The Mist

Chapter 17

Boston, Massachusetts

8 a.m., EDT

August 26

Bob felt the metal bars under the thin mattress as he rolled onto his back, reminding him that he’d spent the night on the pullout sofa in his niece’s attic apartment in the Garrison house. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains Keira had bought in Ireland. He draped an arm over his eyes to block out the sun and slumped deeper into what passed for a bed. His feet hung off the end. He hadn’t wanted to sleep. He’d still be at BPD headquarters now if Tom Yarborough hadn’t all but put a gun to his head and dragged him to Beacon Hill.

Yarborough had probably gone right back to work.

Bob adjusted his position and got another poke in the back. Everyone had offered him a place to stay. Theresa, Lucas Jones, even Yarborough. Hell, the mayor and the commissioner would have put him up for the night if he’d asked. Easier to stay in his niece’s vacant apartment with her pictures of Irish fairies and cottages, her books of folktales and poetry.

Simon and March had an FBI detail looking after their safety. Neither liked it or had wanted to sleep any more than Bob had. Simon, in particular, wanted to chase Estabrook on his own, but not only did he have a giant target painted on his back, he would be more help to Abigail working the investigation than going solo. He knew Estabrook, his contacts, how he thought, places he liked, places he’d been or had talked about. If he could hide millions for drug traffickers, he could hide himself.

Someone would have paged or called or shouted up the stairs if Estabrook or his plane had turned up, but Bob checked his messages, anyway.

Nothing.

He walked to the window in his undershorts and pulled back the Irish lace curtains, grimacing when he saw that the protective detail the commissioner insisted be put on his chief homicide detective was still down there. Waste of manpower as far as Bob was concerned. He’d rather have them out looking for Abigail and the bombers, but he didn’t have a choice.

He headed for the bathroom and took a shower, using Keira’s almond soap, which wasn’t as girlie as he’d feared. He’d managed to grab a couple changes of clothes out of his apartment. They didn’t smell too sooty to him, but they might to someone else. Not his problem.

Yarborough met him downstairs. He was as straight-backed as ever but looked raw around the edges. He’d never say the tension was getting to him, but Bob wouldn’t, either. “Morning, Lieutenant. You sleep?”

“Like a baby. You?”

“Some.”

Bob squinted across Beacon at the Common, all dappled shade on a sunny summer morning. It’d be another hot day. “Did you find Abigail and just not want to wake me?”

“No. Sorry.”

The guy had no sense of irony. Bob turned back to him. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

Yarborough rubbed the back of his neck. He was a cool, controlled type, but right now, he looked miserable. “Fiona refused police protection this morning and cleared out of her mother’s house. She’s over eighteen. We can’t force her.”

“I can. Where is she?”

Yarborough didn’t answer.

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

“ATF wants to put her under surveillance.”

“My daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“They think she could have seen something here yesterday morning and she just doesn’t realize it.”

“Big difference between protection and surveillance,” Bob said, stony. “The feds don’t call the shots when it comes to my family. Where’s Fi now?”

“I don’t know. In my opinion-” Yarborough abandoned his thought. “Never mind.”

Bob glared at him. “In your opinion, what?”

Yarborough sighed and looked out at the Common. “I got the feeling when we interviewed her that she’s holding back.”

“What do you mean, holding back? Holding back what?”

The younger detective didn’t flinch at Bob’s tone. “I don’t know. Lucas thought so, too.” Like Bob wouldn’t kill him if Lucas agreed. “We think she’s got something on her mind, but she’s not sure it’s relevant. She’s afraid of getting someone into trouble or wasting our time.”

Bob didn’t respond as he considered what Yarborough was saying.

Yarborough rubbed the side of his mouth with one finger. “I’m not criticizing her.”

“Yeah. It’s okay. I’m not armed. Not yet.” Bob fished out his cell phone and tried Fiona’s number, but he got her voice mail. He left a message and tried texting her. “I hate these damn buttons. My fingers are too big. I can’t see the screen.” He messed up and had to start over. “Fi’s fast, but little Jayne-she’s a whiz. Her teacher has the students leave their cell phones in a box when they come to class. Eleven years old, and they all have cell phones. Where’s the money coming from? When I was a kid, we had one phone in the house. It was a big deal when the first family on the street got an extension.”

“It’s called progress, Lieutenant,” Yarborough said.

“It’s called kids texting their friends spelling words and the capital of Wisconsin. Or don’t kids take tests anymore?” Bob managed to type in “call me” and hit some other damn button to send the thing. “I’m going to the hospital to visit Scoop. Ten to one Fiona’s there. Any update on his condition?”

Yarborough was expressionless. “He’s alive.” He looked at Bob in the uncompromising way he had. “I’ll drive you over there.”

No way of talking him out of it. Bob gestured to the uniformed officers. “Tell them to go to work.”

“Lieutenant-”

“Never mind. I’ll do it.”

Yarborough raised a hand, stopping him. He walked over to the cruiser, said a few words, then rejoined Bob. “Let’s go,” he said tightly.

“So, if someone jumps out of the bushes with a gun and tries to shoot me, you’re diving in front of the bullet?”

“I’m shooting the bastard first. You’re on PTSD watch, you know.”

“Posttraumatic stress disorder doesn’t happen in a day. It’s normal to have the yips right after a crisis.”

“The yips, Lieutenant?”

“Sleeplessness, flashbacks, startle response. Not that I have any of that. I told you, I slept like a baby-”

“Bob. Stop, okay? I know.”

He grinned at the younger detective. “Is that the first time you’ve called me by my first name? Honest, Yarborough, we might make a human being out of you yet.”

Yarborough clamped his mouth shut, a muscle working in his jaw as he got out his keys and walked to his car. He unlocked the passenger door. “I keep wondering where Abigail spent the night.”

“No point going down that road.”

“She’s good, but…” Yarborough yanked open the door and stood to one side for Bob to get in. “It’s okay. I checked for bombs already.”

“You’re a ray of sunshine, Yarborough.”

“Always aim to please the boss.”

Bob got rid of him when they arrived at the hospital. There were enough cops there for him to get a ride to BPD headquarters if he needed one, and Yarborough was clearly itching to do something besides escort him around town.

And Bob was right. He found his eldest daughter shivering in the corridor outside Scoop’s hospital room. Scoop had been moved out of ICU to a regular room, another positive sign. It wasn’t the air-conditioning that had Fiona shivering. If anything, the temperature was on the warm side. She was on edge. Bob wasn’t thrilled with her for refusing police protection, but he melted when he saw her. Uniformed officers were posted outside Scoop’s room and drifting past her while she mustered courage to go in and see him.

Scoop’s family was there. His colleagues from internal affairs. Bob wasn’t going to embarrass Fiona-or himself-by treating her like a two-year-old, but she had to go back under police protection. Just because she was over eighteen didn’t mean she didn’t have to listen to his common sense advice.

She tried to smile. “This is worse than any performance anxiety I’ve experienced,” she said, her arms crossed tight on her chest. “Performing is nothing compared to facing a man who nearly died saving your life.”

“Scoop won’t look at it that way,” Bob said.

“I don’t care how he looks at it. It’s what happened.”

“I know, Fi.”

A white-coated doctor who didn’t look much older than Fiona came out of Scoop’s room. “You can go in now,” she said. “He’s awake.”

Fiona nodded without speaking.

The doctor headed for the nurses’ station. When his daughter still didn’t move, Bob said, “Scoop will want to see you and know you’re okay.”

She blinked back tears. “He saved my life,” she said again.

Bob had talked to Theresa last night, and she’d told him Fi had been repeating those words ever since they’d left his burned-up house.

“Maybe you saved his life, too. If you hadn’t been there, he might have gone for the porch and Abigail when the bomb went off. Instead he grabbed you and dived for cover.” Bob nodded to the doorway. “Go on in, Fi. Just talk to him a few minutes.”

She nodded, and Bob gritted his teeth as he watched his daughter enter the small room and walk up to one side of Scoop’s bed. Scoop was on his side, bandaged, bruised, stuck with IVs. He had his own clicker for pain medication.

“Hey, Scoop,” Fiona said, her voice clear and strong now. “How’re you feeling? Don’t talk if it hurts.”

“I’m getting there. You?”

Standing just outside in the hall, Bob could barely hear him.

“Just some bumps and bruises,” Fiona said. “I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

Bob knew that Tom Yarborough and Lucas Jones would have asked her not to mention Abigail to anyone, even to Scoop, not just to keep him from worrying about her but to maintain tight control over the investigation.

“I just wanted to say hi and thank you,” she added, her voice a little less strong.

“Don’t thank me, Fi. I should have spotted the bomb.” Scoop sounded weak, drugged, but lucid. “Before it went off. You got a detail on you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Fiona.”

Bob grinned to himself. Good for you, Scoop, he thought.

“I said no.” She was defensive now. “I don’t want a protective detail. I don’t need one. The bomb wasn’t meant for me.”

“Abigail,” Scoop said.

Bad move, Bob thought. She should have lied and told him she had a protective detail. Even drugged and fighting pain, Scoop would have his cop instincts. As an internal affairs detective, he was used to penetrating lies told by men and women trained to see through them. He was the best in the department at detecting any type of lie.

Fiona sniffled. “Sorry, Scoop, I didn’t hear you. I should leave. You should be with your family. I’m taking it easy today. I’m heading over to the Garrison house to practice.”

“Good. Play an Irish tune for me.”

“I will. I’ll play something fun. Something happy.”

But Scoop didn’t respond, and Bob saw he’d drifted off. Fiona withdrew, bursting into tears when she reached her father. He tried to hug her, but she jerked away. The officers watched her closely, and he could tell they knew she was his daughter. So could she, and it just irritated her more.

Better irritated than sobbing and shivering.

She ran down the hall. Bob didn’t go after her. The foundation staff would be back to work at the Garrison house, and patrol cars would be making frequent checks.

He went in to see Scoop. “You awake?”

“No.”

“You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

“They say you’re going to live.”

Scoop paid no attention. “While I have the energy.” He licked dry, chapped lips. “Before I konk out again. There’s a woman.”

“There always is with you.”

“That’s not what I mean. Black hair. Long, straight. Little thing. Green eyes. She was on our street.”

“Okay,” Bob said, unimpressed.

Scoop seemed to try to focus, but his eyelids were swollen from the fluids being pumped into him. “Day before the bomb. She stopped in front of the house. Said she had shin splints.”

“She got your attention?”

“Yeah. I wondered…” He licked his lips again, his movements sluggish as he struggled to stay alert.

The man needed rest. “I’ll look into it,” Bob said. “A small woman with black hair, green eyes and shin splints.”

Bob didn’t tell Scoop, but the description also fit the woman in Ireland who’d taken on the s.o.b. sent to kill Keira. Michael Murphy continued to deny he intended to hurt anyone, but the Irish police didn’t believe him. Bob didn’t, either.

“Abigail was on to something,” Scoop said in a slurred whisper. “She…her father…ask her.”

Bob wouldn’t lie to Scoop about Abigail, but he didn’t have to. Scoop was out.

On his way out of the hospital, Bob dialed Theresa’s cell number. “You know Fiona was just here visiting Scoop?”

“I assumed as much. She went back to her apartment first thing this morning. One way to get her out of bed early, put a police detail on her.”

“It’s a thought,” Bob said without humor. “At least her apartment’s in BPD jurisdiction. We can keep an eye on her.”

Theresa got all hot. “If you’re implying I should have kept her here, I tried. She’s as stubborn as you are.”

“You’re at work today?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just a question. Yes or no answer. Easy.”

“Yes.”

Bob ignored her tight, irritated tone. He didn’t even blame her for being testy.

“If you have vacation days left, take them. Go to the beach with the girls.”

“Fiona won’t go. She and her band have paying gigs. Classes start soon. She-”

“You can make her go.”

“So could you. You’ve got a gun, because that’s what it’ll take. She’s nineteen, Bob. She makes her own decisions. It’s time you respected that.”

“I don’t like her decisions.”

“Well, you can’t control what she does. Neither can I. We can influence but not control.”

“You been to see a shrink or something?”

She swore at him, really irritated now.

“Take Maddie and Jayne to the beach, Ter. I’ll deal with Fi.”

“She may play harp, Bob, but she’s just like you.”

“Prettier.”

“Thank God.”

“Ter?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

She disconnected without a word.

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.”