"So are the Sons of Man racist?" Lucy asked.
"There's some indication of that in the book," Magee replied. "Part of which seems to have emerged during the slave-smuggling years, when there was little regard for the welfare of their cargo other than keeping them alive for sale. But while there are racial overtones, I think that the philosophy that evolved simply holds that their interests are best protected by a white state, preferably of Celt-Nordic-Germanic origins. I have to say as an Irish-American who is proud of his Celtic roots, I'm ashamed that such a connection exists. They can kiss my ass, Pog mo thoin!"
"Every race has its racists," Lucy said with a shrug. "And most every society has had men who seek dominion over other men, or think they know what is best for all-especially if it is best for them. The Sons of Man seem to be just one more, though if they still exist, they might be more dangerous than most. Maybe the recording and the book was sent as a warning, like you said, a Rosetta stone to translate what they're up to… God, I wish Jaxon was here."
Lucy checked her cell phone. It was working, but there was no message. "He's almost an hour late, which is not like him," she said. Then she stood up, walked over to Magee, and kissed him on the cheek. "Especially after you've done so much work."
Magee blushed the color of a ripe tomato and tears jumped into his eyes. "Be still my heart," he said. "Thank you, but I was just doing what I could to help." Embarrassed, he hauled his bulk out of the chair. "Perhaps I best fix us a spot of tea while we wait for Agent Jaxon."
As Magee puttered about near his microwave, Lucy looked at books on the shelves and piled on chairs. When she glanced over at the hallway leading to the front door, she was startled to see someone standing there. Then she saw that the 'person' was actually St. Teresa.
Oh no, Lucy thought. Whether the saint was a figment of her imagination or a genuine apparition, she didn't know. But whichever it was, the saint tended to show up in times of danger, and this was no different. Teresa looked at her and mouthed a single word. Run.
At that moment, something crashed through the garden-level window near the door and fell flaming like a meteor in the hallway. The Molotov cocktail then burst and spewed flaming gasoline against a wall of books.
Lucy turned to Magee, who'd come around the corner carrying two cups of tea. "Run," she screamed to him as he stared in confusion at the quickly spreading conflagration.
"Where?" he cried. "That's the only way out!"
A block away, a man trotted down the alley toward a waiting limousine. He slowed when he approached the car and Jamys Kellagh stepped out. "Is it done?" Kellagh asked.
"Yes," the man said. "I listened for a few minutes. He had the book and had shown it to the girl. They knew far too much."
Kellagh nodded as he thought: That damn book could have ruined us all. Written and self-published by a traitor within the family, only a few copies survived-all in the hands of council members. This one had been, too, until another traitor took it and gave it to the enemy, though he'd since paid the price.
It should have been destroyed a long time ago, Kellagh thought. Folly to have kept it out of some misplaced affection for history. It was only by luck-and technology-that he'd learned that Cian Magee had received the book. His people regularly monitored the major internet search engines, like Google and Yahoo, for a variety of keyword searches that might impact the organization's plans. After the book was stolen, he'd added Sons of Man to the list of keywords to watch out for. There'd been nothing until shortly after Thanksgiving, and then there'd been several hits, all traced to the bookstore.
His first inclination had been to simply visit the shop and, when no one else was around, shoot Magee and take the book back. But the opportunity had not presented itself before Magee called Lucy Karp, a conversation he'd listened in on; then he knew he had to act fast and decisively. He'd decided that a wine bottle full of gasoline and a rag for a wick would accomplish the task of destroying the book and killing the witnesses to its existence.
"Did you wait to make sure no one got out?" Kellagh asked.
"I threw the bottle so it landed right in front of the door," the other man replied. "There are no other doors and it will go up like a torch. You sent me there to buy a book yesterday and even without gasoline that place was just waiting for a match."
"You didn't wait to make sure the job was accomplished?" Kellagh asked calmly but in a tone that made the man tremble with fear.
"Do you want me to go back?"
"No," Kellagh said. "That's what I get for sending an idiot to do a man's job. I'll go have a look. And you better be here when I get back."
Inside the bookstore, Lucy and Magee ran to the other basement-level window. Lucy looked at the narrow opening with dismay. She knew that she might fit through it, but Cian never would.
"You first," he yelled to her. The flames were already spreading into the living room and the smoke was so thick she could only see a couple of feet. "But here, take this, I wanted you to have it anyway. Wear it for me someday, a ghra mo chroi, when that cowboy comes to his senses and marries you." He pressed something into her hand that she put in her pocket without thinking.
Magee knitted his fingers together to create a step for Lucy to place her foot. "Up you go," he grunted as he lifted her to the window. Smoke was already billowing from the opening and she coughed and gagged, trying to claw her way out. She felt herself getting weak, but then two hands grabbed her by her forearms and pulled her forward.
Collapsing on the ground outside of the window, she looked up. Jaxon stood there with smoke swirling around him. He looked angry and she shrunk away when he extended his hand to help her up. Instead, she pointed back at the window. "Help, Cian!" she pleaded.
Jaxon turned and rushed back into the smoke. Lucy heard Cian screaming in pain and terror. Retching, she got back on her feet just as Jaxon staggered out. He grabbed her and wouldn't let her get closer to the fire.
"I couldn't get him out," he said. "I'm sorry, Lucy, the window is too small."
As if to confirm that, there was a last wailing cry of a frightened, dying animal. Then there was only the sound of the fire, the shouts of people on the street and people poking their heads out of apartment windows, and the far-off cry of a siren.
Lucy tried again to push past Jaxon, but he held her. "Let me go!" she cried. "I have to help him."
"It's too late, Lucy," he yelled. "Cian's gone. We have to get back, this whole building is going to go."
Jaxon led Lucy across the street, where she sat down on the curb and started to cry. "I killed him," she wailed.
"No, you didn't," Jaxon said. "You didn't start that fire."
"You don't understand," Lucy wailed. "They killed him because of that poem and what he discovered." She looked up, her eyes wild with suspicion. "Where have you been, Espey? You were late."
Jaxon hung his head. "I wasn't responsible for this, Lucy. And I swear to you that I will do everything I can to catch and punish whoever was."
Lucy seemed to weigh what he said. At last she nodded. "For Cian's sake, nar laga Dia do lamh."
Jaxon's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, I-"
"It's an old Irish blessing," Lucy interjected, "and means 'May God not weaken your hand.'" She reached in her pocket and pulled out the object Cian had given her, knowing that it was his mother's ring. She put it on her finger and started to sob.
14
The quiet tapping of the stenographer's machine stopped as Richie Meyers checked his notes. The others in the room-Marlene Ciampi, Mikey O'Toole, Kip Huttington, and Clyde Barnhill-remained silent, like actors at a rehearsal waiting to deliver their lines. They were an hour into the deposition of Huttington, the first half covering O'Toole's history at the university, including his success and standing in the community, before moving onto the allegations that resulted in the ACAA hearing and suspension. But now Meyers was ready to delve into the heart of the lawsuit.