The Mist

Chapter 6

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

8:05 p.m., IST

August 25

Lizzie had used the bungee cords in her pack to tie the Irishman’s wrists behind his back. He was sullen now as they headed back to the village, she on his right, Will on his left. Keira walked quietly behind them. The black dog skulked in the shadows above the ancient wall along the lane.

“Keep up,” Lizzie said to the Irishman, “or we’ll leave you to the dog.”

He turned his gaze to her, his eyes flat. “I’ll keep up.”

When they reached the village, the dog bounded off suddenly, disappearing into the hills.

Lizzie glanced back at Keira, her hair hanging in wet tangles. She’d tried calling her uncle in Boston again but was unable to get through to him. “There’s still hope,” Lizzie said. “Don’t give up.”

Keira smiled faintly. “You’re an optimist.”

“Most days.”

“Most days I am, too.”

But she obviously knew, as Lizzie did, that hope and optimism wouldn’t dictate whether Bob O’Reilly and whoever else was at the triple-decker in Boston had survived the blast. It would depend on luck, skill, training and timing.

Unless fairies showed up. For all Lizzie knew, they’d had a hand in what had just happened up at the stone circle. She and Keira had dealt with the Irishman and kept him from killing them, but the mysterious black dog had persuaded him to tell them about the bomb.

It was all very strange.

There was no question in Lizzie’s mind that Norman Estabrook was responsible for the attack on Keira Sullivan and the bomb in Boston. He’d gone after Simon’s new love and John March’s daughter.

And it was just the beginning.

Eddie O’Shea and two other small, wiry men, all in wool caps, materialized out of the shadows and jumped lightly off the stone wall onto the lane. Lizzie had had no idea they were there. The barman fell in next to her. “My brothers, Aidan and Patrick,” Eddie said by way of introduction as the other two men dropped back to Keira.

Will greeted the brothers with a nod. He’d said little since the connection to Keira’s uncle in Boston went dead. He was a man, Lizzie thought, of supreme self-control. He’d briefly questioned the Irishman, who insisted he’d come to the Beara Peninsula alone and had no partners waiting in the village. Lizzie believed him, if only because of his deep, palpable fear of the black hound.

Aidan pulled off his jacket and draped it over Keira’s shoulders, and she managed a smile, thanking him. When they came to the pub, Eddie’s dog was at the door to greet them.

The pub was empty, the local farmers and fishermen gone home for the night. The springer spaniel collapsed lazily in front of the fire.

Will shoved their would-be killer onto a chair at the table Lizzie had vacated earlier. His ski cap had come off in his scuffle with her. He had sparse, dark hair and blue eyes, and she saw now, in the light and relative safety of the pub, that he was muscular and fit. She realized she’d done well to best him.

She also realized Will would have had no trouble if he’d arrived in the stone circle a bit sooner. Lizzie reminded herself not to be fooled into thinking his expensive clothes and aristocratic background meant he couldn’t fight as well as any other SAS officer and spy.

“I’ll ring the guards,” Patrick, the youngest O’Shea, said.

“Patrick and I’ll watch for them,” Aidan, the eldest, added, and the two brothers headed down a short hall to the back of the pub.

Keira shrugged off Aidan’s coat and hung it on a peg, then joined Lizzie and the dog by the fire, all of them muddy and wet. The pub was toasty warm, but Lizzie had to fight to keep herself from shivering. She slipped the thug’s spare assault knife into her jacket pocket and held her hands toward the flames, spreading out her fingers. She noticed bloody scrapes on her knuckles and wrists, but she couldn’t remember any pain and felt none now.

“I’ll have Patrick and Aidan fetch some ice and bandages,” Eddie said.

“Thank you, but there’s no need, really.” She gave him a quick smile. “What I’d truly love is a sip of brandy.”

He nodded, but gave his bound fellow Irishman a hard glare. “Move a muscle, and I’ll have a knife to your throat before your next breath.”

The thug glowered but said nothing.

Eddie went behind his bar and got down three glasses and placed them on a tray. Keeping an eye on his customers, he uncapped a bottle of brandy and splashed some into each glass.

Keira took a breath, containing her emotion. “Why are you here?” she asked Will. “Have you talked to Simon?”

“Earlier. Not in the past few hours. I spoke to Josie at your cottage and again on my way to the stone circle.” He studied her carefully, obviously debating how much to tell her about what he knew. “Norman Estabrook’s no longer in U.S. federal custody.”

Lizzie concentrated on the flames. She knew Will would be watching for her reaction.

Keira stayed steady. “Simon was right, then. Estabrook cut a deal with prosecutors in exchange for his cooperation.”

“They can re-file charges at any time if he doesn’t hold up his end,” Will said, then added, “There’s more, I’m afraid. He left his Montana ranch this morning on a solo flight in his private plane.”

“Then no one really knows where he is.” Water dripped from the ends of Keira’s hair, mingling with the dog’s muddy prints on the warm hearth. “Will, Norman Estabrook threatened to kill both Simon and John March.”

“I know, Keira. He has no history of violence, and apparently he and his attorneys were able to persuade prosecutors that he spoke in the heat of the moment.”

“I don’t believe that,” Keira said.

Neither did Lizzie, but she was staying quiet.

Will glanced at the bound Irishman, then at Lizzie, then shifted back to Keira, his expression giving away nothing of what he was thinking. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m fine, thanks to-” Keira turned to Lizzie with a look of embarrassment. “You just saved my life and I don’t even know your name.”

After what had happened at the stone circle and in Boston, with a possible British spy with them in the pub, Lizzie was even more determined not to get into names. Simon would recognize her, but he wasn’t here-and the attack on Keira and the bomb in Boston changed everything.

She needed a new plan.

She moved away from the fire, out of Will’s immediate line of sight. He was handy in a fight, but she had to get her bearings before she dared giving up her anonymity.

Eddie brought the tray of brandy over to the fire and handed a glass each to her, Keira and Will. For a split second, Lizzie thought the barman’s suspicion of her had eased, but as he stood back with his empty tray, he tilted his head and frowned at her.

Still didn’t trust her.

He turned to Will. “I told Patrick and Aidan I’d wager our black-haired stranger here knew how to knock together a head or two.” He sniffed at the bungee-corded thug. “I see I was right.”

Keira warmed her hands over the peat fire. “I wasn’t much help.” She glanced at Lizzie. “You certainly do know how to handle yourself in a fight.”

“Adrenaline,” she said.

“It was more than adrenaline.”

“I’ve taken a few self-defense classes.” Starting with her father when she was two. “Luck helps. I had surprise on my side. Our friend here had size, strength and experience.”

“And two knives,” Keira said.

“If he’d managed one good punch, he’d have knocked me clear across the bay to the Ring of Kerry.”

Keira smiled, but Will didn’t react at all to Lizzie’s attempt at lightheartedness. The glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, deepening the gold flecks. His control was not, she knew, to be mistaken for nonchalance. He was a very capable, dangerous man on high alert.

“Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?” Keira asked.

“Story of my life,” Lizzie said with a smile.

Will sipped his brandy. “You fought with real skill.”

“A maniac coming at you with a knife’ll do that.”

Keira pushed up the sleeves of her oversize sweater, the hem of her skirt soaked and muddy. She was clearly worried about her family and friends in Boston -about Simon-but she had a kind of inner serenity that Lizzie admired. Serenity wasn’t her long suit.

She took one small sip of her brandy and set the glass on the table. As tempted as she was, she wasn’t about to settle in for the evening with a bottle of brandy and a chat with the Irish police, who would arrive soon.

She moved in front of the man who’d attacked her. He was outnumbered and unlikely to kick her. Nonetheless, she knew how to fight from a bound, seated position and, assuming he did, too, stayed clear of his feet. “You didn’t decide to attack Keira on your own, out of the blue,” she said. “Who hired you?”

He turned his head from her. Even if he didn’t respond, his body language would be instructive and perhaps give her-and Will Davenport-answers. Will undoubtedly had far more experience with interrogations than she did, but her father had taught her basic techniques.

“You didn’t sneak off to the stone circle on a whim,” Lizzie said. “Who sent you?”

The Irishman shifted back to her, cockier and less fearful now that the black dog had gone on his way. “D’you have someone in mind?” he asked sarcastically.

An unexpected coolness eased up Lizzie’s spine and made her catch her breath as she remembered a night in Las Vegas in June, in the last days before the FBI arrived at Norman’s Montana ranch with a warrant for his arrest.

“I do.” She spoke in a near whisper. She’d come to believe Norman wanted to bloody his own hands, but now she realized he’d also wanted the drama of this multipronged attack. He’d needed help to pull it off. “I do have someone in mind. He’s British. Maybe forty, with medium brown hair, gray eyes. About your height. Noticeably fit.”

“How would I remember him?”

She put her palms on her thighs and leaned forward, eye to eye with him. “He’s dangerous and charming and very focused. You’d remember.”

“No one I know,” the Irishman said.

Lizzie had no idea whether or not he was telling the truth, but she was aware of Will studying her, assessing her in steely silence. Her description of his countryman had clearly struck a nerve.

Maybe he was the one she should be questioning.

She tried not to let him distract her. “Why attack Keira with a knife? Why not shoot her? Why not poison her blackberry crumble?”

“Because of the serial killer,” Keira said suddenly, quietly from the fire. “That’s why, isn’t it?”

The Irishman averted his eyes, giving his answer.

Lizzie saw now what he’d planned. “A copycat killing. You wanted to throw the guards off your trail by making it look as if someone was imitating the serial killer who was here earlier this summer.”

He breathed in through his nostrils. “I’ve hurt no one.”

“Not for lack of trying, my friend.” She ran a fingertip along the rim of her glass on the table. “Eddie and his brothers would recognize you if you were a local. Where are you from? Dublin? Cork? Limerick?”

He didn’t react to any of the cities she named.

Will stepped forward and unzipped the Irishman’s right jacket pocket. “Let’s have a look,” he said, withdrawing a battered leather wallet. He opened it up and slid out a bank card with his thumb. “Michael James Murphy. Is that your real name? I expect it is. You thought you had an easy job tonight, didn’t you, Mr. Murphy?”

“I tried to save her. That one,” Murphy said, nodding toward Keira, his tone slightly less sullen. “I saw this black-haired witch meant to do her harm. It’s lucky I happened on when I did.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Such a liar.”

He glared at her. “You can fool them, maybe, but you don’t fool me. I’ll explain myself to the guards.”

“Great. You do that. In the meantime, you’re alone out here on the Irish coast with all of us.”

He smirked at her, unimpressed.

Keira turned from the fire, her cheeks red now from the heat, a stark contrast to the rest of her deathly pale face. “He must have been watching for me on the lane and saw me walk up to the stone circle.” She drank more of her brandy, holding the glass with both hands. “I thought the rain had stopped for good and a walk would ease my restlessness. I was missing Simon. Afraid for him.”

Keira’s love for a man Lizzie had kept at arm’s length for the past year felt as natural and honest as the Irish night.

Michael Murphy-or whatever his name was-snorted at Lizzie. “You almost broke my poor knee. It hurts like the devil.”

She was unrepentant. “What did you expect me to do when you came after me with your knife?”

“I was scared out of my wits, trying to save Keira. Untie me. I’ve done nothing to deserve being trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

“Nothing?” Lizzie raised her eyebrows, almost amused at his brazenness. “That’s rich, my friend.”

She took her brandy glass to the bar and set it on the smooth wood, resisting a sudden surge of loneliness. She had friends. Family. Why was she doing this on her own? She glanced at Will, his quiet control as he dialed his BlackBerry more unnerving than if he’d been in a frenzy. He would be focused on first things first. He’d see to Keira’s safety.

Then he’d deal with Lizzie.

Her trip to Ireland wasn’t going at all as she’d hoped it would. Instead of disrupting Norman ’s plans for violent revenge, she’d landed in the middle of their execution. She could no longer pretend she’d just stopped by the little Irish village to see Simon Cahill while she was walking the Beara Way. Simon and his friend Lord Davenport had only to put their heads together and, with their resources inside and outside of government, they’d figure out who she was. In the meantime, she had room to maneuver.

Will held his BlackBerry out to Keira. “It’s Simon. He and Director March weren’t present when the bomb went off. Your uncle and cousin are unhurt.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Detective Wisdom is seriously injured.”

“What about Abigail?”

“She wasn’t in the blast.”

Keira took the phone. “Simon,” she said in a raw whisper, “I’m fine. I love you.”

Lizzie’s throat tightened as Keira spoke to the man she loved. She’d found her soulmate, and Simon had found his.

Every instinct Lizzie had told her she had to get out of there now or she wouldn’t be able to leave. She didn’t want to end up under the thumb of Irish law enforcement. They’d call the FBI and the Boston police, and then where would she be?

In cuffs herself as a material witness, or even a suspect.

If Scoop Wisdom was able to talk, he’d tell the FBI and his BPD colleagues about the black-haired woman he’d caught lingering in front of the triple-decker yesterday afternoon. He’d walked out from the backyard with a colander of green beans that, somehow, made him look more intimidating.

“Can I help you?” he’d asked her.

Hesitating, debating with herself, Lizzie had opted not to tell him the truth. “No. Sorry. I’m just catching my breath.” She’d smiled. “Shin splints.”

He hadn’t bothered hiding his skepticism, but he hadn’t stopped her as she’d gone on her way, boarding her flight to Ireland that evening. She’d decided to talk to Simon Cahill instead of John March’s detective daughter, Abigail, or her detective friends.

And now, twenty-four hours later, a bomb had exploded on Abigail’s back porch, severely injuring Detective Wisdom.

Lizzie reached for her backpack on the hearth. Had she screwed up by not talking to him yesterday? If she had, would he and his detective housemates have found the bomb?

Her father would tell her not to look back with regret but to learn and to help her figure out what she needed to do next.

She felt the sting of her cuts and scrapes now. “ Norman isn’t flying off to a resort to celebrate his freedom,” she said, addressing Simon’s British friend. “He’ll be furious that his plan didn’t work. He’ll try again.”

Will eased closer to her, his eyes changeable and intense in the heat of the fire. He was taking in everything, studying her, seeing, she was sure, more than she wanted to reveal. An image came, unbidden, unwanted, of them together in a pretty Irish inn, with no worries beyond which book to read or which bath salts to choose.

“You obviously know Estabrook,” he said quietly. “Are you a friend?”

“ Norman doesn’t have real friends.”

“He’s very wealthy. Some people are drawn to wealth.”

“Yes. Some people are.” Lizzie saw clearly now what she needed to do. If she was to be of any help now that Norman was acting on his intentions, she had to remain anonymous for as long as possible. She couldn’t explain her association with him and his entourage of wealthy investors, adventurers, staff, hangers-on and drug traffickers. “I imagine by now most everyone knows Norman Estabrook’s not your basic mild-mannered billionaire adventurer. If you’ll excuse me-”

“You’ve had an ordeal tonight.” Will brushed a fingertip across her hand, just above her split knuckles. “You’re hurt.”

She gave a dismissive shrug. “Nothing a nice hot bath and a lot more brandy won’t cure.” She lifted her pack onto her shoulder, feeling her jetlag, too. “Please don’t stop me. I’m no good to anyone sitting in a garda interview room.”

His eyes stayed on her. “I’ll find out who you are.”

“You could take my backpack from me and find out now, but you won’t. We’re both in a foreign country.” She tilted her head back and challenged him with a cool smile. “You don’t want to get into a tussle with me just as the guards arrive and risk getting yourself arrested. You and Keira have enough to explain as it is.”

The change in his expression was subtle, but something about it instantly had her conjuring images of fighting him, sparring with him, blocking, counterattacking. Going all out, no-holds-barred.

It was sexy, the idea of getting physical with her very own James Bond.

Further proof, Lizzie decided, of the deleterious effects of jetlag, adrenaline, a knife fight in an Irish stone circle and two sips of brandy on an otherwise perfectly normal brain.

It was time to go.

She lifted Murphy’s assault knife out of her pocket and handed it to Eddie O’Shea. “Thank you for the brandy and for your help tonight. Your brothers, too.”

He took the knife, his suspicion, if anything, even more acute now. “Just here walking the Beara Way, you say.”

But the barman didn’t stop her, either, as she headed back out into the quiet, pretty village.

She heard a dog barking in the distance and, high up in the hills, the bleating of sheep. The wind had died to a gentle breeze, and the rain had stopped, the air cool, scented with roses and lavender.

The picnic table was empty. There was no old farmer with a pipe and strange talk.

Lizzie walked past the brightly painted houses and the lamp-posts with their hanging flower baskets to her little rented car.

No one followed her.

She got behind the wheel but warned herself not to let down her guard just yet, even for a few seconds. As she started the engine, she felt the ache in her muscles from the bruises she’d incurred doing battle in the Beara hills, and she acknowledged a desire to go back to the pub and believe she had allies there, people she could trust.

Instead she pulled out onto the street and found her way back to the main road, the sky slowly darkening over Kenmare Bay.

She wondered how long she had before the Irish Garda, the Boston police, the FBI and one handsome British spy came after her.

Probably not long.