“She was feigning interest in Pitt’s son to determine what he knew. Maybe she is reluctant to kill him.”
McKee nodded. “She’s not strong like you. She never has been. Perhaps we shouldn’t have protected her from the truth.”
“There is no need to relive the past now,” Audrey replied stoically.
“If only she were as strong as you. Perhaps she can still learn. Call Gavin and tell him to kill the son in Ireland at the first opportunity.”
She turned back and gazed at the monitor of Pitt’s room, wondering if she should do the same with Dirk’s father.
41
Winding down a narrow country road five kilometers south of Tralee, Summer was shocked to see a roadside marker proclaiming FEART SCOITHIN.
“Scota’s grave?”
“Aye,” Brophy said from the backseat. “Vale of the Little Flower, as the spot is called. Pull off here. We’ll have just a short hike.”
Dirk found a clearing beside the road and eased the rental car to a stop. He opened the trunk and removed the crate they’d picked up at Shannon Airport. Inside he found a rectangular box, an LED panel, four wheels, a frame, and a wrench. He assembled the pieces into the shape of a lawn mower, with the screen mounted on the handlebars.
Brophy shook his head. “You going to mow the grass with that thing?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Dirk said. “It’s a ground-penetrating radar system. If the soil conditions cooperate, it will give us a peek at any subsurface objects.”
“Like a sarcophagus?”
“Like a sarcophagus.”
“Then let’s go cut some grass.” Brophy grabbed a shovel from the trunk and turned from the car.
He led them through a gate that fronted a small groomed trail. Grassy hills rose in an arc before them, but the path angled through a narrow valley lined with birch trees and heather. Dirk flipped over the radar system so he could tow it across the trail on two wheels.
Brophy pointed to his right. “The high hill over there, that’s Knockmichael Mountain. We’re at the eastern end of the Slieve Mish Mountains. And it was somewhere near here, in this glen above Tralee,” Brophy continued, “that the great battle took place. Meritaten and her forces fought the ruling tribe and defeated them, taking control of the land. But she died during the engagement.”
The scenic glen, with a babbling brook called Fingal’s Stream meandering through it, looked peaceful. Summer found it hard to imagine the battle between Bronze Age warriors armed with axes, swords, and spears, fighting hand to hand across the sedate countryside. A growing black cloud, threatening a rain shower, darkened the skies.
They climbed the trail for thirty minutes, crossing a small bridge over the stream. The trail ended in a wide clearing dotted with stones and surrounded by young oak trees. At the far end, boulders covered a small hillside capped by a concrete cylinder grave marker.
Brophy waved toward the marker. “Bloody hideous thing. Don’t pay it any heed for the location. We should search the whole clearing.”
Dirk lowered the radar system’s rectangular antenna until it grazed the ground, then powered the unit on. He adjusted the gain until a cluster of wavy gray lines filled the top half of the screen. Similar to airborne radar, the device sent microwave pulses into the earth, which were reflected in the form of a two-dimensional image.
Brophy leaned over Dirk’s shoulder. “How’s it looking?”
“While the system’s designed to reach a twenty-foot depth, we’ll be lucky to scan a third of that. The soil is probably clay-based and moist, which is not friendly to ground-penetrating radar.”
“Or lost artifacts,” Summer said.
Brophy smiled. “Makes it harder to dig, too. Someone burying something wouldn’t likely go too deep.”
Brophy followed with Summer as Dirk pushed the GPR unit across the clearing. Dirk made orderly passes back and forth, snaking around upraised stones as necessary. He stopped at one point and had Brophy dig down a few inches until he struck a rock.
“Just testing.” Dirk smiled. “I had a dark spot that looked like a stone.”
Brophy scowled and leaned on the shovel. “I’m not here for the testing, I’m here for the finding.”
Dirk laughed and pushed the unit ahead to escape the Irishman’s wrath. He bypassed a few small targets as he worked his way to the rock-strewn monument. From there he enlisted Summer’s help to muscle the device up the hillside, maneuvering it between and around the stones that surrounded the marker.
Brophy sat on a rock watching, waiting for a cry of “Eureka!” It never came. They carried the unit back down the hill and joined Brophy on two nearby stones.