The Mist (10 page)

"It was pieces of the grill and the propane tank that hit him," Bob interjected. "Scoop's injuries had nothing to do with saving you. If he'd jumped behind the compost bin by himself, he still--"

"If I'd protected him instead of him protecting me, he'd be fine," Fiona said stubbornly, adamant. "Just like I am now."

Before Bob could respond, Simon stood up from the SUV. "That's not the way it works. You're a nineteen-year-old college student. Scoop's a cop. He did what he's trained to do."

"He's a hero," she said.

Bob didn't speak. He couldn't now. He'd lose it, and that wouldn't help his daughter.

And it wouldn't help Abigail.

Fiona handed Simon her water bottle, her hands steadier. "I didn't see anyone on the street or at the houses next door. I didn't hear anyone. Nothing. Not even a dog barking or a television. It was all background noise to me. White noise. I remember humming 'Irish Rover' as I came into the yard."

Bob had heard her, his sweet daughter humming one of her Irish tunes. He hadn't remembered until now.

She smiled suddenly at Simon. "You and my dad both can sing. You should sing with my ensemble sometime."

Fiona always said "ensemble," Bob thought, never band.

Simon winked at her. "We can dance an Irish jig, too."

"That's right, yes! I had no idea until this summer. Dad kept his talents bottled up inside him for years." She turned to Bob, strands of blond hair stuck to her pallid cheeks. "Because of Deirdre McCarthy and what happened to her."

Bob grimaced at the mention of the girl who'd lived on his street when he was growing up and was brutally murdered at nineteen, changing his life forever. He said, "Deirdre had the voice of an angel. Mine's nothing in comparison."

"I keep thinking about her," Fiona said. "I never knew her. She died--she was murdered--long before I was born, but it's like her spirit's been a part of our lives and I didn't even know it."

Bob didn't want her thinking about Deirdre, but what could he do? By not talking about Deirdre McCarthy for thirty years, he'd kept the tragedy and horror of her death out of his daughters' minds, out of their consciousness, and yet her long-ago murder had inspired the devil-obsessed serial killer who'd come after Keira in June.

Would his daughters and niece have been more prepared if they'd known about Deirdre, if he hadn't tried to protect them?

He jerked himself back to the matter at hand.

Simon opened the back door of the SUV and tossed in the empty water bottle, then shut the door again, hard--just, Bob knew, to break some of the tension and refocus Fiona. He returned to his position against the SUV. "You said earlier you heard Abigail scream after the explosion."

"I know that's what I told you." Fiona stared again at her hands. "But I didn't hear her scream. I thought I did, but I didn't. I don't know what I heard. Everything really didn't happen all at once. It was the phone ringing and then Dad yelling and then Scoop grabbing me and
then
the explosion. In that order. It was all so fast. I know people say that, but it was."

"You've done well to break it down for us," Simon said.

But she looked up at her father. "Did you see something, Dad? How did you know to warn us?"

He hadn't told her about the call from Ireland. About Keira. The other woman on the line. He hadn't told Lucas Jones or Tom Yarborough, either. They hadn't asked him the question Fiona had just asked. They weren't being patient or negligent. They were just taking things in order.

Simon knew, but he said nothing.

"Dad," Fiona said, "if you warned us, someone must have warned
you
, right? Who?"

"You and your dad can talk in a bit," Simon said. "Let's go back to your practicing this morning at the Garrison house. Did you notice anyone there--"

"Who could have planted the bomb in Owen's car? I don't know. I don't think so." She was clearly fading, getting impatient, frazzled. "I can't...I don't know."

"I have just a few more questions, okay? We'll go through them without your dad."

Bob didn't protest. He kissed his daughter on the head and started back toward Theresa, but the ATF and FBI and state detectives and the whole damn lot pounced and dragged him down the street for another briefing.

The ATF guy, who was Bob's age, was pontificating. "It was C4," he said. "It's ideal for this kind of bomb. Just a quarter pound will destroy a propane tank and the surrounding structure."

The BPD bomb squad guy agreed. The fire department's arson squad guy threw in his opinion.

Bob chewed a fresh piece of gum. "The bombs didn't place themselves under Abigail's grill or in Owen's car, and she didn't just evaporate." He worked the gum harder. "Someone grabbed her and stuffed her into some kind of vehicle and got her out of here. Under my damn nose."

No one said anything.

He continued, all eyes on him. "The phone call got her inside off the porch. These bastards didn't want to kill her. Scoop, Fiona--didn't matter if they died. Me. Who cares? The blast could have thrown Abigail off her feet. Stunned her, knocked her out. Whatever, the bad guys were ready and hauled her out to a
waiting vehicle." Bob nodded to the spot on the sidewalk on the other side of the crime scene tape where he'd noticed the blood earlier. "She got a piece of one of them."

He paused, but still no one spoke. He knew what they were thinking. With one colleague in serious condition and another missing, he was slipping into posttraumatic stress syndrome.

He could feel his pulse tripping along. "I was focused on the blast. The diversion worked. I didn't see a thing. The vehicle--nothing."

"How'd they get to her porch and plant the bomb?" the ATF guy asked.

Bob wanted to strangle him. "Gee. I guess I probably let them in and showed them Abigail's grill and said, Hey, there's a good spot. No one'll notice a bomb there."

"Any telephone repairs, cable repairs, electricians, carpenters--"

"I gave my statement. Scoop'd give his, except he's unconscious. And Abigail's not here, in case you haven't noticed."

The ATF guy winced. "Sorry, Lieutenant."

The arson investigator said, "Anything we can do for you, Bob? For your family?"

Bob had a half-dozen retorts ready, none of them nice, but he saw the earnest look on the guy's face. Everyone wanted to help. Everyone felt lousy for him.

He had to get out of there.

He found refuge in the passenger seat of his heap of a car and scraped gunk off his cell phone, then dialed Eddie O'Shea at his little village pub on the southwest Irish coast. Bob had already talked to Keira and an Irish detective about the attack on her. Now he wanted to talk to the bartender. They'd met earlier in August, when Bob had ventured to the land of his ancestors for
the first time. He went with his sister in the days after she'd finally given up on her solitary life in the woods and rejoined civilization, such as it was. Keira had already fallen for Simon.

Bob hoped Simon would be on the trip to Ireland at Christmas with Keira, his daughters and his sister. They could sneak off for a beer or two. Christmas seemed far away now. Out of reach and impossible.

O'Shea answered after a couple of rings.

"Irish cops still there?" Bob asked.

"They've gone. They searched my pub for bombs, Bobby."

O'Shea insisted on calling him Bobby. Drove him nuts. "Find any?"

"Just Patrick's cooking."

It was a valiant attempt at humor. Eddie O'Shea had lived a quiet life before June when Keira had wandered into his pretty village on Kenmare Bay. "Trust no one," Bob said. "The guards. Your Irish fairies. No one, O'Shea. Do you hear me?"

"Are you well, Bobby?"

"Burned off my eyebrows."

"Simon?"

"A man with a mission." Bob felt his throat constrict. He'd developed a liking for Simon Cahill, and no question Simon believed he'd brought Norman Estabrook down on them all. Bob wasn't so sure. It was like Estabrook was a deadly virus lying dormant in their lives, just waiting for a chance to spread and do its damage. "I want to hear about this Irishman who tried to kill my niece."

"He knew about the bomb."

"The one in my house. There was another one in a car."

"Ah. He didn't mention that one. He's a hired man."

"Why did he tell Keira?"

"He didn't. He told that black-haired firebrand."

Keira had described her to Bob. "Any word on who she is?"

"Not that anyone's told me. She knows what she's doing, Bobby, I'll say that."

"But she's not law enforcement?"

"Ah, Bobby...I don't want to think about who she might be."

"Like what? A spy?" Bob's head pounded. "Never mind. You're a bartender. You love conspiracies. Was she alone?"

"Yes. She said she was walking the Beara Way, but she knew about Norman Estabrook, the billionaire Yank--"

"I know who he is."

"That's not a surprise." Eddie hesitated, then said in a near whisper, "Lord Will was here, Bobby."

"Simon's friend?"

"We can trust him. I'm sure of it. And Keira. She'll be safe here, Bobby. She has more spine than most."

"That she does." Bob didn't want to hang up. He hated the idea of Keira being across the ocean, alone, worried about Simon, targeted by a killer. She'd always been like another daughter to him. "Crazy artist. Tell her to cool her heels and paint pictures of Irish fairies and thistle, and I'll be in touch when I can."

Bob disconnected and got out of the car. The ATF guy came over. "Who were you talking to just now, Lieutenant?"

His open suspicion and arrogance went up one side of Bob and down the other, and he decided he just wasn't doing anymore right now. "A bartender in Ireland," he said. "I asked him for his recipe for rhubarb crumble."

Bob headed back to his ex-wife and his daughter before the ATF guy could rip his head off.

Off the coast of Massachusetts
7:45 p.m., EDT
August 25

A
bigail rode out another wave of nausea, forcing herself not to give in to seasickness. What would Owen say? He'd never been seasick in his life. Thinking about him gave her strength. He'd tell her to sleep while she could. Bob, Scoop, Yarborough, Lucas--her father. They'd all tell her the same thing. Simon would, too, but she didn't know him as well as the others.

Although some days she wondered if she knew her father at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut and fought back tears. They would only make her blindfold wet and worsen her discomfort. She ached, and she itched, and she wanted to fight these bastards but couldn't. They'd taken turns checking on her, providing a sip of water, threatening her if she tried to escape.

Two men whose voices she didn't recognize were arguing on
the other side of the door. One man was clearly American--petulant, arrogant. The other was British--fearless, angry.

"You promised you'd be there for me," the American said.

The Brit snorted. "Not like this, you bloody fool."

"
Don't
talk to me that way."

"I'll talk to you any way I choose. I agreed to do a job, and you went behind my back and hired these utter morons to indulge your petty desire for vengeance."

"There's nothing petty about anything I do. I don't care what your credentials are, you're a mercenary who works for me. You're to do as I say."

"I will, but in my professional judgment--"

"You've made your opinion clear," the American said, less irritated. "Let's go forward from where we are now and not worry about the past. Agreed?"

A moment's hesitation. "Agreed."

The door creaked, opening abruptly. Abigail straightened as best she could. Her shoulders and thighs were painfully stiff, and her fingers and toes, despite her efforts to wiggle them, had gone numb.

She heard footsteps circling her chair. "My, my. You have had a difficult day, haven't you?" It was the American, smug, yet also, underneath, clearly agitated. "I have, too. I had a long, hard journey from Montana."

Norman Estabrook.

Abigail forced herself not to react.

"The risks I've taken today and the aggravation I've experienced are worth it, Detective Browning, just to see you here, at my mercy." He was in front of her now. "Your daddy and your friends in law enforcement have no idea where you are or where I am. None whatsoever."

"Enjoy your role as kidnapper in chief while you can,
Norman." Abigail hated the raspiness of her voice, but at least it was strong. "It's not going to last. You screwed up today, didn't you? Everything didn't go as planned, did it?"

She felt his breath hot against her face. "I have you. I have Abigail March Browning, John March's daughter. Tell me, Detective. Don't you think your father needs his own personal devil to fight?"

"We can call and ask him."

"He needs me. He needs an enemy who is his equal. You learned about good and evil this summer, didn't you? The serial killer who came after your friend Keira was fascinated with the devil. You investigated him. He understood that God needs Lucifer."

Abigail suppressed a shiver of fear. She'd learned more about the nature of evil in June than she'd ever wanted to know. In her eight years as a detective, she had never come across such flat-out evil--the conscious, deliberate choice to commit vile acts of gratuitous violence on innocent people.

"I don't know about God and Lucifer," she said. "My father's an ordinary human being. So are you."

"There's nothing ordinary about me. Prosecutors and even my lawyers made the mistake of thinking I was like other men. I have resources and connections the FBI can't touch."

"You won't when you're in prison."

Estabrook gave a low chuckle. "Your father must be in torment right now, knowing that I have you and he's responsible. Knowing he had me, and he let me go."

"It wasn't his idea. He objected to your deal. He's not all powerful."

"He didn't believe I was capable of violence. He wanted my friends more than he did me. Imagine the possibilities going
forward, Detective. I challenge the most powerful law enforcement officer in the world every day for the rest of his life, until he finally dies a bitter, broken old man."

"You're just not that special," Abigail said.

This time, Estabrook's laugh wasn't right in her ear, and she realized he must have stood up straight. His voice was congenial when he spoke. "At first I just wanted John March dead. Now, I want him to suffer. I want him to suffer and suffer and suffer." Estabrook was silent a moment, then added, "There are others I want to kill with my own hands."

Abigail concentrated on her breathing before fear could take hold, as her captor obviously hoped it would.

In for eight. Hold for eight. Out for eight.

She heard a door click shut but continued with her breathing exercise. She did three sets before she stopped and focused again on her surroundings.

"You have relentless friends." It was the man with the British accent, speaking softly, close to her. "They're looking for you now."

"Estabrook's gone?" she asked, calmer now.

"For the moment."

She swallowed, her mouth and throat dry from lack of water--and from tension, from fighting panic, nausea and claustrophobia. "It'll go better for you if you set me free now, before my friends find me."

"I take your point."

He sounded pragmatic, neither relishing nor concerned about the prospect of going up against various arms of the law enforcement community.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Around eight o'clock. Are you injured?"

"I'm fine. Let me go before--"

"You're in a tough spot, Detective. I suggest you not waste your energy arguing for something that can't happen."

"Then tell me about my friends who were home when your bomb went off. Scoop, Bob, Fiona." She used their first names to humanize them, to make them real to this man. "What's their condition? Are they all right?"

"There were no deaths, and Detective O'Reilly and his daughter are uninjured."

She steeled herself against any emotion. "Scoop?"

"Detective Wisdom was cut by flying shrapnel. He'll survive, but he'll have a rough go for a while."

"Owen," Abigail whispered. "What about him?"

"A handy sort, your man Owen."

She sank into her chair, her arms aching from being tied behind her back. How could she have brought this down on her friends? "You have baggage," Bob had told her when she was a rookie determined to make detective, a grief-stricken widow who had quit law school and wanted to help other people get answers. He hadn't minced words. "Husband an FBI agent killed on your honeymoon in an unsolved homicide. Daddy set to become the next FBI director. I should send you packing back to law school."

At first, Bob had considered Owen more baggage, with his wealthy family, his constant travel with Fast Rescue. These were distractions as far as Bob was concerned, reasons she couldn't dedicate herself to the job, reasons she didn't fit in with the department and never would. But she had proved herself.

She heard footsteps as the Brit approached her in her chair. "All of you are remarkably lucky," he said.

"That's what I feel right now. Lucky. Did you try to kill Owen, or did you mean to kidnap him, too?"

"Kill."

Her stomach lurched, but she refused to throw up. "Another bomb." She kept her tone unemotional, professional. "Where? His family's house on Beacon Street?"

"His car."

"Bastards."

"He was warned in time. So, love," the Brit said, closer to her now, "how do you suppose that happened?"

Abigail wriggled in her chair to distract him from any hint in her expression that she had even the remotest theory.

"You're meant to respond," he said mildly.

"I have no idea how it happened. I was stuffed in the back of a van. But your plan hasn't worked the way it was meant to, has it?"

"Did I say it was my plan?"

She realized he was in front of her, perhaps a few inches away, and she warned herself not to be misled by his quiet, almost wry tone. This was a disciplined, controlled and very dangerous man.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

"Nothing at the moment, love. You and your friends are formidable foes. Your dad as well."

"That's the fun of it for Norman, isn't it? You're a pro. You know he's taking unnecessary risks for his own amusement."

"Perhaps in our own way, love, we all do."

Abigail tried to relax her jaw muscles and ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. "I've heard a small boat pull up to this one several times. What did you do, fly Estabrook into a private airport, then bring him here?"

"That doesn't matter now, does it?"

"That's true. You can walk away. Help me. Let me go back home and plan my wedding."

The Brit gave a short laugh. "And what would I get by walking
away? Hold still, love. I'm going to cut the ropes on your wrists and ankles."

"What's your name? What should I call you?"

"Fletcher."

"First name or last name?"

"Either."

It might be real, or it might not. "You're British?"

"Long live the Queen."

He had a sense of humor, anyway.

"Wrists first," he said. "You'll feel the knife. Don't panic, although I can see you're not the type."

He slid the cool blade of a knife between Abigail's skin and the rope. He was too efficient--too professional--to indulge in unnecessary cruelty. If he decided to kill her, he'd be quick about it, at least.

"Easy, love," he said as she felt the bonds give way. "Go slow. You'll be stiff. You've been in the same position for a while. I'm freeing your ankles next."

As she eased her arms over the back of the chair and onto her lap, Abigail winced at the flush of pain and barely noticed him tackling the ropes on her ankles. She slowly pushed one foot forward, biting back tears. Blood rushed into her toes and fingers, and, against her will, she moaned out loud. He untied her blindfold, carefully peeling it from her eyes. She blinked a few times, unkinked her arms and legs, and finally focused on her surroundings. There was a light on now, and she could see a pool table in the middle of the stateroom, next to her chair, and a low sectional sofa on the length of an interior wall.

Her captor leaned back against the pool table, giving her a moment. He was a clean-shaved, exceptionally fit-looking white male, approximately forty years old, skimming six feet, with
close-cropped, medium brown hair and gray eyes. No visible scars or tattoos or other distinguishing features. Not that any were needed for Abigail to remember him.

He smiled. "Take a good look, love. You'll want to describe me accurately to your sketch artists." He gestured to the left side of her face. "The men hit you?"

She resisted a wisecrack. "The one with the South Boston accent did."

"He's a bit of a hothead. Care to take a moment while I'm here and freshen up?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He stood up from the pool table and gently took her by the elbow. "On your feet, then."

He started to help her up, but she shook him off and rose on her own. She was stiff and sore, but steady. He led her to a door in the back of the stateroom, next to a wet bar.

"Knock when you've finished. You have two minutes."

"I can't--"

"You can, love."

He opened the door and shut it softly behind her when she went in, leaving her in the pitch-dark. She banged up against something--a sink, she thought--and righted herself, feeling on the wall for a light switch. She found one and flipped it on. She saw she was in a small, tidy head equipped with a shower, sink and toilet. There were dispensers of liquid soap and hand cream, a basket of potpourri, a stack of neatly folded hand towels. Touches of comfort and elegance for the prisoner.

Abigail locked the door and turned on the water in the sink while she did her business.

She washed up with soap and water as best she could, skipped the hand cream and buried her face in a fluffy, expen
sive white towel, indulging in a few seconds of self-pity and fatigue. But there was no time. She dropped the towel on the floor and stuck her mouth under the faucet and drank as much water as she dared. She didn't want to be sick, but she couldn't count on when she'd be allowed to drink again. Or eat. She was starving.

Finally she inspected herself for injuries that adrenaline and the numbness from sitting in one position for so long could have kept her from feeling. Her wrists and ankles were rope-burned but not bleeding. She had bruises here and there from struggling to get free on the ride to the marina, but nothing she needed to worry about.

"Thirty seconds," Fletcher said from the other side of the door.

She looked in the mirror at the swelling on her cheek. She'd have a shiner.

When she unlocked the door, Fletcher took her by the elbow and led her back to her chair. "I won't tie you up again," he said, sitting her down, "but not because I trust you not to attempt escape. Because I know you won't succeed."

"Where are you taking me?"

"For a little boat ride." He straightened, looked at her without expression. "Do you play pool?"

"Not really."

"Your chance to practice, then, love."

"Why did you stay with me if you weren't going to tie me back up?"

"I wanted to be here in case you passed out once you got on your feet." He nodded to the wet bar. "There's ice, food and drink. Help yourself."

"Thank you."

He left without another word.