The Mist Page 10

  He couldn’t stand his ex-wife’s fear. “Dyeing your hair these days, Ter?”

  “Go to hell. And don’t call me ‘Ter.’ It’s Theresa.”

  “Okay. It’s Theresa.”

  She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. Her hair was a honey-blond—total dye job, he was sure—and she had lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but she looked good. The years hadn’t been so kind to him. He needed to take off a few pounds, and there were brown spots on his arms and face that hadn’t been there before. He was a redhead. His doctor was always on him about sunscreen.

  Yeah. How about burning his face off in a fire? What would sunscreen do for that?

  “Bob?”

  “I’m tuned in, Ter. Just waiting for your next shot.”

  She shook her head at him. “Bastard.” She touched his arm, briefly. “Are you all right?”

  “Never better.”

  He glanced at the black FBI SUV where BPD detectives were reinterviewing Fiona. She’d had a break and sat in the air-conditioning for a while, had something to eat and drink. Now she was slumped against the SUV and back at it.

  Enough already.

  “Wait here,” Bob told his ex-wife. “I’ll spring Fi as soon as I can. It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He knew she was true to her word. For all the ways they irritated each other, she was a devoted mother. His legs felt wobbly as he headed for the SUV. Adrenaline dump. Nothing a couple of shots of Jameson’s wouldn’t cure. They’d help the guilt, too. Theresa had wanted him to go to night school and become a lawyer like John March. All those years ago, begging him. She’d never liked police work. She’d never gotten used to the anxiety or believed the statistics. “You carry a gun to work, Bob,” she’d told him. “What more do I need to know?”

  No answer to a question like that. What more did Theresa need to know?

  He saw Tom Yarborough make his way over to her. Yarborough had been a rock since the explosion, professional, focused, but not unemotional. He and Abigail had worked together for eight months and were always butting heads. Bob had straightened out a few disagreements between them, but they both were top-notch homicide detectives who respected each other. Abigail was just easier to get along with.

  Theresa was dabbing a tissue at her eyes now. Bob couldn’t take tears and turned his attention to his daughter.

  Fiona had gone through her ordeal first with him, in the initial hysteria as the paramedics were working on Scoop, and then in more detail, with more control, with Yarborough and Lucas Jones. Lucas was Abigail’s former partner. He’d been promoted to lieutenant last fall and moved over to narcotics. Since Norman Estabrook was in cahoots with drug traffickers, Lucas said he should be in on the investigation. He was still with Fiona as she slumped against the side of the SUV. He’d left a picnic with his young family in Roxbury to head to the scene. He was built like a sparkplug and relished being a professional more than a tough guy. But he could be both.

  “How you holding up, kid?” Bob asked his daughter.

  She gnawed on her lower lip. “Okay.”

  “She’s wrung out,” Lucas said, “but she’s doing great.”

  If Bob had to pick someone to interview his daughter, it’d be Lucas. The guy was a peach as well as one of BPD’s finest detectives. But Bob didn’t want Fiona talking to cops. He wanted her back with her friends, playing Irish drinking songs.

  Down the street, Simon Cahill arrived and showed his FBI credentials to a uniformed BPD officer. He had two FBI suits with him who’d obviously been assigned to keep him alive, but he split off from them and walked over to the SUV. He looked cool, unfazed by the action around him, but that, Bob had learned, was Simon. Even so, he wasn’t the affable man who’d danced and sung to Irish tunes with Keira in the triple-decker’s backyard two months ago. A yard that was now charred, wet, bloody and filled with crime scene investigators.

  “Bob…” Simon took a moment to clear his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Did you set the bombs?”

  “I should have seen this through before I got involved with Keira. Estabrook was already obsessed with John March, but—”

  “Stop. You know regrets won’t help now.”

  “You’re right.” He blew out a breath, recovering his composure. “I’d like to take Fiona through what happened.”

  Lucas heard him and stepped away from her, protective. “You can see my notes.”

  Simon ignored him, his eyes on Bob.

  Bob sighed. “One fed talks to her. You. That’s it.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “And I stay,” Bob added.

  Lucas didn’t look happy, but he moved off without argument. Simon opened up the back door to the SUV, reached inside and got out a bottle of water. He flipped open the top, shut the door and handed the water to Fiona. She mumbled her thanks.

  “Feeling okay?” Simon asked.

  She nodded. The paramedics had checked her over, but, except for a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, she was fine. She’d cleaned up as best she could, and Bob had bullied his way upstairs to his place and fetched her a fresh shirt. It didn’t smell that bad of smoke and it was in better shape than the shirt she’d worn over there that morning, now soaked in Scoop’s blood.

  Staring at the sidewalk, sipping her water, Fiona said that she was picking tomatoes with Scoop and humming Irish tunes, and next thing, he flung her behind the compost pile and there was smoke and fire and debris—and blood.

  “Did you see anyone before the blast?” Simon asked.

  She shook her head.

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “Around two. I wanted to talk to my dad about our Christmas trip to Ireland. You know Keira’s going with us, right? Our grandmother was born in Ireland, and my dad and her mom are of Irish descent on both sides.”

  Simon smiled gently. “I’m familiar with your Irish family roots.”

  “I had some information I printed off the Internet about where to have tea in Dublin on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t that sound like fun, having tea in Ireland on Christmas Eve?”

  Bob worked harder on his gum. He’d already been through two packs. Simon wouldn’t care about tea in Dublin or anywhere else, but he said, “I can see your dad at high tea, can’t you?”

  “He’ll love it.”

  “Probably will. So, you got your print-outs together and headed to your dad’s place. Where were you?”

  “The Garrison house on Beacon Street. I was practicing harp.”

  “Any of your friends there?”

  “No, I was alone. Well, except for Owen, but he was upstairs at the foundation offices. He was there when I arrived at ten.” She’d obviously already gone through the timeline. “Mostly I just practiced.”

  “Did you take the T over here,” Simon said, “or did you drive?”

  “The T. Then I walked. It was a beautiful day. Is.” She sucked in a breath and took a gulp of water. “I feel sick.”

  Simon ignored her. Bob would have, too. “Where’d you get on the T?”

  “Downtown Crossing. The Orange Line.”

  “Anyone get on with you?”

  “I think so. I didn’t pay attention. No one stuck out to me.”

  “Anyone get off the T with you?”

  “No, and no one followed me. I always check. It’s habit.” Her eyes lifted to her father. “My dad taught me to notice things.”

  Simon didn’t even glance sideways at Bob, just stayed focused on Fiona. “So, you’re walking toward your dad’s place…”

  “I didn’t notice anything unusual then, either. Cars, people. When I got here, I went out back. I didn’t knock or ring the doorbell or anything.”

  “Your dad was expecting you?”

  She nodded. “I’d called him on my cell phone when I got off the T. I went out back and yelled up to let him know I was here.”

  “Gate to the backyard was unlocked?”
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  “Yes. I just walked right in. I told Dad I’d pick tomatoes and bring them up to him. Scoop had plenty. Has plenty.” She shot an angry look at Simon and then Bob as if she expected them to argue with her, but it didn’t last. She continued, less combative. “The firefighters and paramedics stomped on the tomatoes getting to us, but I think some of them are still okay. Scoop will be back in his garden soon.”

  “All right.” Simon leaned against the SUV, not looking hot, tense or remotely exhausted, despite the guilt and tension he had to be experiencing. “You’re in the backyard. You give your dad a shout. Was he outside?”

  Fiona shook her head. “He came onto his back porch when he heard me. He said hi, then went back inside.”

  “And Scoop was in the garden?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he invite you to join him, or did you invite yourself?”

  “I invited myself. I love tomatoes.”

  “So you join him. Then what?”

  She drank more water before she answered. “Abigail said hello.”

  “Where was she, do you remember?”

  “Her porch. I thought at first she was in her kitchen, but I…” Fiona’s hands trembled visibly. This was where her story took a turn from picking tomatoes in the summer sun to hell. “I was wrong. She was on her porch.”

  “What exactly did she say?” Simon asked.

  Fiona thought a moment. “She said, ‘Hey, Fiona, don’t let Scoop pawn off wormy tomatoes on you.’”

  Simon smiled. “Scoop have anything to say about that?”

  “He held up a gorgeous, round, red tomato and said, ‘See that, Browning? You can’t buy tomatoes that pretty.’”

  “And she said?”

  Fiona’s lower lip trembled in a way that reminded Bob of her as a baby. “Nothing. Not that I heard.” She scrunched up her face, concentrating. “A phone rang. I didn’t think of it until now. That must have been—that’s why she went inside.”

  “To answer the phone,” Simon said.

  “Then Dad yelled, and Scoop grabbed me.”

  “So first the phone, then your dad, then Scoop.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Scoop hurled me behind the compost bin.”

  “Did he say anything?” Simon asked.

  “Not a word. He knocked the breath out of me. I had just enough time to notice I couldn’t breathe when the bomb exploded. I had no idea what was going on. Then Scoop…” She was taking rapid, shallow breaths now, off in her own world of memory, fear. “Everything felt like it happened at once. The explosion, the concussion—it felt like the air was being sucked out of me, the whole backyard. Scoop grunted and then—there was so much blood.”

  “It was pieces of the grill and the propane tank that hit him,” Bob interjected. “Scoop’s injuries had nothing to do with saving you. If he’d jumped behind the compost bin by himself, he still—”

  “If I’d protected him instead of him protecting me, he’d be fine,” Fiona said stubbornly, adamant. “Just like I am now.”

  Before Bob could respond, Simon stood up from the SUV. “That’s not the way it works. You’re a nineteen-year-old college student. Scoop’s a cop. He did what he’s trained to do.”

  “He’s a hero,” she said.

  Bob didn’t speak. He couldn’t now. He’d lose it, and that wouldn’t help his daughter.

  And it wouldn’t help Abigail.

  Fiona handed Simon her water bottle, her hands steadier. “I didn’t see anyone on the street or at the houses next door. I didn’t hear anyone. Nothing. Not even a dog barking or a television. It was all background noise to me. White noise. I remember humming ‘Irish Rover’ as I came into the yard.”

  Bob had heard her, his sweet daughter humming one of her Irish tunes. He hadn’t remembered until now.

  She smiled suddenly at Simon. “You and my dad both can sing. You should sing with my ensemble sometime.”

  Fiona always said “ensemble,” Bob thought, never band.

  Simon winked at her. “We can dance an Irish jig, too.”

  “That’s right, yes! I had no idea until this summer. Dad kept his talents bottled up inside him for years.” She turned to Bob, strands of blond hair stuck to her pallid cheeks. “Because of Deirdre McCarthy and what happened to her.”

  Bob grimaced at the mention of the girl who’d lived on his street when he was growing up and was brutally murdered at nineteen, changing his life forever. He said, “Deirdre had the voice of an angel. Mine’s nothing in comparison.”

  “I keep thinking about her,” Fiona said. “I never knew her. She died—she was murdered—long before I was born, but it’s like her spirit’s been a part of our lives and I didn’t even know it.”

  Bob didn’t want her thinking about Deirdre, but what could he do? By not talking about Deirdre McCarthy for thirty years, he’d kept the tragedy and horror of her death out of his daughters’ minds, out of their consciousness, and yet her long-ago murder had inspired the devil-obsessed serial killer who’d come after Keira in June.

  Would his daughters and niece have been more prepared if they’d known about Deirdre, if he hadn’t tried to protect them?

  He jerked himself back to the matter at hand.

  Simon opened the back door of the SUV and tossed in the empty water bottle, then shut the door again, hard—just, Bob knew, to break some of the tension and refocus Fiona. He returned to his position against the SUV. “You said earlier you heard Abigail scream after the explosion.”

  “I know that’s what I told you.” Fiona stared again at her hands. “But I didn’t hear her scream. I thought I did, but I didn’t. I don’t know what I heard. Everything really didn’t happen all at once. It was the phone ringing and then Dad yelling and then Scoop grabbing me and then the explosion. In that order. It was all so fast. I know people say that, but it was.”

  “You’ve done well to break it down for us,” Simon said.

  But she looked up at her father. “Did you see something, Dad? How did you know to warn us?”

  He hadn’t told her about the call from Ireland. About Keira. The other woman on the line. He hadn’t told Lucas Jones or Tom Yarborough, either. They hadn’t asked him the question Fiona had just asked. They weren’t being patient or negligent. They were just taking things in order.

  Simon knew, but he said nothing.

  “Dad,” Fiona said, “if you warned us, someone must have warned you, right? Who?”

  “You and your dad can talk in a bit,” Simon said. “Let’s go back to your practicing this morning at the Garrison house. Did you notice anyone there—”

  “Who could have planted the bomb in Owen’s car? I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She was clearly fading, getting impatient, frazzled. “I can’t…I don’t know.”

  “I have just a few more questions, okay? We’ll go through them without your dad.”

  Bob didn’t protest. He kissed his daughter on the head and started back toward Theresa, but the ATF and FBI and state detectives and the whole damn lot pounced and dragged him down the street for another briefing.

  The ATF guy, who was Bob’s age, was pontificating. “It was C4,” he said. “It’s ideal for this kind of bomb. Just a quarter pound will destroy a propane tank and the surrounding structure.”

  The BPD bomb squad guy agreed. The fire department’s arson squad guy threw in his opinion.

  Bob chewed a fresh piece of gum. “The bombs didn’t place themselves under Abigail’s grill or in Owen’s car, and she didn’t just evaporate.” He worked the gum harder. “Someone grabbed her and stuffed her into some kind of vehicle and got her out of here. Under my damn nose.”

  No one said anything.

  He continued, all eyes on him. “The phone call got her inside off the porch. These bastards didn’t want to kill her. Scoop, Fiona—didn’t matter if they died. Me. Who cares? The blast could have thrown Abigail off her feet. Stunned her, knocked her out. Whatever, the b
ad guys were ready and hauled her out to a waiting vehicle.” Bob nodded to the spot on the sidewalk on the other side of the crime scene tape where he’d noticed the blood earlier. “She got a piece of one of them.”

  He paused, but still no one spoke. He knew what they were thinking. With one colleague in serious condition and another missing, he was slipping into posttraumatic stress syndrome.

  He could feel his pulse tripping along. “I was focused on the blast. The diversion worked. I didn’t see a thing. The vehicle—nothing.”

  “How’d they get to her porch and plant the bomb?” the ATF guy asked.

  Bob wanted to strangle him. “Gee. I guess I probably let them in and showed them Abigail’s grill and said, Hey, there’s a good spot. No one’ll notice a bomb there.”

  “Any telephone repairs, cable repairs, electricians, carpenters—”

  “I gave my statement. Scoop’d give his, except he’s unconscious. And Abigail’s not here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  The ATF guy winced. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

  The arson investigator said, “Anything we can do for you, Bob? For your family?”

  Bob had a half-dozen retorts ready, none of them nice, but he saw the earnest look on the guy’s face. Everyone wanted to help. Everyone felt lousy for him.

  He had to get out of there.

  He found refuge in the passenger seat of his heap of a car and scraped gunk off his cell phone, then dialed Eddie O’Shea at his little village pub on the southwest Irish coast. Bob had already talked to Keira and an Irish detective about the attack on her. Now he wanted to talk to the bartender. They’d met earlier in August, when Bob had ventured to the land of his ancestors for the first time. He went with his sister in the days after she’d finally given up on her solitary life in the woods and rejoined civilization, such as it was. Keira had already fallen for Simon.

  Bob hoped Simon would be on the trip to Ireland at Christmas with Keira, his daughters and his sister. They could sneak off for a beer or two. Christmas seemed far away now. Out of reach and impossible.

  O’Shea answered after a couple of rings.

  “Irish cops still there?” Bob asked.