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checked the police report, Sis.  The black BMW was reported stolen in central Colorado.  It was found abandoned, and heavily damaged, in Boulder.  So it doesn’t sound like they had it in for you personally.  They were probably just strung out on drugs.  You’re lucky to be alive.”
    Lys again struggled to recall the accident.  There was something important she needed to remember, but she felt confused, unsure which memories were real.  Finally she looked up at Roger and asked, “What happened to Kareina?”
    “Who’s Kareina?”
    “She was the woman in the car with me.  We were coming back from a party when the BMW showed up.”
    Roger looked puzzled.  “Lys, the police report said you were alone.  No one else was found at the scene, and there’s no chance anyone could have walked away.”
     “No, Roger… Kareina waswith me,” Lys objected, trying to sort out her memories.  ”She was the one who invited me to that god-awful party in the first place.  I never would have been on that road if not for her.”
     “What can you tell me about her?”
     “Not much, really.  I’ve only known her for a few weeks.  Her last name is Procel.  She’s about twenty-three, thin, with long black hair.  She said she works down the hall at another office.  I’m not even sure which one.  She said she’s new in town and I looked like a friendly face.  She always dropped by on her break to talk.”
     “Lys, you’re still pretty shaken up.” Roger sighed. “I’ll check with your office about Kareina, but believe me, you don’t need to worry about her.  There’s no way anyone was with you in the car.”
     
     
     
     

 

PART TWO:  PILGRIMAGE
     

Chapter Five:  Patrick
     
     
     
    THE PORT OF OBAN, WESTERN COAST OF SCOTLAND
     
     
    The deck plates shuddered with a deep rumble as the 4800 ton Isle of Mull eased from her moorings and began churning across the placid waters of Oban harbor.  The Isle of Mull was a handsome vessel, over 90 meters in length, one of the largest in the Calmac fleet.  Her gleaming white superstructure was accentuated by a distinctive red and black funnel towering above her decks, but her most notable feature was the company name proudly emblazoned across her black hull in huge white letters:   Caledonian MacBrayne.
    The MacBrayne fleet is the lifeblood of the Western Isles.  There’s a saying in the west of Scotland, “The earth belongs to the Lord, and all it contains, except the Western Isles, for they belong to the MacBraynes.”   That statement is not far from truth.  The tiny, windswept isles of the Inner and Outer Hebrides have but one real lifeline to the rest of the world: the intrepid fleet of ferries operated by Caledonian MacBrayne, Inc.
    Patrick O’Neill stood wearily in line at the ship’s bar.  It had been a long journey but he was nearing its end.  Two years ago Patrick was a twenty-nine year-old investment counselor with a corner office in one of the gleaming glass towers of Dallas.   He thought he had it all—until his marriage disintegrated in a messy divorce in which his wife got the house, the kids, and everything else important to him.  After six more months of pointless activity, he walked away from his job, cashed in what remained of his investments, and bought a ticket to Ireland.
    Through the year-long trauma of the divorce, Patrick had been tantalized by a recurring dream.  In the dream he sat on a green hill with the sea in the distance.  Huge slabs of rock protruded from the ground around him.  The countryside was rugged with few trees, mostly moss and grass.  What he remembered most was the green.  It was a shade of green he’d never seen in Texas.  He assumed it was his ancestral homeland, Ireland.  
    There’d been a presence with him on that hill.  He had no name for it, but it was very real.  Every night as he approached the top of the hill, the presence enveloped him.  It penetrated his pores and filled