#2
“Absolutely. St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us. We need to move quickly,” Jackson said.
“But you want to see the house and where—” Murphy began.
“Yes, it’s important in our way of working that we get to the scene right away, even if you and forensic folk have been over it,” Angela told him.
“Well, we’re almost there—despite Chicago traffic!” Murphy told them.
They arrived quickly, as the detective had said. They pulled up right in front; and he and Angela both paused, just staring at the house for a moment. Like the other homes in the area, the land was on a bit of a rise, giving one the impression of heading up to a grand dwelling indeed.
“I asked Sean Donegal to give us a bit of time, but he wanted to be here when you got here. Apparently, he knows the founder of your unit, a fellow named Adam Harrison. They met at a charity event years ago from what I understand. Naturally, the house is a crime scene now, but there’s an officer at the back; and you’ll note, one of my men there, at the front. ”
“Right,” Jackson said, nodding to the officer.
“Let me tell you, I’m so glad that Donegal and your man Harrison met one another. This is . . . well, let me say that while we are a damned good force, on this case, all help is appreciated. Thank your Adam for me!”
“Will do. Adam is also very generous, and on top of that, a very nice man who has had his own share of struggles in life,” Angela said, smiling and nodded. “All right then, the house—and Mr. Donegal.”
They spoke briefly to the young officer outside the house and went through the double doors and onward through the “mud room,” or little entry where wet umbrellas and coats and the like might be left.
Entering the house, Jackson quickly suppressed a smile. The situation was too serious.
But someone had gone St. Patrick’s Day crazy. The handsome old parlor was decked with green ribbons, balloons, and tiny green hats. They were all artfully displayed against the warm backdrop of the Victorian parlor.
The gentleman waiting for them, Sean Donegal, stood in the midst of it, a tall, lean, gray-haired man in a handsome suit, dignified other than the look of pain that twisted his face and dampened his eyes.
“Adam’s people?” he asked. “Well, technically the head of his main special unit—”
“Jackson and Angela, sir. Of course, we’re here to do anything we can.”
“You mean that you will find my granddaughter,” Donegal said desperately.
Jackson glanced at Angela. Age-old situation within law enforcement, one that came up time and time again. You never promised a happy conclusion to a case.
“Sir, I can promise you this,” Jackson told the man. “We will not stop; we will see that every possible angle is investigated; and that, sir, is why we need to start with you and the house.”
“The house!” Donegal moaned. “The very day security would have been top of the line, cameras here, there, and everywhere, and . . . “
“Shall we sit?” Detective Murphy suggested.
“Of course. I have lost my manners,” Donegal said. “Loveseat by the coffee table has two armchairs . . . best place, I guess. Or the dining room table if . . .”
“Actually,” Angela suggested, “gentlemen, please, take a seat. We want to see the area where the so-called leprechaun left the note and all the shamrocks and so on.”
“I can show you—” Murphy began.
“It’s best if we look first!” Angela said. “Then ask for your help.”
“Sure,” Murphy said. “But you know that the note and the shamrocks all went into our forensic department.”
“Right. And they tried the door for fingerprints and any clues, yes. Sometimes, when you walk into a room . . .”
“Indeed, I know,” Murphy told them. “Sir,” he said then, turning to address the home’s owner. “Mr. Donegal, please, we’ll take a seat and let them see what they can see with fresh eyes.”
“Thanks, Detective,” Jackson said. “Naturally—”
“We’ve had someone on the phone lines,” Conor assured them.
“And at the office,” Sean Donegal said, his tone so sadly desperate, “Elizabeth and her crew have been manning the phone lines constantly.”
“And all prepared,” Conor added quietly.
“Thank you,” Jackson told him.
Jackson and Angela walked through the dining room and into the kitchen.
“It will be nice when Zach and Skye get here,” Angela murmured. She fell silent and then she lifted her head, indicating that Jackson should look where she was looking.
There was a woman across the room. Or the spirit of a woman, Jackson thought. She was dressed in garments that would have been worn centuries ago, her face and head draped in sheer fabric as if she was . . .
In mourning.
And he saw that Angela knew right away what the presence of the spirit meant.
“No!” she whispered softly.
The spirit saw her distress and hurried over to her.
“Please . . . aye, lass! I am a banshee, but I came years ago with the previous owners. And you know, of course, that . . . that I experienced my own mourning over so many and came to know how to allow those who have lost loved ones to feel their pain and then come to terms with it that they might live out the rest of their own lives. You’ve not heard me because—”
“Because Colleen Donegal isn’t dead?” Angela asked softly.
“She is not dead,” the banshee said. “Not . . .”
“Yet?” Jackson asked.
“I wasn’t here when the kidnapping occurred,” the banshee explained.
“I was, um, hitchhiking to that meeting Mr. Donegal had. I worry about the man; he is brilliant and kind and . . . I worry about him, and I suppose I believed that I might be here to help those left behind and care for Sean when the time came for him to enter the next world. I never suspected . . .”
“That someone would use the one human being who meant the world to him,” Angela said softly.
The banshee didn’t get a chance to answer. There was a bit of commotion from the front of the house, a knock and then voices. Jackson knew, of course, that their newer recruits, Zachary Erickson and Skye McMahon, had arrived.
“Wait, please, don’t go anywhere!” Angela begged her.
“I’ll not, nor will I give you away; through the years I have witnessed what happens when . . . well, never you mind now. I’ll not give you away!” the banshee assured them.
Jackson smiled at her. “Ah. You’ve seen when others see us as crazy. Two more are coming in. They will see you and be delighted and grateful to make your acquaintance.”
He hurried back to the parlor where it seemed introductions between the “Crows” and Detective Murphy and Sean Donegal had already taken place. They were quicky able to bring Zach and Skye to the kitchen.
He was glad to see the pair; they had already performed their investigations remarkably—on every level.
He and Angela had now been together with the Krewe of Hunters for over fifteen years and to this day, the two of them, with Adam Harrison, watched other officers and agents in the field for those they believed belonged working with one of their units.
Skye McMahon had an incredibly different ability, that of closing her eyes and seeing the past. The one problem was that she couldn’t see what part of the past she witnessed.
Zach Erickson, on the other hand, could hold or touch an object and tell you a great deal about the last person who touched or held it.
He was a strapping young fellow with dark hair and deep blue eyes.
Skye was about five-five and slender, a lovely young woman with reddish hair and green eyes.
Green . . .
Or emerald, like the Emerald Isle.
Of course, Zach and Skye saw the banshee immediately; and both greeted her with grave nods, quickly giving her their thanks.
That made the banshee smile. “I am Deidre,” the banshee told them.
“Deidre McAdams, and I was about in my mortal state about four hundred years ago. And it is, of course, rather sad that we’re feared, seen as ‘death ghosts,’ when we remain to help others cross over and give solace, help those who remain get through their grief.
But that’s been said before, and I was telling your friends,” Deidre said to Zach and Skye, “I wasn’t here when the lass was taken, but I will be here with you every step of the way as you seek to find the lass. Perhaps at some point I might help.”
“Thank you!” Jackson said, and he introduced their group by their full names but used none of their work titles. Deidre understood who they were. And she was happy to help, if only she could.
Zach looked at Jackson and asked, “There was word left that a leprechaun took her?” he asked dryly.
“Such was the message,” Angela told him. “And whoever took her was wearing gloves, but we’re hoping—”
“Wait,” Zach told them, looking over at Skye. “Do you think . . .?”
“Never matters what I think,” Skye assured him. “I always need to try! And so . . .”
“Please,” Jackson said.
And Skye nodded and closed her eyes.
She was very still; the room itself suddenly seemed to be still. Short moments that seemed much longer than what they were passed.
Then Skye opened her eyes and she appeared to be stunned.
“They said a leprechaun took her?” she demanded.
“That’s right,” Jackson told her.
“And it’s true—she was kidnapped by a leprechaun!” Skye told them.
*