“Why did he take them out of school, then, if it wasn’t because of the fight over the land?”

“She was only twelve,” the old priest said. “It was awful. Her father loved her so.” He seemed on the verge of tears. “I thought it would kill him.”

“What happened to Kathleen? Did she die?”

“It might have been more merciful if she had,” Father Harry said. He was nodding now, with the brandy.

Howell struggled with his own load of brandy to keep the conversation going. The priest’s eyes were closing, now, his chin dropping to his chest. “Do you ever hear from them any more? Donal O’Coineen and his family?”

Father Harry’s eyes half opened for a moment. He looked confused. “Hear from them? Faith, lad, they’re under the lake these many years.“ Then his chin dropped onto his chest again, and he began to snore.

Howell stood up unsteadily and went into the living room. He could make no sense of all this. He dropped onto the sofa and laid his head back, just for a moment.

When he awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the old priest was gone.

25

Bo Scully picked up the phone on his desk, consulted his notes, and dialed the eleven digits. The switchboard answered on the first ring.

“Neiman-Marcus, good morning.”

“May I speak with Mr. Murray in Credit, please?”

“One moment.” There was a click and ringing started.

It had been nearly two weeks since Bo had written to Murray, and he had heard nothing. Sutherland was giving him a very hard time.

“Credit.”

“Mr. Murray, please.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Sheriff Scully, Sutherland County, Georgia.”

“One moment.”

“Hello?”

“Mr. Murray, this is Sheriff Bo Scully. I talked with you a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes, Sheriff. Did you get my letter?”

“No, sir, I didn’t; that’s why I’m calling.”

“Well, I sent you a copy of the credit application you asked for; it went out the day I got your letter, I believe.”

“Well, sir, I haven’t received it yet.”

“That’s the mails for you.”

“Yessir. I wonder if I could trouble you to just give me the information on the phone? You do have my written request.”

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, all right. What was the name and account number again?”

“H. M. MacDonald.” Bo read him the number.

There was a shuffling of papers and some muttering, then, “Here we are, Sheriff. H. M. MacDonald, Address, 291 Cantey Place, NW, Atlanta 30327, phone (404) 999-7100, Employed by the Atlanta Constitution, Marietta Street, Atlanta…”

Bo missed the rest. He felt as if he had received an electric shock. He thanked the man and hung up. What the hell was going on, here? He’d been told a reporter was being sent to Sutherland, but he had seen no one except Howell, and he knew Howell was who he said he was, because his picture had been in the paper so often. There had been no strangers at Sutherland’s party; he’d known every soul there. What the hell was going on?

It made no sense to him whatever that a reporter would come to town and break into Eric Sutherland’s office without asking at least a few questions around town. He dialed information and got the number.

“Good morning, Atlanta Journal and Constitution. ”

“Mr. H. M. MacDonald, please.” He would hang up as soon as the man answered.

There was a pause and the noise of pages being turned. “I’m sorry, we have no one by that name. Are you calling the Constitution?”

“Yes. Are you sure there’s no H. M. MacDonald?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Any other MacDonald?”

“No, none at all.”

He thanked her, hung up, and dialed another Atlanta number.

“You know who this is?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a guy on the paper named H. M. MacDonald?

There was a moment’s silence. “No.”

“You sure? I have reason to think this may be the man you warned me about.”

“Positive. What makes you think so?”

“Just some recent information. I know he works there.”

“Could be in classified or some other department of the paper. But there’s no H. M. MacDonald on the editorial staff.”

“Thanks.” Bo hung up. He should have been relieved, but he wasn’t. A credit card turning up at Sutherland’s belonging to somebody who worked at the newspaper was just too much of a coincidence. He looked at the card. What could the initials stand for. Harold? Henry? What other names began with H?

He started to dial the Neiman’s number again but felt embarrassed. Murray was already impatient with him. He felt a wave of annoyance with himself, and, on an impulse, dialed MacDonald’s home number in Atlanta. The phone rang four times, and Bo was about to hang up, when there was a click on the line, followed by static. A voice distorted by bad sound quality, but somehow familiar, spoke to him.

“Hello, this is Heather MacDonald. I’m not around right now, and it might be awhile before I get my messages, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the tone, I’ll get back to you sooner or later, I promise.” There was an electronic beep, then silence. Bo sat, disbelieving, with the phone in his hand.

There was a shriek from outside his office, followed by Mike’s laughter and Scotty’s shout. “Jesus Christ, Mike, will you stop that! You scared the shit out of me! C’mon, grow up, will you?”

“Aw, come on, Scotty, a little goose is good for you now and then,” Mike called back.

Bo hung up the phone. Heather MacDonald. Scottish. Heather M. MacDonald. Heather Miller MacDonald. Scotty. Scotty Miller. Scotty. The voice was hers, static or no static.

Bo felt ill. He got up, went into the bathroom, closed the door and leaned on it. He ran some cold water and splashed it on his face. He sat down on the John seat and tried to think. He still felt sick; and angry, and stupid; and afraid. They weren’t after Sutherland. They were after Sheriff Bo Scully.

Bo rested his hot face in his cool hands and tried to think. How long had she been in the office? What had she seen? What could she know? Nothing, he tried to tell himself. Impossible for her to know anything. He had been too careful.

But he was still afraid. It had been a very long time since he had been this afraid.

Howell was pounding away on the word processor. He had, somehow, gotten inside the skin of Lurton Pitts, understood the man – or, at least, understood what he would want to read about himself. He had been cranking out a good twenty pages of autobiography a day since the first chapter had magically appeared on the monitor screen, and he was in full cry when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Leonie.”

“Well, hi, I’d been wondering what had happened to you. I wanted to call, but you asked me not to.”

“Yes, well, that would be awkward. It’s better if I call you.”

Howell glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you come over this afternoon? We could… have a swim.”

“No, I can’t. That’s not why I called.”

“Oh?”

“Mama wants to see you.”

“Oh. Is she better?”

“No, but she’s conscious, which she hasn’t been much, lately, and she’s been asking for you. Can you come over?”

“When?”

“Right now. I think this is important.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Make it five. I don’t know how long she’ll be awake.”

“Okay.” Howell hung up and reached for his car keys.

He covered the short distance in less than five minutes. He drove into the Kellys’ yard and got out of the car. Dermot was sitting in the porch swing, picking tentatively at a mandolin.

“Hey, John.”

“Hey, Dermot, how are you?”

“Real good.” Riley, the blind dog, bounded down the front porch steps with abandon and pranced around Howell, apparently happy to see him. “See” seemed to fit. Howell had a hard time thinking of the dog as blind.