Chapter One
Carroll Monks was planning a trip to Ireland. His
grandfather had grown up near Kilrush, on the west coast,
before emigrating to the States. Monks had seen a photo of
the place -- a stone hovel in a barren field, miles from
the nearest tiny village.
But Monks himself had never set foot on Irish soil. Why
that was so was a puzzle even to him. The only answer he
could give was that his life for the past thirty-odd years
seemed to have been one long struggle to stay on top of
whatever he was doing, while stumbling toward the next
goal -- college, medical school, five years in the navy,
getting established in practice. Then marriage, children,
divorce, and the thousands of vicissitudes that went with
all that. Most of the traveling he had done had either
been out of necessity, or vacations that were aimed at
pleasing his children.
But the lapse was still inexcusable, and he was going to
rectify it, come next March. He was not in search of his
roots -- he intended to make that clear to everybody he
met. Mainly, he hoped to drink in some good pubs, walk on
deserted beaches, and listen to a lot of rain, while he
was warm and dry inside.
He was warm and dry right now, inside his own living room.
It was early December, getting toward dusk, and the
northern California winter was starting to settle in. A
fire crackled in his woodstove, with cats sleeping in
front of it, waiting for him to break out the slab of
fresh salmon that they knew was in the refrigerator, ready
to broil on a charcoal grill. Meanwhile, to get himself in
shape for the journey, Monks had put aside the vodka that
was his usual preference and taken up an apprenticeship
with John Power whiskey, a working-class Irish malt with a
good rough edge. He liked to sip it neat, slowly, sampling
various stouts as chasers. The effect was like nectar and
ambrosia combined.
He had been reading up on Irish history and had a pile of
maps and guidebooks that he consulted while plotting his
course. His main focus was a leisurely trip up the west
coast, through Galway to Donegal, staying as close as he
could to the ocean. He had no fixed schedule. In early
spring, lodging should be easy to find. He would be
traveling alone. Ideally, he would have a female companion
along, but there was no one on the radar just now. He was
starting to wonder if there ever would be again.
Monks decided to pour one more short splash of whiskey
before starting the charcoal for the salmon. He was
getting to his feet when a knock came at the front door.
This surprised him. His house was a good hundred yards off
a little- traveled county road, surrounded by redwoods,
all but hidden from view. He would have heard a car coming
up his gravel drive. So the caller was on foot -- but
there were no near neighbors, and no one in the habit of
dropping by.
He stepped to a window that gave a view of the deck
outside the front door. His surprise deepened. A young
woman was standing there. The evening darkness was closing
in, but he was quite sure she wasn't anyone he knew. She
was looking around, in a way that suggested she might be
nervous at approaching a stranger's house at dusk.
Monks walked to the door and opened it.
She was in her early twenties, tall and full-figured; not
really pretty but attractive, with olive skin and strong
Mediterranean features. Her black hair was pinned with a
clasp and worn long down her back. She was dressed as if
for business, in tailored slacks and a silk blouse. She
smiled but that looked nervous, too.
"I saw your lights," she said, with a slight stammer. "I
got a flat tire, down on the road."
Monks's heart sank a little. Changing a tire, in the dark,
on a vehicle he didn't know anything about, was not an
enjoyable prospect. "I'll come take a look," he said.
She murmured thanks.
He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and well-worn Red
Wing work boots -- clothes that would do. He got a
powerful Mag flashlight out of the front closet and put on
a wool-lined Carhartt jacket. Then, seeing that she had
crossed her forearms and was rubbing her upper arms with
her palms, he said, "You're welcome to stay here and warm
up while I go check it out."
She shook her head. "That's okay."
"You want a coat?"
"That's okay," she said again. "I've got one down there. I
didn't think it was this cold."
Monks switched on the flashlight, illuminating their path
down the gravel drive toward the county road. The woods
were still. A few brave tree frogs emitted hopeful croaks
in the chilly damp air, trying to strike up the usual
evening chorus, but apparently most of their comrades were
bedded down in amphibean comfort, exercising selective
deafness.
"I can't promise I can do this," Monks warned. "Is there
somebody around here who could come pick you up?"
"No."
She didn't live nearby, then, and wasn't visiting someone
who did. He wondered what she was doing on a narrow, out-
of-the-way road that ran from noplace to noplace else.
Probably she was just lost.
"Do you know where the jack and spare are?" he asked.
"No."
"Do you have an owner's manual?"
"I'm not sure."
His lips twisted wryly. There was nothing like traveling
prepared. But he reminded himself that at her age he had
been pretty feckless, too.
"We might have to call a tow truck," he said.
She nodded, still clasping herself.
Monks thought about trying to keep up small talk, but it
seemed clear that she wanted to get this done and get out
of here ...
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