Linda Kuhlmann | The Red Boots

Chapter One
Dublin, Ireland

A tall figure dressed in black paused in the shadows as a Dublin Garda patrol car passed by. Illuminating his watch, the figure checked the time. Quickly, he darted across the street, being careful not to break the silence before dawn.

The Pearse Gallery was dark except for a spotlight on a statue near the window. The light illuminated a poster announcing the premier show for Shannon O'Toole's world art tour.
While walking to the back of the gallery, he removed a small computer with wire leads from a black canvas bag. He carefully connected the leads to the alarm keypad outside the door. After disabling the system, he used a three-inch metal blade to enter through the metal door.

In the faint light coming from the next room, he could see the bins of surplus art and statues. Walking around a large desk in the center of the room, he went through the doorway to the front of the building.

On a pedestal to his right stood the small bronze statue of a nude woman gleaming under the single light overhead. The body was athletic and elegant. Her long hair flowed out around her, as if blown by an unheard wind. Her head was turned to look over her shoulder, where a few strands fell, covering her left breast.

He reached over and flipped off the light over the statue.

In the darkness, he picked up the statue and stood for a moment holding it gently in his hands as if it were a priceless gem, his breath the only sound.

He knelt down and set the statue on the floor. Taking a dark cloth from his bag, he wrapped it carefully and placed it into the bag. Again, he checked his watch before lifting the now heavy bag to his shoulder. He started to leave the room, but stopped.

Turning to look back at the empty pedestal, he reached over and turned the overhead light on, then left through the back of the gallery.

Shannon pressed the heels of her hands across the clay cheekbones on the jaw line of the man's bust, which was mounted on a slab of bog-oak. She'd found the rare piece of wood, preserved in the Irish peat bogs, during a short visit to see her grandparents in Clifden, County Galway.

She sat back, looked at the bust, and frowned. After a moment, she picked up more clay from the small pile next to the statue and began to fill the cheeks back in.

"Damn!" Frustrated, she pushed a stray lock of auburn hair from her forehead with the back of her clay-covered hand. She'd been struggling with this particular statue for over a year.

Looking around her studio, Shannon sought inspiration in the myriad of shelves containing statues, some finished, others, still in progress. Her studio was the only place she felt free to be herself.

She saw a sculpture of a rearing Appaloosa she'd created from memory and sighed.
"I'll not finish you today," she said to the bust of her father, a lilt in her voice. "I'm not sure I'll ever finish you. It seems horses come easier to me than the image of your face."

Outside her window, she watched the water of the River Liffey slowly flow past her apartment in Temple Bar. The vibrant colors of the fall leaves reflected in the water. She'd lived in Dublin for years now, but it really wasn't her home— she didn't know where her home was.

Her eyes landed on an unframed black and white photo, one corner folded over. The three people smiling back at her took her back to the year when she was eight— the day when her life had changed forever.