The Mist

Chapter 20

Boston, Massachusetts

5:35 p.m., EDT

August 26

Lizzie headed toward the Whitcomb lobby, shaking off the pummeled feeling she always had after the long flight across the Atlantic. It was late afternoon in Boston, late evening in Ireland, but she wasn’t quite on either clock. She figured she’d need the five hours she’d gained heading west from Dublin. She didn’t know how long she’d have before Will turned up. Based on the text message she’d received from Justin when she landed, probably not long: Brit to Boston. Right behind you.

Justin wasn’t one to waste words.

Spending the night in the same suite as a British intelligence agent was one thing. Having him following her was another, but Lizzie had an advantage in Boston. She knew the city and had family there, and Will didn’t. She’d contemplated him, her situation and her options while playing one solo game of bridge after another on her little tray table.

How did Will Davenport fit into whatever was going on, and where was he now?

Was he trouble?

“Everyone’s trouble,” she muttered, quoting her father, even as she welcomed the familiar surroundings of the Whitcomb’s classically appointed lobby.

A dour-looking Sam Whitcomb, in actuality a firebrand privateer during the American Revolution, stared down at her from his oil portrait above the unlit marble fireplace. Henrietta wanted to replace him with one of Keira Sullivan’s wildflower watercolors.

Lizzie focused on the situation at hand, smiling at her cousin Jeremiah as he stood up from his desk. “I cut my trip to Ireland short,” she said.

“Justin’s already filled me in,” Jeremiah said, shaking his head. “Lizzie. What’s going on? All hell’s broken loose in Boston. I’ve never seen so many cops on the streets.”

“I noticed. What do you know?”

“Nothing. Fiona O’Reilly’s here. Cops are mum on the details about the fire at her father’s place and the evacuation at the Garrison house. Your friend Norman Estabrook’s disappeared, too. You know that, right?”

“Yes, but I’m not in contact with him.”

“The FBI hasn’t been in touch?”

Lizzie shook her head. No need to mention that she’d been in touch with John March herself. “I haven’t spoken to Norman since his arrest.”

Jeremiah seemed faintly reassured. “But you’re back here because Simon Cahill and FBI Director March are in town, aren’t you?” Her cousin narrowed his eyes on her. “Lizzie…”

Of all her cousins, Jeremiah was the one most tuned in to the history between March and her mother, but Lizzie dodged his question. “I’m not involved in Norman ’s legal case, Jeremiah. I wish I’d never had anything to do with him.”

“I don’t blame you. I imagine most of his friends feel the same way. What are you going to do now?”

“Pick up my car and head to Maine.”

Go to Maine, she’d decided on her flight across the Atlantic. Figure out what she could do to help find Norman and leave the rest of her family out of it. John March might give her time, but if Scoop Wisdom had provided her description to his BPD colleagues, they could already be after her. Best, she’d reasoned, to stick to her cover story and go about her business as if she had nothing to hide. She’d gone to Ireland to hike the Beara Way and pop in on Simon Cahill, only to end up in the middle of a knife fight. It made perfect sense that she’d come straight home and head to her house in Maine.

Whether or not Norman thought she was an ally-believed she hated John March as much as he did-Lizzie had no doubt he would expect her to head to Maine.

Jeremiah touched her shoulder and looked past her. “Fiona…”

Lizzie turned as Fiona O’Reilly stumbled on the steps up from Morrigan’s and hesitated, very pale, barely breathing. She stared at Lizzie a split second before bolting down the main steps and out to Charles Street.

“I wonder what just happened,” Jeremiah said. “A man joined her downstairs. I’ve never seen him here before. He just left.”

“What did he look like?” Lizzie asked.

“Brown hair, fit-not that he did push-ups on the floor, but I wouldn’t want to take him on in a bar fight.”

Lizzie felt the same shiver of coolness she’d experienced last night questioning Michael Murphy. “Was he British?”

“I didn’t hear him myself. Lizzie, we’re not talking about Lord Davenport, are we?”

She shook her head. “For one thing, Will’s blond. Put hotel security on alert. I’ll go after Fiona.”

Her cousin took a sharp breath. “Should we call the police? Fiona’s father-”

“Yes. Call Lieutenant O’Reilly and tell him something’s up with her.” Lizzie thought quickly. She didn’t like keeping Jeremiah in the dark, but there was no time. “I owe you an explanation, but right now I need to go after Fiona. Keep her here if she returns.”

“I should go.”

She managed a smile. “My father taught me the tricks of the trade, not you.” But her smile faded. “If the man who was with Fiona shows up again, don’t confront him. Don’t go near him. He’s dangerous, Jeremiah.”

“Who is he?”

“My guess? A British spy.”

Her cousin rolled his eyes. “You think my golden retriever’s a spy.”

“He is, but of a different sort.”

The humor helped break the tension, just enough to give her energy. Wishing she had on the shoes she’d worn last night in the stone circle instead of her flats, Lizzie headed out to Charles Street and up past a knot of college students and tourists to the intersection at Beacon Street. She spotted Fiona running in the direction of the Garrison house in what appeared to be blind panic.

Cursing her shoes, Lizzie took off after her on the uneven sidewalk. “Fiona, hold on,” she called as she closed in on the teenager.

Fiona didn’t break her stride. “I have to hurry.”

“Why? Jeremiah told me a man joined you just now.” Lizzie kept her voice calm. “Fiona, what did he say to you?”

“Did you see him? He thinks we’re friends. I told him I hardly know you. It’s true. He said not to follow him.” She slowed slightly, clearly terrified. “You didn’t try-you didn’t send Jeremiah-”

“No one’s following him.”

“He knew you’d come. He told me a man’s in danger and I should go to the alley by the Garrison house and-and-” Already close to hyperventilating, she gulped in more air as they continued up Beacon Street. “And then call my dad.”

“Did this man threaten you?”

“He implied Abigail’s life depends on my cooperation. There’s a man dying. What if it’s someone I know-one of Dad’s detectives, one of my friends? We practice at the Garrison house. We-”

“Don’t speculate.” Lizzie tried to penetrate Fiona’s mounting panic. “Let’s just figure out what to do.”

Fiona was marginally calmer as she glanced at Lizzie. “He said you could go with me.”

“All right. Let’s do this together.”

Fiona slowed her pace and walking now, still breathing hard, turned onto a side street that led up onto Beacon Hill. She stopped at the entrance to a narrow alley that ran behind two elegant brick mansions.

“This must be it.” She had her cell phone clutched in one hand. “He told me to call my dad and not go in the alley.”

Lizzie peered into the alley. “He didn’t say I couldn’t go in, did he?”

Fiona shook her head, already dialing her cell phone.

“I’ll stay in sight. I’m not leaving you, Fiona.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Lizzie stepped into the alley, which dead-ended at a tall stockade fence. She expected to hear a moan, ragged breathing, a cry for help, but there was nothing. She glanced back at Fiona, who was holding herself together as she talked on her phone, and took another two steps. A car was parked along the fence. She walked around it, past a stack of empty flower pots. The sounds of Beacon Street traffic fell away, blocked by the two big houses.

She stopped abruptly, hearing flies. Placing a hand on the car’s hood, cool in the shade, she leaned forward and saw a man was on the ground, slumped against the fence.

Even from a distance of a few yards, Lizzie could see he was dead.

Fiona, off the phone now, started into the alley. Lizzie shook her head at her. “Don’t, Fiona. You don’t need to see this.”

But Fiona covered her mouth with her wrist and kept coming. Mindful that she was in what was now a crime scene, Lizzie edged closer to the dead man. She had to be sure she hadn’t made a mistake and he was alive.

No mistake. He’d been shot-obviously-in the left temple. He was middle-aged and slightly overweight, dressed in dark chinos and a dark polo shirt, with a gash on his right forearm, as if someone had fingernail-clawed him.

Fiona gasped, “Is he-”

“He’s dead, Fiona.”

She dropped her wrist from her mouth. She’d stopped shaking, but her face was ashen. Her blue eyes were fixed on the dead man.

Lizzie felt her heart jump. “Fiona, do you know who this is?”

“No-I mean, I don’t know his name. We never…” She motioned back toward Beacon Street. “I saw him on the street when I arrived at the Garrison house yesterday morning. He was walking across from the Common. I didn’t talk to him.”

“Was he alone?”

She nodded. “He said hi to me. He-” She squinted, as if digging deep to remember more. “He had a messenger bag with him. I remember thinking it looked heavy. It…he…”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” Lizzie said quietly.

“He must have had the bomb in the bag. I could have stopped him. If Owen hadn’t been warned, he’d have-the bomb would have gone off.” Fiona stopped suddenly, focusing on Lizzie. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. About the bomb.”

“It’s okay,” Lizzie said. “I already figured it out.”

“The man…the Brit…he…”

Fiona broke off, turned and fled, tripping, gagging, back out to the street. Lizzie ran after her, slowing when she saw that Will Davenport had intercepted Fiona. He had an arm wrapped around her waist as she covered her mouth with both hands and cried.

“It’s all right.” He spoke firmly, but his tone was reassuring. “You’re safe.”

Fiona took a step back, and Will let her go. “The man who…” She was hyperventilating again. “He had an English accent. I think it was English. He said I…” She gulped in a breath and mumbled, “My dad will be here any second.”

Lizzie understood Fiona’s fear and tried to reassure her. “This is Will Davenport. He and Simon Cahill are friends.”

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Will said gently.

“There’s a man dead in the alley,” Lizzie told him. She heard sirens. The police would be there soon. “The Brit I ran into in Las Vegas and Eddie O’Shea ran into at his pub is in Boston. He told Fiona to come here. He knew I was headed back from Ireland.” Lizzie gave Will a hard look. “Did you tell him?”

“No, Lizzie.” He didn’t look tired or even rumpled after his long flight, but his expression had taken on a studied control, a certain distance. “I told you this morning. For the past two years, I’ve believed Myles to be dead.”

“Then you haven’t been lying to me?”

“I have not.”

“Who is he? Who is this Myles?”

“You’ve just seen for yourself.” Will’s eyes were flinty. “Myles Fletcher is a killer.”

Fiona, listening to every word, cried out in shock but didn’t move.

Lizzie glanced back toward the alley. “Yes. I did just see for myself. Are you going after him?”

Fiona gasped and grabbed Will’s wrist. “No! You can’t! He said-he said not to follow him. He said he’s Abigail’s only hope.” She was close to hysteria. “Please.”

“All right, then.” Will gently extricated himself from her hold. “I won’t go after him.”

Lizzie’s head was spinning, and she felt ragged from jetlag, adrenaline, fear, being cooped up on a plane for hours with nothing to do but play cards and think. She turned to Will. “Now that Myles Fletcher has surfaced, I imagine you and your MI6 and SAS friends will want to figure out what he’s up to.”

Will ignored her and addressed Fiona. “How long ago did you see this man?”

“A few minutes. Ten, fifteen. Please, you can’t…”

“I’ll do as you ask and not go after him. We’ll wait here together for your father.”

“He called me ‘love,’” Fiona whispered.

Will’s eyes shut briefly, but Lizzie saw the pain in them. She was touched by his gentleness with Fiona but knew what she had to do. “I haven’t witnessed anything.” She looked once again down the alley, as if part of her expected the dead man to walk out and say it was all a joke, a bit of makeup and sheer nerve. But she knew it wasn’t. “I’m no good to anyone if I’m stuck here explaining myself to the police.”

Will didn’t respond immediately. Lizzie gave him a moment. Finally he said, “You work for John March.”

She skimmed the back of her hand along his jaw, rough with stubble. Sexy. A reminder he wasn’t a Prince Charming out of a fairy tale. “Find me,” she said, her voice hoarse, then shifted her attention to Fiona. “I have to go. You’re safe with Will.”

The sirens blared closer now. Lizzie bolted up the side street. Will didn’t follow her. She cut down pretty residential Chestnut Street, running past classic Beacon Hill homes with their black iron fences, brass-fitted doors and wreaths of summer flowers. She came to Charles Street at the bottom of Chestnut, and fighting tears of her own, ducked into the Whitcomb. Without saying a word, she headed straight through the lobby past Jeremiah and down a half-dozen steps to the rear exit.

Her cousin reached her before she could get the back door open. With Whit and Harlan Rush as older brothers, Jeremiah had learned to stay cool in a crisis. “Lizzie, what’s going on?”

She knew she had to give him the basic facts. She owed him that much. “Fiona and I just found a man shot to death up by the Garrison house. The Brit who was with her earlier told her where to find him.”

“What can I do?”

“The police will be here any minute. I have to go, Jeremiah. I can’t stay.” She raked a hand through her hair as she considered her options. “You can find me a car. I can’t take mine-or yours. The police…” She didn’t finish.

“Take Martha’s. Martha Prescott. She’s Mum’s new assistant.” He unlocked a drawer to a small cupboard, pulled a set of keys from a series of hooks and handed them to Lizzie without hesitation. “Gray Honda on Mount Vernon. The only free space will be the driver’s seat.” He smiled through his obvious worry. “Martha’s a slob.”

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.