They were in Chicago, home to a multitude of Irish or people who were descendants of the Irish who had arrived in America during several mass migrations.
The river was being turned green—safely, of course, with nontoxic food coloring. It was something done to honor the city’s Irish population and the multitude of Irish descendants who inhabited the city, begun in 1962. The process typically began on March 14thto give the river a great color by the 17th.
He knew, because he had looked it all up—anything that might help when a girl had been kidnapped and her kidnapper or kidnappers had left behind a tiny pot of fake gold coins and a warning, “Thus to all who betray those they should not! The leprechauns will see justice arises legal or no over lunacy!”
“Leprechauns,” he muttered again, shaking his head.
“No,” Angela said simply.
Jackson grimaced, catching her hand. “Hey, you’re the one with an Irish cousin,” he reminded her. “No leprechauns in the family, eh?”
“Not funny!” she told him. “Jackson, in truth, you and I both know that . . . that, well, most of the time, when legendary creatures are dredged up, it’s a human being using whatever legend for their own gains. As for leprechauns in truth . . . I don’t—and you shouldn’t—discount anything. But here and on this and with Sean Donegal? I think we have a human being behind everything that is going on, perhaps because of his position, his new business or just his money. Not a leprechaun!”
“No,” he agreed. “But here’s the thing—does someone think they’re a leprechaun? Is it just a play on St. Patrick’s Day or on Sean Donegal’s nationality? I like to think I study ethnicityand ancient religions and legends and . . . and I can’t help but fear this person—or persons or would-be leprechauns—has something planned for the day itself. And I’m thinking aloud because . . .”
He let his words trail.
Once, they’d spent the holiday in Ireland, handling a situation for one of her family members.
Legends usually held a grain of truth or were created because of the things that happened that couldn’t be explained.
But now, a serious problem had come home to the states.
Angela sighed, smoothing back a length of her long blond hair and turning to stare at him. “On St. Patrick’s Day? Maybe. Because for someone Irish, it would be especially bad. And from everything I’ve read about him, especially a man like Sean Donegal, one who has struggled hard to get where he is, but managed a tremendous kindness throughout his life, apparently truly honoring St. Patrick. And by all accounts, St. Patrick was an amazing man, no matter what one’s religion. From everything I’ve read, he truly felt a calling. Born in Britain, he was captured by the Irish and spent six long years in hard labor as a slave in Ireland. But it didn’t make him bitter! It made him determined to return and teach and help people. He gave gifts to those he longed to speak to, to teach, and accepted none himself. He helped anyone in need. He knew he could die a martyr’s death at any time! To even attempt something evil on the saint’s day for such a good human being is . . .”
“Beyond horrible, of course. But St. Patrick wasn’t murdered, right?” Jackson asked.
She laughed softly. “We’ve been this route before. No, he died of natural causes; they believe it was March 17th, 461 AD, but you can’t be that good to that many people without becoming a legend and—”
“Let’s hope that the leprechaun respects the history of St. Patrick and doesn’t intend to end the girl’s life.”
“Let’s hope—” Angela began.
She broke off abruptly, staring at the ground.
“What is it?” Jackson asked.
She bent low to the patch of grass near them and picked a little sprig from the ground.
She looked at it and then at him. “A shamrock!” she told him.
“A shamrock,” Jackson repeated. He had just been making teasing conversation, but to come upon a shamrock might mean . . .
That a shamrock just happened to be growing there.
Or that they were here, right where they were supposed to be, to solve a serious problem with a fewIrishovertones.
Angela groaned softly. “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!” she reminded him, pausing and looking out at the river.
“There he is!” Jackson said.
They were being picked up by the point detective on the case, Conor Murphy, an American of Irish descent. They were being joined by a pair of agents from the newest division within their unit, known as “The Crows,” a name he didn’t come up with himself, but rather something that just came up, the same as their unofficial title as the Krewe of Hunters. Zachary Erickson and Skye McMahon would be meeting them at the house; their plane had been delayed.
Now . . .
Their first stop would be the house and a meeting with Sean Donegal. And . . .
The house was historic. They could hope that a spirit might have remained from the past and seen what had occurred.
