The Mist

Chapter 32

Boston, Massachusetts

9:30 a.m., EDT

August 28

The doctors had sprung Scoop sooner than they’d expected, and Bob found him at their burned-out triple-decker, out back inspecting his garden. He was bandaged and clearly in pain, but he stood up with a squished tomato. “Bastard firefighters trampled my tomatoes. That was uncalled for.”

“They were dragging your sorry butt out from behind the compost bin.”

Scoop sighed. “My apartment’s got so much smoke and water damage, they’re going to have to gut it.”

“Whole building.”

“You can supervise. Where are you going to live?”

“Keira’s apartment for now,” Bob said. “The lace curtains have to go. I don’t care if it’s Irish lace.”

“What about her?”

“She has plans.”

Scoop was silent a moment. “Simon.”

Bob winced inwardly. What a dope he’d been. Fiona had tried to tell him it wasn’t her. It was his niece. “Scoop…”

“They’re good together.”

Scoop wasn’t exactly up to it, but nothing would stop him from heading with Bob to Morrigan’s Bar at the Whitcomb Hotel on Charles Street. Simon had left for Ireland. Jeremiah Rush and a couple other Rushes were there, including Jeremiah’s father, Bradley, and his uncle, Harlan, the spook.

Lizzie showed up late. Nobody knew where her Brit was, or at least no one was saying.

Fiona was pink cheeked and happily playing Irish tunes with three of her musician friends. She saw Scoop and blushed, and Bob’s heart broke, but he knew she’d be okay.

John March appeared on the steps for a few seconds before turning around and heading back toward the lobby. Lizzie got up and quietly followed him. Her father stayed put.

Making peace with the past, Bob knew from experience, wasn’t the easiest thing to do.

Theresa arrived with Maddie and Jayne. “We got through this one,” his ex-wife said and gave Bob’s hand a little squeeze. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You didn’t get killed.”

“All in a day’s work.”

They sat at a booth together, and Bob was off his guard for that split second that put him back in the past, and he saw what he could have had if he hadn’t been such a jerk. But Theresa and their daughters looked happy, and he figured the least he could do was not to saddle them with his regrets.

At a break, Fiona joined them with more Ireland brochures and printouts. “The Rush hotel in Dublin is now officially on our Christmas itinerary. I made reservations for us to have Christmas Eve tea there. It’s expensive.”

“What a surprise,” Bob said.

“Jeremiah has a brother in Dublin. His name’s Justin. He’s just twenty-two.”

“So long as they serve those little buttery mince pies my grandmother used to make, I’m good. And sing Christmas carols.” Bob smiled as Jayne crawled onto his lap. “I like Christmas carols.”

Lizzie found John March alone at a quiet table in the Whitcomb’s elegant second-floor restaurant. He had a bottle of good Irish whiskey. He poured her a glass as she sat across from him. “I met your mother here before you were born. Before she’d met your father. I was a young cop. She was a pretty Irish girl who happened to know some very bad people. She stayed here.”

“Good taste,” Lizzie said, but her mouth was dry, her hands trembling. She’d stood up to Norman Estabrook and his killers, but this, she thought-talking to a tortured man about the mother she never knew-was almost too much for her.

“She was in Irish tourism development,” March said. “Except, of course, she wasn’t.”

“It was a good cover for her intelligence work.”

“She knew what she was doing, Lizzie. She went up against very dedicated, very bad people.” He looked away. “I wish I could have saved her. If you hate me…”

“I don’t. I never have, even when I suspected that I didn’t know everything about her death. I’d have loved to have known my mother. I’d love to have her at my side if I ever get married and have babies of my own-”

“Lizzie.” His dark eyes, so like his own daughter’s, filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“I had a wonderful, interesting upbringing, with a truly loving family. My mother has remained unreal to me, but the choices I faced this past year, the decisions I made, dealing with someone like Norman, have brought me closer to her, helped me to understand her better.”

“She loved you and your father with all her heart.”

“And you, Director March?”

He didn’t flinch at her question. “I could have fallen in love with her. Maybe I did. We met just before Kathryn and I started dating. But then pretty, black-haired, green-eyed Shauna Morrigan ran into Harlan Rush here at the Whitcomb, and that was that.”

“My father knew she was a spy?”

“He wasn’t a part of what she did. She had IRA contacts in Boston. That’s how I hooked up with her. After you were born, she quit. But it was too late.”

“Who killed her and her family?”

“An FBI agent with ties to the Boston Irish mob was responsible. I’d been on his trail. She got me closer to him. He found out. He thought killing her would keep me from him. He gave her up to her enemies in Ireland. It didn’t matter that she’d retired. They killed her and her family.” March drank more of his whiskey. “We cooperated with the Irish in order to save lives.”

“So that’s why their deaths were ruled an accident. What happened to this corrupt FBI agent?”

“He died in a South Boston gunfight. The shooter was never found.” March polished off his whiskey and set the glass down firmly. “Rough justice. They were violent, turbulent times, Lizzie. We got those mobsters, but others took their place.”

“Do you think she knew she’d been murdered?” Lizzie looked down at the amber liquid in her glass. “Or did she believe she fell?”

“I think she loved you and your father, and the rest of it isn’t where I would dwell.”

“I wanted you to have answers.”

“People do. You’re not alone. The older I get, the fewer answers I have. I wish I’d known your mother was in danger. I wish I’d saved her. After she died, everyone just wanted to save you, her little baby she loved so much.”

“I knew I didn’t have the whole story.” Lizzie tried to smile through her tears. “Tripped on a cobblestone outside an Irish pub and fell to her death. Ha. What about Simon’s father?”

“Brendan Cahill was a friend. He was killed ten years after your mother.”

“Ripple effects,” Lizzie said, giving the man across from her a long look. “You have a lot of secrets, Director March.”

“So I do.”

“Thank you for being there for me this past year.”

“Lizzie…” He sighed, less tortured. “Abigail and Owen want you at their wedding. It’s in Scotland in five days. The Davenport castle.”

“Will says it’s a house.”

“You can tell me what you think when you see it. In my world, it’s a castle.”

“You mean you’ve been there?”

He shrugged. Another secret. “You should get your father talking sometime. He has tales to tell about British lords and ladies.”

She laughed. “I’ll bet he does.”

“He loved your mother, and she loved him. Most of all they both loved you. Maybe the rest doesn’t matter anymore. Live your life, Lizzie. Don’t put it on hold because of the past.” He leaned back, eyeing her as she rose. “And stay in touch.”

On her way out of the restaurant, she noticed a framed photograph she’d never seen before of her parents hand in hand on the rocks in Maine, her mother visibly pregnant, both of them smiling as they looked out toward the ocean.

“Your father hung it there this morning,” Jeremiah said next to her.

“Where is he now?”

“It’s Uncle Harlan. Who knows?”