The Mist (9 page)

"Of your sort?"

He let Eddie's question slide unanswered.

"Is that why you let her go?" Eddie's eyes shone with both amusement and suspicion. "A strapping Brit like yourself, worrying a tiny woman would best you."

"She'd just bested an armed, hired killer."

"Ah. You wouldn't stand a chance, would you?"

Will pictured her at the fire with Keira's book of folktales and smiled. "I didn't say that." He passed a business card that Josie had made up for him in London across the bar. "Call me anytime. For any reason."

"And the same, Lord Will. You call me anytime. I'll do whatever I can to help." Eddie took Will's empty mug and set it in the sink. "Who's the Brit you're thinking I saw?"

Will knew he couldn't answer. A lie, the truth--neither was acceptable, and so he said nothing.

Eddie seemed to understand the line his question had crossed. "If I see him again?"

"If you see him again," Will said carefully, "treat him like a shopkeeper who's here on holiday."

"Or he'll kill me in my sleep?"

Josie Goodwin answered from the door. "It won't matter if you're asleep," she said as she unzipped her coat, its style more suited to London than a quiet Irish village. She walked over to the bar, steady if visibly shaken. "I came as soon as I could. I'll be of more use here than in London should Keira need a hand,
and perhaps I can persuade our garda friends to share information. I miss the city already. It's bloody dark out there."

A strongly built, attractive woman in her late thirties, she was as pale as Will had ever seen her. He'd been aware of her presence in the door, but he didn't know how much she'd overheard. He started to introduce her to Eddie, but the Irishman put up a hand to stop him. "I'll leave you two to your chat. I can see I won't be wanting to hear what you have to say."

As he retreated, Will felt Josie's emotions, checked, under control but there. "Josie," he said, "we don't know--"

She cut him off neatly. "Let me just say my piece and get it done. You should go back to London, Will. Leave this mess to the Americans and the Irish to sort out."

"You've more on our mystery woman?"

"Her name is Lizzie Rush." Josie eased onto the tall bar stool next to Will. "She's one of the hotelier Rushes. She's in charge of their concierge and excursion services and leads quite an adventurous life."

"What's her connection to Simon?"

"She was with Norman Estabrook in Montana the day he was arrested. The FBI questioned her but didn't detain her."

"Are she and Estabrook romantically involved?"

"No. Absolutely not, according to what little I have managed to learn. He liked having attractive, successful people around him. She was one of them."

"Does she have a connection to John March?"

Josie sighed. "I'm still digging."

"March would use anyone to get what he wants."

"He's a suffering father right now, Will."

"I know. The man's in an impossible position."

"He often is." Obviously restless, she jumped down from the
stool and went around to the other side of the bar, where she helped herself to a glass and a bottle of Midleton Rare Whiskey. "You can't let your dislike of Director March interfere with your judgment."

"It's mutual dislike, but also impersonal on a certain level since we've never met face-to-face. I'm convinced he's known more about Myles than he's ever been willing to tell us. He doesn't believe I can be fully trusted." Which was more than Will had ever admitted to Josie about his attitude toward the current FBI director and was all he planned to say. "Is Lizzie Rush a rich woman meddling in affairs of no concern to her because she's bored and has a zest for adventure, or does she have her own quarrel with Norman Estabrook?"

"She could also be on his side in a peculiar way," Josie said as she splashed whiskey into her glass, adding without sympathy, "If she's sticking her nose where it doesn't belong, she could get it cut off."

"Instead of fleeing, she stopped Keira from being killed."

"Which by itself means nothing, Will. You know that. What you saw tonight could have been staged, cooked up by her and Murphy to mislead us. This woman could have her own agenda and not give a damn about Keira, Estabrook, Simon or anyone else."

There was no one on the planet more clear-eyed or more unlikely to let emotion cloud her judgment than Josie Goodwin. Will recognized how much he'd come to rely on her not just for her efficiency, but as a sounding board. "I suppose theoretically she could have her own plans that could get mucked up if Keira and the people in Boston were killed."

"What about Abigail Browning?" Josie asked, taking a swallow of her whiskey even before she set down the bottle. She choked a little and gave her chest a pound with her fist. "Sorry. I haven't had a drop of alcohol in months. I was crying over my sorrows too many nights and..." She waved a hand. "Never mind. Per
haps our Lizzie Rush, regardless of why she was here, can help find Detective Browning."

Will narrowed his eyes. "You've more information?"

"Not much. I spoke to Simon." She got a pained look. "It's not good. There are no witnesses or substantial leads, and so far, there have been no calls for ransom."

"But no body, either, I gather."

"Correct. No body." Josie made a face as she swallowed more of her Midleton's. "You know I don't care for whiskey, don't you?"

Will smiled. "Yes, Josie, I know."

She coughed, took a smaller swallow this time. Her eyes, a dark blue, were hard and unforgiving, a contrast to the vulnerability her pale skin suggested.

A woman of contrasts, Josie Goodwin.

"You're a wealth of information, as always," Will said. "What would I do without you?"

"Live a lovely life in Scotland, I've no doubt." She returned the whiskey bottle to its place in Eddie's lineup. "Do you believe Miss Rush could help us find Myles Fletcher, that bloody traitor?"

"Josie..."

"It's a serious, professional question, Will."

"We've no reliable evidence that he's alive."

Josie polished off her whiskey, giving a final shudder of distaste as she turned back to him. "The barman's description, Will. It fits."

"It fits other British men, too, I'm sure. It isn't definitive by itself."

Josie gave him a long, cool look as she rinsed her glass. "You're trying to spare me."

He attempted a smile. "You? Never."

"All right, then. We'll do this your way. There's no good answer here, is there? Either Myles Fletcher was a traitor killed two years ago, or he survived and is now a cold-blooded mercenary."

Myles Fletcher was a name Will knew Josie didn't want to utter and certainly wasn't one he wanted to hear. "I should have worked harder to find him."

"We all did everything possible. Everything, Will."

"What if he's not--"

"Don't." Her voice was hoarse, her eyes dark and intense. "Don't, Will. Please."

He acceded to her wish with a reluctant nod and didn't continue.

"If Estabrook has hired Myles or allied himself with him in any way, it means he has someone on his payroll who can help him realize any violent impulses he has." Josie fell silent a moment. "I hope that's not the case."

"I do, too."

She didn't look at Will. "If Myles is alive, I hope he's lost his memory and has opened a tea shop in Liverpool. If not..." She glanced up, her cheeks less pale now. "I had the chance to smother him to death."

"Josie."

"All right, then. On we go. I'll investigate possible connections between Myles and Lizzie Rush, between him and her family." Josie hesitated, then said, "Perhaps she's in love with him. Myles does have a way with women."

"From her questioning of Michael Murphy, I would say Lizzie doesn't know him at all--"

"Which could be what she wants you to think." Josie came around to the other side of the bar. "I needn't remind you that
Myles is a capable, ruthless killer. If he's alive, Will, don't think you can reason with him."

"Josie, I'm sorry his name's come up."

But she wasn't finished. "If you see him, put a bullet in his head. Find a way to do it. He's a predator. He hovers in the bush, waiting for the right moment, the right prey. Then he springs. I know, Simon. I was his prey once."

"He manipulated both of us, in different ways," Will said softly. "We owe his service, what he once was, an open mind."

Josie zipped up her coat, her eyes bitter now as well as hard. "Myles knows how to make people see what they want to see in him." She went on briskly, before Will could respond. "Interestingly the Rush family doesn't own a hotel in the U.K. They do, however, own what I understand is a charming hotel in Dublin."

"And how is this relevant?" Will asked.

"Because I reserved a room for you there for tonight. It should be quite lovely. You can see for yourself and let me know. They're expecting you for a very late arrival."

"Do you believe that's where Lizzie went, or do you know?"

"An educated guess, and either way, it's a good place to start. You
are
going after her, aren't you?"

Will thought of Lizzie Rush's green eyes, black-lashed and bold, yet, he was sure, hiding secrets, fears. But didn't everyone?

"Yes," he said, "I'm going after her."

"Excellent. I approve." At last, a glint of humor. "Give my best to Simon when you see him. And Keira?" Josie asked, more subdued, speaking as if she knew the woman Simon Cahill had fallen for earlier that summer, although the two of them had yet to meet. "She's all right?"

Will nodded. "Impatient to be with Simon."

"Ah, yes. One can imagine. Well," she added, "you should leave. Dublin's over three hundred kilometers, but you'll manage. You're accustomed to odd hours, long days--" she gave him a wicked smile "--and longer nights."

Will sighed and gave no comment.

"In any event," Josie said, "you've much to keep you wide-awake and on your toes."

"I see that plans have been made and announced, and I have only to comply."

"Finally he sees the light."

But their cheerfulness was momentary. "What about you, Josie?" Will asked her.

"I've booked a room at a five-star hotel in Kenmare, but perhaps I would be wise not to make the drive over these dark roads after gulping whiskey. Imagine the international row if I'm picked up by the Irish authorities. Much better to work with them discreetly."

Eddie O'Shea wandered back in behind his bar, nothing in his demeanor indicating he'd eavesdropped. "My brother Aidan has a room at his farm down the lane," he said to Josie. "You'd be welcome to stay."

Josie smiled, looking genuinely delighted. "A night on an Irish farm. A perfect ending to a difficult day."

Boston, Massachusetts
6:25 p.m., EDT
August 25

T
he late afternoon sun beat down on the sidewalk in front of the triple-decker where Bob had lived for the past three years. There was no shade and no breeze. Sweat trickled down his temples and stuck his shirt to the small of his back. The firefighters had put out the fire and torn up and hosed down what they needed to, creating a big mess but saving the building, at least structurally. Abigail's and Scoop's back porches were cinders. Her apartment would have to be gutted to the studs. Hard to say yet about the other two places. They'd have to get the insurance people out here.

At least no one found any other bombs.

Ever since the ambulance had left with Scoop, bloodied, in rough shape, Bob had made it clear he was in charge of the in
vestigation. He'd gotten through the major briefing with city, state and federal law enforcement personnel held on the street outside the crime scene tape. He had detectives canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses, processing the scene, putting together rudimentary timelines.

The working theory had dirtbag, or dirtbags, slipping into the backyard of the triple-decker and placing an explosive device under the small gas grill on Abigail's first-floor porch. Since she and Owen rarely used the grill and, given their busy lives, spent little time sitting out on the porch, the bomb could have been there for a few days, a few hours. It had been detonated by a remote-controlled switching device.

The bomb in Owen's car had to have been placed there after he'd arrived on Beacon Hill. Otherwise he'd have blown up when he turned the key leaving Abigail's apartment that morning.

According to Fiona, Bob's warning had given Scoop a split second to grab her and dive behind the compost bin.

Saved by dirt and kitchen scraps.

Only Scoop.

They'd all done the drills. What happens if police officers are targeted by a series of bombs?

This, Bob thought. This is what happens.

He was satisfied that people were doing what they were supposed to, except the idiot who'd thought it would be okay to tell his ex-wife, the mother of their three daughters, where to find him.

Tight-lipped and drawn, Theresa O'Reilly glared at him under the hot sun. "Never again." She pointed a blunt-nailed finger at him in that way she had. "Do you understand me?
Never
again."

Bob let her anger bounce off him. Getting into it with her never worked. "Fiona doesn't want to go home with you and the girls."

"I don't care what she wants. She's not going back to her apartment."

"Whoa. I'm with you, Ter."

Without consulting either parent, their eldest daughter had decided to sublet an apartment for the summer with three of her musician friends. The bomb squad had been through their place in Brighton but hadn't found anything. They'd also checked the South Boston waterfront apartment where his sister, Eileen, Keira's mother, was house-sitting after giving up her crazy life in the woods. She'd left Bob a message on his cell phone saying she was praying for everyone's safety. That was good. He'd surprised himself by saying a prayer himself.

For Abigail, he thought. For her safe return.

Theresa's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry." She was shaking, her teeth chattering. "It's awful. This whole thing."

Bob felt terrible. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry, too."

She was chief of operations at a high-tech firm in suburban Lexington. They'd met when he was a patrol officer and she was an office temp with big dreams. They'd stuck together until Jayne, their youngest, was four. That was seven years ago. He'd tried marriage again two years later, for about three seconds. Theresa hadn't remarried, but she had a boyfriend. Another executive. She'd sworn off cops after Bob.

He couldn't stand his ex-wife's fear. "Dyeing your hair these days, Ter?"

"Go to hell. And don't call me 'Ter.' It's Theresa."

"Okay. It's Theresa."

She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. Her hair was a honey-blond--total dye job, he was sure--and she had lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but she looked good. The years hadn't been so kind to him. He needed to take
off a few pounds, and there were brown spots on his arms and face that hadn't been there before. He was a redhead. His doctor was always on him about sunscreen.

Yeah. How about burning his face off in a fire? What would sunscreen do for that?

"Bob?"

"I'm tuned in, Ter. Just waiting for your next shot."

She shook her head at him. "Bastard." She touched his arm, briefly. "Are you all right?"

"Never better."

He glanced at the black FBI SUV where BPD detectives were reinterviewing Fiona. She'd had a break and sat in the air-conditioning for a while, had something to eat and drink. Now she was slumped against the SUV and back at it.

Enough already.

"Wait here," Bob told his ex-wife. "I'll spring Fi as soon as I can. It'll be a few minutes."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He knew she was true to her word. For all the ways they irritated each other, she was a devoted mother. His legs felt wobbly as he headed for the SUV. Adrenaline dump. Nothing a couple of shots of Jameson's wouldn't cure. They'd help the guilt, too. Theresa had wanted him to go to night school and become a lawyer like John March. All those years ago, begging him. She'd never liked police work. She'd never gotten used to the anxiety or believed the statistics. "You carry a gun to work, Bob," she'd told him. "What more do I need to know?"

No answer to a question like that. What more
did
Theresa need to know?

He saw Tom Yarborough make his way over to her. Yarborough had been a rock since the explosion, professional, focused,
but not unemotional. He and Abigail had worked together for eight months and were always butting heads. Bob had straightened out a few disagreements between them, but they both were top-notch homicide detectives who respected each other. Abigail was just easier to get along with.

Theresa was dabbing a tissue at her eyes now. Bob couldn't take tears and turned his attention to his daughter.

Fiona had gone through her ordeal first with him, in the initial hysteria as the paramedics were working on Scoop, and then in more detail, with more control, with Yarborough and Lucas Jones. Lucas was Abigail's former partner. He'd been promoted to lieutenant last fall and moved over to narcotics. Since Norman Estabrook was in cahoots with drug traffickers, Lucas said he should be in on the investigation. He was still with Fiona as she slumped against the side of the SUV. He'd left a picnic with his young family in Roxbury to head to the scene. He was built like a sparkplug and relished being a professional more than a tough guy. But he could be both.

"How you holding up, kid?" Bob asked his daughter.

She gnawed on her lower lip. "Okay."

"She's wrung out," Lucas said, "but she's doing great."

If Bob had to pick someone to interview his daughter, it'd be Lucas. The guy was a peach as well as one of BPD's finest detectives. But Bob didn't want Fiona talking to cops. He wanted her back with her friends, playing Irish drinking songs.

Down the street, Simon Cahill arrived and showed his FBI credentials to a uniformed BPD officer. He had two FBI suits with him who'd obviously been assigned to keep him alive, but he split off from them and walked over to the SUV. He looked cool, unfazed by the action around him, but that, Bob had learned, was Simon. Even so, he wasn't the affable man who'd danced and
sung to Irish tunes with Keira in the triple-decker's backyard two months ago. A yard that was now charred, wet, bloody and filled with crime scene investigators.

"Bob..." Simon took a moment to clear his throat. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Did you set the bombs?"

"I should have seen this through before I got involved with Keira. Estabrook was already obsessed with John March, but--"

"Stop. You know regrets won't help now."

"You're right." He blew out a breath, recovering his composure. "I'd like to take Fiona through what happened."

Lucas heard him and stepped away from her, protective. "You can see my notes."

Simon ignored him, his eyes on Bob.

Bob sighed. "One fed talks to her. You. That's it."

"I'll see to it."

"And I stay," Bob added.

Lucas didn't look happy, but he moved off without argument. Simon opened up the back door to the SUV, reached inside and got out a bottle of water. He flipped open the top, shut the door and handed the water to Fiona. She mumbled her thanks.

"Feeling okay?" Simon asked.

She nodded. The paramedics had checked her over, but, except for a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, she was fine. She'd cleaned up as best she could, and Bob had bullied his way upstairs to his place and fetched her a fresh shirt. It didn't smell that bad of smoke and it was in better shape than the shirt she'd worn over there that morning, now soaked in Scoop's blood.

Staring at the sidewalk, sipping her water, Fiona said that she was picking tomatoes with Scoop and humming Irish tunes, and next thing, he flung her behind the compost pile and there was smoke and fire and debris--and blood.

"Did you see anyone before the blast?" Simon asked.

She shook her head.

"What time did you arrive?"

"Around two. I wanted to talk to my dad about our Christmas trip to Ireland. You know Keira's going with us, right? Our grandmother was born in Ireland, and my dad and her mom are of Irish descent on both sides."

Simon smiled gently. "I'm familiar with your Irish family roots."

"I had some information I printed off the Internet about where to have tea in Dublin on Christmas Eve. Doesn't that sound like fun, having tea in Ireland on Christmas Eve?"

Bob worked harder on his gum. He'd already been through two packs. Simon wouldn't care about tea in Dublin or anywhere else, but he said, "I can see your dad at high tea, can't you?"

"He'll love it."

"Probably will. So, you got your print-outs together and headed to your dad's place. Where were you?"

"The Garrison house on Beacon Street. I was practicing harp."

"Any of your friends there?"

"No, I was alone. Well, except for Owen, but he was upstairs at the foundation offices. He was there when I arrived at ten." She'd obviously already gone through the timeline. "Mostly I just practiced."

"Did you take the T over here," Simon said, "or did you drive?"

"The T. Then I walked. It was a beautiful day.
Is
." She sucked in a breath and took a gulp of water. "I feel sick."

Simon ignored her. Bob would have, too. "Where'd you get on the T?"

"Downtown Crossing. The Orange Line."

"Anyone get on with you?"

"I think so. I didn't pay attention. No one stuck out to me."

"Anyone get off the T with you?"

"No, and no one followed me. I always check. It's habit." Her eyes lifted to her father. "My dad taught me to notice things."

Simon didn't even glance sideways at Bob, just stayed focused on Fiona. "So, you're walking toward your dad's place..."

"I didn't notice anything unusual then, either. Cars, people. When I got here, I went out back. I didn't knock or ring the doorbell or anything."

"Your dad was expecting you?"

She nodded. "I'd called him on my cell phone when I got off the T. I went out back and yelled up to let him know I was here."

"Gate to the backyard was unlocked?"

"Yes. I just walked right in. I told Dad I'd pick tomatoes and bring them up to him. Scoop had plenty.
Has
plenty." She shot an angry look at Simon and then Bob as if she expected them to argue with her, but it didn't last. She continued, less combative. "The firefighters and paramedics stomped on the tomatoes getting to us, but I think some of them are still okay. Scoop will be back in his garden soon."

"All right." Simon leaned against the SUV, not looking hot, tense or remotely exhausted, despite the guilt and tension he had to be experiencing. "You're in the backyard. You give your dad a shout. Was he outside?"

Fiona shook her head. "He came onto his back porch when he heard me. He said hi, then went back inside."

"And Scoop was in the garden?"

"That's right."

"Did he invite you to join him, or did you invite yourself?"

"I invited myself. I love tomatoes."

"So you join him. Then what?"

She drank more water before she answered. "Abigail said hello."

"Where was she, do you remember?"

"Her porch. I thought at first she was in her kitchen, but I..." Fiona's hands trembled visibly. This was where her story took a turn from picking tomatoes in the summer sun to hell. "I was wrong. She was on her porch."

"What exactly did she say?" Simon asked.

Fiona thought a moment. "She said, 'Hey, Fiona, don't let Scoop pawn off wormy tomatoes on you.'"

Simon smiled. "Scoop have anything to say about that?"

"He held up a gorgeous, round, red tomato and said, 'See that, Browning? You can't buy tomatoes that pretty.'"

"And she said?"

Fiona's lower lip trembled in a way that reminded Bob of her as a baby. "Nothing. Not that I heard." She scrunched up her face, concentrating. "A phone rang. I didn't think of it until now. That must have been--that's why she went inside."

"To answer the phone," Simon said.

"Then Dad yelled, and Scoop grabbed me."

"So first the phone, then your dad, then Scoop."

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"Scoop hurled me behind the compost bin."

"Did he say anything?" Simon asked.

"Not a word. He knocked the breath out of me. I had just enough time to notice I couldn't breathe when the bomb exploded. I had no idea what was going on. Then Scoop..." She was taking rapid, shallow breaths now, off in her own world of memory, fear. "Everything felt like it happened at once. The explosion, the concussion--it felt like the air was being sucked out of me, the whole backyard. Scoop grunted and then--there was so much blood."