The Mist

Chapter 10

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

10:15 p.m., IST

August 25

Keira stood at the pine table in her cottage on the lane below the stone circle, shoving art supplies-paints, pencils, brushes, sketch pads-into a wooden case. “The woman who helped me tonight knew what to ask. She knew names. Bob, Scoop, Abigail. Simon. Owen.” Keira paused, raising her eyes to Will. “She knew everything. Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” Will said, shrugging on his coat.

Garda detectives had inspected Keira’s cottage for explosive devices and were waiting outside to take her to a safe place. Will had arrived in the stone circle too late to be of any real use. Simon would hate himself for not being there. But it didn’t matter, did it? Their mysterious black-haired woman had dispatched Murphy and questioned him like a professional, then boldly went on her way ahead of the guards’ arrival.

They were looking for her now.

But she’d been right: Will could have stopped her.

Why hadn’t he?

He already knew the answer. He hadn’t stopped her for the same reason he hadn’t interrupted her when she’d asked Michael Murphy about the Brit she’d believed had sent him to kill Keira.

“He’s dangerous and charming and very focused.”

Keira paused a moment in her packing. “You’re going to find out who she is, though, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t stop her from leaving.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Keira’s cornflower-blue eyes leveled on him, but she said nothing further as she flipped through a stack of small sketch pads, choosing two to take with her.

The scent of the rambling pink roses out front sweetened the breeze that floated through the open windows, gentler now that the gale had died down. Keira’s hair was tangled, her clothes and shoes muddy from her ordeal in the stone circle. The Irish detectives had told her she could shower later at the safe house where they were taking her.

Keira had made it plain she didn’t want to go anywhere except to Simon and her family and friends in Boston. She could refuse protection, but she didn’t. Garda teams had kicked into immediate action upon their arrival in the village, taking away Michael Murphy, cordoning off the stone circle and searching the pub, Keira’s cottage and the boat she and Simon had shared for much of the past month for explosive devices and hidden thugs.

“Bombs, Will,” she said suddenly, reaching for a nub of an eraser. “I keep thinking about Scoop. He’s a great guy. He adopted two stray cats-the firefighters got them out safely.” She dropped the eraser into her box and wiped the back of her hand across tear-stained cheeks. “He’s in critical but stable condition. Will…”

He touched her slender shoulder. “Keira, I’m sorry. I know how difficult this is for you.”

“Scoop’s strong. He’ll pull through.” She picked up the brush she’d dropped. “He has to. And Abigail. I can’t-if I think about her, where she could be, what she’s going through, I’ll fall apart, and that won’t help anyone.”

Will had learned from Simon that his newfound love had moved from city to city for years, at home everywhere and nowhere. Finally she’d returned to Boston to be near her mother, who had withdrawn from the world to live as a religious ascetic in a cabin she’d built herself in the woods of southern New Hampshire. Keira had developed a closer relationship with her uncle, Bob O’Reilly, and younger cousins in Boston, and she, Abigail Browning and Scoop Wisdom had become friends.

Then Simon Cahill had entered her life.

“It’s not Simon’s fault.” Keira again fastened her gaze on Will. “He’s a target just like the rest of us.”

“What has Simon told you about Norman Estabrook?”

“We haven’t talked about him that much. He’s petulant, vindictive and brilliant. He courts danger to feel alive.” She reached for more art supplies as she continued. “He trusted Simon with his life.”

“It wasn’t misplaced trust,” Will said. “Simon never did anything to deliberately endanger Estabrook.”

“From what I gather, he’s obsessive about safety measures and backup plans. Whatever happened today-whatever went wrong or right-he’ll have various courses of action from which to choose.”

“That won’t make him easier to find.”

She nodded grimly. “Simon and I have only just found each other. I can hear him singing Irish songs now. He and my uncle have beautiful voices. I can’t sing a note. My mother, either. A few months ago, she was living a quiet, solitary life of prayer in the woods, and now she’s back in the city with all this…” Keira snapped her art case shut. “I wouldn’t blame her if she gives up on us and goes back to her cabin.”

“Your mother’s safe, Keira,” Will said. “The Boston police and the FBI won’t let any harm come to her.”

He read her expression, saw that she was as stubborn and independent as Simon had promised she was, and also as brave. Wherever the garda tucked her for her own safety, she’d do what she could to help the investigation. She wasn’t one to sit back.

There was a light knock on the kitchen door, and an officer poked his head in. “Two minutes, and we have to go.”

Keira took a breath. “I don’t even know what I’ve packed, but I suppose I can always ask someone to make a supply run for me if it comes to that.” She raised her eyes again to Will. “You’ll have to come meet the gang one day. We’re supposed to do Christmas in Ireland this year. My uncle, my cousins, my mother and me.”

“It’ll be cold, dark and wet.”

She smiled. “I hope so. I promised to take my cousin Fiona to pubs to hear Irish music. She has her own Irish band. I want to talk to her, see her-Scoop saved her today. Simon didn’t say so outright, but there must have been a lot of blood.” Keira sniffled back more tears, as much from anger and frustration as worry and grief. “I don’t want to run and hide, Will.”

“That’s not what you’re doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

She didn’t wait for an answer and retreated to the cottage’s sole bedroom, emerging in less than a minute with a brocade satchel, her hair brushed and pulled back into a ponytail. She was lovely, creative and unexpectedly pragmatic. Will wouldn’t be surprised if the garda had found a safe house in the village. She seemed protected there.

“I’ll do whatever I need to do,” she said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

“And Simon knows.” Will smiled at her. “You and your fairy prince will soon be reunited.”

Keira took his hand, squeezing it as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever debt you think you owe Simon, he says you don’t owe him anything. You never did.”

“This isn’t about debts owed, Keira.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.” Her eyes steadied on him with just a hint of a spark. “If you end up in Boston, beware of sneaking around under the noses of the police there. You’ve never met my uncle, but he’ll be on a tear after what’s happened.”

“He’s Boston Irish, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Will winked at her. “Then I don’t need to meet him.”

She let go of his hand and whispered, “Be safe.”

He left before the guards could change their mind and take him into custody for additional questioning. He’d parked on the lane, his car spotted with bits of pink rose petals flung there in the wind and rain, a tangible reminder, somehow, of Keira’s ordeal.

As he drove toward the village, he looked up at the wild hills silhouetted against the dark Irish night. He hated to leave Keira, but she would be safe here.

And he had a job to do.

A light shone in the window of the pub, and the door was unlocked. Will found Eddie O’Shea behind his bar, cleaning up for the night. The guards had gone, their investigative work completed, at least for now.

When he saw Will, Eddie said, “A bomb sweep is a fine way to scare off paying customers. Will you be wanting a drink, Lord Will?”

“Coffee, please, if you have it.”

“I’ve water still hot in the kettle.” He set a coffee press on the bar and scooped in fresh grounds. “Next time, ring me when you feel an urge to come to Ireland. I’ll be on my toes for trouble.”

“The trouble started before I arrived.”

“True enough. It was the same earlier this summer with Keira and her stone angel and that other bloody killer.” The barman shuddered. “I’ve pictures that’ll never leave my head from those terrible days.”

“I wish it could have been otherwise, Eddie.”

“As do I.” He poured water over the grounds, replaced the top on the press and set it in front of Will to steep. He got out a mug and a pitcher of cream, his movements automatic, routine. “The guards talked to our friend Michael Murphy. It’s his real name. He’s too dim-witted to make one up. He’s a known thug in Limerick.”

“Good at his work?”

“Not good enough…fortunately for Keira and her black-haired friend.” O’Shea pushed the coffee paraphernalia in front of Will and looked thoughtfully at him. “The guards wish we’d stopped her from leaving the scene.”

Will knew they did. “You saw her for yourself-her torn knuckles, her muddy clothes, the way she handled Mr. Murphy. Would you have wanted to take her on?”

“She wasn’t too quick to give up his knife.”

And she’d disarmed him, weaponless herself. Murphy hadn’t expected her, and even when he saw her, he’d obviously discounted her as a threat, especially a lethal one. He was strong and capable, a veteran fighter, but she’d had his face in the mud and manure before he’d had a chance to land a single blow.

Eddie showed not the slightest edge of fatigue despite the night’s events. “I expect the guards will have to sort through layers of tawdry criminals to get to whoever hired Murphy. Man, woman or animal.”

“I expect so,” Will agreed, pouring his coffee. It was very hot and very strong, and suddenly he hoped he’d have reason to sit here one evening, chatting with the amiable Irish barman over matters that didn’t involve violence.

“You don’t know where the guards have taken Keira, I suppose?” Eddie asked.

Will shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

“I’d be wasting air asking them. As long as she’s safe.” He nodded to the coffee. “What else can I get you? I’ve a bit of blackberry crumble left. There’s soup, but Patrick made it, and it’s not fit for the pigs.”

“No food. Thanks.”

“You’re gloomy.”

He was, and he knew why. The evening had launched him back two years, to the cave in Afghanistan and the deaths of men who’d trusted him.

For their sakes, he had to focus on the task at hand.

He drank some of his coffee and addressed the barman. “Did you see Michael Murphy in the village earlier today?” He paused. “Before today?”

Eddie emptied the stainless-steel kettle into a small sink. “I don’t remember seeing him before tonight. I told the guards as much.”

“He could have a partner. I understand that strangers come in here on a regular basis-particularly this time of year, particularly this summer with the publicity over Keira’s stone angel. Did anyone strike you as not belonging? Someone who wasn’t a typical tourist, perhaps?” Will set his mug on the bar and kept his gaze on the Irishman. “Think, my friend. Who stood out to you in recent days?”

Eddie took the still-hot coffee press and dumped the grounds, then rinsed the glass container in the sink and set it to drain. Finally he said, “A Brit like the one our black-haired friend described was here a week ago, maybe more.”

Will got very still. “Tell me about him.”

“He had soup and left.”

“Were Keira and Simon here?”

Eddie shook his head. “Not yet. They arrived from the north five days ago on the boat you loaned them. This man was here before then.”

“Did he ask about them?”

“No. I’d recall if he did. Given his manner, I’d wager he was a military man. He had a self-control that reminded me of you, Lord Will.” Eddie slopped an overly wet cloth onto the bar. “Not that I know about military men.”

Will kept his hands steady even as his heartbeat quickened. So much for self-control. He envisioned Myles, arms crossed on his chest as he lay on his back and gazed up at the starlit Afghan sky and said, quite sincerely, he was as comfortable sleeping there, on the rocks in the open, as he’d have been at Buckingham Palace. In the eight years Will had known and trusted him, Myles Fletcher had never shown a hint of a grasping nature. He’d never shown himself to be a man who could betray his country-his mates.

“What else can you remember?” Will asked, keeping his tone even. “The smallest detail could be significant.”

“He paid with euros and sat alone, kept to himself. He asked for water-no coffee or alcohol. When he left, he walked down to the harbor, then down the lane. Aidan, Patrick and I took turns following him. He knew it and didn’t care.”

“Did he stay overnight in the village?”

“I don’t know where he stayed. We lost him eventually. He brought up Keira’s story about the stone angel when he was in here, but only for a moment, and he wasn’t the first nor the last. It’s been happening all summer.”

“What did you tell him?”

A spark of mischief flared in the Irishman’s eyes. “I told him to find a rainbow and follow it to a pot of gold.”

Will smiled in spite of his tension. Eddie O’Shea enjoyed keeping his pub, but he wasn’t one to suffer fools or intruders gladly. And he liked Keira and Simon. But who didn’t?

Eddie continued mopping the bar with his wet cloth. “Did we do the right thing after all, Will, in letting our black-haired woman go?”

“You’re worried about her,” Will said.

“What if she’s in over her head and a danger to herself? To others? We could have stopped her, Lord Will.” The barman stood back and dropped the cleaning cloth into the sink, then got a dry one and soaked up the excess water on the gleaming bar. “Not without a fight, I’ll wager, one I’m not sure we’d have won. She knows how to put her foot to the right spot on a man, I’ll say that. I could see it when she came in here.” He motioned toward the pegs by the front door. “The way she took off her jacket and hung it…Never mind the rest.”

“From what I witnessed,” Will said, “I’d guess she’s received training.”

“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. Perhaps 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.”