The Mist

Chapter 18

Off the New England coast

Mid-day

August 26

Norman Estabrook entered the stateroom with Fletcher two steps behind him. The billionaire looked more rested, and he wasn’t wearing his porkpie hat. His light brown hair needed a trim. Abigail sat up on the sectional. She was nauseated but so far had managed to keep her food down. The wet bar was well-stocked with gourmet items, but she’d have loved a plain piece of toast.

“You’re pale,” Estabrook said. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

“Plenty.”

“Did you sleep?”

She nodded. Fitful sleep, pacing, jumping jacks, pool, a shower. She’d done what she could to maintain her energy and stay attuned to her surroundings, the voices outside her door, the comings and goings of the small boat. She’d tried to use her worsening seasickness to her advantage and let it remind her she was still alive and still wanted to feel good and enjoy life.

“Have you ever met Lizzie Rush?” Estabrook asked abruptly.

His question took Abigail by surprise, but she answered truthfully. “No, I haven’t.”

“But you’ve heard of her?”

“Her family. They own the Whitcomb Hotel in Boston.”

“She stayed with me through my arrest and my discovery of Simon’s betrayal. I haven’t heard from her since the FBI took her away. I imagine your father got to her.”

Abigail walked over to the pool table and rolled a solid blue ball into a trio of other balls. It knocked against a yellow one, bounced off the side of the table and stopped at the edge of a pocket. “I wouldn’t know,” she said without looking at either man. “Believe it or not, my father hasn’t discussed your case with me.”

“If you think referring to me as a ‘case’ will give you the upper hand, Detective, or irritate me, or make me feel bad, you’re wrong. I know I matter to your father.” Estabrook picked up the eight ball. “Lizzie grew up without a mother. Did you know that?”

“I’m not familiar with her background.” That, Abigail thought, tapping in her blue ball with the tip of her finger, was an outright lie.

Estabrook massaged the eight ball. “She’s just a few years younger than you. While you were growing up with a mother and father, Lizzie was being shuffled back and forth among various relatives. Her father traveled frequently for his work with the Rush hotels. She would stay with her uncle and aunt and their four sons in Boston, and her grandmother in Maine. Lizzie was a motherless little girl, Detective Browning.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.”

“I know a lot about everyone I have as a guest in my home.”

But Simon had fooled him, and that grated. “What happened to Lizzie’s mother?” Abigail asked, although she knew the answer to her question. Not the whole answer. Only her father would know the whole answer.

She was aware of Fletcher waiting by the door with his arms crossed on his chest. He managed somehow to look both bored and impatient.

Estabrook set the eight ball back on the table and gave it a sharp spin. “Lizzie’s mother was Irish. Shauna Morrigan Rush. She died in Dublin when Lizzie was seven months old. Her death was ruled an accident-a freak fall-but who’s to say? It’s daunting to think about the little things that can have such an impact on our lives. One wrong move on an unfamiliar cobblestone street, and your daughter’s an orphan.”

Abigail subtly held on to the edge of the table as she tried to control another wave of her persistent nausea. “Do you have plans for Lizzie? Is she helping you?”

“All in good time.”

Whatever her role, Lizzie Rush wasn’t his equal, not in his eyes. Her father was. Simon? Estabrook, Abigail thought, would take special pleasure in exacting his revenge on Simon Cahill.

Estabrook turned abruptly to Fletcher. “Continue.”

“I need you to leave,” the Brit said.

“As you wish,” he said coolly.

Fletcher lowered his arms to his sides and walked over to Abigail. He put his finger on her chin and tilted her bruised cheek toward the light. “The swelling’s down a bit.”

“I think so, too. How did you and Estabrook meet?”

“We had tea together at Buckingham Palace.”

“For all I know you’re telling the truth. You seem like a practical sort. What do you want out of this?”

“Money.”

“I have access to money. We can work out our own deal.”

“You’re feeling sick,” he said.

“I’ve turned green, have I?”

“More chartreuse.”

“Ugly color, chartreuse, but to each his own. I hope being pregnant isn’t this bad.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I want kids. Do you have any?”

His eyes went flat. “No.”

There was something there. A loss, a chance missed. “Give up Norman in exchange for cash and a safe exit back to whatever hole you crawled out of. There’ll be a reward for my safe return.”

“Mr. Estabrook has access to hundreds of millions of dollars. What do you suppose the FBI or Boston police would pay for you? Your fiancé comes from a wealthy family, but compared to Mr. Estabrook? I don’t think so, love. Sorry.”

“We can set you up with a new identity. He’d never find you. In your line of work, you must have enemies hunting you. You can make a fresh start.”

“I’ve made my choices.”

Abigail rolled a yellow ball from one end of the pool table to the other, without it hitting any other balls. “What does Estabrook want?”

Fletcher didn’t hesitate. “To kill the people who tried to destroy him.”

“It’s not that simple, and I think you know it. And no one tried to destroy him. He broke the law.” She stood up from the pool table. “He’s become more and more obsessed with thwarting my father, hasn’t he?”

“I’m afraid I’m not particularly interested in his motives.”

“He appreciates an adversary as strong as he is. He sees himself as a special person, and he wants special adversaries-such as the director of the FBI.”

Fletcher picked up a pool cue and examined the array of balls on the table.

“You’re obviously not stupid,” Abigail said. “Anyone taking the risks you’ve taken would want to be well paid.”

“You’re making assumptions that perhaps you shouldn’t.”

Without a doubt, but she said, “You should listen to me.”

He got down low, sized up the array of balls on the table. “You’re aching to shoot me and dump me overboard, aren’t you, love? I can’t say I blame you.”

“I wouldn’t dump you overboard. I’d let your body fall into the ocean if the bullets took you in that direction. Norman ’s, too.” She walked to the end of the table, watching as Fletcher lined up his cue on a solid red ball. “I heard a smaller boat coming and going again. Have you kidnapped anyone else?”

He made his shot, crisp, clean, two solid-colored balls pivoting into pockets. But he didn’t answer her.

“Is Lizzie Rush on board?” Abigail asked. “Are we on our way to meet her somewhere? Maine, maybe? Estabrook mentioned her grandmother had a house there.”

Fletcher walked around the table, standing close to Abigail as he sized up another shot. “You know more about Miss Rush than you let on to Mr. Estabrook.”

“Not much more. Simon Cahill met Estabrook at a Fast Rescue fund-raiser held at the Rush family’s hotel in Boston last summer. My fiancé is the founder and director of Fast Rescue. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Fletcher leaned far over the table and angled his cue sharply. “It’s good that you didn’t lie about that one, love,” he said, making another perfect shot.

“I’m not the one with something to hide. For example, kidnapping a police officer.” She fought more seasickness, bile rising in her throat. “Not going to tell me Estabrook’s plan for me, are you?”

“There is one. Have no doubt of that.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” Abigail stepped back away from the table, giving him room for another difficult shot. “You don’t like this, do you? You’re a professional, and Norman ’s a brilliant, narcissistic, crazed amateur. He’s off the reservation, isn’t he?”

“Perhaps you should vomit and get it over with.”

She ignored his remark. “If you had your way, what would you do, put a bullet in my head and dump me overboard?”

“No profit in that, love.” He tapped a ball into a side pocket. “Does talking keep you from vomiting?”

She almost smiled. “So far, so good.”

Eyeing the remaining balls on the table, he said, without looking at her, “There’s a way you can help me. If you do, I’ll help you when the time comes.”

“What can I do for you?”

Fletcher positioned his cue for another shot. “You can tell me what you know about Will Davenport.”

This was a surprise. “He’s a friend?”

“Once upon a time.”

Abigail considered her answer and decided there was little risk to the truth. “I’m sure I know less about him than you do. He and Simon were friends before Simon hooked up with Fast Rescue. I’ve never met Davenport, but I understand he’s a wealthy British noble, a former military officer. I don’t know the details, but I suspect he and Simon didn’t meet over tea and crumpets.”

“Correct. They did not.”

“Simon worked in counterterrorism before he went undercover after Estabrook. I’ve wondered if he was on to some kind of drug-terrorism connection there. What about you, Fletcher? How do you know Davenport?”

He fired off another shot without answering.

“You were with the good guys?”

“I was with them. I wasn’t one.”

His hard, quick shot sent balls banging into each other, richocheting off the sides of the table.

Abigail maintained her composure. “ Davenport provided assistance-voluntarily-with the Ireland end of a case we wrapped up earlier this summer involving a serial killer.”

“Then Will hasn’t been to Boston?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“I believe you. Now,” Fletcher said, moving around the table, his tone unchanged, “tell me about Fiona O’Reilly.”

He caught Abigail totally off guard, which, she realized, had been his intention. She couldn’t stop herself. The images of the previous day and her fear for Fiona were too much. Bile rose in her throat, and she stumbled. Fletcher moved fast, grabbing her, half carrying her to the bathroom, shoving her in front of the toilet. She vomited until she had nothing left inside her, then dry heaved for a few more minutes.

Finally, spent, eyes tearing and bloodshot, hands shaking, she splashed herself with cold water and looked at her reflection. She was bruised, ashen. “Owen,” she whispered. “Give me strength. I love you so much.”

When she turned, Fletcher was in the doorway. “I have to leave for a while,” he said, impassive. “We can talk later. I’ll let you get some sleep.”

When she was alone again, Abigail lay down flat on the carpeted floor next to the pool table and closed her eyes.

In through the nose for eight.

Hold for eight.

Out through the mouth for eight.

“Again,” she said, ignoring the tears trickling down her temples into the carpet.

In for eight. Hold for eight.

Out for eight.