Jackson
“Almost St. Patrick’s Day. A day to honor a saint where people now wear a lot of green. And of course, do a lot of drinking. So, do you really think a leprechaun kidnapped the granddaughter of Sean Donegal?”
Jackson Crow asked Angela the question, arching a brow to her as they waited just outside their hotel, a pleasant place right on the Chicago River.
It was almost St. Patrick’s Day. Well, that’s why they were there; the incident had been heralded as “A Leprechaun Lunacy” in several media outlets, something rather horrible in Jackson’s mind since an innocent teenaged girl had been abducted.
And as of yet, no ransom had been demanded.
Naturally, there was the fear that she had been killed.
But Jackson agreed with what he’d heard from the point detective on the case, Conor Murphy.
The display left behind suggested whoever had done the kidnapping had done so for a reason.
Money was often the reason. But it might have been even more.
Sean Donegal was a self-made millionaire, a man who had worked from the time he’d been a child, brought himself through school with scholarships.
His work ethic led him to become one of the most brilliant men of their time, esteemed in his native Ireland and beyond.
He’d recently started a company in the United States that was reputed to become hands-on, to allow even the saddest non-techy to get through all they needed for their day-to-day lives in the coming years.
Leprechauns. Right. Not that . . .
Well, he’d been to Ireland and knew a few things. Still . . .
They were in Chicago, home to a multitude of Irish or people who were descendants of the Irish who had arrived in America during several mass migrations.
The river was being turned green—safely, of course, with nontoxic food coloring.
It was something done to honor the city’s Irish population and the multitude of Irish descendants who inhabited the city, begun in 1962.
The process typically began on March 14th to give the river a great color by the 17th.
He knew, because he had looked it all up—anything that might help when a girl had been kidnapped and her kidnapper or kidnappers had left behind a tiny pot of fake gold coins and a warning, “Thus to all who betray those they should not! The leprechauns will see justice arises legal or no over lunacy!”
“Leprechauns,” he muttered again, shaking his head.
“No,” Angela said simply.
Jackson grimaced, catching her hand. “Hey, you’re the one with an Irish cousin,” he reminded her. “No leprechauns in the family, eh?”
“Not funny!” she told him. “Jackson, in truth, you and I both know that . . . that, well, most of the time, when legendary creatures are dredged up, it’s a human being using whatever legend for their own gains.
As for leprechauns in truth . . . I don’t—and you shouldn’t—discount anything.
But here and on this and with Sean Donegal?
I think we have a human being behind everything that is going on, perhaps because of his position, his new business or just his money. Not a leprechaun!”
“No,” he agreed. “But here’s the thing—does someone think they’re a leprechaun?
Is it just a play on St. Patrick’s Day or on Sean Donegal’s nationality?
I like to think I study ethnicity and ancient religions and legends and .
. . and I can’t help but fear this person—or persons or would-be leprechauns—has something planned for the day itself. And I’m thinking aloud because . . .”
He let his words trail.
Once, they’d spent the holiday in Ireland, handling a situation for one of her family members.
Legends usually held a grain of truth or were created because of the things that happened that couldn’t be explained.
But now, a serious problem had come home to the states.
Angela sighed, smoothing back a length of her long blond hair and turning to stare at him.
“On St. Patrick’s Day? Maybe. Because for someone Irish, it would be especially bad.
And from everything I’ve read about him, especially a man like Sean Donegal, one who has struggled hard to get where he is, but managed a tremendous kindness throughout his life, apparently truly honoring St. Patrick.
And by all accounts, St. Patrick was an amazing man, no matter what one’s religion.
From everything I’ve read, he truly felt a calling.
Born in Britain, he was captured by the Irish and spent six long years in hard labor as a slave in Ireland.
But it didn’t make him bitter! It made him determined to return and teach and help people.
He gave gifts to those he longed to speak to, to teach, and accepted none himself.
He helped anyone in need. He knew he could die a martyr’s death at any time!
To even attempt something evil on the saint’s day for such a good human being is . . .”
“Beyond horrible, of course. But St. Patrick wasn’t murdered, right?” Jackson asked.
She laughed softly. “We’ve been this route before. No, he died of natural causes; they believe it was March 17th, 461 AD, but you can’t be that good to that many people without becoming a legend and—”
“Let’s hope that the leprechaun respects the history of St. Patrick and doesn’t intend to end the girl’s life.”
“Let’s hope—” Angela began.
She broke off abruptly, staring at the ground.
“What is it?” Jackson asked.
She bent low to the patch of grass near them and picked a little sprig from the ground.
She looked at it and then at him. “A shamrock!” she told him.
“A shamrock,” Jackson repeated. He had just been making teasing conversation, but to come upon a shamrock might mean . . .
That a shamrock just happened to be growing there.
Or that they were here, right where they were supposed to be, to solve a serious problem with a few Irish overtones.
Angela groaned softly. “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!” she reminded him, pausing and looking out at the river.
“There he is!” Jackson said.
They were being picked up by the point detective on the case, Conor Murphy, an American of Irish descent.
They were being joined by a pair of agents from the newest division within their unit, known as “The Crows,” a name he didn’t come up with himself, but rather something that just came up, the same as their unofficial title as the Krewe of Hunters.
Zachary Erickson and Skye McMahon would be meeting them at the house; their plane had been delayed.
Now . . .
Their first stop would be the house and a meeting with Sean Donegal. And . . .
The house was historic. They could hope that a spirit might have remained from the past and seen what had occurred.
And if not, he thought dryly, they could rely on everything they’d learned through their years as investigators to fathom who had committed the crime of kidnapping and hopefully stop them before it became something far worse.
And one never knew. Both Skye and Zachary had additional “gifts.”
Or curses—depending on how one wanted to look at it. But for the two of their newer recruits, using the strange abilities they’d been given to help others took precedence and both were grateful to be where they were—among people with whom they didn’t need to hide their extraordinary talents.
Murphy’s car drew to a stop on the sidewalk near them; and the two of them hopped in, Jackson nodding to Angela, letting her know to take the front seat.
They’d spoken on the phone, but introductions went around again. Murphy seemed a decent fellow, early or mid-thirties with steady blue eyes and well sculpted face, and a solid no-nonsense manner combined with an ability to be polite and to listen as well as talk.
“Apparently, because of the bigwigs involved in this, the thing has gone all the way to the top; you guys are now lead,” Murphy told them.
“You’re still the point man,” Jackson assured him. “We do our best never—”
“To step on toes. Appreciated,” Murphy said.
“And yeah, my great grandparents hailed from the old country, but I’m having a serious problem believing the girl was kidnapped by a leprechaun.
Still, the way they were behaving . . . well, they called you in.
I understand that you deal with ghosts and vampires, too,” he said lightly.
“Would-be vampires,” Angela told him, casting her head to the side and smiling.
And real ghosts, Jackson thought.
But of course, he kept that thought to himself. Nothing like having local law enforcement think you were a fruitcake when you needed to work with them.
“Here’s the thing,” Murphy told them, “Most of the world loves Sean Donegal. The man is known to give to multiple charities and just help out where and when he can. But he is bigger than life, and that can draw out the crazies. Still, I was wondering, especially at first, if someone wasn’t just scamming him for a lot of that money.
But nothing—nothing other than the message left.
Of course, everything was thoroughly checked and rechecked.
Whoever took her was wearing gloves.” He paused, tightening his lips before speaking again.
“And here’s the truly sad part—Sean Donegal was on his way home to meet with the folk from a security company.
The house would have been tighter than a drum after today. ”
“But if I read all my notes right, they believe the back door was jimmied open,” Angela told him.
Murphy nodded. “Yep. There was a bottom lock. A screwdriver or something was used to break it.”
Angela twisted around to look at Jackson in the back. “I’m thinking that someone watched the place first and knew the condition of the house—and Sean Donegal’s schedule.”
“Sounds quite possible. Detective Murphy, if you could have your people do some recon on the neighborhood, check with the neighbors regarding anything going on—not just when she was kidnapped but, in the days before it happened, too.”
“Will do. We tried for witnesses that morning, but I’ll send my people back out again.
When the house was built, it was a bit from the city.
But the city has grown out to the house.
Still, the lots where we’re heading are about an acre, but still . . . well, someone might have been outside, seen a car that didn’t belong in the neighborhood or someone! ”