“She did not remember a thing, but it must have kept playing in her subconscious. Not sure what happened after, what set off the murders, but I can guess.”

“Let me guess,” Albert put in. “Quinn recognized the girl on the television and when he got out of jail, he looked her up. Her memory began to return, but meanwhile she's messed up even worse than before because of the constant pressure, brainwashing and in the end, the drugs she was on. She didn’t recognize him at first, but somewhere in her brain she connected him to the death of someone she had loved. She also had the eagle image in her brain, her more recent memories trying to overrule those traumas. That's when she got the tattoo on her back.

“But she could not suppress the old traumas and she decided to deal with the cause of that pain as she saw it at that moment. By killing Quinn Lang. She also remembered who had killed her sister and she remembered hearing how great you were. So she went after you too, but could not kill you because she was convinced she loved you.

“Along the line, she remembered the warehouse and went to check it out. She saw Denny Lang and thought she was seeing Quinn Lang, so she killed him.”

Donovan nodded and rubbed his hands over his face. “It would seem so.” He sighed and sank back in the chair. “Messed up girl was messed up even more by the entertainment industry. Brilliant thing to happen, eh?”

Donovan felt numb when he got home. He had wanted to go and see Naomh Walsh when she woke up, but as he got to her room he saw her husband sitting by her side. He did not know what to do, so he left. He had gotten back in his car and driven home in a zombie state. The house was empty. The butler was still out, and he roamed around the house. He stepped into the living room, but left it immediately. He could not spend time in that room just now. He could not look at the large bloodstain on the white carpet. Instead, he roamed around the house aimlessly.

He went outside, into the gardens. He sat down in the shadow of a tree and closed his eyes. Suddenly he was back there. He was in his car outside the courthouse. He saw the face of Mara Lang again, slammed against his windscreen. He remembered every detail of that day, and then his mind raced on. He saw everything that had happened in the last few weeks. He still felt like vomiting as he recalled the bodies with the eagles drawn on their backs.

A voice stopped his musings. He got up and looked at the surveillance imaging on the street outside his loft. There was a van there. In front of the van was a woman, waving at him. He looked out the front and smiled when he recognized the woman. It was Frankie Saunders.

“Figured you'd need a new carpet,” she said, pointing to the van.

Donovan smiled and used his cell to let the van pass into his private parking bay. She walked in before the van. She kissed him as soon as she could place her lips on his. “It's on me.”

Donovan pulled away from her. “You want to give me more freebies?”

Frankie nodded. “It might shake the image of poor Ms. Graeme from my mind.”

“I don't think I will ever be able to shake that image.”

“Is it true it was Justine Lavoie?”

Donovan nodded. “Don't tell anyone, though. The press is all over it already.”

“You can always persuade me not to tell?”

Donovan smiled. “I can, but I'm not sure I want to.”

Frankie frowned. “How do you mean?”

Donovan looked around. He did not know how to say it, but he had to. “Frankie. A woman I like just ended up seriously hurt, another two went completely berserk and ended up dead. You're engaged, you're one of the most talked about people in this city.”

She nodded, stroked his cheek and walked away. “Call me when you need me again, Storm.”

“I will.” Donovan watched her walk down the narrow street toward the C train. “Thanks for the carpet.”

She turned around and winked. “You're welcome to my carpet.”

Donovan went back in and went to the smoking room. He picked up a cigar from the humidor and lit it. Then he picked up the guitar and began picking at the strings. He just played. Somehow he ended up playing Justine Lavoie's latest hit, but it barely registered that he did. When he finally noticed it, he knew that this was something that would never make it into his file room. There did not need to be a file in that room. Every detail of it would be etched into his mind forever.

Epilogue

Donovan sat in his office. There were emails to answer, there was research to do, there were clients to call, but he could not bring himself to do any of it. He kept thinking about the moment on the hill. He felt the pressure of the trigger against his finger. He felt the shock of his Sig's recoil. He saw little Aoibhe Lang, or Justine Lavoie, slip and fall down. He saw her broken body on the road down below. And he saw the deep cut and the heavily bleeding back of Naomh Walsh.

He had not spoken to her since the incident. He did not want to be too close to her as it was. Her husband would be taking care of her as she recovered and he had no part to play in that.

For days now he had kept to himself. He had stayed in his house, playing his guitar and his piano like a depressed kid. He realized he behaved like one as well. He recalled a scene from a New Zealand cartoon in which Jesus spent Easter playing sad rock songs in his room, blaming his Father for what he did and is remembered around the world each Easter. He felt a bit like that. He saw the horrifically mutilated bodies, the bleeding Naomh Walsh and the broken girl on the asphalt. And every day, he walked around his office and his house he remembered everything that had happened. He could not shake it off.

He was not being self-pitying and he was not suffering from post-traumatic stress over the incident. He had shot people before, but somehow this had been different. This had been something connected to him. It had been about him. It had been a client of his who had committed these atrocities. Someone who had walked through his office, who had sat in his chair. And he simply did not know how to deal with that reality.

About a week after the death of Justine Lavoie, with the papers and the television still buzzing about it, a well-shaped woman with lush, curly hair walked into the office. She walked strangely, keeping her back as straight and rigid as possible. She asked one of the junior partners in the firm where his office was and then made her way to his door. He did not recognize her at first. Her face was a mask of pain which hid her usual vivacity.

He got to his feet when he did recognize her. “Ms. Walsh.”

She smiled. “Hi, Donovan.” She stood just inside his door for a moment, quite indecisively. “I, um... I never did thank you for saving my life.”

“Yeah, no worries,” Donovan muttered, looking down. He did not quite know what to say, which was rare.

“You're not going to offer me coffee or something?” Naomh smiled at him.

“Yeah, yeah sure.” He lead the way to the kitchen and set about making some lattés. Giving her one of the large cups, he still did not know what to say. “How've you been?” he eventually asked, knowing it was a crappy question to ask.

“Fine,” she answered, stirring some sugar into her coffee. “In pain. My stitches keep tearing out. I've been wearing a corset for the last two days now; it has stopped me moving about so much, so there is less strain on them.”

Donovan nodded. “Not been busy? I didn’t see anything on the news about your client having been on a killing spree.”

Naomh shook her head. “There is a big corporation behind her... there was... they thought it better to keep it out of the news. Cecilia, that's Cecilia O'Hourihane, my business partner, has been working around the clock on it. She knows what happened, but it has been a nightmare trying to contain it.”