“I’ll send it to the forensics lab in Glasgow first,” said Damian. “If they can’t connect it with a crime or an accident, it’ll probably end up in the churchyard.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay now?”
“No, I’m not,” I said crossly, and shrugged off his hand. “What about my light? Someone should investigate it. Abaddon could be out there, spying on us!”
“I doubt that Abaddon would choose such a prominent landmark as a hiding place,” said Damian. He peered at me closely, then seemed to reach a decision. “But of course we’ll look into it. If it will put your mind at ease, we can go out to Cieran’s Chapel right now.”
“How?” I asked.
He pulled out his cell phone. “Say the word and I’ll have a boat pick us up in thirty minutes.”
I looked over my shoulder at the expanse of choppy water stretching between me and the wave-lashed islet, then looked back at my precious babes, who were bent low over Andrew’s bucket, holding a cheerfully bloodthirsty discussion about the skull’s possible origins. Was I a timid mouse or a bold lioness?
“Make the call,” I said.
Nine
I avoided mentioning the upcoming boat ride to Will and Rob. They were so eager to show the skull to Sir Percy that they didn’t object to being sent back to the castle, but if they’d known what they were about to miss, they wouldn’t have gone quietly.
I was raring to get out to the islet. I didn’t particularly want to discover Abaddon’s campsite—I wanted my insane stalker to stay far away from Erinskil—but I hoped we would find something. If Damian went on treating me as if I were an excitable schoolgirl, I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions. I had to prove to him that the dim golden glow hadn’t been a figment of my overstressed imagination.
My determination was shaken slightly when the boat Damian had ordered came into view, bouncing from wave to wave as it rounded the headland. I’d expected some sort of fishing vessel, not an inflatable rubber dinghy with an outboard motor. I zipped up my rain jacket and glanced nervously at the whitecaps blooming between the cove and the islet. The wind was picking up.
Damian seemed to sense my misgivings. He pointed to a line of swirls and eddies about twenty yards offshore.
“You see those little ripples out there?” he asked. “The snags beneath them will tear the keel out of a boat faster than you can say snap. Luckily, we’re nearing low tide, when they’re easier to avoid, but finding the right channel still requires local knowledge, a high level of seamanship, and a boat with an extremely shallow draft. Sir Percy’s yacht wouldn’t be any good to us at all.”
“Who’s our . . . er, driver?” I asked.
“Mick Ferguson will be our pilot,” Damian informed me. “Mick was born and raised on Erinskil. He knows what he’s doing.”
I watched in consternation as Mick Ferguson threaded the dinghy through the swirls and eddies, then drove it at full speed straight at the beach. At the last minute, he cut the power, tilted the motor up out of the water, and allowed momentum to carry the dinghy onto the sand. It was a virtuoso performance and did much to restore my confidence.
Mick Ferguson was a short, burly man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, a grizzled beard, and bright blue eyes set deeply in a face pleated with wrinkles. He was wearing a fluorescent orange rain jacket with matching rain pants and a pair of black rubber boots that reached nearly to his knees.
“Mick, this is Lori,” said Damian, when we reached the dinghy. “Lori’s a guest of Sir Percy’s.”
“You’ll be the one who came yesterday, in the helicopter.” Mick’s blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “With the two wee lads.”
“That’s me,” I acknowledged. I wouldn’t have been shocked to discover that Mick already knew what I’d had for breakfast and possibly my shoe size. I’d lived in Finch long enough to know how quickly news spread in a small community.
After Damian and I had zipped and snapped our rain jackets, Mick put out a hand to help me aboard, directed me to sit on the wooden bench that straddled the dinghy’s midsection, and passed me a life vest. He checked to make sure I’d fastened the straps correctly, then hopped out of the boat to help Damian push it back into the water. Damian’s khakis were wet to the knees by the time the two men climbed aboard, but I felt no guilt. The dinghy rode so low in the water that my jeans wouldn’t stay dry for long.
Damian sat beside me and suggested that I take hold of one of the nylon loops dangling from the boat’s sides. Mick started the outboard motor and backed away from the shore before turning the dinghy toward Cieran’s Chapel.
“Thanks for coming to get us, Mr. Ferguson!” I bellowed, half turning to face the pilot. I had to shout to be heard above the motor’s roar.
“We won’t be able to stay long!” Mick shouted back. “Weather’s moving in.”
I didn’t see a cloud in the sky, but I wasn’t about to question Mick’s expertise, and the information didn’t seem to bother Damian one bit.