The Angel by Carla Neggers Page A
Authors: Carla Neggers
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Romance, Murderers, Ireland, Celtic Antiquities, Boston (Mass.), Women folklorists
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making it easy to imagine the monk’s excitement at finding a beautiful stone angel on his hearth.
It would be there…by the fire…
“Keira.”
She went still, her water bottle suspended in midair. Was it the wind, or had she just heard someone whisper her name?
98
CARLA NEGGERS
Then came a creak, a groan of what sounded like a tree being uprooted—and then the sharp scrape of rock against rock. Dirt and ivy loosened overhead, and decaying leaves and twigs fell onto the mud floor. Keira lunged for the door, but didn’t get far as several rafters collapsed onto each other, sending dirt and debris down in front of her. She heard stones tumbling on the chimney side of the ruin.
No time.
She had to take cover now.
She about-faced and dove under the loft, scrambling into the far corner of the hut, dropping her water bottle and emergency rations into the mud as she covered her head with her arms.
After a few seconds, the rocks and debris stopped falling. Keira held her breath, not daring to move or utter a sound. She waited. A minute passed. Two minutes. Nothing.
Hoping the worst was over, she lowered her arms from her head and, still not making a sound, peered through the dust to assess her situation.
Who was out there? Who had whispered her name? She could make out the half-crumbled fireplace and…
something. She squinted, blinked, squinted again. A small stone statue stood in the rubble in front of the fireplace.
An angel.
On the hearth.
Suspicious that her imagination, fueled by adrenaline, had conjured up Patsy’s mythical stone angel, Keira expected she’d blink once more and it’d disappear, turn out to be just more ordinary rock.
But it didn’t disappear. She could see wings, a beauti
THE ANGEL
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ful, delicately featured face and, in the angel’s arms, a small Celtic harp.
The three brothers in Patsy’s story all agreed they’d heard the angel playing a harp.
Saint Ita had lived in Ireland in the sixth century, but there was no way for Keira to tell if the angel was fourteenhundred or a hundred years old—or if it’d been bought off a garden-store shelf that morning and popped in here as a summer solstice prank. Maybe she wasn’t the only one in the area familiar with the story. At this point, she thought, anything was possible.
Just as she proceeded to get a closer look, she heard a loud snap and tucked herself into a tight ball as more of the ruin caved in. Even with her face pressed up against her knees, she could taste dirt and dust from the collapsing stones and mortar. If her side of the old hut gave way, she was doomed.
But she knew it wouldn’t.
It just won’t, she thought, surprised by her sense of cer
tainty.
Keira remained in her tucked-in position until all she could hear were the gentle sounds of the stream and the breeze blowing through the trees just outside. She didn’t know how long she waited—at least an hour—but when she was as sure as she could be that the hut had collapsed as much as it was going to, she raised her head and coughed in the settling dust as she took in her situation. A massive pile of stone and debris had fallen just beyond her free space under the loft, blocking her route to the door. She wouldn’t be going out the way she’d come in, but that left few options. There was no rear exit, and the tiny windows were too far up for her to reach without a ladder. Keira picked up her water bottle and her bag of snacks 100
CARLA NEGGERS
out of the mud, grimacing when she realized that her backpack was buried somewhere in the rubble. Even with the long Irish June days, it would be fully dark in a few hours.
She didn’t need more time to digest her situation. It was obvious to her.
She was trapped.
5:00 p.m., BST
June 22
Simon took his cell phone to a quieter corner of the bustling London hotel bar and asked Owen Garrison to repeat what he’d just said. Something about an artist who’d turned up missing in
It would be there…by the fire…
“Keira.”
She went still, her water bottle suspended in midair. Was it the wind, or had she just heard someone whisper her name?
98
CARLA NEGGERS
Then came a creak, a groan of what sounded like a tree being uprooted—and then the sharp scrape of rock against rock. Dirt and ivy loosened overhead, and decaying leaves and twigs fell onto the mud floor. Keira lunged for the door, but didn’t get far as several rafters collapsed onto each other, sending dirt and debris down in front of her. She heard stones tumbling on the chimney side of the ruin.
No time.
She had to take cover now.
She about-faced and dove under the loft, scrambling into the far corner of the hut, dropping her water bottle and emergency rations into the mud as she covered her head with her arms.
After a few seconds, the rocks and debris stopped falling. Keira held her breath, not daring to move or utter a sound. She waited. A minute passed. Two minutes. Nothing.
Hoping the worst was over, she lowered her arms from her head and, still not making a sound, peered through the dust to assess her situation.
Who was out there? Who had whispered her name? She could make out the half-crumbled fireplace and…
something. She squinted, blinked, squinted again. A small stone statue stood in the rubble in front of the fireplace.
An angel.
On the hearth.
Suspicious that her imagination, fueled by adrenaline, had conjured up Patsy’s mythical stone angel, Keira expected she’d blink once more and it’d disappear, turn out to be just more ordinary rock.
But it didn’t disappear. She could see wings, a beauti
THE ANGEL
99
ful, delicately featured face and, in the angel’s arms, a small Celtic harp.
The three brothers in Patsy’s story all agreed they’d heard the angel playing a harp.
Saint Ita had lived in Ireland in the sixth century, but there was no way for Keira to tell if the angel was fourteenhundred or a hundred years old—or if it’d been bought off a garden-store shelf that morning and popped in here as a summer solstice prank. Maybe she wasn’t the only one in the area familiar with the story. At this point, she thought, anything was possible.
Just as she proceeded to get a closer look, she heard a loud snap and tucked herself into a tight ball as more of the ruin caved in. Even with her face pressed up against her knees, she could taste dirt and dust from the collapsing stones and mortar. If her side of the old hut gave way, she was doomed.
But she knew it wouldn’t.
It just won’t, she thought, surprised by her sense of cer
tainty.
Keira remained in her tucked-in position until all she could hear were the gentle sounds of the stream and the breeze blowing through the trees just outside. She didn’t know how long she waited—at least an hour—but when she was as sure as she could be that the hut had collapsed as much as it was going to, she raised her head and coughed in the settling dust as she took in her situation. A massive pile of stone and debris had fallen just beyond her free space under the loft, blocking her route to the door. She wouldn’t be going out the way she’d come in, but that left few options. There was no rear exit, and the tiny windows were too far up for her to reach without a ladder. Keira picked up her water bottle and her bag of snacks 100
CARLA NEGGERS
out of the mud, grimacing when she realized that her backpack was buried somewhere in the rubble. Even with the long Irish June days, it would be fully dark in a few hours.
She didn’t need more time to digest her situation. It was obvious to her.
She was trapped.
5:00 p.m., BST
June 22
Simon took his cell phone to a quieter corner of the bustling London hotel bar and asked Owen Garrison to repeat what he’d just said. Something about an artist who’d turned up missing in
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