The Mist Page 8

  “I’ll work with the FBI and help in any way I can,” Owen said stiffly, “but I’ll see to my own safety.”

  Simon’s eyebrows went up. “You’re kidding, John, right? I spent a year with Norman and his drug-trafficking pals without a net. Now you’re worried?”

  “Simon…”

  “Forget it. I’m working this investigation now that Keira’s in safe hands.”

  He didn’t go into more detail. Will Davenport was in Ireland, and he and March had a history, not a good one. Simon didn’t know the specifics but suspected their animosity went back to Afghanistan and how and why Will had ended up trapped in a cave with two of his men dead, a third dragged off by enemy fighters. Simon had been there himself on assignment for the FBI. He suspected his reasons for being near the cave were at least marginally related to Will’s reasons, but the Brits had clammed up after the tragic loss of three of their own—or at least had clammed up to him. Maybe not to March.

  Simon saw that March was scrutinizing him with an expression that was more cop than friend or father figure, and he knew his comment had sparked the FBI director’s interest.

  Time to make his exit.

  He clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder, nodded to March and left without saying anything else. What more was there to say? He headed into the foyer and down the front steps onto the wide sidewalk. A half-dozen fellow FBI agents and BPD officers watched him, and he wondered if they had orders to make sure he didn’t go off on his own.

  Too bad if they did.

  The air was warm, even hot, in the fading afternoon. He thought of Will’s description of the woman who’d intercepted the man sent to attack Keira in Ireland. “Long, straight black hair and light green eyes,” Will had said. “She’s small, but very fast and self-assured. I saw her tackle Murphy from a distance. She had him on the ground, his own knife to his throat, before I’d cleared the fence. Who do you suppose she is, Simon?”

  He’d said he had no idea, which was true.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure. A woman did come to mind, but it made no sense at all.

  Lizzie Rush, kicking ass in an Irish stone circle?

  She was one of the many high-end members of Norman’s entourage who’d claimed to be shocked by his illegal activities.

  The FBI agent who’d interviewed Lizzie after Norman’s arrest had described her to Simon. “Clueless. A little annoyed. Very eager to get back to her reprobate daddy in Las Vegas.”

  The last time Simon had run into her, she was wearing a slim, expensive black dress with a bottle of water and a martini at her elbow as she’d amused herself at a cocktail party at Norman’s Cabo San Lucas estate. Afterward, she, Norman and Simon had discussed preliminary plans for a Costa Rican adventure. She obviously knew her business, if not what her financial-genius friend was up to.

  So what was she doing in the same Irish village as Keira?

  “I’d have managed on my own somehow,” Keira had said, not with bravado but a calm certainty that Simon had learned over the past two months not to doubt. “But I was glad to have help.”

  Regardless of who’d saved whom, someone had sent a killer after her.

  Simon crossed Beacon Street and took the steep, stone stairs down to Boston Common. A breeze stirred through the tall trees, and he glanced back at the Garrison house to see if anyone had followed him.

  Not yet, but his fellow law enforcement officers were still watching him. In their place, he’d be doing the same.

  He dialed a London number on his cell phone. “Moneypenny,” he said when Josie Goodwin, Will’s assistant, answered. “Dare I ask where you are?”

  “Special Agent Cahill,” Josie said. “I suspected I might hear from you tonight.”

  “I have a name for you.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Lizzie Rush. If she’s our black-haired mystery woman, you can have Will tell her to back off and mind her own business.”

  “Perhaps she knows more than you realize.”

  “Then she can call me and tell me. She’s bored, rich and very pretty, Josie. She can’t interfere—” But he stopped abruptly. He’d been thinking about Lizzie Rush ever since he’d spoken to Will and Keira, when and where he’d seen her, her relationship with Norman. What if she did know more than he’d realized? He sighed. “Hell, Josie.”

  “Indeed, Simon,” she said. “Suppose this woman has been a quiet player right from the start? Is it possible Director March had an anonymous source funnel him information?”

  It wasn’t just possible. He did have one. A dozen times over the past year, March himself had handed Simon critical pieces of information—photographs, names, account numbers—that could only have been obtained by someone close to Norman Estabrook. March never confirmed or denied the existence of a source and instructed Simon not to speculate. Just take the information and do his job.

  Of course, Simon had speculated, especially in the weeks since Norman’s arrest. Various names came to mind—accountants, bookkeepers, hedge-fund staffers, household help…

  But Lizzie Rush?

  “Leave her to Will,” Josie said.

  Simon heard something in her voice. “Moneypenny,” he said, “you wouldn’t be holding back on me, would you?”

  “Why, Simon, what a thing to say.”

  She disconnected in mock horror.

  Which told Simon she was holding back. Josie Goodwin was a force unto herself, but she would only go so far with Simon, friend of her boss or no friend. Will was a lone wolf who lived a dangerous life and tried to protect those around him from that life.

  It wasn’t always possible, Simon thought as he dialed Owen’s cell number. “March still breathing down your neck?”

  “Right here.”

  “I’ll help you get to Montana.”

  Owen was silent a moment. “Thank you.”

  “Like you aren’t already plotting how to get there on your own. At least my way will keep you from getting arrested.” But Simon couldn’t maintain his normal good cheer. “I’ve done search missions with you, Owen. If anyone can find Norman’s plane, it’s you.”

  “I’m ready to leave now.”

  Simon managed a smile. “I thought you might be.”

  Seeing how his Boston residence had just been totaled by fire, smoke and water damage, Owen had nothing to pack. He could always stop at a Wal-Mart on his way to Montana.

  As he shut his phone, Simon looked east toward Boston Harbor, squinting as if it would help him see past the tall buildings and the Atlantic and connect with Keira in Ireland. He concentrated on his love for her. Will wouldn’t leave her until he was satisfied that the garda, her fairies and the O’Shea brothers would keep her safe.

  Keira had objected, but she also understood.

  This one wasn’t her fight.

  Chapter 10

  Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

  10:15 p.m., IST

  August 25

  Keira stood at the pine table in her cottage on the lane below the stone circle, shoving art supplies—paints, pencils, brushes, sketch pads—into a wooden case. “The woman who helped me tonight knew what to ask. She knew names. Bob, Scoop, Abigail. Simon. Owen.” Keira paused, raising her eyes to Will. “She knew everything. Who is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Will said, shrugging on his coat.

  Garda detectives had inspected Keira’s cottage for explosive devices and were waiting outside to take her to a safe place. Will had arrived in the stone circle too late to be of any real use. Simon would hate himself for not being there. But it didn’t matter, did it? Their mysterious black-haired woman had dispatched Murphy and questioned him like a professional, then boldly went on her way ahead of the guards’ arrival.

  They were looking for her now.

  But she’d been right: Will could have stopped her.

  Why hadn’t he?

  He already knew the answer. He hadn’t stopped her for the same reason he hadn’t interrupted her when she’d asked Michael Mur
phy about the Brit she’d believed had sent him to kill Keira.

  “He’s dangerous and charming and very focused.”

  Keira paused a moment in her packing. “You’re going to find out who she is, though, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t stop her from leaving.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Keira’s cornflower-blue eyes leveled on him, but she said nothing further as she flipped through a stack of small sketch pads, choosing two to take with her.

  The scent of the rambling pink roses out front sweetened the breeze that floated through the open windows, gentler now that the gale had died down. Keira’s hair was tangled, her clothes and shoes muddy from her ordeal in the stone circle. The Irish detectives had told her she could shower later at the safe house where they were taking her.

  Keira had made it plain she didn’t want to go anywhere except to Simon and her family and friends in Boston. She could refuse protection, but she didn’t. Garda teams had kicked into immediate action upon their arrival in the village, taking away Michael Murphy, cordoning off the stone circle and searching the pub, Keira’s cottage and the boat she and Simon had shared for much of the past month for explosive devices and hidden thugs.

  “Bombs, Will,” she said suddenly, reaching for a nub of an eraser. “I keep thinking about Scoop. He’s a great guy. He adopted two stray cats—the firefighters got them out safely.” She dropped the eraser into her box and wiped the back of her hand across tear-stained cheeks. “He’s in critical but stable condition. Will…”

  He touched her slender shoulder. “Keira, I’m sorry. I know how difficult this is for you.”

  “Scoop’s strong. He’ll pull through.” She picked up the brush she’d dropped. “He has to. And Abigail. I can’t—if I think about her, where she could be, what she’s going through, I’ll fall apart, and that won’t help anyone.”

  Will had learned from Simon that his newfound love had moved from city to city for years, at home everywhere and nowhere. Finally she’d returned to Boston to be near her mother, who had withdrawn from the world to live as a religious ascetic in a cabin she’d built herself in the woods of southern New Hampshire. Keira had developed a closer relationship with her uncle, Bob O’Reilly, and younger cousins in Boston, and she, Abigail Browning and Scoop Wisdom had become friends.

  Then Simon Cahill had entered her life.

  “It’s not Simon’s fault.” Keira again fastened her gaze on Will. “He’s a target just like the rest of us.”

  “What has Simon told you about Norman Estabrook?”

  “We haven’t talked about him that much. He’s petulant, vindictive and brilliant. He courts danger to feel alive.” She reached for more art supplies as she continued. “He trusted Simon with his life.”

  “It wasn’t misplaced trust,” Will said. “Simon never did anything to deliberately endanger Estabrook.”

  “From what I gather, he’s obsessive about safety measures and backup plans. Whatever happened today—whatever went wrong or right—he’ll have various courses of action from which to choose.”

  “That won’t make him easier to find.”

  She nodded grimly. “Simon and I have only just found each other. I can hear him singing Irish songs now. He and my uncle have beautiful voices. I can’t sing a note. My mother, either. A few months ago, she was living a quiet, solitary life of prayer in the woods, and now she’s back in the city with all this…” Keira snapped her art case shut. “I wouldn’t blame her if she gives up on us and goes back to her cabin.”

  “Your mother’s safe, Keira,” Will said. “The Boston police and the FBI won’t let any harm come to her.”

  He read her expression, saw that she was as stubborn and independent as Simon had promised she was, and also as brave. Wherever the garda tucked her for her own safety, she’d do what she could to help the investigation. She wasn’t one to sit back.

  There was a light knock on the kitchen door, and an officer poked his head in. “Two minutes, and we have to go.”

  Keira took a breath. “I don’t even know what I’ve packed, but I suppose I can always ask someone to make a supply run for me if it comes to that.” She raised her eyes again to Will. “You’ll have to come meet the gang one day. We’re supposed to do Christmas in Ireland this year. My uncle, my cousins, my mother and me.”

  “It’ll be cold, dark and wet.”

  She smiled. “I hope so. I promised to take my cousin Fiona to pubs to hear Irish music. She has her own Irish band. I want to talk to her, see her—Scoop saved her today. Simon didn’t say so outright, but there must have been a lot of blood.” Keira sniffled back more tears, as much from anger and frustration as worry and grief. “I don’t want to run and hide, Will.”

  “That’s not what you’re doing.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer and retreated to the cottage’s sole bedroom, emerging in less than a minute with a brocade satchel, her hair brushed and pulled back into a ponytail. She was lovely, creative and unexpectedly pragmatic. Will wouldn’t be surprised if the garda had found a safe house in the village. She seemed protected there.

  “I’ll do whatever I need to do,” she said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “And Simon knows.” Will smiled at her. “You and your fairy prince will soon be reunited.”

  Keira took his hand, squeezing it as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever debt you think you owe Simon, he says you don’t owe him anything. You never did.”

  “This isn’t about debts owed, Keira.”

  “No. I suppose it isn’t.” Her eyes steadied on him with just a hint of a spark. “If you end up in Boston, beware of sneaking around under the noses of the police there. You’ve never met my uncle, but he’ll be on a tear after what’s happened.”

  “He’s Boston Irish, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Will winked at her. “Then I don’t need to meet him.”

  She let go of his hand and whispered, “Be safe.”

  He left before the guards could change their mind and take him into custody for additional questioning. He’d parked on the lane, his car spotted with bits of pink rose petals flung there in the wind and rain, a tangible reminder, somehow, of Keira’s ordeal.

  As he drove toward the village, he looked up at the wild hills silhouetted against the dark Irish night. He hated to leave Keira, but she would be safe here.

  And he had a job to do.

  A light shone in the window of the pub, and the door was unlocked. Will found Eddie O’Shea behind his bar, cleaning up for the night. The guards had gone, their investigative work completed, at least for now.

  When he saw Will, Eddie said, “A bomb sweep is a fine way to scare off paying customers. Will you be wanting a drink, Lord Will?”

  “Coffee, please, if you have it.”

  “I’ve water still hot in the kettle.” He set a coffee press on the bar and scooped in fresh grounds. “Next time, ring me when you feel an urge to come to Ireland. I’ll be on my toes for trouble.”

  “The trouble started before I arrived.”

  “True enough. It was the same earlier this summer with Keira and her stone angel and that other bloody killer.” The barman shuddered. “I’ve pictures that’ll never leave my head from those terrible days.”

  “I wish it could have been otherwise, Eddie.”

  “As do I.” He poured water over the grounds, replaced the top on the press and set it in front of Will to steep. He got out a mug and a pitcher of cream, his movements automatic, routine. “The guards talked to our friend Michael Murphy. It’s his real name. He’s too dim-witted to make one up. He’s a known thug in Limerick.”

  “Good at his work?”

  “Not good enough…fortunately for Keira and her black-haired friend.” O’Shea pushed the coffee paraphernalia in front of Will and looked thoughtfully at him. “The guards wish we’d stopped her from
leaving the scene.”

  Will knew they did. “You saw her for yourself—her torn knuckles, her muddy clothes, the way she handled Mr. Murphy. Would you have wanted to take her on?”

  “She wasn’t too quick to give up his knife.”

  And she’d disarmed him, weaponless herself. Murphy hadn’t expected her, and even when he saw her, he’d obviously discounted her as a threat, especially a lethal one. He was strong and capable, a veteran fighter, but she’d had his face in the mud and manure before he’d had a chance to land a single blow.

  Eddie showed not the slightest edge of fatigue despite the night’s events. “I expect the guards will have to sort through layers of tawdry criminals to get to whoever hired Murphy. Man, woman or animal.”

  “I expect so,” Will agreed, pouring his coffee. It was very hot and very strong, and suddenly he hoped he’d have reason to sit here one evening, chatting with the amiable Irish barman over matters that didn’t involve violence.

  “You don’t know where the guards have taken Keira, I suppose?” Eddie asked.

  Will shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

  “I’d be wasting air asking them. As long as she’s safe.” He nodded to the coffee. “What else can I get you? I’ve a bit of blackberry crumble left. There’s soup, but Patrick made it, and it’s not fit for the pigs.”

  “No food. Thanks.”

  “You’re gloomy.”

  He was, and he knew why. The evening had launched him back two years, to the cave in Afghanistan and the deaths of men who’d trusted him.

  For their sakes, he had to focus on the task at hand.

  He drank some of his coffee and addressed the barman. “Did you see Michael Murphy in the village earlier today?” He paused. “Before today?”

  Eddie emptied the stainless-steel kettle into a small sink. “I don’t remember seeing him before tonight. I told the guards as much.”

  “He could have a partner. I understand that strangers come in here on a regular basis—particularly this time of year, particularly this summer with the publicity over Keira’s stone angel. Did anyone strike you as not belonging? Someone who wasn’t a typical tourist, perhaps?” Will set his mug on the bar and kept his gaze on the Irishman. “Think, my friend. Who stood out to you in recent days?”