The Mist (24 page)

Near Kennebunkport, Maine
7:45 a.m., EDT
August 27

"I
love cormorants," Lizzie said as she ambled along the narrow path above the rocks. "I can watch them endlessly."

Neither of the two men with her responded. Myles Fletcher had stayed next to her, even if it meant he had to veer off the path, into pine needles or onto the rocks. The second man, silent and obviously less fit, walked a few steps ahead of them. Both men were armed with nine-millimeter pistols, Fletcher's holstered at his waist, his partner's in his right hand.

Lizzie hadn't left her house with so much as a butter knife. She'd tried reaching for a fist-size rock, but Fletcher had calmly touched her shoulder and shaken his head, effectively changing her mind.

She nodded to the ocean, calm and gray in the fog. "It's a beau
tiful spot, isn't it? I know you can't see much today. I used to walk this path with my grandmother." She tried to adopt the breezy style she'd had with Norman--oblivious, personable, as if she had no concerns about being escorted to him by armed guards and wasn't a woman who'd send information anonymously to the FBI. "She'd tell me if she had her way, she'd die out here, watching a cormorant dive for food."

Fletcher stepped over an exposed spruce root. "Did she?"

"No. She died in the hospital."

Fletcher eased back onto the path. His manner was detached, but he was clearly on high alert. "You miss her."

"I do, but it's okay. You'd want someone to miss you if you died, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know that I would, love."

He and his partner must have seen Will on the deck and Simon's arrival. Fletcher, at least, would know he had an SAS officer and FBI agent after him. Lizzie would concentrate on finding Abigail Browning and giving them a chance to act. Her father had lectured on being tentative. "Be bold. Be decisive. Especially if lives are at stake."

She noticed the man ahead of them had picked up his pace. She looked up at Fletcher. "Quite a difference between here and Las Vegas, isn't there?"

He glanced down at her. "Quite."

"What did you do, look up Norman in Las Vegas and offer your services? Did you know he was about to be arrested?"

"Keep up," Fletcher said.

"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."