where is the box?" Kilroy asked calmly.


    "I don''t have it."


    "Don''t lie to me," Kilroy yelled.


    Jim scrabbled for the phone.


    "Help! Rick! Help me!" At the other end of the line, Rick hung up.


    Kilroy flung the coffee table across the room. Jim dived behind a sofa and scrambled back to his feet.


    "Where is it?¡± Kilroy brandished the shaft of the golf club like a dagger. Jim dashed for a door. Kilroy anticipated the move and exited through another door and down a hall to intercept. Jim avoided colliding with him and ran up the stairs. At the top landing, he hesitated for a moment before stumbling into his bedroom. He slammed the door shut and pushed a chest of drawers against it.


    He quickly opened a large window facing the street and stepped up onto the sill. An older man stared at him from the front lawn. Jim yelled for help.


    Kilroy slammed against the closed door.


    Just outside the window, a chestnut tree presented his only means of escape. With his injured arm throbbing, confidence in the jump started to evaporate. Suddenly his bedroom door burst open, and Kilroy stormed in. Jim leaped for the tree. One foot found a thick branch. With his good arm, he grabbed another above his head. As he tugged, it cracked and broke free. He lost his balance and fell backward.


    He landed with a thud on thick grass. A rock, one of a set that created a decorative border around the base of the tree, provided the pillow on which his head came to rest.


    The old man shuffled toward Jim as Kilroy appeared at the window.

 Chapter 11. Lunch with Jane

    "Cara," Jane Sweeney said in an excited voice, "what a pleasant surprise."


    "I was in the neighborhood. I just thought I would pop in and see how you are."


    They hugged.


    Jane was Cara''s aunt, four years older than her mother, but much younger in spirit and attitude. She had never married but had picked up a few offers and scandals along the way. Cara enjoyed her company and saw in her the kind of woman she wanted to be. Strong and independent, with a strong moral code that, for the most part, defined boundaries and steered choices.


    "How is your mother?" Jane asked.


    "She''s up and down. I know she¡¯s improving, but it¡¯s slow progress."


    "I know. I spoke to her last night. I¡¯m going to meet her on Thursday night and take her to the Playhouse cinema. A new movie just opened that she wants to see."


    "I''m sure she¡¯ll enjoy that."


    "And how are you? Your mother tells me that you have a new boyfriend. Who¡¯s the lucky guy?"


    Cara laughed, embarrassed. Jane continued. "Don''t tell me yet. You can give me the whole story during lunch. Let me lock up the shop."


    Over a plate of fish and chips, Cara recounted the Jim saga to date. She gave Jane more details than she had intended, but that always seemed to be the case. Finally, the conversation turned to the box.


    "What do you mean cursed?" Jane asked, a look of surprise on her face.


    "I know it sounds strange," Cara conceded. "It''s just too weird to describe, but there¡¯s something about the box. Since the picnic I have been scared and anxious, really bothered at times but not sure at what. I think I¡¯m going a little crazy."Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Cara handed the box to Jane. She examined it and placed it on the table. "Cara," she said. "You know you¡¯re my favorite niece."


    "I''m your only niece," Cara countered.


    "I know, but if I had more than one, you would be my favorite."


    They laughed. With the mood at the table now where Jane wanted it to be, she put on her best big sister act. "Cara, your father¡¯s death has been very tough on you. I can''t even begin to imagine what it¡¯s been like. But you have soldiered on." Jane reached over the table and took Cara''s hand in hers.


    "Where others would have faltered, you have grown stronger. You have secured your future, but you have yet to accept what has happened and the toll it has taken on you."


    Cara wiped away a tear that threatened to roll down her cheek. Jane continued, "It''s not the box that¡¯s getting to you; it¡¯s everything else you have locked up inside." She stopped to swallow the lump in her throat.


    "Before, I couldn''t feel anything," Cara whispered.


    "Then, to start your healing you must accept what has passed. You are not going crazy; you just have to understand your emotions for what they are and embrace them."


    Cara pulled a tissue from her pocket and rubbed her nose. "I know, you¡¯re right."


    "Of course, I¡¯m right," Jane said. "Am I not always right?"


    "Well, not always," Cara said, managing a smile. "You did get engaged to a couple of complete losers."


    "Now that''s not fair. You have to admit, they were cute losers." They both laughed.


    Jane returned to examining the box.


    "What must Jim think of me?" Cara said, as much to herself as to Jane. "I told him the same thing last night."


    "No need to worry. That boy is counting his lucky stars."


    Jane dipped a napkin in her water and rubbed the box.


    "What do you think it is?" Cara asked.


    "I¡¯m not sure. The writing looks Arabic, and the cross likely means it''s a Christian piece. Given its condition, I¡¯d say it hasn¡¯t been in the ground long."


    "Jim thinks it¡¯s old, possibly a valuable antique."


    "Well, that¡¯s wishful thinking. I can''t speak to its value, but tell Jim not to spend the money before he gets it!"


    Cara laughed. "Well, thanks anyway."


    "Sorry. I know I haven¡¯t been much help. What I could do is post an information request online. I use several websites that deal in Christian artifacts. Someone may have more information."


    "Really!" Cara said excitedly. "That would be great."


    "Let¡¯s go back to the shop. I''ll take a few photos."


    They quickly finished up. As they turned onto Mark Street, two police cars sped by, sirens blaring and lights flashing.


    Cara watched the cars turn a corner and accelerate out of sight. She felt a chill and shivered. The vague feeling of dread swept through her.

 Chapter 12. The aftermath

    Chapter 12. The aftermath


    Two police cars screeched to a stop outside the O¡¯Neil house. An old man appeared from behind a hedgerow and approached the officers who were grouping beside the lead car.


    "The man is still inside," he said nervously. "The kid is badly hurt. Is an ambulance on its way?"


    The tallest of the four officers, Richard Bunt responded.


    "Grimes, you check on the kid." He turned to the old man. "Did you call the incident in?"


    "Yes.¡±


    A siren sounded from down the street.


    "Wait here one minute." Bunt rushed over to meet an ambulance and directed the medics to Jim.


    The old man provided the best accounting of the events as he could. He was clearly in shock and was treated by a medic when he finished.


    Bunt dispatched an officer to the back of the house while he and officer Steward prepared to go in the front door. Violent crimes, those beyond pub brawls and domestic disputes, were rare in Portrush. Bunt and the rest of his crew had rarely drawn their guns in the line of duty.


    Bunt and Steward approached the house. The front door was slightly ajar. Bunt pushed it open and looked into the hallway. Empty.


    "Police!" he shouted. "Come out with your hands raised."If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    He waited. Nothing stirred. He eased into the hallway, Steward a few steps behind. The first door on the left was closed. Bunt pushed it open until it bumped against something. He peered through the narrow gap into a room that looked as if a bomb had gone off. He pushed harder on the door and entered.


    The room was trashed, furniture upturned, the carpet covered in debris, nothing, including paintings on the walls, untouched. It looked as if a team of ax-wielding thugs had recently visited. A large TV cabinet lay in the middle of the room, with a door hanging from a hinge. Jammed through the door, half in and half out, was a black shoe. Beside it, a blood-soaked sock.


    "Christ!" Bunt muttered. "Did he do this with his bare hands?"


    "What did you say?" Steward asked.


    "Let¡¯s check the other rooms."


    A downstairs bedroom, the kitchen, and what looked like an office were all in similar condition. Every cupboard was emptied, contents strewn over the floor. Every piece of furniture was overturned and in pieces. And then there was the blood, long streaks on the walls and ceiling as if sprayed from an aerosol can. The scene in each room looked part frantic search and part reckless mayhem. The destructive intensity went far beyond mere vandalism.


    "I can''t believe one guy did this," Bunt remarked. "Let¡¯s check upstairs."


    They stopped at the base of the stairs. On every second step, a footprint in blood marked the path of the madman''s retreat.


    "Police!" Bunt shouted and looked at Steward for ideas. Steward shrugged, not one for ideas and happy to take directions. Bunt proceeded slowly. Each stair creaked, betraying his progress to the lunatic waiting above.


    All doors of the landing were open except one; its handle smeared in blood.  Bunt opened it, but it jammed against something, leaving a twelve-inch gap. Further force failed to move it. The section of the room that was visible was in the same condition as the others.


    Bunt eased his head through the gap. "Fuck me!" he yelled as he leaped backward and tumbled over Steward.


    "What is it?" Steward asked, ready to put six bullets through the door.


    "Don''t shoot," Bunt shouted. "There is a guy inside. He''s covered in blood. It¡¯s like he was hit by a train." Bunt was shaking.


    "What do we do?" Steward mumbled; his gun still pointed at the door.


    "We get more help. I¡¯m not going to take this guy down without backup."

 Chapter 13.

    Chapter 13.


    Inspector Tom Brown sat behind his desk, a look of disbelief on his chubby face.


    "You have got to be mistaken," he said. "Has this been verified?"


    Detective Michael Clarke sat opposite him, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Clarke was thirty-two ¡ª tall, slim, with a fashionable haircut that evoked stylist, not barber.


    "Bunt just called from the hospital. There¡¯s no question about it. They found a driving license, and Bunt did a visual ID. He knows him well. You know half the guys went to Portrush High. We all know him."


    Brown closed his eyes and scratched his head.


    "John Kilroy." The image of his close friend filled his thoughts. "It just does not make any sense. Has he said anything yet?"


    "No. It''s almost as if he is drugged up on something."


    Brown leaned forward, annoyed. "Let¡¯s keep the guesswork out of it. The media would just love that for a headline."


    Clarke apologized. "Any update on the kid?" Brown asked.


    "Still unconscious. They¡¯re running more tests."


    "What else did Bunt say?"If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Sir, I will keep this brief. I want to go over to the hospital immediately and talk with Kilroy."


    Clarke opened a notebook. "The inside of the house is destroyed. We estimate Kilroy was alone for twenty minutes." He looked up from his notes. "Two guys with sledgehammers could not have done the damage he did."


    "Are we sure he acted alone?"


    "It looks that way." Clarke scanned more pages. "We have the preliminary medical report on Kilroy. It''s just . . . unbelievable."


    "Go on," Brown said uncomfortably, his concentration zoning in as out as Clarke talked. An image flashed into his head. It was of his wife and Anne Kilroy at a church function the previous Christmas. It was all too personal to remain detached.


    "It appears he did at least some of the damage, maybe most of it, with his hands and feet. No weapons, axes, or similar, were found at the scene. All the fingers on his right hand are broken, all the knuckles crushed. His wrists are smashed. There is similar damage to the left. He also lost the thumb on his left hand."


    "What do you mean?"


    "He has no thumb on his left hand. It¡¯s likely back at the house."


    "Jesus," Brown groaned. "It''s just unbelievable."


    "Most of the bones are broken on his left foot. His right foot is more or less pulverized. It may have to be amputated. His right shoe came off at some point, and he just kept going. He also has a broken nose they think happened earlier in the day. The other injuries are cuts and scrapes on the arms and legs. He lost a lot of blood." Clarke turned back to his notes.


    "Any toxicology tests yet?" Brown asked.


    "They¡¯re running them now."


    "Okay, you better get going."


    Clarke stood up and nodded. "Do you want me to inform his wife, or do you . . .?"


    "Leave it to me." Brown paused for a moment but with clearly more to say. "You know that Officer Quinn is Anne Kilroy¡¯s brother."


    "Yeah, I know." The frown on Clarke''s face intensified. "Should I talk to him?"


    "No, I¡¯ll take care of it."


    Clarke turned and left the room.


    Brown grabbed the phone and dialed the Kilroy residence. Anne picked up on the first ring.

 Chapter 14. At the hospital

    Chapter 14. At the hospital


    It was mid-afternoon when Cara arrived at the hospital. Standing in front of Jim¡¯s room, she looked through a small window in the door. Inside she could see Jim lying motionless on a bed, a web of wires and tubes attached to his body. Behind him, a wall of monitors blinked, recording life or what little was left of it.


    As she reached to open the door, she struggled to suppress a rush of memories that dragged her back to her father¡¯s last hours in this same ward. For a moment, her defenses were almost breached as the grief and pain threatened to overcome her. She considered running, but with a resolve that had carried her through many moments of despair, she opened the door and entered slowly.


    Inside, a low hum and a periodic beep signaled a life in the balance. A woman sat at Jim¡¯s side, his hands in hers. Behind her stood a man rubbing tears from his eyes. He glanced over on hearing the door open but did not seem to notice Cara enter. His gaze returned to his son, his thoughts to those agonized places where anticipated grief drags a terrified mind.


    The woman rose. Her eyes were bloodshot.


    "Cara?"


    "Yes," Cara whispered.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "I¡¯m Clare, Jim¡¯s mother."


    Cara extended her hand. Clare stepped forward and embraced her. In a breath, Cara felt her world crumble. She started crying. Clare ushered her out of the room. They walked and found seats in a deserted waiting room.


    "How is he?" Cara asked.


    Clare thought for a moment and then spoke slowly, carefully thinking through the answer. "He¡¯s doing okay." She forced a smile. "The doctors are doing everything they can."


    "What happened?"


    "He was attacked at home. He was trying to escape and fell from his bedroom window. It was John Kilroy¡ªyou know, the school headmaster."


    "Oh, my god." Cara was speechless. Dunluce, the boxes, and now this. It was all too coincidental to be a coincidence.


    "He''s upstairs getting treated for his injuries," Clare continued. "We don''t know why he did it. He was such a nice man. I know his wife well. It makes no sense."


    They sat in silence for a time; both lost in thought. There was a knock on the door, and Officer Bunt stepped into the room.


    "Mrs. O¡¯Neil, sorry to interrupt, but Detective Clarke is here and would like to speak with you."


    "Certainly." Clare motioned to Cara. "This is Jim''s friend, Cara. The young lady I mentioned."


    Bunt introduced himself. Cara rose and shook his hand. It was cold and damp. She pulled back suddenly, an irrational fear gripping her.


    "Would it be possible for you to stay?" Bunt asked. "Detective Clarke would like to speak to you."


    Cara shook her head. "I don''t think . . ."


    "This is just procedure. It won''t take long."


    Bunt left with Clare. Cara sat back down and waited. The sounds of the hospital, raised voices and hurried footsteps, filtered through the closed door. To Cara, they were the sounds of futility.  She got up and left.

 Chapter 15. Where am I?

    Chapter 15. Where am I?


    Detective Clarke was already in John Kilroy¡¯s ward when Rick entered. Rick stopped at the foot of the bed, looked at Clarke, and smirked. There was the hint of a smile; at least that was Clarke''s perception of it. Anne Kilroy slowly followed, her steps unsteady, her shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of gentle sobs. Paul Quinn, still in uniform, walked by her side, one arm around his sister for support.


    Quinn was a heavy man known for a love of chocolate and fried food. Both addictions were clearly evident in the folds of flesh that stressed the stitching in his oversized, police issue shirt. In the early eighties, he had been injured in a horrific and now long forgotten, car bombing in Belfast. When he recovered, heleft Belfast and moved home to Portrush and a desk job with the local police. As his waistline grew and the mental wounds refused to heal, he had become a loner, an oddball of sorts. His history garnered understanding, but few invites to the pub after work.


    John Kilroy was sleeping peacefully, both arms raised above his chest in shoulder-to-fingertip casts. One leg was in a cast from above the knee to the toes. The other stopped just below the knee, the stump wrapped in a thick, blood-stained bandage. Anne burst into tears as Paul lowered her to a seat.


    John had said nothing since the incident. At the hospital, he immediately underwent four hours of surgery. The bones in his hands and left foot had been pieced back together. The weeks and months ahead would require extensive reconstructive surgery and lengthy physiotherapy. The pain and scars would be lifelong reminders of a day best forgotten.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Detective Clarke had spent most of the afternoon and evening at the hospital. He had talked to Clare O¡¯Neil and her husband, neither could offer any insight into why John Kilroy attacked their son. He had managed to get hold of Cara and arranged to talk with her the following afternoon at the station. Now he was eager to speak with Kilroy''s wife and son.


    Anne Kilroy sat silently, occasionally wiping tears from her eyes. Rick stood at the end of the bed, looking at his watch more frequently than his father.


    After some time, Paul bent down to his sister and said, "Anne, we should go now." She turned to look at him.


    "Can''t we stay a little longer?"


    "We can come back soon. Detective Clarke needs to talk to you and Rick. It won''t take long."


    She looked over at Clarke and studied his face. He looked back at her and thought of his mother. "Okay," she said. "That''s fine."


    She rose and walked unaided to the door. When his mother and Paul were gone, Rick bent over his father, whispered a few words, and kissed his forehead. John Kilroy suddenly convulsed violently. His back lifted off the bed, and his arms swung wildly on the wires that supported them. Rick jumped back and fell over a chair. In seconds, John was still, his arms swinging back and forth above his chest. A bell went off, and a nurse raced through the door. She checked the monitors and started to attend to John. Anne rushed back in just as John opened his eyes. He looked straight at her and said, "Anne, my darling, where am I?"

 Chapter 16. Wednesday

    Chapter 16. Wednesday.


    Clare O¡¯Neil looked at her watch. Four AM. She had persuaded her husband to go home and was now sitting alone in Jim''s room. For the hundredth time, she closed her eyes, desperately seeking sleep. As had been the pattern of the night, memories of Jim filled the void - tender moments long forgotten, years that had flown by too quickly. She looked back at Jim, then at the monitors blinking by his side. On one, a thin green line traced a slow heartbeat as regular peaks and long troughs. Each peak gave her hope for the future; each trough fed her fear that the next peak would not be reached.


    4:45 AM. She was still awake, practically suffocated by the confines of the small room. The walls were closing in on her, and her breaths came slow and labored. The relentless humming from the monitors rang loud in her ears, worse than a jet aircraft passing overhead. She yearned for morning and an end to the deathly stillness of the night. A new day would undoubtedly bring renewed hope.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    A sudden high-pitched beep startled her. On one of the monitors, a green peak scrolled off the screen. None followed. She hurried to the bed. Jim looked to be asleep. She said his name and reached for his hand. It was cold. Another alarm sounded. The door flew open, and the lights came on. Jim¡¯s face was white, his lips blue.


    A nurse rushed in.


    "Please, Mrs. O¡¯Neil, can you step back?"


    Clare moved away and leaned against the wall, the high-pitched beep ringing in her ears, screaming out certain disaster. A second nurse and a doctor joined the frantic activity around Jim''s bed. Clare felt detached, an observer of events unfolding, not a participant and certainly not a mother. She glanced at the cursed monitor that had recorded her son''s end as precisely as a seismograph records the onset of an earthquake. She prayed for a peak to break the low green line that moved unbroken across the screen.

 Chapter 17. Morning briefing

    Chapter 17. Morning briefing


    Detective Clarke sat fidgeting in Inspector Brown''s office. He had arrived early for their 8:30 A.M. meeting, and Brown''s secretary had asked him to wait. She expected the Inspector at any minute. Although only eighteen hours had passed since he¡¯d talked with Brown the previous day, that meeting already felt like a distant memory. He had not been home and was hungry, tired, and frustrated with the case. He was not looking forward to briefing Brown.


    He and Officer Bunt had spent most of the night going through case files in a fairly indiscriminate manner. They had very little to go on, and Clarke''s conversations with the Kilroy and O¡¯Neil families had produced no leads. Their only theories were related to drugs or a cult of some sort. Neither seemed likely, given the profiles of victim and assailant. However, the sheer viciousness of what had happened and Inspector Brown''s strong recommendation to "think outside the box", had forced them to consider almost any possibility. Clarke¡¯s gut told him that they were looking in the wrong direction, but he kept his mind open. Successful detective work was all about patience and diligence. He had plenty of both.


    "Sorry I''m late," Brown grumbled as he entered the room.


    "No problem, sir."


    Brown opened his briefcase, pulled out a handful of papers, and dropped them onto the desk. A couple of pages fell to the floor. Clarke picked them up and put them back.


    "Got your voicemail," Brown said, rummaging for something at the bottom of the briefcase.


    "Yeah, I got the call at six this morning. They¡¯re not sure what happened. It may have been a blood clot in the brain."


    Brown extricated himself from the briefcase and pulled out a cheap, ball-point pen. "I called over to the Kilroy place this morning. Talked to Anne." He paused. "It''s very tough for her."


    "Did you see Rick?"


    "Yeah, he was there."


    "How did he take the news?"


    Brown thought for a moment. "Well, it was a little strange. He didn¡¯t say anything. He just stood there, didn''t even comfort his mother¡ªand she was in a bad way. You just never know how people will react."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    "It was the same last night at the hospital when his father came around. There was something about his behavior. I''m not sure what it is, but it''s too odd to simply discount as a reaction to what has happened."


    "You think he¡¯s involved somehow?"


    "I don''t know yet, but we need to talk with him further."


    "Okay, but don''t overdo it. I¡¯ve known him for years. He can be a little strange at times, but overall a good kid. Anything more on Kilroy?"


    "As I mentioned in my message, he came around last night but didn¡¯t say much. He¡¯s still very weak and appears to have no idea of what happened."


    "You think he¡¯s bluffing?"


    "I can''t say yet, but if he is, it''s an Oscar performance. The last thing he could remember yesterday was taking breakfast in Ballycastle."


    "Why was he there?" Brown asked.


    "He took a drive yesterday morning. We don''t know where he went after breakfast, but we have a report of him coming into the town at about noon."


    "What else? Did he say anything about the O¡¯Neil kid?"


    "No, nothing, and we haven''t told him anything yet. The doctors advised against it last night."


    "You¡¯d better tell him soon. We don''t want him hearing the news from someone else. You need to be there to see his reaction."


    "I am going back to the hospital once we finish. I also contacted Doctor Toner. He¡¯s with the Psychology Department at Queen¡¯s University. He will be stopping by in the afternoon."


    "Great. Let me know what he comes up with. Any updates from the team at the O¡¯Neil house?"


    "Nothing new. It looks like Kilroy trashed the place with his bare hands. It''s what we guessed, given his injuries. We also got the toxicology tests. Nothing unusual."


    "Where does that leave us?"


    Clarke paused for a moment. "Not that far forward. I¡¯m hoping Kilroy will talk, and we¡¯re checking on a possible drug connection."


    "OK, get going. We can talk later."


    Just as Clarke stood up to leave, Bunt knocked and came in without waiting for an invite.


    "Michael, you better sit back down. I have a couple of updates on the Kilroy kid that you both need to hear."


    "Let''s have it," Brown snapped.


    "First, I checked the phone records. Yesterday at eleven-fifty-eight, someone in the O¡¯Neil house called the Kilroy''s."


    "It must have been Jim calling Rick," Clarke suggested.


    "Right.  And Mrs. Kilroy confirmed that Rick did get a call from Jim at about noon yesterday. According to the records, the call lasted almost four minutes. So, here¡¯s the interesting thing: the call most likely started just before the attack because we know the witness said it was noon when Kilroy entered the house. He¡¯s ex-police and checked the time.¡±


    "Jesus," Brown gasped. "Rick could have heard something; we need to get him in for questioning."


    "Right," Clarke said. "Let¡¯s confirm the exact timing of events. I want to know if the line was open during the attack."


    "Already on it," Bunt answered.


    "Okay, what else has Rick been up to?" Brown asked.


    "This one," Bunt said, shaking his head, "you are not going to believe."

 Chapter 18. An interview

    Chapter 18. An interview


    Rick Kilroy sat in a stark, green-walled room. It had the look, minus blood stains and instruments of torture, of a Soviet era police interrogation chamber. Rick rested his arms on a metal table and drummed a tune with his fingertips. He had the contented look of someone waiting for service at a restaurant.


    His uncle Paul Quinn and Inspector Brown sat across the hall. Neither spoke. Quinn chewed his fingernails while Brown fidgeted and wiped the sweat from his brow. They huddled over a small speaker and listened to Rick tapping.


    Rick turned as the door opened.  Clarke came in. Bunt followed.


    "Thanks for coming over," Clarke said.


    "No problem." Rick¡¯s smile dissolved into a blank stare.


    "We just want to clarify a few things. It shouldn''t take long." Clarke pulled out his notebook. "When we talked yesterday, you mentioned you last talked to Jim the morning before last, just after your father had the accident."


    "That''s right."


    "You didn¡¯t talk to him yesterday?"


    "That''s right."


    "Did your mother talk to him yesterday?"


    "Don''t know. Best ask her."


    "We did. She said Jim called your home yesterday just before noon, and you talked to him."


    Rick looked unfazed. He nodded his head and put on a look as if trying to figure out a difficult math question.


    "You could be right," he said after a pause. "I forgot about that."


    "Given everything that happened yesterday, you simply forgot he called?"


    "Yeah, that''s right."


    "What did you talk about?"


    "Oh, the usual. He had some new piece of ass."


    "Cara Campbell?"


    "Yeah."


    "According to the phone records, he likely was on the phone with you when your father showed up at his house. The line remained open for a few minutes." Clarke paused to give Rick time to react.


    "So?" Rick seemed unable to connect the dots.


    "That means the line may have been open when your father was in the house, possibly during the attack." Rick continued with his difficult-math-question frown.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Did Jim say anything, or did you hear anything unusual?" Clark asked.


    "No, nothing I can remember."


    "He didn''t mention there was someone at the door?"


    "No, can''t say I remember him saying that."


    "Did he put down the phone at any time?"


    "I don''t think so."


    "So, you were both talking the whole time?"


    "I remember now," Rick said with the smile of a liar about to outdo himself. "He said he had to take a piss. I waited for him to come back. He didn''t, so I hung up."


    Michael nodded. "And there was nothing else strange with the call?"


    "Nothing I can think of."


    "Okay. Well, I guess that explains it. If you remember anything else, let me know."


    "Sure."


    Clarke looked at Bunt. "Anything you want to ask?"


    "No, I think that clears things up for the moment."


    Clarke closed his notebook and pushed his chair back. Rick got to his feet, grabbed the backpack, and started for the door.


    "Hey, Rick, one last thing," Michael said. "Do you know Trevor Smith?"


    Rick stopped but did not turn. "The name sounds familiar."


    "He lives on Highfield Crescent. That''s not far from you, is it?"


    "No, not far."


    "Have you talked to him recently?"


    Rick turned slowly. Clarke and Bunt sat back in their chairs, staring at him. He returned their stare, seemingly looking for clues, trying to anticipate their next move. He had a hard-to-read expression. It was half unashamed confidence and half latent aggression, a ''don''t fuck with me'' type of stare. The kind a Mafia kingpin would give to some low-level cop who was getting too close to the action.


    "I talked to him last night after I got back from the hospital. Why?"


    "What did you talk about?"


    Rick shrugged. "I think I mentioned my father''s accident."


    "You see him since then?" Clarke asked.


    "No. Why?"


    "He was picked up earlier this morning." Clarke let the statement hang in the air. Rick said nothing.


    "Sometime around eight this morning, he went over to Cara Campbell¡¯s home. He broke in and trashed the place like your father did yesterday at the O¡¯Neil house. Fortunately, Cara and her mother weren¡¯t there." Rick¡¯s face was stone.


    "Do you have any idea why he might have done that?"


    "Why do you think I would know anything about that?"


    "We have a witness who claims to have seen someone matching your description talking to Smith, close to the Campbell house after the attack."


    "I was home all morning," Rick countered.


    "That''s fine," Clarke said in a calming tone. Rick''s demeanor had told him all he needed to know. "We¡¯re just following up on information. We have to check these things out; I¡¯m sure you understand."


    "Sure," Rick answered, quickly regaining his composure. "Can I leave now?"


    "Certainly. By the way, I assume you know Jim O¡¯Neil died this morning?"


    "Yes, I know. It''s terrible."


    "It makes things much worse for your father. He¡¯ll face a murder charge."


    Rick struggled to organize a look of concern. His eyebrows lifted and fell, he squinted, his face unable to choose an emotion. "Can I leave now?"


    Clarke turned to Bunt. "Bill, can you see Rick out?"


    After the two were gone, Clarke said, "He¡¯s gone. You can come in now."


    Clarke, Brown, and Quinn sat around the table, looking at each other. The conversation had quickly moved from an analysis of the facts to a discussion on next steps. Of the three, Brown was least willing to jump to conclusions.


    "I agree the kid is acting strangely," Brown said, "but you have to factor in what he¡¯s going through, what his father did. That alone could explain a lot of things."


    "What about the witness this morning?" Clarke said.


    "She could be mistaken. We have to move cautiously and not jump to conclusions."


    Quinn shook his head. "I¡¯ve known Rick since he was a baby. There¡¯s something else going on here. I don''t buy his story, his lack of emotion, any of it. Michael, you saw him at the hospital. He was like a stranger."


    "I agree," Clarke said. "Paul, is there any way you could talk to him at home, away from the station, and see if he¡¯ll open up. He¡¯s hiding something. We all see that. Maybe he¡¯s scared, but he might talk to you."


    "That''s a good idea," Quinn answered. "I can call around after I get off this evening."


    "Great. Don''t mention that we talked."


    "Of course not."


    "Okay, we have a plan," Brown said. "Let¡¯s regroup in the morning."

 Chapter 19. A train station

    Chapter 19. A train station


    Northern Ireland Railways offer regular service between Portrush and Belfast. The journey takes about two hours, and the train arrives at Central Station, a short bus ride to Queen¡¯s University. Come September and the start of the college term, Cara would make the journey regularly. This time, the trip was an escape from an unknown pursuer. She had friends living in Belfast and could hide out there.


    The station was crowded when Cara arrived with her mother and Aunt Jane at her side. Families made their way to the exit from a recently arrived train. Children in T-shirts and short pants screamed and ran ahead of their parents, eager to get to Barry''s amusement park, which is situated just outside the station. It was always a favorite with kids and a trip down memory lane for their parents.


    Cara carried a small backpack, enough for a few days away from home. She needed to get away until the police determined why Trevor Smith had wrecked their home and what the connection was to the attack on Jim.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Oblivious to the smiling faces all around, she weaved her way through the crowd and made straight for the ticket office. She bought a one-way ticket for the 2:45 PM Belfast departure. Her mother watched, still in disbelief, her eyes red, her world, that had been on the brink, tumbling down into darkness.


    Cara had explained as much as she could. She said she feared for her safety. She could not name the threat, but she had to leave and draw it away from her mother and those she loved. She warned her mother to be wary of strangers. Above all, she instructed her not to tell anyone where she was going.


    Aunt Jane seemed to accept her plan. She did not demand details or try to dissuade. She asked once in private if it was about the box. Cara answered ¡®yes.¡¯ As they walked toward the platform, Jane stuffed three tightly folded fifty-pound notes into Cara''s hand.


    At the train, Cara hugged her aunt and then turned to her mother. As they embraced, her mother started crying and gripped Cara tightly, as if she was setting out on a long and dangerous journey. A loudspeaker, sharp and intrusive, announced the train''s departure. Cara looked to aunt Jane, who stepped forward, and gently took her sister by the shoulders, and eased her out of the bear hug she had on Cara.


    Sitting by a window, Cara looked back at her aunt and mother. She prayed for a quick return to normality and to family.