The Mist (16 page)

Boston, Massachusetts
5:35 p.m., EDT
August 26

L
izzie headed toward the Whitcomb lobby, shaking off the pummeled feeling she always had after the long flight across the Atlantic. It was late afternoon in Boston, late evening in Ireland, but she wasn't quite on either clock. She figured she'd need the five hours she'd gained heading west from Dublin. She didn't know how long she'd have before Will turned up. Based on the text message she'd received from Justin when she landed, probably not long: Brit to Boston. Right behind you.

Justin wasn't one to waste words.

Spending the night in the same suite as a British intelligence agent was one thing. Having him following her was another, but Lizzie had an advantage in Boston. She knew the city and had family there, and Will didn't. She'd contemplated him, her situa
tion and her options while playing one solo game of bridge after another on her little tray table.

How did Will Davenport fit into whatever was going on, and where was he now?

Was he trouble?

"
Everyone's
trouble," she muttered, quoting her father, even as she welcomed the familiar surroundings of the Whitcomb's classically appointed lobby.

A dour-looking Sam Whitcomb, in actuality a firebrand privateer during the American Revolution, stared down at her from his oil portrait above the unlit marble fireplace. Henrietta wanted to replace him with one of Keira Sullivan's wildflower watercolors.

Lizzie focused on the situation at hand, smiling at her cousin Jeremiah as he stood up from his desk. "I cut my trip to Ireland short," she said.

"Justin's already filled me in," Jeremiah said, shaking his head. "Lizzie. What's going on? All hell's broken loose in Boston. I've never seen so many cops on the streets."

"I noticed. What do you know?"

"Nothing. Fiona O'Reilly's here. Cops are mum on the details about the fire at her father's place and the evacuation at the Garrison house. Your friend Norman Estabrook's disappeared, too. You know that, right?"

"Yes, but I'm not in contact with him."

"The FBI hasn't been in touch?"

Lizzie shook her head. No need to mention that she'd been in touch with John March herself. "I haven't spoken to Norman since his arrest."

Jeremiah seemed faintly reassured. "But you're back here because Simon Cahill and FBI Director March are in town, aren't you?" Her cousin narrowed his eyes on her. "Lizzie..."

Of all her cousins, Jeremiah was the one most tuned in to the history between March and her mother, but Lizzie dodged his question. "I'm not involved in Norman's legal case, Jeremiah. I wish I'd never had anything to do with him."

"I don't blame you. I imagine most of his friends feel the same way. What are you going to do now?"

"Pick up my car and head to Maine."

Go to Maine, she'd decided on her flight across the Atlantic. Figure out what she could do to help find Norman and leave the rest of her family out of it. John March might give her time, but if Scoop Wisdom had provided her description to his BPD colleagues, they could already be after her. Best, she'd reasoned, to stick to her cover story and go about her business as if she had nothing to hide. She'd gone to Ireland to hike the Beara Way and pop in on Simon Cahill, only to end up in the middle of a knife fight. It made perfect sense that she'd come straight home and head to her house in Maine.

Whether or not Norman thought she was an ally--believed she hated John March as much as he did--Lizzie had no doubt he would expect her to head to Maine.

Jeremiah touched her shoulder and looked past her. "Fiona..."

Lizzie turned as Fiona O'Reilly stumbled on the steps up from Morrigan's and hesitated, very pale, barely breathing. She stared at Lizzie a split second before bolting down the main steps and out to Charles Street.

"I wonder what just happened," Jeremiah said. "A man joined her downstairs. I've never seen him here before. He just left."

"What did he look like?" Lizzie asked.

"Brown hair, fit--not that he did push-ups on the floor, but I wouldn't want to take him on in a bar fight."

Lizzie felt the same shiver of coolness she'd experienced last night questioning Michael Murphy. "Was he British?"

"I didn't hear him myself. Lizzie, we're not talking about Lord Davenport, are we?"

She shook her head. "For one thing, Will's blond. Put hotel security on alert. I'll go after Fiona."

Her cousin took a sharp breath. "Should we call the police? Fiona's father--"

"Yes. Call Lieutenant O'Reilly and tell him something's up with her." Lizzie thought quickly. She didn't like keeping Jeremiah in the dark, but there was no time. "I owe you an explanation, but right now I need to go after Fiona. Keep her here if she returns."

"
I
should go."

She managed a smile. "My father taught me the tricks of the trade, not you." But her smile faded. "If the man who was with Fiona shows up again, don't confront him. Don't go near him. He's dangerous, Jeremiah."

"Who is he?"

"My guess? A British spy."

Her cousin rolled his eyes. "You think my golden retriever's a spy."

"He
is
, but of a different sort."

The humor helped break the tension, just enough to give her energy. Wishing she had on the shoes she'd worn last night in the stone circle instead of her flats, Lizzie headed out to Charles Street and up past a knot of college students and tourists to the intersection at Beacon Street. She spotted Fiona running in the direction of the Garrison house in what appeared to be blind panic.

Cursing her shoes, Lizzie took off after her on the uneven sidewalk. "Fiona, hold on," she called as she closed in on the teenager.

Fiona didn't break her stride. "I have to hurry."

"Why? Jeremiah told me a man joined you just now." Lizzie kept her voice calm. "Fiona, what did he say to you?"

"Did you see him? He thinks we're friends. I told him I hardly know you. It's true. He said not to follow him." She slowed slightly, clearly terrified. "You didn't try--you didn't send Jeremiah--"

"No one's following him."

"He knew you'd come. He told me a man's in danger and I should go to the alley by the Garrison house and--and--" Already close to hyperventilating, she gulped in more air as they continued up Beacon Street. "And then call my dad."

"Did this man threaten you?"

"He implied Abigail's life depends on my cooperation. There's a man dying. What if it's someone I know--one of Dad's detectives, one of my friends? We practice at the Garrison house. We--"

"Don't speculate." Lizzie tried to penetrate Fiona's mounting panic. "Let's just figure out what to do."

Fiona was marginally calmer as she glanced at Lizzie. "He said you could go with me."

"All right. Let's do this together."

Fiona slowed her pace and walking now, still breathing hard, turned onto a side street that led up onto Beacon Hill. She stopped at the entrance to a narrow alley that ran behind two elegant brick mansions.

"This must be it." She had her cell phone clutched in one hand. "He told me to call my dad and not go in the alley."

Lizzie peered into the alley. "He didn't say I couldn't go in, did he?"

Fiona shook her head, already dialing her cell phone.

"I'll stay in sight. I'm not leaving you, Fiona."

"I'll be okay."

Lizzie stepped into the alley, which dead-ended at a tall stockade fence. She expected to hear a moan, ragged breathing, a cry for help, but there was nothing. She glanced back at Fiona, who was holding herself together as she talked on her phone, and took another two steps. A car was parked along the fence. She walked around it, past a stack of empty flower pots. The sounds of Beacon Street traffic fell away, blocked by the two big houses.

She stopped abruptly, hearing flies. Placing a hand on the car's hood, cool in the shade, she leaned forward and saw a man was on the ground, slumped against the fence.

Even from a distance of a few yards, Lizzie could see he was dead.

Fiona, off the phone now, started into the alley. Lizzie shook her head at her. "Don't, Fiona. You don't need to see this."

But Fiona covered her mouth with her wrist and kept coming. Mindful that she was in what was now a crime scene, Lizzie edged closer to the dead man. She had to be sure she hadn't made a mistake and he was alive.

No mistake. He'd been shot--obviously--in the left temple. He was middle-aged and slightly overweight, dressed in dark chinos and a dark polo shirt, with a gash on his right forearm, as if someone had fingernail-clawed him.

Fiona gasped, "Is he--"

"He's dead, Fiona."

She dropped her wrist from her mouth. She'd stopped shaking, but her face was ashen. Her blue eyes were fixed on the dead man.

Lizzie felt her heart jump. "Fiona, do you know who this is?"

"No--I mean, I don't know his name. We never..." She motioned back toward Beacon Street. "I saw him on the street
when I arrived at the Garrison house yesterday morning. He was walking across from the Common. I didn't talk to him."

"Was he alone?"

She nodded. "He said hi to me. He--" She squinted, as if digging deep to remember more. "He had a messenger bag with him. I remember thinking it looked heavy. It...he..."

"You couldn't have known what would happen," Lizzie said quietly.

"He must have had the bomb in the bag. I could have stopped him. If Owen hadn't been warned, he'd have--the bomb would have gone off." Fiona stopped suddenly, focusing on Lizzie. "I wasn't supposed to say that. About the bomb."

"It's okay," Lizzie said. "I already figured it out."

"The man...the Brit...he..."

Fiona broke off, turned and fled, tripping, gagging, back out to the street. Lizzie ran after her, slowing when she saw that Will Davenport had intercepted Fiona. He had an arm wrapped around her waist as she covered her mouth with both hands and cried.

"It's all right." He spoke firmly, but his tone was reassuring. "You're safe."

Fiona took a step back, and Will let her go. "The man who..." She was hyperventilating again. "He had an English accent. I think it was English. He said I..." She gulped in a breath and mumbled, "My dad will be here any second."

Lizzie understood Fiona's fear and tried to reassure her. "This is Will Davenport. He and Simon Cahill are friends."

"I'm sorry I frightened you," Will said gently.

"There's a man dead in the alley," Lizzie told him. She heard sirens. The police would be there soon. "The Brit I ran into in Las Vegas and Eddie O'Shea ran into at his pub is in Boston. He
told Fiona to come here. He knew I was headed back from Ireland." Lizzie gave Will a hard look. "Did you tell him?"

"No, Lizzie." He didn't look tired or even rumpled after his long flight, but his expression had taken on a studied control, a certain distance. "I told you this morning. For the past two years, I've believed Myles to be dead."

"Then you haven't been lying to me?"

"I have not."

"Who is he? Who is this Myles?"

"You've just seen for yourself." Will's eyes were flinty. "Myles Fletcher is a killer."

Fiona, listening to every word, cried out in shock but didn't move.

Lizzie glanced back toward the alley. "Yes. I did just see for myself. Are you going after him?"

Fiona gasped and grabbed Will's wrist. "No! You can't! He said--he said not to follow him. He said he's Abigail's only hope." She was close to hysteria. "Please."

"All right, then." Will gently extricated himself from her hold. "I won't go after him."

Lizzie's head was spinning, and she felt ragged from jetlag, adrenaline, fear, being cooped up on a plane for hours with nothing to do but play cards and think. She turned to Will. "Now that Myles Fletcher has surfaced, I imagine you and your MI6 and SAS friends will want to figure out what he's up to."

Will ignored her and addressed Fiona. "How long ago did you see this man?"

"A few minutes. Ten, fifteen. Please, you can't..."

"I'll do as you ask and not go after him. We'll wait here together for your father."

"He called me 'love,'" Fiona whispered.

Will's eyes shut briefly, but Lizzie saw the pain in them. She was touched by his gentleness with Fiona but knew what she had to do. "I haven't witnessed anything." She looked once again down the alley, as if part of her expected the dead man to walk out and say it was all a joke, a bit of makeup and sheer nerve. But she knew it wasn't. "I'm no good to anyone if I'm stuck here explaining myself to the police."

Will didn't respond immediately. Lizzie gave him a moment. Finally he said, "You work for John March."

She skimmed the back of her hand along his jaw, rough with stubble. Sexy. A reminder he wasn't a Prince Charming out of a fairy tale. "Find me," she said, her voice hoarse, then shifted her attention to Fiona. "I have to go. You're safe with Will."

The sirens blared closer now. Lizzie bolted up the side street. Will didn't follow her. She cut down pretty residential Chestnut Street, running past classic Beacon Hill homes with their black iron fences, brass-fitted doors and wreaths of summer flowers. She came to Charles Street at the bottom of Chestnut, and fighting tears of her own, ducked into the Whitcomb. Without saying a word, she headed straight through the lobby past Jeremiah and down a half-dozen steps to the rear exit.

Her cousin reached her before she could get the back door open. With Whit and Harlan Rush as older brothers, Jeremiah had learned to stay cool in a crisis. "Lizzie, what's going on?"

She knew she had to give him the basic facts. She owed him that much. "Fiona and I just found a man shot to death up by the Garrison house. The Brit who was with her earlier told her where to find him."

"What can I do?"

"The police will be here any minute. I have to go, Jeremiah. I can't stay." She raked a hand through her hair as she consid
ered her options. "You can find me a car. I can't take mine--or yours. The police..." She didn't finish.

"Take Martha's. Martha Prescott. She's Mum's new assistant." He unlocked a drawer to a small cupboard, pulled a set of keys from a series of hooks and handed them to Lizzie without hesitation. "Gray Honda on Mount Vernon. The only free space will be the driver's seat." He smiled through his obvious worry. "Martha's a slob."