Raven's Ridge

  RAVEN’S

  RIDGE

  A MAX BLAKE MYSTERY

  WILLIAM FLORENCE

  WildBluePress.com

  “Raven’s Ridge” is a work of fiction. The names, characters, some of the locales, and incidents depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are based on some arcane fact but are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of any character within this work to an actual person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The exceptions are the Irish locations.

  RAVEN’S RIDGE published by:

  WILDBLUE PRESS

  P.O. Box 102440

  Denver, Colorado 80250

  Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.

  Copyright 2018 by William Florence

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

  ISBN 978-1-947290-73-0 Trade Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-947290-72-3 eBook

  Interior Formatting/Book Cover Design by Elijah Toten

  www.totencreative.com

  Table of Contents

  Also By William Florence

  Cast of Characters

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  POST SCRIPT

  About The Author

  Also by William Florence:

  The Max Blake Mystery series …

  Raptor’s Ridge

  Misery Ridge

  Faraway Ridge

  Snowfall Ridge

  Emerald Ridge

  Emerald Ridge

  Melia Ridge

  The Max Blake Western series …

  The Killing Trail

  Trail of Revenge

  Trail to Redemption

  Trail to Dead Man’s Gulch

  Trail from Crooked River

  Acknowledgments:

  My gratitude is once again extended to Jennifer Guyor Jowett, Lori Kronser, and Chuck Goodrich, first readers and editors extraordinaire, for their critique of the evolving manuscript; and to Aoife Barry, Limerick journalist, and Jim Malloy with the Garda Press & Public Relations Office in Dublin, for their help with the structure of the Irish police force; to Ashley Butler, Rowena Carenen, Elijah Toten, and Steve Jackson of WildBlue Press, for their help, expertise, advice during the production of Raven’s Ridge; and to a variety of friends, Doc Strand and Michael J. Parker and Bill Kohlmeyer among them, who once again served up their names to the cause. Molto grazie di tutto.

  A grateful acknowledgement also is offered to the late William Hughes Mearns for two stanzas from his poem Antigonish, and to the late Irish poet Seán Ó Ríordáin and his beautiful masterwork Cúl an Tí, a line of which is used for the Chapter 49 title. I urge readers to research the poem, which is easily found online. The translation: Where chaos is the heart of rule

  To my pal Willy Boy – and what a good boy he is …

  … and for Mitts, good soldier that he was, a feisty full-time job who kept me company through the bulk of the writing of Raven’s Ridge

  Cast of Primary Characters

  The port side of the Atlantic

  Bill Kohlmeyer: Chief of police of Oregon’s capital city

  Fredo Fierro: Max and Caeli’s friend and client

  Elmore and Leonard: Fierro Enterprises employees/bodyguards

  Michael J. Parker: Max and Caeil’s attorney

  Dr. Floyd Strand: Max’s medical adviser

  Joan Shedd: Bunratty Castle visitor and robbery victim

  The starboard side of the Atlantic

  Max Blake: Private detective; retired college professor and former reporter

  Caeli: Max’s fiancée, also a former reporter

  Mitts and Koko: Caeli’s rescue cats

  Detective Sergeant Alan “Spud” Phelan: Avid reader and Limerick copper

  DCI Thomas Óg McNeill: Limerick office of the Guards

  DCI Declan Abbot: Limerick office of the Guards

  Chief Superintendent David Sheehan: head of the Limerick division of the Guards

  District Detective Superintendent James Ryne: Overlord, western division of the Guards

  Frog One/Jean-Claude Daimallier: Global terrorist

  Mister Denmark/Lance Corporal McMahon: former sniper, amateur hypnotist

  Kathleen MacAmhlaoibh: Quick-change artist

  Liam Gallacher: G2 branch operative

  Danny O’Herlihy: Gallacher’s driver/bodyguard

  Ian and Gavin: G2 agents

  Aedan O’Duinn: Computer guru/techie

  The Four Magi: Unexpected visitors

  “Oh, all kinds of lunacy happens in Ireland – all kinds of lunacy.”

  – Anjelica Huston

  “There’s nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.”

  –Irish proverb

  PROLOGUE

  Journeys Home

  He was patient. You had to give him that.

  He’d spent years and never came close to being caught, or even suspected – until now.

  Right now he was concerned, although … well, first things first.

  Here are a few other facts to chew on.

  He was generous, in his own mind, anyway. He didn’t care who he showered his attention on: the rich and the unassuming, those nearing their golden years and those about to flower, men and women of varied shapes and sizes and hues … all were acceptable targets, so long as they provided a hint of something valuable.

  Women especially. He’d been hurt by women in his distant past, and he relished every opportunity for payback.

  A fat wallet, a luxury watch, a shiny ring with precious stones, a studded broach or necklace or glittering bracelet, earrings that sparkled and shimmered: Whenever something caught his considerable eye, he was hooked and, when conditions were right, made it his own.

  He enjoyed the hunt, even now … even with this secondary mission, which he’d undertaken as a lark, little more than something to keep his mind off the dark days. But he remained forever on the prowl for other prey, other marks, other distractions.

  Four years earlier, when he was still in the unit, deep inside the great expanse of Mideast desert, he’d described himself as the least bigoted man on the planet. His mates scoffed, knowing well his predilections. But he assured them with sound logic.

  “It’s true, lads,” he’d said. “I’m happy enough to steal – trinket or life – from anyone, regardless of race, color, creed, or place of origin.”

  The line, with many variations, always generated a laugh.

  But he wasn’t joking, even as he grinned at his comrades with eyes that were dark and brooding and mesmerizing but that somehow managed to conceal the poison in his soul.

  Steal? Sure. He couldn’t help himself.

  Kill? Absolutely – with glee, relishing his sniper’s role with such enthusiasm that even the seasoned officers who appreciated his lack of conscience and prodigious talent with an L96 rifle grew concerned about the type of man they’d nurtured, day after day, during the height of the conflict.

  A few of them, though their fears were never shared with their overlords, wondered about the type of man they would someday return to the land of supposed peace and tranquility, a place where the sounds of burping gunfire and belching explosions could be heard only on the telly or the movie screen at the local bijou. These were the same 3- and 4-star lifers who’d huddled in the aftermath of a particularly vicious skirmish, almost two years to the day they’d first turned him loose, and abruptly decided that he should be sent home ahead of his deployment’s scheduled end – for his own good, of course.

  What he might unleash on the unsuspecting throngs back in the corridors of civilization was a subject they didn’t dare dwell on beyond the few minutes they’d taken to agree on expediting his same-day departure. Then again, their decision was made easier because he wasn’t British at all but Irish – a hard-bitten commoner who couldn’t be trusted … not for long.

  The orders ca
me as a shock that he only fully recognized when he was duly escorted to the plane and determined that everyone on board the noisy military transport was an easy target for a man with his extensive skills.

  I’ll have to set my own missions now ...

  He returned to that thought, many times.

  He’d come away from the conflict without a scratch, as those who are born under the right alignment of stars and karma and the serendipitous nature of war so often do. Even his head was in decent working order, at least initially: no misgivings about his role whatsoever – and damn few veterans of the Middle East mess, regardless of uniform, could say that to a shrink or their best friend or lover with a straight face.

  Then again, he didn’t have friends, and he bought his lovers when the need arose.

  He settled in London for a time, choosing to avoid the familiar places and faces of his ancestral home, fortunate that his boyhood life on the road, once he’d bolted the orphanage and the vicious nuns for good, had taught him to disguise his accent and to adopt a variety of personas. He recognized that he was being watched by the military brass, but he could deal with that inconvenience because he understood how they thought and what they looked for – and also what they expected of him.

  He gave them nothing of value in return, playing the game and the role of a good soldier who’d made his peace and was happy to return to one of the great touchstones of Western culture.

  He enjoyed the city because it offered sights and sounds and a feeling of euphoria that nothing in Ireland could match – not even Dublin. He relished the vibrant energy, the varying judgmental filters of the natives, the fluctuating languages that were spoken by the many thousands of daily visitors who bustled about with cameras and cell phones at the ready. He had an ear for dialects, and he also appreciated the overwhelming security of the place, which was something of a misnomer when he considered where he’d just been.

  And what he was up to, of course.

  “It’s all good, despite the bloody CCTV cameras on every street, ever corner, every shopfront,” he’d grumble from time to time, always to himself, when he was in the middle of some enterprise that was best hidden from the world. But he was adept at avoiding security nonsense anyway.

  And, what the hell, he’d tell himself, once the generals had given up their half-hearted, conscience-driven attempts to monitor his activities, ensuring that his adjustment to civilian life was uneventful, he recognized that he could go anywhere, do anything, and hide his actions amid the daily bustle of the place with impunity.

  Once he’d adequately adjusted to his new hunting grounds, he fell back into old habits, stealing when the urge was too great to resist and killing for sport … just to keep his hand in the game.

  When media attention began to grow, as it inevitably did, he abandoned London for Paris, then Berlin, and was soon on to Rome and then Athens. He gave it up entirely for six months, spending time on Crete and later on Rhodes, where he enjoyed wandering the Street of Knights and wondering about its history and what it must have been like to strike the unsuspecting with a knife, a piece of metal, a rock, even a fist, centuries into the past.

  “No DNA, no fingerprints, no cameras, no social media posting photographs across the internet, no coppers with full-auto weapons … absolutely bloody brilliant,” he’d mutter.

  He was troubled for a spell, more than a year on, by an onset of dreams that frequently erupted into splitting headaches. His tour in the desert began cycling through his head on an endless loop, and he speculated about how much time he’d lost and sank into a lingering depression.

  As the dark images jumped into his head with surprising ferocity, his body would deflate, like air gushing from a slashed balloon. He would sink into the nearest chair or bed and collapse inwardly, his shoulders slouching and contracting, his fists clenching in and out, and blood would rush to his neck and face and scalp, attacking his extremities with the force of sharp needles repeatedly jabbed into his skin. He would visibly shudder and will his eyes to remain sealed. But the mere act of clamping down, holding on, caused such excruciating pain that he was compelled to muffle the unbidden cries by clinching his mouth shut with such savagery that his lips would bleed.

  He couldn’t predict how long the onslaught of melancholy would last: minutes and hours when he was fortunate. But sometimes the feeling would go on for days and long, weary nights. All he knew for certain was that when the fear came and gripped him and held him tight, a vice around his still-beating heart, he understood the emptiness of space and time and the heavens and the enormity of the vast darkness and the chilling depths of the soul and, finally, the places where no one should visit, even in dreams.

  Places like the orphanage.

  Places like the desert.

  He eventually took up chess, fell into regular seaside games with a couple of ex-pats and even a local fisherman who was terrible but amenable, and thoroughly enjoyed himself for a time, drawing on his considerable savings.

  But the yearnings, the urges, proved too strong, and he shook off the shackles of nightmares for good.

  He never let on about his humble beginnings, the early abandonment, his time on the road with gypsies and tinkers, his initial efforts at bending the will of strangers to spend money they didn’t have on games of chance or trinkets they didn’t need, or on the tricks of memory and manipulation that allowed him to peek into their own hidden dreams, reaching inside to snatch what he wanted.

  The time that he spent in the sunny Mediterranean was a revelation, opening some corridors to light, closing others to moody darkness. Still, he suspected, deep in his heart, that the inactivity he so wanted to enjoy was slowly killing him, like the constant dripping of a leaky faucet.

  He also found that he missed the thrill of the hunt – the tedious days of heat and rain and wind and coming to know your opponent, and then the glorious takedown, when a just and forgiving god was something that you read about or heard of only in the knuckle- and ass-walloping classrooms of his youth.

  Mostly, he enjoyed looking into his victims’ eyes when the realization struck that this was their final day on Earth, that all of their expectations and aspirations were gone in the flick of a knife blade, that nothing they did would stay the hand of the executioner.

  He wandered north: Tirana, Bari, Naples, Rome, Barcelona, Marseille, Paris again, then Brussels, Amsterdam, and back to London. He never remained in place long enough to be noticed, and he was forever cautious, alert, ready.

  But the tug of his native island and his roots called to him, as did the thought of revenge on those who’d taken away his military career and, years earlier, had repeatedly abused him when he was but a boy with nothing to protect himself but his own small fists.

  “I’ll get ’em all,” he’d muttered while drinking on the mail boat that took him from London’s Euston Station to Holyhead, Wales, in the dead of night and then on to Dun Laogharie and Dublin’s Pearse Station.

  And on this night, at least, the gods were listening.

  A chance meeting with Frenchman Jean-Claude Daimallier and his beautiful traveling companion, an Irishwoman named Kathleen MacAmhlaoibh, with skin so white and eyes so green and hair so red that he was reminded of a rainbow, would provide him with an opportunity to get back at damn near everyone.

  Or at least, that was his hope once the magnitude of their plans and proposal fully sunk in. He hated most women – that much was true. But Kathleen was a strident charmer, and he was ready for something new, something different, something … challenging.

  What he didn’t plan for was an unexpected encounter with Caeli Brown.

  ONE

  Another Day in Paradise

  I don’t recall what I was doing, exactly, when the doorbell first chimed and then reverberated throughout our Irish estate on the River Shannon, west of Limerick.