The Mist

Chapter 12

Off the coast of Massachusetts

7:45 p.m., EDT

August 25

Abigail rode out another wave of nausea, forcing herself not to give in to seasickness. What would Owen say? He’d never been seasick in his life. Thinking about him gave her strength. He’d tell her to sleep while she could. Bob, Scoop, Yarborough, Lucas-her father. They’d all tell her the same thing. Simon would, too, but she didn’t know him as well as the others.

Although some days she wondered if she knew her father at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut and fought back tears. They would only make her blindfold wet and worsen her discomfort. She ached, and she itched, and she wanted to fight these bastards but couldn’t. They’d taken turns checking on her, providing a sip of water, threatening her if she tried to escape.

Two men whose voices she didn’t recognize were arguing on the other side of the door. One man was clearly American-petulant, arrogant. The other was British-fearless, angry.

“You promised you’d be there for me,” the American said.

The Brit snorted. “Not like this, you bloody fool.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“I’ll talk to you any way I choose. I agreed to do a job, and you went behind my back and hired these utter morons to indulge your petty desire for vengeance.”

“There’s nothing petty about anything I do. I don’t care what your credentials are, you’re a mercenary who works for me. You’re to do as I say.”

“I will, but in my professional judgment-”

“You’ve made your opinion clear,” the American said, less irritated. “Let’s go forward from where we are now and not worry about the past. Agreed?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Agreed.”

The door creaked, opening abruptly. Abigail straightened as best she could. Her shoulders and thighs were painfully stiff, and her fingers and toes, despite her efforts to wiggle them, had gone numb.

She heard footsteps circling her chair. “My, my. You have had a difficult day, haven’t you?” It was the American, smug, yet also, underneath, clearly agitated. “I have, too. I had a long, hard journey from Montana.”

Norman Estabrook.

Abigail forced herself not to react.

“The risks I’ve taken today and the aggravation I’ve experienced are worth it, Detective Browning, just to see you here, at my mercy.” He was in front of her now. “Your daddy and your friends in law enforcement have no idea where you are or where I am. None whatsoever.”

“Enjoy your role as kidnapper in chief while you can, Norman.” Abigail hated the raspiness of her voice, but at least it was strong. “It’s not going to last. You screwed up today, didn’t you? Everything didn’t go as planned, did it?”

She felt his breath hot against her face. “I have you. I have Abigail March Browning, John March’s daughter. Tell me, Detective. Don’t you think your father needs his own personal devil to fight?”

“We can call and ask him.”

“He needs me. He needs an enemy who is his equal. You learned about good and evil this summer, didn’t you? The serial killer who came after your friend Keira was fascinated with the devil. You investigated him. He understood that God needs Lucifer.”

Abigail suppressed a shiver of fear. She’d learned more about the nature of evil in June than she’d ever wanted to know. In her eight years as a detective, she had never come across such flat-out evil-the conscious, deliberate choice to commit vile acts of gratuitous violence on innocent people.

“I don’t know about God and Lucifer,” she said. “My father’s an ordinary human being. So are you.”

“There’s nothing ordinary about me. Prosecutors and even my lawyers made the mistake of thinking I was like other men. I have resources and connections the FBI can’t touch.”

“You won’t when you’re in prison.”

Estabrook gave a low chuckle. “Your father must be in torment right now, knowing that I have you and he’s responsible. Knowing he had me, and he let me go.”

“It wasn’t his idea. He objected to your deal. He’s not all powerful.”

“He didn’t believe I was capable of violence. He wanted my friends more than he did me. Imagine the possibilities going forward, Detective. I challenge the most powerful law enforcement officer in the world every day for the rest of his life, until he finally dies a bitter, broken old man.”

“You’re just not that special,” Abigail said.

This time, Estabrook’s laugh wasn’t right in her ear, and she realized he must have stood up straight. His voice was congenial when he spoke. “At first I just wanted John March dead. Now, I want him to suffer. I want him to suffer and suffer and suffer.” Estabrook was silent a moment, then added, “There are others I want to kill with my own hands.”

Abigail concentrated on her breathing before fear could take hold, as her captor obviously hoped it would.

In for eight. Hold for eight. Out for eight.

She heard a door click shut but continued with her breathing exercise. She did three sets before she stopped and focused again on her surroundings.

“You have relentless friends.” It was the man with the British accent, speaking softly, close to her. “They’re looking for you now.”

“Estabrook’s gone?” she asked, calmer now.

“For the moment.”

She swallowed, her mouth and throat dry from lack of water-and from tension, from fighting panic, nausea and claustrophobia. “It’ll go better for you if you set me free now, before my friends find me.”

“I take your point.”

He sounded pragmatic, neither relishing nor concerned about the prospect of going up against various arms of the law enforcement community.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Around eight o’clock. Are you injured?”

“I’m fine. Let me go before-”

“You’re in a tough spot, Detective. I suggest you not waste your energy arguing for something that can’t happen.”

“Then tell me about my friends who were home when your bomb went off. Scoop, Bob, Fiona.” She used their first names to humanize them, to make them real to this man. “What’s their condition? Are they all right?”

“There were no deaths, and Detective O’Reilly and his daughter are uninjured.”

She steeled herself against any emotion. “Scoop?”

“Detective Wisdom was cut by flying shrapnel. He’ll survive, but he’ll have a rough go for a while.”

“Owen,” Abigail whispered. “What about him?”

“A handy sort, your man Owen.”

She sank into her chair, her arms aching from being tied behind her back. How could she have brought this down on her friends? “You have baggage,” Bob had told her when she was a rookie determined to make detective, a grief-stricken widow who had quit law school and wanted to help other people get answers. He hadn’t minced words. “Husband an FBI agent killed on your honeymoon in an unsolved homicide. Daddy set to become the next FBI director. I should send you packing back to law school.”

At first, Bob had considered Owen more baggage, with his wealthy family, his constant travel with Fast Rescue. These were distractions as far as Bob was concerned, reasons she couldn’t dedicate herself to the job, reasons she didn’t fit in with the department and never would. But she had proved herself.

She heard footsteps as the Brit approached her in her chair. “All of you are remarkably lucky,” he said.

“That’s what I feel right now. Lucky. Did you try to kill Owen, or did you mean to kidnap him, too?”

“Kill.”

Her stomach lurched, but she refused to throw up. “Another bomb.” She kept her tone unemotional, professional. “Where? His family’s house on Beacon Street?”

“His car.”

“Bastards.”

“He was warned in time. So, love,” the Brit said, closer to her now, “how do you suppose that happened?”

Abigail wriggled in her chair to distract him from any hint in her expression that she had even the remotest theory.

“You’re meant to respond,” he said mildly.

“I have no idea how it happened. I was stuffed in the back of a van. But your plan hasn’t worked the way it was meant to, has it?”

“Did I say it was my plan?”

She realized he was in front of her, perhaps a few inches away, and she warned herself not to be misled by his quiet, almost wry tone. This was a disciplined, controlled and very dangerous man.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“Nothing at the moment, love. You and your friends are formidable foes. Your dad as well.”

“That’s the fun of it for Norman, isn’t it? You’re a pro. You know he’s taking unnecessary risks for his own amusement.”

“Perhaps in our own way, love, we all do.”

Abigail tried to relax her jaw muscles and ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. “I’ve heard a small boat pull up to this one several times. What did you do, fly Estabrook into a private airport, then bring him here?”

“That doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“That’s true. You can walk away. Help me. Let me go back home and plan my wedding.”

The Brit gave a short laugh. “And what would I get by walking away? Hold still, love. I’m going to cut the ropes on your wrists and ankles.”

“What’s your name? What should I call you?”

“Fletcher.”

“First name or last name?”

“Either.”

It might be real, or it might not. “You’re British?”

“Long live the Queen.”

He had a sense of humor, anyway.

“Wrists first,” he said. “You’ll feel the knife. Don’t panic, although I can see you’re not the type.”

He slid the cool blade of a knife between Abigail’s skin and the rope. He was too efficient-too professional-to indulge in unnecessary cruelty. If he decided to kill her, he’d be quick about it, at least.

“Easy, love,” he said as she felt the bonds give way. “Go slow. You’ll be stiff. You’ve been in the same position for a while. I’m freeing your ankles next.”

As she eased her arms over the back of the chair and onto her lap, Abigail winced at the flush of pain and barely noticed him tackling the ropes on her ankles. She slowly pushed one foot forward, biting back tears. Blood rushed into her toes and fingers, and, against her will, she moaned out loud. He untied her blindfold, carefully peeling it from her eyes. She blinked a few times, unkinked her arms and legs, and finally focused on her surroundings. There was a light on now, and she could see a pool table in the middle of the stateroom, next to her chair, and a low sectional sofa on the length of an interior wall.

Her captor leaned back against the pool table, giving her a moment. He was a clean-shaved, exceptionally fit-looking white male, approximately forty years old, skimming six feet, with close-cropped, medium brown hair and gray eyes. No visible scars or tattoos or other distinguishing features. Not that any were needed for Abigail to remember him.

He smiled. “Take a good look, love. You’ll want to describe me accurately to your sketch artists.” He gestured to the left side of her face. “The men hit you?”

She resisted a wisecrack. “The one with the South Boston accent did.”

“He’s a bit of a hothead. Care to take a moment while I’m here and freshen up?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He stood up from the pool table and gently took her by the elbow. “On your feet, then.”

He started to help her up, but she shook him off and rose on her own. She was stiff and sore, but steady. He led her to a door in the back of the stateroom, next to a wet bar.

“Knock when you’ve finished. You have two minutes.”

“I can’t-”

“You can, love.”

He opened the door and shut it softly behind her when she went in, leaving her in the pitch-dark. She banged up against something-a sink, she thought-and righted herself, feeling on the wall for a light switch. She found one and flipped it on. She saw she was in a small, tidy head equipped with a shower, sink and toilet. There were dispensers of liquid soap and hand cream, a basket of potpourri, a stack of neatly folded hand towels. Touches of comfort and elegance for the prisoner.

Abigail locked the door and turned on the water in the sink while she did her business.

She washed up with soap and water as best she could, skipped the hand cream and buried her face in a fluffy, expensive white towel, indulging in a few seconds of self-pity and fatigue. But there was no time. She dropped the towel on the floor and stuck her mouth under the faucet and drank as much water as she dared. She didn’t want to be sick, but she couldn’t count on when she’d be allowed to drink again. Or eat. She was starving.

Finally she inspected herself for injuries that adrenaline and the numbness from sitting in one position for so long could have kept her from feeling. Her wrists and ankles were rope-burned but not bleeding. She had bruises here and there from struggling to get free on the ride to the marina, but nothing she needed to worry about.

“Thirty seconds,” Fletcher said from the other side of the door.

She looked in the mirror at the swelling on her cheek. She’d have a shiner.

When she unlocked the door, Fletcher took her by the elbow and led her back to her chair. “I won’t tie you up again,” he said, sitting her down, “but not because I trust you not to attempt escape. Because I know you won’t succeed.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“For a little boat ride.” He straightened, looked at her without expression. “Do you play pool?”

“Not really.”

“Your chance to practice, then, love.”

“Why did you stay with me if you weren’t going to tie me back up?”

“I wanted to be here in case you passed out once you got on your feet.” He nodded to the wet bar. “There’s ice, food and drink. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

He left without another word.