The Wild Sight by Loucinda McGary Read Free Book Online Page A

Except his mother. He was loath to say “things that weren’t there” for they always felt very much there, as real as anything else within his childish realm of experiences. However, once he realized no one else saw or heard what
     he did, he never admitted anything to anyone. His mother had been right, people didn’t understand. Heaven knew, he didn’t
     understand it himself.
    The unique smell of dampness and decay hit Donovan’s nostrils at the same time the earth grew spongy beneath his feet. The
     three of them had reached the edge of the fens. He banished all thoughts of his “gift” and the people and things he saw. He
     needed to concentrate on the present and keep everything else away from his consciousness. McRory and the young man were still
     talking, and he focused hard on their words.
    “. . . no reason to suspect foul play,” McRory was saying.
    “But what else could it be?” Johnny insisted.
    “The fens have always been dangerous,” the professor pointed out. “People lose their way.”
    Not this close in. Donovan kept his agreement with the lad to himself as they negotiated single file between a thick clump of bushes and a tangle
     of thorny vines. The moist ground sucked at the soles of his sneakers. A dead beech tree ahead on their right looked vaguely
     familiar. Blackened scars on the trunk teased at the edge of his memory. He shook his head to clear it.
    “Ho! Michael!” Johnny shouted.
    Ahead, past another thicket of brush, a figure in a red cap waved.
    “I’ve nearly uncovered him,” the second young man called back.
    “No! Stop!” McRory ordered. “Leave that for the police.” When Johnny shot him a perturbed look, he added, “In case there might
     be something to investigate.”
    Still silent, Donovan sidestepped the professor’s twine markers. From the corner of his eye, he saw two trenches similar to
     the ones McRory’s team had dug in the cottage yard. The second youth, Michael, stood down a slope in the midst of more twine
     and a muddy pile of earth.
    “’Tis sorry I am, Professor,” he rushed to apologize. “I didn’t mean . . . ”
    McRory held up his hand for silence. “No matter, Michael. What is it we’ve got then?”
    “A feckin’ mess!” The young man blurted, then he eyed Donovan with dismay. “Bollocks! I suppose you’re the Yank who owns all
     this. Sorry. I’m Michael Carmody.”
    “Close enough, my father owns it.” Donovan forced a smile as he extended his hand. “Donovan O’Shea, and I agree, looks to
     be a feckin’ mess, right enough.”
    He craned his neck to gaze around Michael Carmody into the hole, which was about a half meter deep. The body lay face down,
     long legs and half the torso uncovered. Much too large to be a woman, at least the woman Donovan had feared it might be.
    Before the wave of relief washed over him, a blinding light flashed in front of his eyes. In the next instant, the wavering
     image of a big man appeared in front of him. A hand gripping a butcher knife plunged the blade into the man’s belly. Once.
     Twice.
    Stunned, Donovan gasped and stumbled.
    The vision disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. Michael Carmody stuck out his arm and prevented Donovan from toppling
     into the hole.
    “Must . . . sit,” Donovan wheezed and staggered backward. His visions had never been like this!
    Next thing he knew, McRory had a canvas campstool under him. With a shuddering breath, Donovan sat and dropped his head between
     his knees.
    “Do you know who ’tis?” the professor demanded.
    “N—no,” Donovan stuttered, but when he raised his eyes in the direction of the body, the light and the terrible image struck
     him again. Groaning, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
    “Donovan!” McRory’s large hand gripped his shoulder, fingers digging through his jacket and sweater. “Christ Jaysus, man!
     What’s wrong?”
    He bit back the urge to reveal what he knew. “My head,” he panted, then