The Mist (23 page)

Near Kennebunkport, Maine
6:25 a.m., EDT
August 27

W
ill stood out on Lizzie's deck in the gray of the southern Maine early morning. Fog had overspread the coast and stolen away the expansive view of the water. He had endured an interminable night on her sofa, the doors and windows open to the breeze and the sounds of seabirds, boats, a nearby chattering red squirrel. He'd have enjoyed the atmosphere of the little ocean house more if he'd been in Lizzie's bed.

With her, of course.

She was down by an evergreen, gnarled from its exposure to the ocean winds and salt spray, clinging to the edge of the rocks above the water. She'd slipped outside while he was in the shower. A signal, he'd thought, that she'd slept as fitfully as he had--and that she was as worried about Abigail Browning as he was and
hoping she'd made the right decision in coming to Maine. Lizzie was no more patient with feeling useless than he was.

She was an innocent civilian, he reminded himself. A hotelier, even if one who'd made sacrifices and taken dangerous risks to expose a criminal network and bring a wealthy, resourceful man to justice.

Josie Goodwin had texted him from Ireland asking him to call her. Will dialed her now as he watched Lizzie pick up a small rock and fling it into the fog.

"Our friends in the garda would prefer I not call you," Josie said when she picked up. "But I am ignoring their wisdom."

"Where are you?"

"At Aidan O'Shea's farmhouse. It's a delight. Two sheep just wandered up to me among the roses. I had tea with Keira this morning. The guards objected letting me see her at first, but I persuaded them."

Will smiled. "Of course you did. What have you learned?"

"Keira can draw scary pictures as well as beautiful ones, and Michael Murphy had helpers. He's cooperating. He led the guards to an isolated house near the old copper mines. He and two friends planned to take Simon there after he'd discovered Keira's body in the stone circle."

"They were to hold him for Estabrook," Will said.

"Yes. He wanted to witness Simon's grief and then kill him himself, with his own hands."

Will stared into the fog. He could hear a seagull, invisible in the distance. Lizzie had moved to the other side of her tree. "I want this bastard, Josie."

"So do I. We're not alone. The guards, Keira and I have become great friends. But there's more, Will. Before her death, Shauna Morrigan Rush tipped off the Americans to an FBI
agent working with the Boston Irish mob...." When Will didn't respond, Josie added, "That would be Lizzie Rush's mother, Will."

"Who tripped on a cobblestone on Temple Bar."

"And whose family died in a tragic car accident when they rushed to Dublin after hearing the news of her death. The Boston police sent a detective to Ireland to look into Shauna's death."

Will gripped his phone. "John March."

"Indeed," Josie said. "Shortly after he returned from Dublin, he exposed the identity of an FBI agent who had dealings--imagine this--with the Boston Irish mob. The Irish ruled the deaths of Shauna and her family accidents."

"Undoubtedly March didn't tell them all he knew."

"Does he ever tell anyone all he knows?"

It wasn't a question Will was meant to answer. Below him, Lizzie's hair seemed as black as the rocks that ran up and down the immediate coastline. The famous beaches of southern Maine were farther to the north and south. He envisioned exploring tide pools with her in some vague and no doubt unrealizable future.

"Will? Are you there?"

He understood the concern he heard in Josie's voice. He wasn't one for a wandering mind, in part because he was so disciplined about avoiding romantic entanglements, particularly on the job.

But was he, really, on the job right now?

"March attracts tragedy," Will said.

"No one goes through life without facing tragedy, but a man with
his
life is bound to face more than his share. Director March is a complex and honest man," Josie said, unusually thoughtful and introspective. "He's had to make difficult choices, and he has secrets. They come with the work he does, and he's been at it a long time."

"What do you suppose we'll be doing in thirty years, Josie?"

Her bright laugh broke through their somber mood. "I'll be having tea with other toothless old women and telling tales about my days working with a handsome nobleman. They'll think I've gone daft and won't believe a word." She quickly returned to the serious matters at hand. "Will, if Shauna Morrigan was killed because she was an informant for March, then your Lizzie Rush has reason to hate him."

"Estabrook must know. Her past could be the reason he befriended her in the first place. He could have been drawn to the drama of it initially, and as his obsession with March grew--"

"He could want Lizzie as his ally in fighting March," Josie interjected, "or perhaps as a prize of some sort--the motherless child wronged by a powerful and ambitious man. Estabrook's a very twisted human being, Will. It's not easy to get inside his thinking."

"Lizzie knows, or at least suspects, what he's up to," Will said. "That's why she's here. She hopes he'll come to her."

Josie didn't respond at once. "From what I've managed to get out of our Irish friends, Shauna Morrigan was very good. Regardless of how she died. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don't work out the way we mean them to."

Will stiffened as he noticed two men emerge from the trees and fog on the path along the edge of the rocks and approach Lizzie.

A dark-haired man touched her arm, and she turned to him.

Will peered through the gloom, recognizing the man's movements, his posture. "Josie, I have to go."

"He's there, isn't he?"

But Will had disconnected.

Lizzie called up to him on the deck. "I'll be back soon."

She went with the two men.

With Myles Fletcher.

They ducked behind the evergreen and disappeared up the path, in the thick fog.

Will bolted for the stairs, but Simon was on the top step, blocking the way. "Hold on, Will," he said, putting up a hand. "Think."

"Simon, it's Myles. I can't let him--"

"We won't let anything happen to Lizzie. You, me, we're here for her."

"You're an FBI agent. You have procedures you need to follow."

"Listen to me, Will. Norman doesn't know Lizzie is March's source. March didn't even know until yesterday. I sure as hell didn't have a clue." Simon came up onto the deck, its wood shiny and wet from the damp air. "She's been playing this game for months."

"Not with Myles she hasn't."

"Norman forced Abigail to talk to her father last night." Simon turned to Will as he stood in front of the railing. "It was bad."

Will understood what his friend was saying and didn't need him to describe the call in detail. "I'm sorry, Simon. I can only imagine how painful that must have been for March--for you." He walked over to the railing. A red squirrel scampered up the tree where only moments ago Lizzie had been throwing rocks into the water. Had she seen the men on the path? Could she have called for his help sooner, run back to the house--kept them from taking her? "I know how Myles thinks. I know his tactics."

"And you want him," Simon said.

"Simon, we must do this my way or Lizzie and Abigail Browning are almost certainly dead."

"What about Fletcher? Is there a chance--"

"Is there a chance we can trust him? It makes no difference.
Whether Myles is with us or against us--or only looking after himself--doesn't affect what we must do now."

"All right." Simon gave a grim smile. "Lucky I came armed."

"Simon," Will said, "you don't have to do this."

"Does Lizzie have a weapon?"

Will pictured her lithe, small body in jeans and a sweatshirt down on the rocks. He wished he'd shut her up in the fog with him and left Norman Estabrook, Myles Fletcher and their violence to the Americans.

Simon frowned. "Will..."

"No. No weapon. She has her wits, and her father trained her well. She's managed to keep her secrets for months from you, John March and a brilliant, wealthy risk-taker." Will looked down at the rocks and water. The squirrel chattered, out of sight. A seagull landed on a large boulder and stared up at the deck as if he had answers, knew all the secrets of his coastline. "Lizzie guessed Estabrook would come here."

"Maybe she hoped he would." Simon pulled open a door. "I'll alert SWAT and get them moving."

"On our direction. Not a moment sooner."

"Sure, Will. We'll make sure they get here in time to save our asses or put us in body bags."

Boston, Massachusetts
7:02 a.m., EDT
August 27

B
ob sat across from John March at a table under a window in Morrigan's. It was very early, and the bar was closed, the liquor bottles still put away for the night. Jeremiah Rush, who seemed to be perpetually on duty, hadn't stopped the FBI director--or Bob--from going downstairs. March was alone. He'd shaken his protective detail, told them to go to hell, threatened to shoot them--Bob didn't know what.

None of them had slept. Him, March, Lucas Jones, Tom Yarborough. Who knew where Simon was. Hearing Abigail tortured on the line with her father didn't sit well with any of them.

"It's too early to drink," Bob said. "You should at least have a cup of coffee."

"I just wanted to be alone for a few minutes. Here, where..." March cleared his throat without finishing his thought.

"We're never alone, John. Our ghosts are always with us."

March's eyes showed a fear no man should know. "Lizzie Rush. Abigail..." He sighed heavily and nodded to the empty bar. "It all started here thirty years ago."

Bob didn't know what good drifting into the past would do. "We've made progress in the past few hours. Not much. Some."

"You shouldn't have come here, Bob." March abruptly snapped up to his feet. "Don't follow me," he said, making it an order, and started for the half flight of stairs.

Bob's head throbbed. John March had never made anyone's life easy. It wasn't why he was on the planet. Resisting the temptation to sit there and wait for the bar to open, order Irish whiskey and not move for the rest of the day, Bob forced himself to get to his feet.

If he wasn't breaking federal laws, March had no authority over him.

Bob headed up the stairs after the FBI director. Given what she knew about her mother's death--what any of them knew except March himself--Lizzie Rush had good reason to hate him, at least to be a little or a lot obsessed with him. She was up on the board as a person of interest, potentially in cahoots with Norman Estabrook and guilty as hell.

Except no one really believed that.

Jeremiah Rush was standing behind his desk, directing a middle-aged couple to the Freedom Trail. Without breaking eye contact with them, he gave a subtle nod toward a hall behind him.

Two minutes later, Bob took the hotel's back steps to a narrow alley, one of the countless nooks and crannies he was always surprised to find on Beacon Hill.

March was eyeing a shiny dark blue BMW.

Bob motioned to the expensive car. "Going to steal it, John?"

"I want to trade my life for hers." March didn't meet Bob's eye, the only indication--other than being there in the first place--that the strain of his daughter's kidnapping had gotten to him. "Let Estabrook torture me instead."

"Come on, will you?" Bob said, nearly knocking a pot of geraniums off the bottom step. "Cut me a break. I lose the FBI director in Boston, and they'll zap my pension for sure."

March's shoulders slumped, but only for a second before he straightened again. Even now, after hearing his kidnapped daughter scream in agony, cry for her daddy, he didn't have a thread or a hair out of place. But anyone who thought he was unaffected would, Bob knew, be making a mistake.

March blew out a breath at the overcast sky. "It was hard enough to shake my detail, but you, O'Reilly. Hell." He looked over at his longtime friend. "Fill me in."

Bob was relieved to have the emotions out of the way. "The dead guy, Bassette, was local. You know that. He hired a couple of guys from Chicago--Estabrook's old stomping grounds. One of them must have sneaked into our yard and planted the bomb on Abigail's porch. Cops. You'd think we'd sew up the place, but only so much you can do. They could have thrown the bomb over the fence and killed Scoop and Fiona outright."

"Bob--"

"You don't need Estabrook to torture you. You're torturing yourself. I know. I've been doing the same thing, blaming myself for Fiona having to sit there with Scoop bleeding all over her. For what she saw yesterday in that alley." Bob bent over and righted the flowerpot. He had no idea why. He sighed. "It gets us nowhere. The blame."

"I'm sorry, Bob. For Fiona. She's a good kid. She--"

"Why are you sorry? What did you do to her?"

The FBI director barely cracked a smile, and Bob suddenly remembered them standing on a South Boston street years ago. March, ten years older, handsome, had been on the move, and Bob, just a kid, had been a cop's son who didn't want his friend up the street to be dead. Every night, he'd prayed for Deirdre McCarthy to come home to her mother. Things hadn't worked out that way, and now, thirty years later, he could feel that awful, hot, violent summer reaching out to him and the man a few yards from him, sucking them back into a time and a world they both had tried to forget.

Bob felt ragged and out of control, even as he was determined to get through the day. Do his job. Find Abigail. Arrest her kidnappers.

March looked as if he'd crumble if anyone touched him.

"You know Abigail wants a wedding?" Bob dug out another pack of gum. "She's not waiting anymore. She's marrying her rich Garrison. I'll be invited. Who knows where it'll be."

"Owen's a good man," March said, choking back his emotion.

"He didn't grow up like we did. None of them did." Bob worked a piece of gum out of the pack. "Then there's Keira. Ten to one she and Simon will be getting married. She's already dragging me on that Christmas trip to Ireland. Hell, John. These women are going to break my bank."

March had tears now in his dark eyes. "Are you at peace with your past, Bob?"

Bob grinned at him. "Never."

"I keep hearing her scream."

"I know. We all do, but it's worse for you. Be glad her mother didn't get that call." Bob peeled off the wrapper and stuck the
gum in his mouth. "Because I'm your friend, John, I'm going to tell you this. Kathryn wants to take you to a spa retreat."

"A spa--Bob, what are you talking about?"

He chewed his gum. "She told Abigail on her last trip to Boston. I was up on my porch, and I overheard them talking down by Scoop's garden. I can see you in a bathrobe, drinking herbal tea, waiting for your massage--"

"All right, enough." March sighed up at the sky again. "We're not as young as we used to be."

"So? Who cares? We know what we're doing now. Right?"

"Does anyone ever--"

"You're giving me a headache, John. I figure we have ten minutes, tops, before that prick Yarborough lands on us. You know damn well he's on our trail. He's not going to let us off Beacon Hill."

March managed a weak grin. "Whose job does he get first, yours or mine?"

"He can have mine. I'm moving to Ireland to sing in pubs." Bob saw now what he and March had to do. Maybe March had already seen it, and he'd just been letting the younger police lieutenant come to the same conclusion on his own. Or maybe Bob was taking the lead this time. It didn't matter. "Lizzie Rush's old man taught her well, but let's go find her and her new Brit friend, Lord Davenport. You and me."

The back door to the hotel opened, and a tawny-haired, middle-aged man in wrinkled khakis walked down the steps. Clearly a Rush, he looked at the two men in the alley as if he knew exactly who they were. "Lizzie's her mother's daughter." The newcomer was tanned and leathery, his tone cool, controlled--but he radiated an intensity that told Bob that this man, too, had a loved one in harm's way. "I took the red-eye from Vegas. I hate flying. Fill me
in, or do I need to kidnap Boston's chief homicide detective and the director of the FBI?"

Harlan Rush, Lizzie Rush's father, could do it, too. Bob balled up his gum wrapper and shoved it in his pocket as he looked to March. "John?"

March didn't hesitate. "We go."

Harlan dangled a set of keys from his hand. "My nephew said we could borrow his dad's car. It's that one right there. Lucky, huh? You don't need to steal it after all."

"Licensed to carry concealed?" Bob asked him.

Harlan headed past Bob for the BMW. "I'm licensed to carry a cruise missile to shove up Norman Estabrook's flabby butt."

Bob figured, who was he to argue?

He climbed into the leather backseat of Bradley Rush's sedan, Harlan Rush at the wheel, next to him, the former BPD detective who'd investigated his Irish wife's death.

"I hope by the time we get to Maine," Bob said as Rush started the car, "we find out Abigail is safe and sound here in Boston, and we can all have fried clams."

The two men in front made no comment.

"Yeah," Bob said on a breath. "Let's go."