The Mist (15 page)

Yarborough appeared out of nowhere and fell in beside him. Bob frowned. "I thought you were doing something useful."

"I decided I didn't want to leave you alone," Yarborough said, almost kindly, and nodded toward his car. "Come on. I'll take you wherever you want to go."

"The crime scene."

"The--"

"That would be my house, Tom."

He looked uncomfortable for a half beat. "Okay. Let's go."

"Abigail ever mention a small, black-haired woman to you?"

"No, why?"

"You ever see one?"

"Like, two million every time I get on the subway."

"She's got green eyes, too. And shin splints."

Yarborough was staring at him as if he might have to make a detour to the psych ward, but he said, still kindly, "You can tell me about her on the way to Jamaica Plain."

Which was when Bob knew he looked as sick and worried as he felt. But it didn't matter. He had to stay focused and do his job.

"Abigail's strong," Yarborough said, all reassuring. "She'll--"

"I'm getting my gun."

The younger detective looked relieved. "Good idea."

Off the New England coast
Mid-day
August 26

N
orman Estabrook entered the stateroom with Fletcher two steps behind him. The billionaire looked more rested, and he wasn't wearing his porkpie hat. His light brown hair needed a trim. Abigail sat up on the sectional. She was nauseated but so far had managed to keep her food down. The wet bar was well-stocked with gourmet items, but she'd have loved a plain piece of toast.

"You're pale," Estabrook said. "Are you getting enough to eat?"

"Plenty."

"Did you sleep?"

She nodded. Fitful sleep, pacing, jumping jacks, pool, a shower. She'd done what she could to maintain her energy and stay attuned to her surroundings, the voices outside her door, the comings and goings of the small boat. She'd tried to use her wor
sening seasickness to her advantage and let it remind her she was still alive and still wanted to feel good and enjoy life.

"Have you ever met Lizzie Rush?" Estabrook asked abruptly.

His question took Abigail by surprise, but she answered truthfully. "No, I haven't."

"But you've heard of her?"

"Her family. They own the Whitcomb Hotel in Boston."

"She stayed with me through my arrest and my discovery of Simon's betrayal. I haven't heard from her since the FBI took her away. I imagine your father got to her."

Abigail walked over to the pool table and rolled a solid blue ball into a trio of other balls. It knocked against a yellow one, bounced off the side of the table and stopped at the edge of a pocket. "I wouldn't know," she said without looking at either man. "Believe it or not, my father hasn't discussed your case with me."

"If you think referring to me as a 'case' will give you the upper hand, Detective, or irritate me, or make me feel bad, you're wrong. I know I matter to your father." Estabrook picked up the eight ball. "Lizzie grew up without a mother. Did you know that?"

"I'm not familiar with her background." That, Abigail thought, tapping in her blue ball with the tip of her finger, was an outright lie.

Estabrook massaged the eight ball. "She's just a few years younger than you. While you were growing up with a mother and father, Lizzie was being shuffled back and forth among various relatives. Her father traveled frequently for his work with the Rush hotels. She would stay with her uncle and aunt and their four sons in Boston, and her grandmother in Maine. Lizzie was a motherless little girl, Detective Browning."

"You seem to know a lot about her."

"I know a lot about everyone I have as a guest in my home."

But Simon had fooled him, and that grated. "What happened to Lizzie's mother?" Abigail asked, although she knew the answer to her question. Not the whole answer. Only her father would know the whole answer.

She was aware of Fletcher waiting by the door with his arms crossed on his chest. He managed somehow to look both bored and impatient.

Estabrook set the eight ball back on the table and gave it a sharp spin. "Lizzie's mother was Irish. Shauna Morrigan Rush. She died in Dublin when Lizzie was seven months old. Her death was ruled an accident--a freak fall--but who's to say? It's daunting to think about the little things that can have such an impact on our lives. One wrong move on an unfamiliar cobblestone street, and your daughter's an orphan."

Abigail subtly held on to the edge of the table as she tried to control another wave of her persistent nausea. "Do you have plans for Lizzie? Is she helping you?"

"All in good time."

Whatever her role, Lizzie Rush wasn't his equal, not in his eyes. Her father was. Simon? Estabrook, Abigail thought, would take special pleasure in exacting his revenge on Simon Cahill.

Estabrook turned abruptly to Fletcher. "Continue."

"I need you to leave," the Brit said.

"As you wish," he said coolly.

Fletcher lowered his arms to his sides and walked over to Abigail. He put his finger on her chin and tilted her bruised cheek toward the light. "The swelling's down a bit."

"I think so, too. How did you and Estabrook meet?"

"We had tea together at Buckingham Palace."

"For all I know you're telling the truth. You seem like a practical sort. What do you want out of this?"

"Money."

"I have access to money. We can work out our own deal."

"You're feeling sick," he said.

"I've turned green, have I?"

"More chartreuse."

"Ugly color, chartreuse, but to each his own. I hope being pregnant isn't this bad." She gave him a faltering smile. "I want kids. Do you have any?"

His eyes went flat. "No."

There was something there. A loss, a chance missed. "Give up Norman in exchange for cash and a safe exit back to whatever hole you crawled out of. There'll be a reward for my safe return."

"Mr. Estabrook has access to hundreds of millions of dollars. What do you suppose the FBI or Boston police would pay for you? Your fiance comes from a wealthy family, but compared to Mr. Estabrook? I don't think so, love. Sorry."

"We can set you up with a new identity. He'd never find you. In your line of work, you must have enemies hunting you. You can make a fresh start."

"I've made my choices."

Abigail rolled a yellow ball from one end of the pool table to the other, without it hitting any other balls. "What does Estabrook want?"

Fletcher didn't hesitate. "To kill the people who tried to destroy him."

"It's not that simple, and I think you know it. And no one tried to destroy him. He broke the law." She stood up from the pool table. "He's become more and more obsessed with thwarting my father, hasn't he?"

"I'm afraid I'm not particularly interested in his motives."

"He appreciates an adversary as strong as he is. He sees himself
as a special person, and he wants special adversaries--such as the director of the FBI."

Fletcher picked up a pool cue and examined the array of balls on the table.

"You're obviously not stupid," Abigail said. "Anyone taking the risks you've taken would want to be well paid."

"You're making assumptions that perhaps you shouldn't."

Without a doubt, but she said, "You should listen to me."

He got down low, sized up the array of balls on the table. "You're aching to shoot me and dump me overboard, aren't you, love? I can't say I blame you."

"I wouldn't dump you overboard. I'd let your body fall into the ocean if the bullets took you in that direction. Norman's, too." She walked to the end of the table, watching as Fletcher lined up his cue on a solid red ball. "I heard a smaller boat coming and going again. Have you kidnapped anyone else?"

He made his shot, crisp, clean, two solid-colored balls pivoting into pockets. But he didn't answer her.

"Is Lizzie Rush on board?" Abigail asked. "Are we on our way to meet her somewhere? Maine, maybe? Estabrook mentioned her grandmother had a house there."

Fletcher walked around the table, standing close to Abigail as he sized up another shot. "You know more about Miss Rush than you let on to Mr. Estabrook."

"Not much more. Simon Cahill met Estabrook at a Fast Rescue fund-raiser held at the Rush family's hotel in Boston last summer. My fiance is the founder and director of Fast Rescue. But you know that already, don't you?"

Fletcher leaned far over the table and angled his cue sharply. "It's good that you didn't lie about that one, love," he said, making another perfect shot.

"I'm not the one with something to hide. For example, kidnapping a police officer." She fought more seasickness, bile rising in her throat. "Not going to tell me Estabrook's plan for me, are you?"

"There is one. Have no doubt of that."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic." Abigail stepped back away from the table, giving him room for another difficult shot. "You don't like this, do you? You're a professional, and Norman's a brilliant, narcissistic, crazed amateur. He's off the reservation, isn't he?"

"Perhaps you should vomit and get it over with."

She ignored his remark. "If you had your way, what would you do, put a bullet in my head and dump me overboard?"

"No profit in that, love." He tapped a ball into a side pocket. "Does talking keep you from vomiting?"

She almost smiled. "So far, so good."

Eyeing the remaining balls on the table, he said, without looking at her, "There's a way you can help me. If you do, I'll help you when the time comes."

"What can I do for you?"

Fletcher positioned his cue for another shot. "You can tell me what you know about Will Davenport."

This was a surprise. "He's a friend?"

"Once upon a time."

Abigail considered her answer and decided there was little risk to the truth. "I'm sure I know less about him than you do. He and Simon were friends before Simon hooked up with Fast Rescue. I've never met Davenport, but I understand he's a wealthy British noble, a former military officer. I don't know the details, but I suspect he and Simon didn't meet over tea and crumpets."

"Correct. They did not."

"Simon worked in counterterrorism before he went under
cover after Estabrook. I've wondered if he was on to some kind of drug-terrorism connection there. What about you, Fletcher? How do you know Davenport?"

He fired off another shot without answering.

"You were with the good guys?"

"I was with them. I wasn't one."

His hard, quick shot sent balls banging into each other, richocheting off the sides of the table.

Abigail maintained her composure. "Davenport provided assistance--voluntarily--with the Ireland end of a case we wrapped up earlier this summer involving a serial killer."

"Then Will hasn't been to Boston?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I believe you. Now," Fletcher said, moving around the table, his tone unchanged, "tell me about Fiona O'Reilly."

He caught Abigail totally off guard, which, she realized, had been his intention. She couldn't stop herself. The images of the previous day and her fear for Fiona were too much. Bile rose in her throat, and she stumbled. Fletcher moved fast, grabbing her, half carrying her to the bathroom, shoving her in front of the toilet. She vomited until she had nothing left inside her, then dry heaved for a few more minutes.

Finally, spent, eyes tearing and bloodshot, hands shaking, she splashed herself with cold water and looked at her reflection. She was bruised, ashen. "Owen," she whispered. "Give me strength. I love you so much."

When she turned, Fletcher was in the doorway. "I have to leave for a while," he said, impassive. "We can talk later. I'll let you get some sleep."

When she was alone again, Abigail lay down flat on the carpeted floor next to the pool table and closed her eyes.

In through the nose for eight.

Hold for eight.

Out through the mouth for eight.

"Again," she said, ignoring the tears trickling down her temples into the carpet.

In for eight. Hold for eight.

Out for eight.

Boston, Massachusetts
4:15 p.m., EDT
August 26

F
iona O'Reilly relaxed slightly when she entered the Whitcomb Hotel on Charles Street, her small lap harp in a soft case over one shoulder, and saw Jeremiah Rush in the lobby. The hotel was so elegant with its antiques and shining brass, but Jeremiah, she thought, was amazing.

And she desperately wanted to relax.

She'd practiced for hours in the drawing room at the Garrison house. Owen wasn't around, but the foundation's staff was back at work and police cars stopped by. Tom Yarborough, Abigail's partner, came into the drawing room at one point and asked her if she'd remembered anything else about yesterday. She'd said no and resumed practicing. Now she wondered if she shouldn't have. If she should have just told him. But what if she was wrong? What
if she was just being stupid?
Hundreds
of people had been on Beacon Street yesterday who could have planted the bomb in Owen's car. The man she'd seen...

She lowered her harp off her shoulder. She was proud of herself for having screwed up the courage to visit Scoop. Seeing him so vulnerable was awful, but she'd done it. She hadn't chickened out. Turning down police protection hadn't made her afraid. The opposite. The prospect of bodyguards, even police bodyguards, scared her more than being on her own. She was an adult now and could decide for herself. She felt empowered.

She pulled herself out of her thoughts and greeted Jeremiah. "I'm here early. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not." He got up from the dark wood desk, rumored to have belonged to his great-something-grandfather Whitcomb, and walked around to her. "I heard about the fire at your father's house yesterday. How is everyone? Are you okay? Were you there?"

"I was there but I wasn't hurt. It was pretty frightening. I didn't sleep much last night, but I practiced most of the day. That always helps. I've been working on a Mozart concerto for flute and harp." She gave Jeremiah what even felt like a strained smile. "Of course I slipped in a few Irish tunes."

He frowned at her. He wore a light tan suit that didn't have a single wrinkle. He was working reception right now, but he seemed willing to do a variety of jobs. Fiona had seen him running a vacuum last week. "I can tell you've been through an ordeal," he said. "I saw on the news one of the detectives was badly hurt--"

"Scoop. His real name's Cyrus Wisdom. He's doing much better today. I'm not supposed to talk about the fire while it's still under investigation." That was the response Lucas Jones had suggested she give to any questions. He'd strictly forbidden her
from talking about Abigail. Fiona made herself smile again. "I came here to get away from everything for a while."

"Whatever we can do, let us know."

"Thanks." She changed the subject. "I thought I'd work some on planning our Ireland trip."

"My brother Justin's there now," Jeremiah said, heading back behind the desk. "He's a bellman at our Dublin hotel. He's a natural. I swear he'd stay a bellman if our dad would let him. Mum wouldn't care. She just wants us to be happy."

Fiona's mother had said that morning she just wanted Fiona and her sisters to be safe. Happy would be nice, too, she thought, suddenly feeling depressed.

Jeremiah opened a side drawer in the desk and pulled out a stack of brochures and an Ireland guidebook. "I've been collecting these for you. There's a brochure on our Dublin hotel."

"Does it serve tea on Christmas Eve?"

"Sure does." He came back around to Fiona and handed her the stack. "Are you sure you're okay? You look--"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, realizing she was about to cry. She brushed a stray tear and tried to smile. "Is your brother in Dublin cute?"

"He thinks so."

Fiona laughed, but more tears escaped, and she thanked Jeremiah and took the steps down to Morrigan's. It was at ground level, with full-size windows looking out on Charles Street. She found herself eye-to-eye with a dirty-faced toddler in a stroller. He waved at her, and she waved back, instantly feeling better.

She set her harp on the small stage. She and her friends had performed at Morrigan's a half-dozen times over the summer. Her father didn't know. She thought he'd object. Scoop and now Abigail knew, but Fiona hadn't asked them not to tell her dad.
Then it'd seem like she was keeping it a secret instead of just not having gotten around to telling him.

She sat at a table under a window with her brochures and ordered a Coke Zero. She wasn't sure which friends would show up, but it didn't matter. They all could play more than one instrument and would manage with whatever they had. Morrigan's patrons always seemed to enjoy her ensemble's performances.

She opened up one of the brochures to a photograph of a country lane that reminded her of her cousin Keira's paintings. Fiona knew something terrible had happened in Ireland, too, but no one would tell her anything except that Keira was safe.

Keira was as excited as Fiona was about their trip to Ireland and had said she couldn't wait to take her younger cousin to Irish pubs for live music. "You can join in, and we can get your dad and Simon to sing--just not my mum and me." Keira's mother, Fiona's aunt Eileen, had come home from studying in Ireland in college pregnant with Keira. She'd had some kind of mad, mysterious affair in the same ruin, apparently, where Keira had found her Celtic stone angel. The angel had disappeared, but Fiona had no doubt her cousin had seen it. Keira believed that whatever had happened to it, it was where it was meant to be.

As Fiona finished her Coke, a man she didn't recognize walked over to the stage area and pointed to her harp. "It looks like an angel's harp," he said in a British accent.

Fiona felt a shiver in her back. She'd just been thinking about Keira's stone angel. "There are several different kinds of harps," she said.

"And can you play all of them, Miss O'Reilly?"

Now the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end, and her breathing got shallow and her mouth went dry. But she didn't move.

The man pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. "It's all right, love. I'm a friend."

"I've never met you. I'll scream if you try anything."

He smiled, winked at her. "You do that, love. Scream loud. How was your harp practice at the Garrison house?"

"How--"

"It's a beautiful day for a stroll, isn't it?"

Fiona thought she'd pass out. To calm herself, she looked up at a poster of the brightly painted Georgian doors of Dublin. They were already on her list of sights to see at Christmas.

"Have a sip of your drink," the Brit said.

"It's not alcoholic. I'm under twenty-one."

There were several people in the bar. Jeremiah was just up the stairs. Fiona reminded herself she wasn't alone. Feeling more in control, she focused on the man across from her. "You followed me?"

"Yes, love. I can follow you anytime, anywhere. You'll never know if I'm there or not there." He leaned back in his chair. "When and where did you last see Simon Cahill?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"He's an old friend."

"I don't believe you. Did you have anything to do with the fire at my dad's?"

His eyes narrowed on her, and he leaned toward her. "I asked you a question, love. Best you answer."

"Yesterday. At my dad's." Fiona wanted to sound strong and defiant but thought she sounded weak, afraid. She cleared her throat. "It was after the fire. Late. That's when I saw Simon last."

The Brit had gray eyes that seemed to see right through her. "You're telling the truth," he said, satisfied. "That's smart. What about Director March?"

"I just got a glimpse of him yesterday. I didn't talk to him."

"And your friend Lizzie Rush?" He paused, watching Fiona. "When did you see her last?"

"She's not--I barely know her."

"When, love?"

She didn't want to tell him anything more.

"I can ask someone else. Her cousin up--"

"No, don't," Fiona broke in. "Leave Jeremiah alone. It was a few days ago. I don't remember the exact day."

"Here?"

"Yes." Fiona gulped in a breath, sweating now. "I have no idea where she is now. My friends and I perform here on occasion. I don't know the Rushes at all, really."

The Brit smiled. "Like your Irish music, do you? Well, Miss O'Reilly, I have a different sort of job for you." He pointed up at the window behind her, toward the street. "I want you to go back to the Garrison house. Call no one. Tell no one. Do you understand?"

Fiona nodded, her heart pounding.

"There's an alley off a side street just before you reach the house. Don't go into it. Stop and call your copper dad and tell him to come and have a look. Will you do that for me, love?"

"Yes."

Fight to escape. That was what her dad had taught her. He'd also taught her not to leave one crime scene for another. "It almost never works out," he'd said, "but use your fear as your guide. Let it help you."

The Brit reached across the table and tucked a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his eye. "A man is in grave danger. Only you can get him help in time."

"Who is it?"

He ignored her. "When you speak with your dad, tell him Abigail is alive and unharmed. Will you do that for me, too, love?"

"Abigail," Fiona said. "Where--"

He tapped her chin with one finger. "Now, don't start. Just listen and do as I say. Tell your dad that he and his colleagues in law enforcement have an imaginative and dangerous enemy."

"You."

"I'm no one's enemy." He sat back again, his eyes hard. "No one's friend, either. Can you remember what I just said, love?"

"Yes. Yes, I can remember."

"There you go. Don't follow me. Don't have anyone else follow me." He nodded toward the street. "Lizzie Rush will be arriving very soon from Ireland. If you see her in time, she can go with you."

"How do you know she--"

He winked. "You'd be surprised what I know."

"I didn't see you yesterday. No one did."

"I know. Now you have seen me, but it's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. I especially enjoyed your Irish music. Special quality it has, doesn't it? Even for a Londoner like myself."

"What do you want with Abigail?"

"Nothing. I'm her only hope. I must leave now. If you do anything to interfere, she'll be dead before nightfall. You need to stay calm and do as I ask." The Brit stood up, looming over Fiona as he reached a hand out to her. "On your feet on three. Count with me. It'll help you focus. One. Two. Three."

She got up without his assistance. Should she scream? Kick him? Create a scene? If a man was dying...

She raised her chin to the Brit. "My sisters are under police protection."

He smiled. "You will be now, too. Alley. Your dad. Abigail. You can remember?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"It's important not to leave loose ends."

Fiona didn't breathe or speak as he trotted lightly up the steps and back out to Charles Street.

A cab pulled up to the hotel and a small, black-haired woman got out.

Lizzie Rush. As promised.