The Wild Mountain Thyme Page 2

  “Oh, yes it ’tis. Indeed, yes,” came the high-pitched, quick voice. “Listen, Jimmy-boy, I have been assigned to you, so to speak. To help you, you see.”

  Jim kept his eyes closed and spoke in a relaxed monotone.

  “Whatever or whoever you are, I don’t want any help. Okay? Now beat it. I am no longer going to listen to voices inside my head. God, I must be going loony. I’m talking to the thin air.”

  Jim walked quickly down the street whistling as loudly as he could. Losing Angela and then getting on the outs with the editor-in-chief had obviously been too much. His grandmother always said that the human spirit was a fragile thing and too easily quashed.

  Well, he decided, his spirit was now on the mend. No matter how he felt, it was mind over matter. There’d be no more leprechauns, or angels for that matter, whispering in his ear. He wouldn’t allow it.

  He trudged through the revolving door and onto the elevator, empty now except for one young woman. He looked at his watch and groaned. Walking from the Redline stop had made him twenty minutes late.

  “Now listen to your Uncle Seamus, you’ve got to put your faith in me, boy-o. I’ll lead you to your great success. I’m on your side, ya know,” said a very insistent, very adamant voice.

  Jim whistled louder.

  “If you can’t hear me, I can shout.” The voice grew louder and then subsided into a chuckle.

  “Cool it!” Jim demanded.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the young woman snapped as she glowered at him from across the car.

  “Oh nothing, sorry, thinking out loud.”

  The woman snorted in disgust and got off at the next floor. The elevator started again but jarred to a stop suddenly between floors.

  There was not a sound. Jim felt as though he’d fallen into a vacuum. He stood very still and tried not to breathe. The only sound was the rapid beat of his heart. A puff of green smoke rose from the floorboards. It wavered through the air and wrapped itself around Jim as it hovered and shimmered. Out of the swirling vapor popped a little man about three feet tall. He wore a Kelly green waistcoat, green breeches, green knee-high stockings, and green shoes with shiny silver buckles. Jim backed against the wall of the elevator as he felt the blood rush from his face and into his feet. His jaw slid south, and his heart hammered painfully from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head.

  “I’m not trying to give you palpitations, boy-o, but you must listen. Aye?” said the apparition.

  The little man had a long, crooked nose, slightly slanted, pale blue eyes, pointy ears, and a long-stemmed pipe clutched between his teeth. His bright, fiery red hair fell down around his shoulders in soft waves. He had a beard of the same fiery red shade that curled in front of his chin, like he’d used a curling iron to force it into shape. He held his hat, an elf’s pointed cap, in front of him, as he stared intently at Jim.

  Jim felt the air whoosh out of him as he slid soundlessly to the floor of the elevator. And then he forgot to breathe.

  The little man walked up to him, nose to nose and in an undertone, he said very quietly, “Boo.”

  Jim gasped.

  “Grand. I had to get you breathing again. Now listen,” said the miniature person wagging his finger under Jim’s nose. “My name is Seamus, that’s James in the old Irish, and I’ve been assigned to get you out of your malaise, so to speak. Now if I scare the breeches off you, I can disappear and you will only hear me. Matter of fact, I can do just about anything,” Seamus said with pride. He took in a big breath and began to pace. His hands clutched the cap behind his back. “I think a trip is in order. Ah yes, a trip across the sea. It shall give you a whole new perspective on things.” Seamus stopped his pacing and turned to face Jim.

  “Follow me so far?”

  “Where?” Jim voice came out in a very uncharacteristic squeak. He felt he had no other choice but to answer this figment of his imagination.

  “Across the sea, boy. To Ireland.”

  “Ha. How am I supposed to afford that? If you are my guardian whatever. Leprechaun? I suppose you noticed my deficient bank account. Wait a minute. What am I doing?” Jim muttered and shook his head. He looked down at his trembling hands, turning them over and over. He looked everywhere but at the little person. He shook his head sharply. “Am I really talking to a-a-a?” Something occurred to Jim as he spoke; the little whateverthehellitwas looked exactly what Jim imagined a leprechaun would look.

  “Leprechaun, boy-o. If it’s coin you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve it all figured out,” the little man said with the grand sweep of his arm.

  And with that, the leprechaun put on his hat, clutched his pipe tighter in his teeth, pulled down on both of his ear lobes, and disappeared.

  Immediately, the elevator began to rise and stopped when it reached Jim’s floor at the Boston Globe. Jim sat with his back against the elevator wall, his legs splayed out on each side and his mouth agape as the doors slowly opened to the bustling offices of the paper.

  “O’Flannery? Are you okay?” Karen, one of his coworkers, hurried forward and pushed the open-doors button as she reached in and pulled on Jim’s arm.

  “It’s okay. I felt dizzy,” Jim said in a strangled whisper. He stood up and staggered to his desk. With trembling hands, he shrugged out of his rain-drenched coat and hat, and pulled a comb through his hair. His mind raced through the past thirty minutes, re-playing everything. Everything.

  What was that thing he’d seen on the elevator? Had it belonged to the voice he’d heard on the train and during his walk? And did he really see it or was he conjuring up scenes from that Stephen King novel? He shook his head. He didn’t have time to worry about it now, not with his editor breathing down his neck. It’d all go away. Wouldn’t it? Jim took a shaky breath.

  Living around the Irish his whole life, he’d heard stories of elves and leprechauns. They’d been spoon-fed to him like babies ate pabulum. No matter what the old tales said, this was the twenty-first century. Those kinds of things, those little people didn’t exist. Surely, they never had except in the fertile imaginations of his ancestors.

  Karen came from the suite of editors’ offices to find Jim pouring a cup of coffee at the break table.

  “O’Flannery, the big guy wants to see you…right now.” Karen raised her brows and put her hands on her hips.

  Jim shrugged with dejection. God, what else could go wrong? He took a quick sip of coffee, hoping to dispel the chill that settled over him, and willed his hands to stop shaking.

  Jim knocked on Chief Editor Gray’s door once before entering.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “O’Flannery, come in, come in. Have a seat. I think I have a great story for you, just up your alley.” Fine black powder from Gray’s toner cartridge floated in the air when the editor jiggled and knocked on it. Mr. Gray put down the cartridge gingerly and sat with a plop at his desk. He tried to wipe the black toner powder from his hands with an already grimy rag.

  “All morning I’d been thinking about Collins for this, but then your name came into my head, and quite frankly, it won’t leave.” Gray looked surprised by his statement. “And the publishers want this story covered and covered now.”

  Jim sat across the desk watching his editor’s eyes, looking for any hint of Gray’s often-used sarcasm. He seemed sincere enough…this time.

  Before Jim could take a breath to reply, the leprechaun, looking like a miniature of the spirit Jim had seen in the elevator, suddenly popped into view and stood on Gray’s shoulder near the man’s ear. Jim gasped, and then choked; coughing so loudly that Gray came around the desk to slap him on the back.

  “Hey, you okay?” Gray asked.

  Jim waved his hand, nodded his head, and wiped the tears streaming down his face as the last of the cough sputtered away.

  “Now this is what I propose,” Gray said as he leafed through a file after he’d returned to his side of the desk. The leprechaun leaned near Gray’s ear and whis
pered something. Gray put his finger up to his ear and wiggled, leaving a large smudge of black toner on the side of his face. The leprechaun whispered again, and again Gray scratched his cheek vigorously, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was actually doing. A smear of toner covered the side of his face from his earlobe to his chin and half his nose to the side of his face as he scanned the file in front of him.

  “Excuse me? I didn’t hear that last bit.” The editor had been talking while he scratched vigorously at his face, but Jim had been too fascinated to listen as he watched the antics of the leprechaun on Gray’s shoulder.

  “I told you that you’re going to Ireland,” Gray said blowing out a breath in exasperation. “Get your passport and the company’s travel agent to get you on a flight to Dublin. Also, get some spending money from accounting and be gone by the end of the day. Here’s the file. I want some kind of story over the wire in the next forty-eight hours or so. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.” Jim swallowed a chuckle. Gray’s usual intimidation tactics were on full bore. The editor’s black-streaked face made him look so silly, especially with his pulled down brow and scowl.

  Outside Gray’s office, Jim leaned against the closed door and scanned the file. Someone in Ireland was killing Irish-American tourists, and the Boston Globe wanted to know all about it. Three were dead already, and the Irish authorities had made no inroads into finding the perp. The groundwork was done and the liaison established. Jim was going to work with somebody named M.E. Kennedy at the Irish Times.

  Great, a long tiring trip. Maybe he could catch up on some sleep on the plane. Maybe that pesky leprechaun that Jim was sure his overworked brain had imagined would leave once he got enough sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Megan Kennedy looked up from the departmental memo she’d managed to read three times, in spite of the haze of fury that clouded her vision. They’d bloody assigned some damn Yank to her loving care. She was now a nanny, shepherding the idiot around when she should be writing the story! Ah bollocks! Perhaps she’d either work him to death or scare him to death. He’d be running back to America with his tail between his legs in no time.

  The editors at the Times knew she could write. Hadn’t her special interest story on the old monastery won her “The Feature Writer Journalism Award” last year? Here she was with baby-sitting duty, chauffeur duty, and this O’Flannery had the story—with her as liaison. Megan threw the memo down in disgust. She looked at her computer screen and read the e-mail for the fourth time.

  To: MEKennedy@TheIrishTimes.ie.co

  Arriving Shannon Airport, Tuesday two p.m. Will take next available train to Dublin. Anticipate meeting you at your offices around six p.m.

  James F. X. O’Flannery

  Ha! Probably begged to come over and touch the auld ancestral home, only a sightseeing trip for O’Flannery—with a byline thrown in!

  She could write the damned story for the Globe as well as the Times. Boston didn’t have to send a writer out. She could do it. Megan hit the delete button with a vengeance and watched the screen go blank. She absently reached up to twirl a lock of her hair. Not only was her writer’s pride bruised but she was well through with men right now. That bastard Richard had broken her heart, and she’d not let her guard down again so easily.

  ****

  Hoping to find a spare inch to get comfortable, Jim twisted and turned his large frame in the seat. Airline seats were small, and he had another four hours or so to listen to the droning engine as the plane made its way across the Atlantic.

  He gave up on sleep and decided to go through the articles he’d found in the Globe’s archives—articles that Kennedy at the Irish Times had written. Maybe if the guy’s writing was any good, he’d not miss the sleep he wasn’t getting. Then again, if the guy’s writing turned out to be terrible, Jim would fall into a stupor of boredom. It was a win-win; that is, if that apparition or whateverthehellitwas would leave him be.

  He hesitated a moment, wondering if the leprechaun would hop out and scare the bejaysus out of him, leaving a few more hairs on his head to turn gray.

  Jim shrugged, and leaving his sanity and his sleepless night to the fates, pulled out the first article he found. Kennedy had written about an old crumbling monastery in the west of Ireland and what a tough time the priests and brothers had keeping soul and body together. Kennedy wrote well. The piece was concise and objective reporting. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad working with the guy, thought Jim as he yawned. He slowly fell into a deep sleep as the article lay idly on his lap.

  ****

  Megan had met the ultra-cool Richard at a party last spring and thought he’d been the answer to a young girl’s heart. Aw bollocks! Not likely. Well, she’d not think about him now, not with an American invasion on the horizon.

  Megan shoved her chair back, stood, and walked with purpose to the tea caddy. She’d sit and have a cup while she waited for O’Flannery. She’d missed her supper, but that was all right. A few pounds off her hips would suit her well. She looked down at her long, dark brown woolen skirt and boots, and flicked some lint off her tweed blazer.

  She glanced at her watch. It was going on six thirty, and almost everyone had left. She didn’t fancy meeting this man all alone.

  “Lizzy?” She saw her friend, a co-worker, across the expanse of room, still at her desk.

  “Oh, aye?”

  “Are you going to your supper now?”

  “Yeah, soon. My Ned is coming to the downstairs lobby to pick me up in a few minutes.”

  “Well, cheerio. Have a good evening,” Megan said.

  “Right. Don’t work too late.”

  “Sure,” Megan mumbled under her breath. “This will be a lovely evening. Ah, bollocks.”

  She wasn’t kidding anyone, especially herself. She was lonely, tired, on edge, and irritated with the world—all at the same time. There was a madman out there killing tourists, Irish American tourists, and she was assigned to the story with an Irish American. Right—

  Megan sipped her tea, thinking dark, scary thoughts, and vividly recalled the pictures of the dead Americans as she recited the statistics from each of the killings in her mind. She glanced up. Everyone was gone, cleared off, and she was alone. She’d been deep in her own thoughts. She heard nothing but the constant buzz from an overhead fluorescent light in a nearby hallway, and the sound of distant traffic outside. All the lights were off except a few scattered desk lamps.

  The place was deadly quiet. The continuous traffic from Tara Street had seemed to vanish. She sat up and focused all her energies on her surroundings. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as a chill raced up her backbone. She pushed herself back from her desk to cross to the entryway. She cracked open the heavy double glass doors to the hallway and heard footsteps.

  Megan’s breath caught in her throat. There it was again. Another step. A man’s step, heavy and quick. Megan ran back to her desk. Frantically, she grabbed first the stapler, then the fountain pen, then the paperweight, looking for something to use as a weapon. The steps grew closer. She tore open her drawer, her hand feeling and then discarding item after item. More steps. They were right outside the door.

  The door swung open and the silhouette of a man in an overcoat and hat was backlit against the glare of the hallway light.

  Megan’s breath caught in her throat and her heart hammered painfully in her chest. She watched the dark figure as it came closer and closer. Her fingers curled around a smooth plastic handle and she lifted her hairbrush from the drawer.

  “Hello,” the man called out as he looked about the semi-darkened sprawl of desks. “Hello?” he called out again. “Mr. Kennedy?”

  “Mr. Kennedy?” Megan squeaked. “Mr. Kennedy?” she said again, her voice an octave higher than usual.

  The man felt along the wall for a light switch. The dim fluorescent bulbs flickered on, illuminating a portion of the giant floor. Megan was clearly visible to the man now. She stood by her desk, clutch
ing a hairbrush in her hand, poised to strike.

  “Yes, is Mr. Kennedy around? He’s supposed to be waiting for me.”

  Taking off his hat, the man walked toward her until Megan could see the deep blue of his eyes, the shining black hair, and the paleness of his skin. God, O’Flannery was Black Irish, and a damn handsome one at that. He had a cleft in his chin and a wide, nice-looking mouth. She’d name him a knockout if she weren’t immune to men right now. He glanced down at the hairbrush clutched in her hand and smiled smugly. She saw a dimple appear in his right cheek. He walked up to her desk, his brilliant blue eyes glimmering in the dim light of the room.

  “Uh, miss, if you aren’t going to attack me with that hairbrush, do you think you could tell me where M.E. Kennedy is? I sent him an e-mail this morning telling him I’d be here about now.”

  Megan sat down and blew out a great sigh. She threw the brush on top of the desk and swiveled her chair to face him as she extended her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you Mr. O’Flannery. I’m Megan Elizabeth Kennedy.”

  Chapter 3

  “You—you’re Kennedy?”

  “In the flesh, as it were, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

  “See, I told you boy-o, what a fine looking lass would be waiting for ya. Look at that long, pretty ginger hair, will ya?” The voice not only spoke in his ear, it chortled.

  When he heard the voice, the whateverthehellitwas speaking to him, Jim practically jumped out of his skin. He turned his head surreptitiously, and not seeing the little green man, he muttered under his breath, “Go away.”

  “I’m sorry?” Megan Kennedy’s sandy brows rose up to her smooth forehead.

  “Uh, nothing.” He gave a cursory look around the room for a little green-clad figure. Not seeing one, he breathed a quick sigh of relief. Maybe the spirit would take off and leave him alone. Permanently.

  “I’m sorry, I assumed you’d be a man, since you signed your name with initials.” Jim practically swallowed the words as he tried to recover his equilibrium. He’d been startled once again by that…leprechaun. “You know what they say about assuming, sorry.” Jim looked up at Megan not quite meeting her gaze, trying not to out and out gape. She was as different from what a man looked like as he’d ever seen.