27

Blessington, Ireland

Salem tugged a hair tie from her wrist and wrapped it around her tumultuous curls, an unconscious habit that appeared whenever she was wrestling with two puzzle pieces that needed to fit together but were resisting. “But that makes no sense. Archeologists would be all over this if it were true.”

Charlie’s lack of response caused her to pause her research. He was clenching his jaw so tight that his skin had gone white around his ears.

“What is it?” Salem asked.

“Are you familiar with the Birka, Sweden, Viking grave? Bj 581?”

Salem shook her head. “No.”

“Find it.” His voice was low, intense.

She obliged. The article she found had been published two short weeks earlier.

“I’ll save you the trouble,” he said. “History tells us that warriors and leaders were always men. Stories of powerful women have been whispered or sung, tales of Valkyrie and Amazons, but they were always dismissed as mythology. This bias has shaped everything we know about the past, has influenced what archeologists choose to see or not even look for.”

Salem couldn’t help but think of her Stonehenge hunch.

Charlie continued. “So, when a grave is discovered and searched, and it’s found to house the tools of war, or even more telling, evidence of leadership, the unquestioned assumption is that the skeleton is male. Bj 581 was no exception. Inside the grave, archeologists found the remains of one human, two horses, swords, armor-piercing arrows, an axe, a battle knife, two shields, and strategy pieces used to plan combat. Obviously, they’d stumbled upon the chamber-grave of a powerful and, so, male tenth-century Viking general.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Except they were wrong. A few years ago, a female osteologist was studying the bones for unrelated reasons when she noticed their feminine characteristics. An osteological test proved they were female.”

He signaled an upcoming turn, his words heavy in the car. “Think about that. How many other beliefs about the roles of men and women do we have completely wrong?”

Salem was researching as he spoke, corroborating his words within seconds of them leaving his mouth. “How do you know so much about this?”

Charlie’s expression hooded. “I have a fascination with women’s history.” He glanced at her as if he wanted to say more, but then stared back at the road. Night was falling. The traffic had been thick leaving Dublin, but as they neared Blessington, they saw more horses than cars on the road. The world was slowing down the deeper into Ireland’s hidden places they drove.

Salem let it go. He’d tell her more when and if he was ready, as he’d done when he revealed that his father had been a stonemason. “Will we get into trouble for flying to Ireland without permission?”

“I have some clout,” Charlie said, his mouth set in a grim line. “I am cashing it all in to buy us two days to follow a lead. Told your man Bench that it was related to the president’s safety on top of the girl’s, in case he was up for arguing.”

Salem had filled him in on Muirinn Molony and her belief that the Stonehenge replica was tied to an assassination plan. “Do you think it is?”

“Who knows what to think anymore?”

Just then their attention was drawn to the console between them, where Salem’s phone had been resting, the B&C sucking WiFi off it like a tick. It was suddenly lit up.

“You’re getting a call,” Charlie said unnecessarily.

Bel’s face lit up the screen, her photo smiling, untroubled, worlds away from the emotions she was certainly feeling as she called Salem from across the ocean. Salem’s stomach lurched. Bel was certainly calling about Mercy.

“Is that Isabel Odegaard?”

Salem’s pulse flared, suspicions about Charlie surfacing before she remembered the reluctant fame that she and Bel had acquired. Their faces had been plastered all over the news after Bel had thwarted the assassination attempt on Gina Hayes.

“Yeah,” Salem said, hitting the button to send the call to voicemail. “I’ll get back to her later.”

But she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t bear speaking to Bel until Mercy was safe, even though this wasn’t the first time Bel had called or texted. In fact, she’d been reaching out so frequently that Salem had created a folder to route Bel’s incoming texts to so she didn’t have to read them, to risk seeing Bel’s anger and disappointment and pain.

Salem stared out her window at the farms zipping past. Evening had laid its blanket on the ground. The air washing in through the vents smelled different, crisper, the wet of the woodsmoke grown musky, spiked with the cold promise of rain.

“Her house is right up here.”

Charlie pulled onto the small patch of gravel in front of Mrs. Molony’s cottage, parallel to the stone fence separating her house from the road. Déjà vu tugged at Salem. She’d been here only two days earlier, but it felt like another lifetime.

The house appeared exactly as it had before, cozy in a hobbity way. Salem climbed out of the car and stretched and then hopped out of the way. The dirt parking strip was so narrow that Charlie had to crawl out her door.

“Cute place.”

“Yep.” Salem studied the house. Something cold twisted in her gut. She sniffed the air. Manure and night. Traffic coasted far off, and nearer, a chicken bawked, probably in search of a safe spot to roost.

“What is it?” Charlie asked.

Salem pointed at the chimney. “No smoke coming out. And no lights inside.”

“Maybe she’s run to town,” Charlie said, but he removed his gun from its holster.

“Maybe.” A frown line formed between Salem’s eyebrows. Mrs. Molony hadn’t struck her as the type who left her house after dark. She took the lead, walking through the fence’s gate and up to the house. She knocked on the heavy wooden door. The noise was sharp.

Rap rap rap. No answer.

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

Salem shrugged, stepping off the front stoop to peek inside a window.

What she saw inside turned her blood to chalk. Mrs. Molony’s orderly home was in complete disarray. The two dining room chairs were toppled. Clothes were strewn everywhere. A cast iron pot was bubbling at the stove, gas flames flickering below it as if Mrs. Molony had been attacked while cooking dinner.

Charlie glanced over her shoulder and saw the same scene. He pounded on the door. “Mrs. Molony, this is Charlie Thackeray. I’m here with Agent Salem Wiley, who you met two days ago. We are going to come in.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Gun in his right hand, he reached for the doorknob with his left. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open. “Mrs. Molony, I’m stepping inside now.”

Salem followed him inside, her chest heavy with dread. The small, well-insulated house was claustrophobically hot inside, the air redolent with bubbling stew and fresh-baked soda bread. Charlie flicked on the light and cleared the combination kitchen, dining, and living room while Salem walked over to the stove, scouring the shadowy corners for evidence of blood or body.

She reached the cast iron pot and removed the lid. “It hasn’t been cooking long enough to burn.” She turned off the burner, placing her hand over the mound of brown bread. Still warm.

“I’m going to check the bedroom and the bathroom. You stay here.”

Charlie stepped through one of two open doors, likely the bedroom. Salem was staring into the unlit pantry off the kitchen. She thought she was looking at a huge flour sack, but then as her eyes adjusted, she realized it had arms and legs.

And eyes.

Mrs. Molony stepped into the light. “Knew you’d be back. You’re a dead ringer for your pa, you know.”