The Mist

by Carla Neggers

  “No problem. Is Norman here or on a boat? He came here last summer in a yacht he’d leased. Gorgeous. I had dinner with him on it, a real step up from my sit-on-top ocean kayak.” She tripped on a sharp, exposed rock but righted herself before Fletcher could take her arm. “How much is Norman paying you to create the mayhem of the past couple days?”

  “He’s a wealthy man.”

  Lizzie resisted a smart remark and kept to her role. “Norman knew I’d come, and I have. We should hurry.” She gestured back toward her little house. “I gather you and Will go way back.”

  A glint of humor came into Fletcher’s gray eyes. “That’s why I’m staying out of his line of fire.”

  “He’s not armed.”

  Fletcher laughed outright. “He’s a man of many talents, our Lord Davenport.”

  The path curved uphill along the edge of a steep cliff. Seagulls swarmed onto the rocks below, their familiar cries and the rhythmic wash of the tide helping Lizzie to control her breathing. If she hyperventilated, Norman and his men would see through her. She’d walked this route hundreds of times since she was a child. Her grandmother would point out landmarks, plants, birds, the occasional seal, dolphin or whale. Edna Whitcomb Rush hadn’t been a demonstrative woman—no hugs and kisses from her—but she’d been loving in her own way.

  “Estabrook will leave us to hold off the FBI and whoever else turns up,” Fletcher called to his partner. “Are you okay with that, mate?”

  The thug paused and shrugged. “I don’t plan to stick around for a tactical team to get here, but we do what we have to.” He was American, in his early thirties. He gestured at Lizzie with his gun. “I say we kill this one and the detective and clear out. They’ll only slow us down.”

  Lizzie was careful not to react, but now she knew. Abigail Browning was here and she was alive.

  Fletcher didn’t look as if he cared one way or the other what happened to her or to Lizzie. “Do you suppose Estabrook has an escape route for himself?” he asked his colleague. “One that doesn’t include us?”

  “He pays me before he leaves. That’s it. I don’t care what he does after that.”

  “All right, then,” Fletcher said, impassive. “We’re on the same wavelength.”

  The other man increased his lead over them. They veered off the path onto the overgrown yard of the shingled house that the first Harlan Rush, Lizzie’s grandfather, had built. He’d died when she was small, but she had a vague memory of his taking her out in a rowboat, staying close to the shore as he told her stories. He’d loved the sea. “Take everything else away from him,” her grandmother had said, “and if Harlan could still get to the ocean, he’d be a happy man.”

  It had mystified her that their older son, his father’s namesake, preferred the dry desert of Las Vegas. But there were reasons for that, Lizzie thought.

  She angled a look up at Fletcher. “Will believed in you, didn’t he?”

  The ex-SAS officer didn’t meet her eye. “Will believes in honor, duty and country.”

  “And you don’t?”

  They continued through tall, wet grass on the soft ground, past a dense row of beach roses, entangled with wild blackberry vines, but he didn’t answer.

  “I know what I’m doing and why,” Lizzie said, falling a few steps behind him. “Do you know the same about yourself?”

  “Listen, love.” Fletcher waited for her to catch up. He draped an arm over her shoulders and leaned in close to her. He was self-confident, amused. “I’d enjoy a nice chat with you, but not now. All right?”

  “Why did you kill that man in Boston?”

  His eyes held hers an instant longer than was comfortable. “Necessity.”

  Lizzie took a breath. “He was about to kill Fiona O’Reilly, wasn’t he?”

  Fletcher kept his arm around her as they crossed the lawn to stone steps that led up the hill to the front of the house. His partner had gone on ahead. “You don’t give up, do you?” He spoke without humor now. “I had no other choice. Whatever side I’m on, that’s a fact.”

  “Norman hired him. He got him working on his hit list without your knowledge.”

  “Mr. Estabrook is a very independent man, love. As you know.”

  “You scared the hell out of Fiona.”

  “All right, then. I scared her. She’s agreed to police protection, now, though, hasn’t she?” He dropped her arm from Lizzie’s shoulders. “How is Lord Davenport these days?”

  “Handsome. Those changeable eyes of his.” Lizzie went ahead of Fletcher and started up the steps, but he met her pace. “I think he might be my Prince Charming.”

  Fletcher’s mouth twitched. “He’ll find you, love.” He smiled, enigmatic, a man very much in control. “I think Will’s been looking for you his entire life.”

  Her heart jumped. “You’re—”

  “If you want to get Abigail Browning and yourself out of here alive, you must do exactly as I say.” His gray eyes leveled on her, but he maintained the same detached manner she’d first noticed back at the bar in Las Vegas. “Do you understand?”

  “You want me to trust you.”

  “I don’t give a damn if you trust me. I want you to follow my lead.”

  Lizzie hesitated, imagining this man and Will on a secret mission together. She understood now how Will had trusted Fletcher—how shocking it must have been to believe that trust had been betrayed. How devastating. Right now, standing in the fog above the oncoming tide, she wanted to put her life in Myles Fletcher’s hands.

  “I’ll do as you say,” she said, “but if I’m making a mistake and you’re not—”

  “It won’t matter. You and Abigail will be dead.” He grinned and winked at her. “You’re good, love, but I’m better.”

  “I came with you because I can help.”

  His gaze narrowed on her. “I know.”

  Lizzie felt a coolness in the small of her back as they followed a walkway around to a side entrance. “How long have you known?”

  “You’re Harlan Rush’s daughter.”

  “So,” she said carefully, “since Las Vegas. You tried to warn me.”

  “And you paid no attention.” Fletcher wasn’t one to be distracted by the past. He stayed next to her, close, serious. “Estabrook wants the identity of John March’s source. I’ve pointed him in the direction of someone in his financial empire. Right now, he’s still completely fascinated with you.”

  “Because of my mother,” Lizzie said half to herself.

  “You and Detective Browning mustn’t leave with him. Whatever else happens, that can’t. Clear?”

  Lizzie nodded. “Where’s Abigail now?”

  “Locked in a room in the basement—”

  “Put me down there,” she said, then gave him a quick smile. “There isn’t a room in this house my cousins and I can’t get out of.”

  “You were an incorrigible child?”

  “We’re a resourceful family.”

  His eyes were half-closed. “You are still to take my lead.”

  “Norman has a backup plan. He always does. I can find out what it is.”

  “You can get Abigail Browning and hide while I do my job.”

  “Let Will and Simon help you—”

  “Off we go, love.” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed her by the elbow and shoved her up the steps. “Mr. Estabrook, get yourself together. We need to leave. Now. Simon Cahill and Will Davenport are here.” Fletcher kept his grip on Lizzie as they entered the mudroom. “I have your rich-girl landlady.”

  Norman appeared in the doorway, rubbing his thumb on the swollen knuckles of his right hand. “Good,” he said, pleased, without even glancing at Lizzie. “We make our stand now.”

  Maintaining his grip on Lizzie’s arm, Fletcher shook his head. “They’ll have called in a tactical team.”

  “Then we’ll just have to deal with Simon and Davenport before SWAT can get here. I want them both. Special Agent Cahill and his princely friend.”

>   “These men know what they’re doing. They won’t let us see them, much less get off a shot at them.” Fletcher’s tone was professional, still somewhat deferential to Norman’s authority. “My advice is to leave Miss Rush and Detective Browning and get out of here.”

  “I know what I’m doing, too,” Norman said, petulant. He shifted his attention to Lizzie, finally acknowledging her presence. “It’s good to see you, Lizzie. I knew you’d come to Maine. This house…” His gesture seemed to take in the entire property. “The very walls cry out with what might have been if John March hadn’t caused your mother’s death.”

  “Where’s his daughter now?” Lizzie asked. She wriggled in Fletcher’s grasp, and he let her go. “I can’t help it, Norman. She had the life I didn’t. A father and a mother.”

  “We have her now, Lizzie.”

  She noticed a flicker of distaste—of hatred—in Fletcher’s eyes before his detached manner took hold again.

  “I want to see her,” Lizzie said.

  “I’ll take Miss Rush downstairs,” Fletcher said. “She and Detective Browning can chat about her father while we deal with Cahill and Davenport. No argument, Mr. Estabrook. We do this my way here on out or I walk now.”

  “All right. Lock Lizzie in with our detective.” Norman smiled and brushed his fingertips across her cheek. “Detective Browning needs to know the impact her father’s had on your life. Tell her. Make her understand it’s his fault she’s in this predicament.”

  “I thought I hid it from you…how much I hate John March.”

  Norman gave her a supercilious little laugh. “You could never hide anything from me. You’re refreshingly transparent. I’ll come for you.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a possessive but asexual manner. “You’re special to me, Lizzie. You have been right from the start.”

  “Same here, Norman. You’re special to me.” She ignored the sudden dryness in her mouth. “You’ve transformed my life.”

  Fletcher took her by the arm and led her down the basement stairs. The man who’d helped him collect her in the first place unlocked the door to the old rec room. He waited in the hall while Fletcher brought her inside.

  Abigail was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, her face, especially her mouth and left cheek, swollen and bloody, scabs forming on the deeper cuts. Lizzie stifled a gasp and turned to Fletcher, grabbed his wrist. “Tell Norman he’s proved his point,” she said in a low voice. “There’s nothing unique about killing Abigail now. If he leaves her, he’ll have even more power over her father. March will know what Norman could have done, that it was in his power to do more.”

  “Power through restraint.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Will do, love.” Fletcher winked at her. “I’m thinking more in terms of putting a bullet in the bloody bastard’s head at the first opportunity.”

  “But you need him,” Lizzie said. “Why? If you’re MI6—”

  “A fiction.”

  “Colloquial expression. The Secret Intelligence Service isn’t a fiction. Neither is the Special Air Service. Even if you’re free-lancing, you’re on a mission. You disappeared in Afghanistan. Are you after some drug lord-terrorist connection?”

  His eyes darkened to a hard slate color. “I have to go. A boat’s on the way to the old dock here. I need it not to be scared off by shots. I’ll try to keep Simon and Will from coming to your rescue too soon. In the meantime, find a nice hiding place.” He glanced at Abigail and then winked again at Lizzie. “Be good, love.”

  At the click of the lock in the door after he left, Abigail let out a low moan of pain and sat up straighter. “I look worse than I feel.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’re Lizzie Rush.” Abigail struggled to focus, one eye markedly less swollen than the other. “My father looked into your mother’s death in Ireland. It was ruled an accident.”

  “It wasn’t,” Lizzie said.

  Abigail nodded. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Following Fletcher’s lead, Lizzie concentrated on the immediate problem, quickly explaining the situation to the detective. “I told Myles I can get us out of here.”

  “Myles…” Abigail swallowed visibly. “Fletcher. He’s an interesting character. There are at least two other men in addition to him and Estabrook. A third—I think he’s dead.”

  “Yes. Fiona O’Reilly and I found him yesterday. It’s a long story. Let’s focus on getting out of here before Norman pays us a visit. Can you stand?”

  She nodded, allowing Lizzie to help her to her feet. “You obviously have something in mind.”

  Lizzie smiled. “My cousins and I used to pretend we were prisoners on a pirate ship.”

  “And this room was the ship? There’s an exit?”

  “Sort of.” She pulled the ratty couch away from the wall and pointed to a knee-high door. “It goes under the stairs to the laundry room. My cousins and I would…well, we liked our adventures. You’ll have to crawl.”

  “I can do it. I should have found this myself. The laundry room—there’s an exit just outside the door, isn’t there?”

  “It leads right into my grandmother’s hydrangeas.”

  “If Estabrook or his men catch us—”

  “We end up back here playing cards,” Lizzie said lightly.

  Abigail tried to smile. “My optimism took a hit along with my face.” She studied the door a moment. “I’ll go first. If I run into problems, get back here and blame me.”

  Lizzie didn’t argue with her and squatted to unlatch the door. “I wonder if the adults in our lives realized the door was here and wanted to encourage a certain amount of creativity and rebellion in my cousins and me.” She looked up at Abigail. “I’m not promising we won’t happen upon mice, dead or alive.”

  “I heard mice running in the walls.” Abigail got down low and peered into the pitch-dark crawl space. She gave Lizzie a beleagured smile. “I figured they were better company than the rats upstairs.”

  She got on all fours and went through the small opening. Lizzie pulled the couch back as close to the wall as she could, but it wasn’t enough—Norman and his men would know exactly what had happened the minute they entered the room. She shut the door behind her, anyway, as she ducked into the crawl space. She breathed in dust and in the darkness, thought she really did hear a mouse scurrying. But she moved fast, making her way to another small door, which Abigail had left open.

  Lizzie emerged in the laundry room. It was equipped with an old washer and dryer, a freezer and a wall of hooks and shelves. Abigail, panting and ashen, held a pair of large, rusted garden shears. “I’d rather have my Glock. Stay behind me, Lizzie. Let me—” Abigail frowned as Lizzie grabbed her grandmother’s old walking stick. “What are you doing?”

  Lizzie held the stick at her side, felt its worn, smooth wood as her eyes misted. “My gran…I can see her now, walking in her garden. She was so proud of her delphiniums.” She shook off the memories. “I’m pretty good with a bo.”

  “You know martial arts?”

  “Harlan Rush arts,” Lizzie said with an attempt at a smile.

  “We can do some damage with garden shears and a walking stick, but they’ve got automatics.” Even bruised, Abigail looked like the experienced homicide detective she was. “Nothing crazy, okay?”

  They eased out into the hall. Lizzie pulled open the door, wincing at every noisy creak it made, and they slipped outside, into the fog, squeezing along the edge of the six-foot hydrangeas that grew on the hillside. She shut the door tightly behind her.

  Abigail was clearly done in, fresh blood oozing from a cut on her cheek. Lizzie smelled the hydrangeas in the damp air and fought an urge to hide under their low, thick branches. But she knew what she had to do. “You’re hurt, and you’ve been through hell,” she said softly. “Let me do this, Abigail. Norman thinks I’m on his side—”

  “No. We stay together.”

  She touched Abigail’s shoulder. “Fletcher needs so
mething from Norman. It’s important, and I can get it. If he gets away now, we’ll never find him. He’ll win. He will be your father’s nemesis.”

  “I can’t let you—”

  “I’ll at least buy you all time. I won’t take unnecessary risks. Here.” Lizzie pointed Abigail to an old wood bench hidden among the hydrangeas. “I knew I didn’t have these bushes cut back for a reason. They’ll hide you.”

  Abigail sank onto the bench. “Stay here with me.”

  “There’s no way Fletcher can do this alone. Norman trusts me. If I don’t do what I can now—” Lizzie didn’t finish. “Make sure Will and Simon know Fletcher’s one of the good guys. Another reason for you to stay behind. We don’t want a friendly-fire incident.”

  “No, but—”

  Lizzie straightened with her walking stick and smiled. “Don’t make me knock you out. I’m trusting you and our fairy prince, Prince Charming and dark lord to come save me.”

  “Simon, Davenport and Fletcher.” Abigail smiled weakly. “Very amusing. You can take my garden shears.”

  “Take a look around at all the overgrown stuff. Do you think I’m any good with garden shears?”

  Lizzie didn’t wait for an answer and walked out from the cover of the hydrangeas toward the stone steps. She couldn’t see anyone through the fog and continued down the sloping yard. She debated calling out for Norman, but she spotted him by himself next to the wild blackberries and roses above the rocks.

  She waved and ran toward him. “Norman! Abigail just almost killed me! She used me as a hostage—I’m sorry. I took off. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s gone upstairs. She’s looking for you. She thinks she can take on your men.”

  “She’ll learn otherwise.”

  “Norman…” Lizzie caught her breath. “This is for real, isn’t it?”

  His eyes were cold, and beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip. “Very real,” he said. “And whether or not you’re lying, Lizzie, you’re mine now.”

  Fog enveloped the coastline in its shroud of gray. Abigail shivered as she crept toward the sounds of the ocean, staying in the cover of overgrown shrubs and gnarled, drooping evergreens. She ached and she was sick, but she would do what she could to distract and divert Estabrook and his men—anything to back up Lizzie Rush.