“I remember you reaching for her as a baby. ‘Mama’ was your first word. She was gone, and it was still your first word.”
“Don’t, Dad.”
“You’re in trouble. I can hear it in your voice.”
She looked up at the sky. There’d be stars tonight. She could stay here and watch them come out. “I think the Brit we saw in Las Vegas might know another Brit, Will Davenport, who is friends with Simon Cahill.”
“Cahill? The FBI agent?” Her father groaned. “Lizzie.”
“And I think Will is from your world,” she said.
“Will, he is now? How well do you know him?”
“We just met over brandy in an Irish pub.”
“You only drink brandy when you’re in trouble.”
“Not only,” she said with a smile, hoping it relaxed her voice, “but it’s the best time.”
“Go back to Maine and watch the cormorants.”
“Dad—”
“That bastard friend of yours, Estabrook, was turned loose this morning. He’s not your problem. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Sure. So, nothing on my Brit in June?”
He hesitated just a fraction of a second. “No name. No nothing. Forget him, Lizzie. If he and Lord Davenport are friends, forget him, too.”
“I said his name was Will. I didn’t say ‘Lord.’”
“What, he is a lord? I was being sarcastic.”
True or not, her father wasn’t telling her everything, not because he was a liar, but because he never told her or anyone else all he knew about anything. He could have researched Simon Cahill’s friends as easily as she had—before or after Norman’s arrest. Her father had never particularly liked her hanging out with Norman and his entourage.
“Will is from your world, isn’t he?”
“Just because I taught you a few things doesn’t mean you should be jumping to conclusions about what I used to do for a living.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“You’re an amateur with the skills and the instincts of a pro, Lizzie, but you’re still an amateur. You don’t have anyone behind you. You stand alone.”
“I have you.”
“Lizzie.” He took in a breath. “If you need me, I’ll be there for you. You know that.”
“I do, Dad.”
“Your aunt Henrietta is in Paris buying linens.”
“I adore Aunt Henrietta, but do you know what it’s like to shop with her?”
“I do. Pure hell. Paris is closer to Ireland than Maine. Pop over and help her. Get drunk on expensive brandy. Have some fun, Lizzie.” He hesitated before continuing. “The Davenports are a fine British family. A bunch of good-looking devils, too. If you have cause to drink brandy, having a sip or two with a Davenport isn’t a bad thing.”
That was all the endorsement she needed. “Thanks. You can go back to your poker game. You’re not bluffing on a pair of threes, are you?”
“I wish. Stay safe, my girl.”
“I love you, Dad.”
After she hung up, Lizzie smiled as more sheep joined her trio and crowded along the fence, the wind blowing their long, woolly coats. Because of her father, she could defend herself in a fistfight, spot a tail, disarm a rudimentary bomb. “The first step, Lizzie,” he’d told her, “is knowing the bomb is there.”
She returned to her car and dug a change of clothes out of her pack, just as prosaic as the ones she had on, but clean, and put them on right there at the side of the road, in front of the sheep. She kicked off her mud-and-manure-encrusted shoes and tossed them in the trunk in exchange for a pair of pricey little flats she’d picked up at Brown Thomas in Dublin. Her father had hated and avoided Dublin for as long as she could remember. It was where Shauna Morrigan Rush, his wife, Lizzie’s mother, had died.
An accident, according to Irish authorities and John March, the young Boston detective who’d looked into her death, later to join the FBI and become its director.
Lizzie shut the car trunk, questions coming at her all at once.
“Resist speculating,” her father had told her time and time again. “Discipline your mind. Focus on what you can do.”
Easier said than done when knives, bombs, FBI agents and spies were involved, but she would do her best.
A horned sheep baaed at her, and she baaed back.
“There,” she said with a laugh. “I could just stay here and talk to the sheep.”
She remembered having formal tea with her grandmother, Edna Whitcomb Rush, a stern but kind woman who had never expected to help her older son raise a daughter. She’d tried to explain why Lizzie’s father had to be away for long periods. “He’s a scout for new locations and ideas for our hotels.”
Ha. A scout.
Harlan Rush was a spy, and he’d taught his daughter everything he knew.
Lizzie abandoned the sheep and climbed back into her car, started the engine and continued along the dark, isolated road. She glanced in her rearview mirror.
Still no sign of the garda or Will Davenport on her tail.
At least not yet.
Chapter 9
Boston, Massachusetts
4:25 p.m., EDT
August 25
Simon ran his fingertips over a colored pencil sketch Keira had done of the ancient Celtic stone angel she still swore she’d seen on the hearth of a ruin in the southwest Irish hills.
There’d been a black dog that night, too.
She and that village were quite the combo.
She’d given the sketch to Fiona O’Reilly, who’d taped it onto the far wall of the chandeliered drawing room where she and her friends often gathered to play Irish music, courtesy of Owen Garrison, whose family had owned the elegant Beacon Hill house for more than a century. The sparsely furnished first-floor room was used for meetings and functions. The offices of the Dorothy Garrison Foundation, established in memory of Owen’s sister, were on the second floor. Owen was just eleven and Dorothy Garrison just fourteen when she’d drowned near their family summer home off the coast of Maine. Their distraught parents had relocated from Boston to Austin, Texas. After a stint in the army, Owen founded Fast Rescue, a highly respected nongovernmental organization that provided rapid response to disasters, natural or manmade, anywhere in the world.
Simon, a search-and-rescue expert himself, had volunteered for Fast Rescue eighteen months ago after he and Owen had become friends through John March. Owen knew March because of their ties to Maine, where Owen had discovered the body of March’s son-in-law, Christopher Browning, an FBI agent murdered four days into his Mount Desert Island honeymoon. Last summer—seven years later—his widow and Owen had fallen for each other and finally uncovered the identity of Chris’s killer.
At the same time, Simon had begun working a deep undercover assignment for the FBI, insinuating himself into Norman Estabrook’s world of high stakes adventure, finance and criminal activity. A year later, just before Norman’s arrest in late June, Simon had met Keira Sullivan…and a few hours ago, because of him, she’d almost been killed for a second time that summer.
A second simple sketch depicted a Dublin windowbox at Christmas. The box was filled with pinecones, evergreen boughs and baubles and draped with sparkling gold ribbon. As always, Keira had captured more than just a scene…a mood, a wish, a dream.
Simon’s own mood was dark. His sole commitment was to finding and stopping Norman. It wasn’t a wish or a dream—it was his damn job.
The small foundation staff had been sent home, but the bomb squad had gone through the building and given the all clear. Law enforcement was still everywhere, especially in the alley where Owen had discovered the bomb in his parked car. Bob O’Reilly had been by, in a focused and formidable rage at the day’s events. Two bombs in his city. A friend and fellow police officer in stable but critical condition. Another friend and officer missing. A daughter traumatized.
A niece attacked in Ireland.
Keira.
But she was unhurt and in the
care of the Irish police. The overriding priority now was the safe return of Abigail Browning. Every available law enforcement resource was deployed in the search for her.
BPD officers and FBI agents were posted at the Garrison house, hovering in the foyer. Simon had first laid eyes on Keira there in June, just days before she’d discovered her stone angel in an Irish ruin. He could see her standing in the doorway that night with her fairy-princess blue eyes and long, flaxen hair. Maybe it had been love at first sight. Maybe it hadn’t, but love her he did. He’d joined her in Ireland in early August. While Keira sketched and painted, Simon did what he could to aid the ongoing investigation into Estabrook and his drug-trafficking friends.
He walked across the bare wood floor to the middle of the drawing room, where Owen was silently staring up at an unlit chandelier as if somehow it could offer him hope, if not answers. Simon recognized his friend’s stillness and pensiveness as his way of containing his emotions—the gut-wrenching fear they all had for Abigail.
“I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat,” Owen said, his gaze still on the chandelier.
“She knows. She’ll latch onto your feelings for her and use them to give her strength. You’ve seen it before with people in tough situations.”
Before coming to Boston in June—before meeting Keira—Simon had joined Owen and Fast Rescue in responding to a major earthquake in Armenia. They’d pulled dozens of children from the rubble of their collapsed school. Many were seriously injured. Some came out unscathed. More hadn’t survived. Owen had never flinched from doing, getting others to do, what had to be done.
How many children had said they knew that someone would come, that they wouldn’t be left there alone? How many had drawn strength from thoughts of their mothers and fathers—of the people who loved them—as they’d waited for help?
Owen was impatient and action-oriented by nature, and his reserve now was an indication of just how deeply worried he was. “Bob says the blood on the sidewalk isn’t hers.”
Simon nodded. A haemostatic test had confirmed it was human blood—but it wasn’t Abigail’s type. “I’m guessing that means she was in good enough shape to fight back when she was grabbed.”
“I hope so. What’s the update on Scoop?”
“He’s stitched up and sedated. A hunk of shrapnel that hit the base of his skull is causing problems, but doctors are more optimistic than they were at first.”
Owen shut his eyes briefly. He knew how to stay focused in a crisis given his years in the military and his experience responding to horrific disasters all over the world. Earthquakes, tsunamis, mudslides, floods. Terrorist attacks. But this was personal.
“I don’t want to be here standing under a chandelier.” He shifted to look at Simon, the strain showing now in his angular face. “I hate feeling helpless.”
Simon tried to smile. “A man who just disarmed a car bomb isn’t helpless. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Not long enough.”
“Amen to that.”
“It was a simple device.”
“Still would have blown you to Kingdom Come.”
Owen remained tense, serious. “Thanks to Keira, I had warning. The bomb at the triple-decker was exploded by remote control. The one in my car was designed to go off when the key in the ignition was turned. There was enough C4 to blow up the entire car and kill anyone inside or in close proximity.”
“No one had to watch for you to get in,” Simon said.
Owen looked back up at the chandelier. “Why kill me and kidnap Abigail?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Tom Yarborough interviewed me himself—I told him everything I could think of. I left Abigail in bed early this morning and headed out to my car. I didn’t see anyone on the street there or here who didn’t belong. I parked in the alley where I always park and got to work.”
“Fast Rescue work?”
He nodded. “We’re moving the headquarters to Boston.”
“Since when?”
“We made the decision in early August. I haven’t told Abigail.” His voice caught, almost imperceptibly. “I was keeping it as a surprise. The move will help cut down on travel. We’re…” He let his voice trail off. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matter. Ab will be thrilled, but she’ll also slice you to ribbons for keeping secrets.”
Owen’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I would argue there’s a difference between a surprise and a secret.”
“Go ahead. Argue that when Ab’s back.”
“You know she hates being called Ab, which, of course, is why you do it.” He turned to Simon with a faint, grim smile. “The chandelier needs dusting.”
“I’m sorry about all this, Owen.”
“It’s not your fault. Don’t even go there. Any word on Estabrook?”
“Still no sign of him or his plane. There’s a search underway, but he flew into remote country. It could be days, weeks or even months before we find him. We might never find him.”
“Especially if he doesn’t want to be found.”
Simon understood where Owen was headed. “Norman gave up damning details on some very violent people who can’t be happy with him. Today’s festivities could be their work. They could be responsible for the bombs, the attack on Keira. They could have lured Norman up in his plane, or he knew they were after him and decided to disappear. He could be a target, too.”
“Is that what you believe, Simon?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No, but we have to keep an open mind.”
“Law enforcement has to consider every angle,” Owen said. “I don’t.”
“It’s also possible that Norman will return from his flight by nightfall and what happened here and in Ireland is the work of someone involved with one of Abigail’s cases, old or new—or one of Scoop’s or Bob’s. It could have something to do with you or her father. Belief only gets us so far,” Simon added. “We can’t jump the gun and miss the real bad guys because of wrong assumptions.”
“But it’s Estabrook,” Owen said.
Simon was silent a moment, then nodded.
“He obviously had help. Pulling off three simultaneous attacks within hours of his release means he must have had at least the barebones of a plan in place, probably before he was arrested. What’s the purpose, Simon? What does he want?” Owen broke off, shook his head. “You should get out of here. Go to Ireland and be with Keira.”
There wasn’t anywhere in the world Simon would rather be right now than with Keira. He thought of her in the stone circle above her cottage, a killer coming at her with a knife, and couldn’t push back a wave of regret. “If I’d gone fishing with Will Davenport in Scotland in June instead of coming here to Boston, none of you would be in the middle of this mess. Keira would be safe.”
“Or dead,” John March said bluntly, entering the room. More FBI agents crowded into the foyer but kept a reasonable distance. “That serial killer was already interested in her Irish story and would have had free rein if you hadn’t been in her life. Who’s to say what would have happened? And Keira’s safe now.”
But Abigail, his daughter, wasn’t. Genuinely shaken, Simon wished he could melt into the cracks in the floor. “I have no right when you and Owen…” He didn’t finish his thought.
“You have every right,” March said. “Estabrook’s gone after the people closest to us. He doesn’t want them.”
Simon nodded. “I know. He wants us.”
“And he doesn’t just want us dead. I could handle straightforward revenge, but he wants us to suffer first.” March looked at his future son-in-law. “Owen, I don’t know what to say.”
“I want to go after her, John.”
“No. It’s too risky. We don’t know enough. Work with us. Maybe you saw something, or Abigail said something…” March stopped abruptly, his expression tight, controlled, a reminder that he’d worked in law enforcement for almost forty years. “Abigail wouldn’t want you to
go solo, either.”
“Then let me go to Montana and help look for this bastard. I can find his plane. I have search-and-rescue teams ready to go.”
March sighed. “Someone—undoubtedly the man you want to fly to Montana and find—tried to kill you today. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I was warned in time. I found the bomb. I’m alive.” Owen walked over to the tall windows that looked out on Beacon Street and across to Boston Common. “I’m not dwelling on what might have happened.”
“Crews are searching for Estabrook now.”
Owen glanced back at March. “Not my crews.”
Neither Simon nor March responded.
Simon joined his friend at the windows. Pedestrians passed by on the street—tourists, students, state workers, business people. “I’ve been trying to understand Norman’s thinking for a year. He faces death to feel alive.” Simon hesitated, then said, looking back at March, “He thwarts authority to feel alive.”
“Why me, Simon?” March asked quietly.
It was Owen who answered. “He sees you as an equal. Equals are rare in his universe. Everyone else is a lesser mortal to him, but you…” He shrugged. “You’re the head of the most powerful law enforcement agency in the world.”
The FBI director, who’d been a surrogate father to Simon since his own father had died twenty years ago, joined them at the windows. As March stared outside, Simon could feel the older man’s pain, his fear for his daughter. His emotion was almost unbearable to witness.
“I’m not wealthy,” March said finally. “I don’t go on high-risk adventures. I’m just a cop. That’s it. Whether I’m on a beat here in Boston or in an office in Washington, I’m still just a cop doing a job.”
Simon shook his head. “Not in Norman’s eyes. You’re a challenge. He wants you as an enemy. Going up against you and the entire FBI is another way for him to face death.”
Owen turned from the windows. “He’d rather die in action than wither away in a prison cell.”
“That works for me,” March said. “My wife’s under protection in Washington. You two should be, too. Turn yourselves over to agents. Let us see to your safety.”
The Mist Page 7