Chapter Eight
As the wind howled through the village of Ballynagaul, Lassi stared into Penny’s face. Why does she think Dylan’s death was a murder?
She kept her arm around the shoulders of poor, grieving Siobhan. “Murdered? Really? What makes you say that?”
Penny blinked, her forehead furrowed, as she pointed down the street. “Go see for yourself. Go see Dylan. Unless you’re too squeamish,” she added with a taunting lilt to her voice.
“I’m not squeamish.” Lassi wanted to add you big, fat cow, but bit her tongue. “I help women push babies through their vajim-jams. All sorts of bodily fluids accompany the infants on their journey to planet Earth.”
“Then go. Come back and tell me if you think it’s not a murder. I’ll be right here.” Penny pointed to the ground.
“Fine. I’ll do that.”
“Fine.” Penny turned away.
“Where do you live, love?” Lassi gazed kindly at Siobhan.
Siobhan lifted her trembling hand and pointed in the same direction Penny had pointed.
“Okay, show me.” With her arm still tight around Siobhan, she scurried past Penny and down the street. Her footsteps faltered as they got closer. She might talk a good talk but viewing a murder wasn’t high on her priority list.
When they arrived at the snug home where the Riordan’s had made their loving nest, Garda Galbraith’s car was parked against the curb. Another clump of people huddled in front of the house, chatting, weeping and, no doubt, gossiping.
Lassi eyed the quaint stone-walled home. With its red door and well-tended garden, the dwelling looked like something out of a fairy tale.
Her heart lurched. Just yesterday, she’d seen the Riordans’ looking like the poster family for loving relationships. Witnessing their care for one another, she’d assigned hope for love to her own future. Too bad the tale turned into a nightmare. Why does there always have to be a wicked witch around the corner in every happy tale? Maybe there’s no such thing as a happy ever after kind of relationship—not for me, not for Siobhan, no one. A bitterness congealed in her heart. In Dublin, someone died every day. Some died in car wrecks. Some died of illness or injury. Some died of old age. But most people, herself included, treated a death in the news as simply another tragedy that happened to someone else. But here, it was exactly as she’d predicted—if someone died in Bally, the whole town knew and treated the event like something new and exciting to do or see—not the tragedy it represented. She longed to race back to the cottage, pack her bags, and head home to her anonymous reality. But, no, Siobhan’s love for her family had struck chords of longing in Lassi. She’d stirred hope and possibility in her heart. And, most of all, she seemed like a truly kind person, far too young to have to endure something like this. She owed it to the woman to give her as much care and consolation as she could.
She guided her toward the huddled mass of people. “Can someone please take Siobhan inside and get her a cuppa and a biscuit?”
A kindly looking grandmotherly type nodded, reaching out her gnarled hand to Siobhan.
Siobhan took it and followed her like a docile child.
Lassi made her way to the side of the house.
Garda Galbraith stood with Father Ward and a few local police in the field out back. He took notes using an electronic device.
Father Ward stared at something, utter horror etched in his features.
Lassi inclined her head, studying the priest. Is this why he showed up at my door looking like the deer who’d escaped the bear?
She stepped along the walkway, heading toward them. When she got close enough to see, her knees nearly gave way.
Underneath the apple tree, Dylan’s body lay on his back, his legs skewed at odd angles. His eyes stared sightlessly into the branches. Blood covered his face. His throat had been brutally torn out, as if a rabid cougar had attacked in a savage frenzy. Not much of the neck was left except bone, gristle, and bloody muscle.
Although she was no stranger to guts and bodily fluids, repulsion pushed through her belly at this level of violence. She’d seen it a time or two in the emergency room but she’d finished her rotation in that department as soon as she could. She preferred to usher life in, not send it packing to the after-world.
Some of the other villagers shuffled behind her, as if using her as a shield.
“Everyone, stay back,” Garda Galbraith commanded. Since his belly refused to allow his pants to sit tight around his waist, they hung on his hips. He tugged at his belt loops to keep them from falling around his ankles. No one needed to see Galbraith in skivvies.
Father Ward lifted his head. “Yes, everyone.” His eyes fixed on Lassi. “Back away.”
The villagers shuffled away, moving as one like the sheep in the pasture.
Galbraith turned toward him. “Father Ward, that means you, too.”
The look Father Ward flashed at the police captain surprised Lassi. If facial expression had words, his would say, stand down you mother-fecking Maytag repairman—which was so un-priest-like.
“Dylan was a member of my congregation, Galbraith,” he said, in a stony, unfamiliar tone.
Lassi stayed put. She stared at Dylan’s body.
His hand clenched around something bloody and gruesome.
“Galbraith,” she said quietly.
“Miss Finn, I asked you to move back with the others.” He took a step in her direction, as if preparing to usher her along.
“No, look.” She pointed to Dylan’s clenched fist. “It looks like he’s holding something.”
Galbraith turned toward the body with a scowl. He crouched and reached for the hand.
“Wait.”
He turned his head up to her. “What? I’m doing my job.”
She shook her head. “No, sir, you’re doing the job of the Medical Examiner. Why don’t you wait for him? You don’t want to disturb the body until he’s had a chance to examine it.”
“We do things differently around here.” Galbraith fell back to his task, as if she hadn’t said a thing. He let out a gasp as he unfurled Dylan’s fingers.
Father Ward choked out a strangled sound.
Lassi pressed her hand to her mouth, holding back the bile threatening to fly free.
Dylan’s tongue lay in his palm.
Galbraith hooked his finger inside the dead man’s mouth and pried it open.
“Someone cut out his tongue,” he said in a shaky voice.
A villager behind her retched.
Others moaned.
Lassi stared at his ravaged mouth. Then, she scanned the surrounding grass and dirt. “Good Christ, no. It looks like his tongue has been ripped from his throat. There’s no sign of a clean cut, or a knife anywhere.”
“You seem to know more than your fair share about what happened, Miss Finn,” Galbraith snapped at her.
Lassi threw back an icy glare.
“I’m a nurse. A trained medical professional. I know what this shite looks like.” She gestured toward Dylan’s mouth.
“I think we might need to have a chat—downtown. The Garda from Dungarvan will be arriving shortly. They might want to ask a few questions, too.”
She threw her arms up. “We are downtown. This whole village is downtown. Don’t be an idiot!”
Father Ward hurried toward her. He grabbed her upper arm and yanked her away.
“Lassi, stop. You’ll get yourself arrested,” he hissed in her ear.
The villagers murmured and pointed at her.
“You can’t be serious. I’m a suspect?” She tried to pull away but his grip was like iron.
He tugged her past the house.
In the picturesque front yard, with its tended and trimmed flowers and hedges, a group of women huddled around Siobhan and baby Paul.
Father Ward kept up his hustle, pushing her along.
“Wait!” Lassi cried. “I need to see if she’s okay. These fecking idiots know nothing about how to care for another. They were making a spectacle of her, rather than offering comfort.”
“Keep walking.” Father Ward’s fingers dug into her muscles.
She jogged, tripping over her feet to keep up with him. “Where are we going?”
She glanced behind her.
Villagers continued to point.
“Away from here. You’ll only get into more trouble.”
“What trouble am I in? I was trying to help.”
He kept his lips pressed tight.
They continued at a brisk pace, heading back toward Roberta’s cottage. Then, Father Ward veered and headed toward the beach. Without a word, he marched her toward the grave she’d tended yesterday. He stopped and released her arm. “Did you do this?”
All her hard work at prettying the gravesite had been undone. Rocks she labored to put in place were scattered in a haphazard fashion. Dirt had been heaped in piles.
She blinked, stupefied. “No, I... It’s been dug up...it’s open. What happened?”
“What did you do?”
She whirled to face him. “What makes you think I had anything to do with this? What are you accusing me of?
His chest rose and fell, much harder than when he’d sprinted toward the copse of trees.
Her jaw dropped. “Are you...what? Are you mad at me?”
“Answer the question. What did you do?” His green eyes sparked with fiery emotion.
She took a step back.
“I didn’t dig up the fecking grave, if that’s what you’re implying. I only looked after it. I found it yesterday, using the map I discovered in the box I told you about.”
“God in Heaven, have mercy,” he said, then he crossed himself. He placed his hands over his eyes and shook his head, letting out an anguished sigh. When his hands fell away, he focused his attention on her with alarming intensity.
Her heart did rapid back flips. “I thought she...the grave hadn’t been tended. I figured she’d been knocked up by a local gobshite idiot and was accused of being a whore and I deal with rape victims all the time and...” Confused, she shook her head. “I wanted her to be commemorated, not despised. Sex is a natural thing. You shouldn’t be shunned because you have sex out of wedlock. I don’t care what your scripture teaches you, Father Ward.”
“My name is Cillian.” He calmed his emotions with another deep breath.
For some strange reason, hearing his name made her feel as if she’d been slugged in the gut—or maybe caressed in languid, sweeping strokes. In any case, she’d been affected.
“Okay...” she took another step back.
“You Finn women are going to be the death of me—you and your good intentions.”
Guilt—or maybe some sort of inner struggle—etched lines across his face.
“What? Why?”
He threw his head back and groaned. Facing her, he said, “This...”
He stepped toward her and put his hands on her cheeks. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to her mouth.
Unable to resist, Lassi poured her soul into the mind-numbing lip lock.
Father Ward—Cillian—ground his hips against her, pressing something achingly solid against her belly.
She hummed into his mouth, desperate to push him to the ground and have her way with him, sealing her sins for all of eternity.
He let out a responsive murmur, sending shivers of vibration through her belly. One hand slid around her neck. The other coiled around her back, locking her body to his.
How can this be feeling so fecking amazing? He’s a priest. She wanted more. She wanted to run. She couldn’t stop herself from yielding to his desire.
The snap of a branch shook her to her senses. She shoved away from him.
“What’s that?” she panted, her attention ping-ponging between him and the noise she thought she’d heard. Her lips tingled, like she’d kissed an electric socket. As she listened for intruders, she brought her hand to her mouth. Even her arm felt strange, like she gripped a metal rod in a lightning storm.
Cillian stood, chest heaving, eyes wild, staring only at her. “I don’t know. What did you hear?”
He looked like a caged beast set free, uncertain what his next move should be.
“I think someone is out there.” She pushed away from him and began to pace.
“Maybe it’s the...” He looked in the direction of the snapping branch, his face becoming ashen. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He tried to grasp her hand.
She yanked it away and let out a groan. “You’re worried about someone vandalizing the grave. Right now, I’m more concerned about being stoned to death by the villagers.”
Cillian stepped toward her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Lassi, no, it’s not like that.”
She shoved him away. That kiss. From a priest. Her lips tingled in a weird, unfamiliar way, as if she’d kissed an electrical socket. “Get away from me. If this…” She waved her hand between them. “If what we just did gets found out, you might lose your job, but, at least you’d be alive. I could end up like her.” She jabbed her finger at the grave. “An untended grave with no one the wiser. I’m in serious trouble now.”
His gaze tracked the direction where she pointed. “I know for certain we’re in for some trouble. And this wasn’t the work of vandals.”
Oh, my God. Chill frosted her scalp and neck. “Uh...” Her voice emerged in a shaky whisper. “Who was it then? What do you know that you’re not telling me?”