The Mist (17 page)

Lizzie started to thank him, but he just shoved her out the door into the narrow alley behind the hotel. The Rushes might not get everything right, she thought, but they could be counted on in a pinch.

She ran between parked cars and a Dumpster out to Mount Vernon Street, finding the gray Honda halfway up to Louisburg Square. It had a Beacon Hill resident's sticker in the back wind-shield, and every available space beyond the driver's seat was loaded with fabric samples, empty soda cans, CDs, paperbacks, magazines, torn envelopes. Martha Prescott, indeed, was a slob, but apparently also incredibly creative and good at her job. Anyone who worked for Henrietta Rush would have to be.

The car had a full tank of gas, and Lizzie was quickly on her way.

As she pulled onto Storrow Drive, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen, recognized her father's Las Vegas number and almost didn't answer. "Don't distract me," she said as cheerfully as she could manage. "I'm in traffic."

"Dublin?"

"Boston. Storrow Drive."

Her father sighed. "I just got off the phone with a Boston detective named Yarborough. A real s.o.b. He's threatening to fly out here. Lizzie, tell me what's going on?"

"It's complicated."

"So? I'm playing solitaire. Clock. Ever play clock? My eyes are bleeding it's so boring. I've got time. Take me through it. Start to finish."

"There is no finish. Not yet."

"All right. Start to where we are now."

"The two Brits. Will Davenport and the one I asked you about who was in Las Vegas in June--I think they're both from your world."

"What world would that be?"

"Dad, I can't...I have a name for the one we saw in Vegas. Myles Fletcher."

"I'll see what I can do."

She hesitated. "John March is in town."

Her father sighed again. "Terrific. Have you seen him?"

"No. I'm trying to get out of here." She squeezed into the left lane, heading for I-93 North. "Dad, I just found a dead man."

"Damn, Lizzie."

"I think he planted at least one bomb yesterday." Was it only yesterday? "John March's daughter is missing." She slowed in the crush of traffic. "Dad, I can help."

"Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie."

"Norman's obsessed with March. I didn't see it at first. I only saw it in the last days before his arrest."

"Lizzie."

"I know March investigated my mother's death." She fought back more tears. "I haven't wanted to tell you. I understand how painful--"

Her father cut her off. "Does Estabrook know about March and your mother?"

"He never said so, but--yes." She eased onto the interstate, speeding up as she escaped the twists and turns of Storrow Drive.
"I'm sure he knows. I didn't realize it at the time, but I think that's why he made the call threatening Simon and Director March in front of me. He assumes I hate March."

"So will the cops. Once they put the pieces together, you'll look as obsessed with John March as this bastard Estabrook is."

"That's why I'm not sticking around."

Silence. "That's not why."

Lizzie pictured her handsome father moving a card to the six o'clock position, a glass of Scotch at his side. He never drank Irish whiskey.

"You're in deep, Lizzie," he said. "You have been all along, haven't you?"

She didn't answer.

Another sigh. "I'm heading to Boston as soon as I finish my game of clock. I'll run interference with the feds. I'll stay as long as you need me."

"You hate Boston."

"Not as much as I hate Ireland."

She managed a smile. "Thanks, Dad."

But he was serious. "You're hoping Estabrook comes after you, aren't you?"

"If I knew what he was going to do, where he was, I'd tell the FBI."

"You're an amateur, Lizzie."

"So is Norman. He'll use Abigail Browning to get what he wants. Then he'll throw her away."

"I could call Detective Yarborough and have him stop you."

"You won't."

"No." Her father didn't speak for a moment. "I have a picture of my mother as a little girl playing dress-up in the drawing room at the hotel in Boston. She has on an Edwardian gown she found
in the attic. She's standing on a chair, giggling in front of a mirror. Imagine your grandmother giggling."

"Dad..."

"She did her best, Lizzie. We all did."

"You did great. All of you. I miss Gran, too." Lizzie tried to concentrate on her driving. "If you don't get cold feet and actually do head out here, I should warn you that cousin Jeremiah has put his wild youth behind him. He's a tough taskmaster these days. He'll throw you out if you don't behave."

Her father laughed. "Sounds like a challenge."

She sobbed out loud when she hung up, but her hand was steady as she dialed the number John March had given her over a year ago.

He answered immediately. "Where are you?"

"My name's Lizzie," she said, her voice cracking as she finally told him the truth. "Lizzie Rush. But you know that now, don't you?"

"You misled me. I thought you were a professional."

"Was I even on your list of suspects?"

"No."

"You could have hesitated," she said, making an attempt at levity.

"I want you to come in. Now. Help us." He took in a breath. "Lizzie, let me help you."

"I was with Norman in June when he called Simon and threatened to kill the two of you. I knew he meant it. I knew he would turn violent." The late afternoon sun beat down hard on the busy road. "I should have found a way to stop him. He has your daughter because I didn't."

"You work for a chain of luxury boutique hotels. It's not your job--"

"Don't ever let my aunt and uncle hear you call our hotels a chain."

"Lizzie. Stop. Come in."

She stayed in the middle lane of I-93. "Did you try to stop my mother? She was your informant, too, wasn't she?"

"You're operating on assumptions and suppositions." His tone was more mystified and worried than harsh. "You've done your part. More than you should have. Your efforts helped us arrest major, dangerous drug traffickers."

"Norman's free."

"Not because of you. Stand down."

"Thirty years ago, you let my mother go to her death, didn't you? You regret it now."

"I regretted it then."

"Did you warn her of the danger she was in? Did she ignore you? Did you ignore--" Lizzie took a breath, gripping the steering wheel of her borrowed car. "Never mind."

"You are not to endanger yourself. You are not to interfere with this investigation. I'll sit down with you when this is over and answer every question you have about your mother." March paused, then added, "Every question I can answer."

Lizzie knew what she had to do. She'd figured out on the flight from Dublin, before Fiona and Myles Fletcher and the dead man in the alley--before Will had turned up.

Her eyes were dry now. "I'd love to sit down with you and talk about my mother. Until then, Director March, the rules are the same. Norman can't know I've been helping you. He can't know I'm not on his side. He won't just kill me if he finds out what I've done. He'll kill your daughter."

"This isn't your fight," March said.

"It is now. Keep your guys and the BPD off my case."

"Let me help you, Lizzie. Not the FBI. Me. Abigail's father."

His anguish brought fresh tears to her eyes. "You know that
won't work. I'm not doing anything crazy. I'm just going about my business the same way I have for the past year."

"I was your age when your mother died. Looking back, I know now how young I was. How young she was. And your father."

"Then she didn't trip on a wet cobblestone, did she?"

"I've made mistakes. Don't become one of them."

"There's one thing you can do for me. If Norman finds out what I've done and comes after my family--"

"We'll protect them, Lizzie. You have my word."

"You know you don't need to protect my father, don't you?"

March didn't answer.

"He's mad right now as it is. If he sees a bunch of FBI agents coming at him--" Lizzie didn't finish her thought. "He's not retired. He just pretends to be. He's the reason I was able to lead you to believe I was a professional."

"We can protect you, too."

"I hope you find your daughter. More than anything."

"Thank you," he said, his voice strangled now. "Lizzie--"

But she hung up on the director of the FBI, moved to the far right-hand lane and tossed her cell phone out the window. It was an inconvenience, but she didn't want the feds, the BPD or a bunch of spies pinging the number and finding her.

Boston, Massachusetts
6:02 p.m., EDT
August 26

W
ill kept his emotions in check, as much for his own sake as Fiona O'Reilly's, but there was no longer any question. Myles Fletcher was alive. Near. In Boston. Perhaps watching the police arrive at the murder scene.

Will had asked Fiona to repeat everything Myles had said to her. "It's important," he'd told her. "I can help in a way the police can't."

Fiona had complied. She was calmer now, hugging her arms to her chest as police cruisers descended on Beacon Street. "Your friend killed the man in the alley, didn't he?"

"Your father and his detectives will determine who is responsible. What you must do now is to be sure you've told me all you know."

She stared down at the pavement as if looking for ants.

Will knew he couldn't let her off the hook. "You've had a terrible scare, Fiona. It's understandable you don't want to do anything to distract investigators and send them in the wrong direction."

"Abigail's missing. Every minute..." She squinted up at him. "Every
second
counts."

On his cab ride into Boston from the airport, Will had called both Simon and Josie for updates, but there was still no sign of Abigail Browning, Norman Estabrook or his plane. He couldn't give Fiona false comfort. She was the daughter of an experienced detective and would see right through it.

"Good detectives prefer to have as much information as possible," he said. "They want to rely on their own experience and training to decide what's worthwhile and what isn't."

"I know," Fiona said, not combative, just stating the facts. As traumatized as she was, Will could see a similar inner strength he had observed in her cousin, Keira.

"What are you holding back?"

"Abigail..." Fiona curled her fingers into tight fists. "She stopped by the pub at the Whitcomb Hotel the night before last. Morrigan's. My friends and I were performing. We were wrapping up our final set. I could see she was uptight about something. She pulled me aside after we finished and told me it wasn't a good idea for me to be there."

"At the hotel?"

Fiona nodded. "She said she'd explain later but I should just..." The teenager sucked in a breath, fighting her own emotions. "She said I should trust her."

"What did you say to her?"

"Nothing. I didn't argue with her. I ignored her. I thought
she didn't want me there because Morrigan's is a bar and I'm under twenty-one and a cop's daughter. When I saw her--" Fiona again stared down at the pavement. "I avoided her yesterday. Before the bomb went off. I was snotty. I didn't want to talk to her. Now..."

"You feel guilty," Will said.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she sobbed silently as two police cruisers screeched to a halt at the alley, followed immediately by an unmarked police car. A redheaded man who had to be Fiona's father leaped out and trotted straight for her.

"Dad," Fiona whispered, using both hands now to wipe her tears.

A stiff, serious younger man got out from behind the wheel, joined uniformed officers and headed into the alley.

Bob O'Reilly was apoplectic when he reached his daughter. "I thought you played the damn harp so you wouldn't get yourself mixed up in a murder investigation." He sighed, his blue eyes--the same shade as Fiona's, as Keira's--filled with fear and guilt. "Fi...hell. You okay?"

She brushed her tears with the back of her wrist and nodded.

O'Reilly turned to Will. "Lord Davenport, I presume."

"Yes, Lieutenant. I'm sorry we're meeting under such difficult circumstances."

"Yeah, so am I. Simon's on his way." O'Reilly shifted back to his daughter. "Tell me what happened."

Fiona repeated her story. Will listened for additional details but heard nothing that made him doubt it was Myles who'd sat across from a nineteen-year-old musician and told her how to find a man he knew to be dead, presumably whom he'd killed himself. Possibly he was in fact Abigail Browning's only hope, but that didn't mean he was on her side.

Will let the questions come at him. Why was Myles Fletcher
involved with Norman Estabrook? Had the man Will had once trusted and considered a friend become a cutthroat mercenary? Was Myles now on no one's side but his own?

Had he never been on anyone's side but his own?

When Fiona finished, Bob O'Reilly had the look of the veteran detective he was. "Where's Lizzie Rush now?"

"She left." Fiona gave Will a sideways glance before turning back to her father. "She stayed cool. The whole time, Dad. She tried to keep me from seeing...the man."

"She a friend of yours?"

"I only...no."

He narrowed his eyes on his daughter. "What were you doing at the Whitcomb Hotel, Fi?"

"My ensemble performs there. I didn't tell you--" A touch of combativeness sparked in her blue eyes. "I knew you wouldn't approve."

"I don't," her father said bluntly. He nodded to the unmarked car. "Go sit in the air-conditioning. Get off your feet."

"Dad--"

"Go on, kid." He touched a thumb to a stray tear on her cheek. "I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"That man...the one who was killed..."

"We'll figure out what happened to him. Go." O'Reilly struggled for a smile. "See if you can find some harp music on the radio."

Will noticed her reluctance as she headed for the unmarked car, but he decided it had more to do with her desire not to miss anything than to remain with her father.

O'Reilly took a pack of gum from his pocket and tapped out a piece. He unwrapped it, balled up the paper in one hand and shoved it into his pocket with the rest of the pack. A ritual, Will realized.

The detective chewed the gum as he studied Will. "You know this guy, our killer Brit?"

"I didn't see him, Lieutenant O'Reilly."

"That's not what I asked."

Will said nothing. He wasn't in a position to explain his history with Myles Fletcher to this American detective. At the same time, Will didn't want to do anything that would impede the investigation into the murder in the alley and any connection the dead man or Myles had to Abigail Browning's disappearance.

"Here's the thing," O'Reilly said. "After thirty years as a cop, I often know when someone's lying or not telling me everything--unless it's one of my daughters. Want me to ask again?"

Will shook his head. "There's no need. Your daughter described a man I thought I knew."

"But now that he's put a bullet in some guy's brain, you're thinking maybe you didn't know him after all. His name?"

Will looked back at the car where Fiona sat alone in the back seat, the door still open. "Myles Fletcher."

"Who is he?"

"I told you--"

"No, you didn't. What's he do for a living? Is he a British noble? Does he go fishing a lot in Scotland? Does he know Simon Cahill?" O'Reilly worked hard on his gum. "I can rattle off a dozen other questions if you want or you can just tell me."

Will thought of Lizzie going into the alley on her own and finding a man shot to death by someone he should have dealt with himself two years ago.

He knew now what he had to do. "My assistant, Josie Goodwin, can help you." He kept his tone professional, without emotion. "Simon knows how to reach her. She'll be more precise and thorough than I can be."

"She in London?"

Will met the detective's eye. "Ireland. With your niece."

"Great," O'Reilly said sarcastically. "Just great. Did this Fletcher character send that thug after Keira?"

"I don't know."

"Another nonanswer. Does Fletcher know Abigail Browning, John March or Simon Cahill?"

"Lieutenant..."

"Norman Estabrook?"

"If you'll allow me, Lieutenant O'Reilly, I suggest you speak with Director March."

"All right. I'll do that." The detective's tone was cool, suspicious--and careful. As if he knew he didn't want to go too far and end up having his hands tied. "What do you know about the black-haired woman who helped my niece in the wilds of Ireland last night?"

He waited, but Will didn't fill the silence. He had anticipated that Boston law enforcement would have Lizzie's description by now. Undoubtedly, she had, too.

"I talked to Eddie O'Shea," O'Reilly continued. "He described her. American. Small, fast, black hair, green eyes. Knows how to fight--she took on an armed killer. The Irish cops are trying to find out who she is, where she went."

"Again--"

"Talk to March. Talk to anyone but you." O'Reilly pointed a thick finger at Will. "Eddie says you were there, and you let this woman go."

"Your niece is safe, Lieutenant, thanks to her."

"And a big black dog and no doubt fairies, too. I'm glad for that."

Fiona slipped out of the car and stood by the open door.

Her father didn't stop. "I saw Scoop Wisdom in the hospital.
He's all cut up. A mess. He managed to describe a suspicious woman he saw on our street the day before our house blew up. Small, green eyes, black hair. Even with all the pain dope in him, Scoop remembered her. Who is she?"

Will maintained a steady gaze on the senior law enforcement officer. "Again, you'll want to speak with Director March."

Before O'Reilly could respond, Fiona approached him. "Dad." She remained calm, but she was very pale. "Dad...I..."

Her father stared at her. "You know?"

"The woman--she--"

The detective groaned half to himself. "Ah, hell. Are we talking about Lizzie Rush? The woman who just helped you--"

"Her family owns the hotel on Charles Street."

"The Whitcomb. Yeah, I know. Why--"

"I told you, my ensemble plays there. We've been playing there all summer. The Rushes are nice people."

"The Rushes are..." O'Reilly glared at his daughter. "How well do you know them?"

Fiona looked miserable. "I didn't meet Lizzie until a few weeks ago. Her cousin Jeremiah has been helping me plan our trip to Ireland. He said Lizzie had worked there. Dad, I know she's not responsible for the bombs. She can't be."

"What did you two talk about besides Ireland?"

"I told her everything. I told her about Keira and Simon, and you and Aunt Eileen and the serial killer, and Ireland--the story about the stone angel. I told her that Keira and Simon borrowed a boat from Simon's friend, a British lord, and...Dad, I'm sorry."

O'Reilly looked as if he couldn't decide between hitting something or grabbing his daughter and running. "Relax, Fi." His tone softened as he unwrapped another piece of gum. "You
didn't tell Lizzie Rush anything she couldn't have found out on her own."

"I feel like a blabber."

"Lizzie's easy to talk to," Will said quietly. More police cars descended on the scene. Yellow tape was going up. Onlookers were arriving. He knew he had to make his stand now. "I can find her, Detective, but not if I'm caught up with your people."

Bob O'Reilly was clearly a man under monumental strain, but he remained focused. "This Fletcher character?"

"I can find him, as well."

"Does Simon go way back with him?"

"No, he doesn't. Lieutenant, you know if I don't leave now, I won't be able to without a lot of time and fuss."

The detective put the fresh piece of gum in his mouth. "Go."

The Whitcomb was smaller, narrower and more traditionally furnished than the Rush hotel in Dublin, but equally high-end and individual. A man who bore a striking resemblance to Justin Rush walked into the lobby from a side door. This would be Jeremiah, Will remembered. The third-born of the four Rush brothers and Lizzie's cousin.

"Lord Davenport, right?" Jeremiah nodded to a door behind him. "Through there. Down the steps. Out back."

"Thank you," Will said.

He followed Jeremiah's instructions and found himself in an alley with broken pavement, parked cars and Simon Cahill standing in front of a large Dumpster. Unlike his fellow FBI agents who'd begun to arrive farther up Beacon Street as Will had left, Simon wore jeans and a polo shirt.

Will descended the steps. "I wondered if you might find your way here. Has Lizzie--"

"She took off before I got here. Abigail's partner called me. Tom Yarborough. You'll meet him--he'll see to it."

"He's the detective who was with Lieutenant O'Reilly just now?"

Simon gave a curt nod. "He said you let Lizzie go."

"I did," Will admitted.

"Yarborough's ready to take her, you and me into custody. Her father, too."

"Is the tension getting to him?"

"Not a chance. He's just that way." Simon's expression was more that of an FBI agent than a friend as he eyed Will. "Myles Fletcher is alive?"

"Apparently so. He killed that man in the alley and arranged for Fiona O'Reilly to find him. I've been trying to think how he could have become involved with Estabrook."

"He could have figured out you and I were friends, discovered I was working for Estabrook and watched and waited for his chance."

"His chance for what? Money? Action? To get back at us, perhaps? Me for damaging his relationship with his friends in Afghanistan. You for saving my life."

"I could believe money and action," Simon said. "Not revenge. The Myles Fletcher you described to me is too pragmatic to indulge in revenge."

Will felt the humid heat of the afternoon and smelled asphalt, gasoline fumes and, faintly, garbage. As immaculate as the Whitcomb was, he and Simon were nevertheless in an alley. Will shut his eyes, launching himself back two years. He saw Philip and David fighting for their lives. For his life. For the life of the man who'd betrayed them.

And yet...none of what had happened had ever made sense
to him. Will had fought alongside Myles Fletcher. They'd trained together, gone drinking together. They'd tracked enemy fighters together, disrupted ambushes, cleaned out caches of weapons, called in close-air support--whatever their various missions had required.

"Will..."

He opened his eyes, focusing again on Simon. "You're right. Myles is too much a professional to take the risks he did today purely for revenge. He's doing a job."

Simon walked toward the hotel. There were terra cotta pots of red geraniums on each step up to the back door. "The Lizzie Rush I know is elegant, personable, attractive and smart, but she's not anyone I'd remotely imagine taking on a knife-wielding thug." He turned to Will. "Or you. She's under your skin, isn't she?"