Carla Neggers - The Mist

Bob’s mouth was dry, his eyes and throat burning. He looked up at the hazy sky and collected himself as March joined. There was just no way out of it, and Bob told Simon and March about the blast. “We’re looking for Abigail now.” He kept his tone as coplike as he could. “Firefighters are still checking her apartment, but I was in there and didn’t find her. Her front door and the main front door were both standing open right after the blast.”

“Her car’s here,” March said.

“We’re cordoning off the area, checking vehicles. If she was shaken up in the blast, she could have wandered into someone’s backyard.”

Simon stepped out of the way of more firefighters. “What about Owen?”

Bob’s head throbbed. “He’s on Beacon Street. Yarborough’s heading there now. What are you two doing here?”

Simon answered, his voice steady. “Abigail called about an hour ago and asked us to meet her. She didn’t say why.”

Bob didn’t know why, either, but he had an idea. Earlier that summer, she’d learned that her father had a tight, almost father-son relationship with Simon Cahill that had started twenty years ago after the execution-style murder of Simon’s father, a DEA agent. She’d been trying to wrap her head around that one for weeks and could have asked them both over to talk about it.

And just before they arrive, a bomb goes off?

There was also Norman Estabrook’s threat against Simon and her father, and the serial killer Simon and Keira had taken into custody in June, as well as dozens of other ugly cases Abigail had been involved in. Before Bob could follow up, the rookie cop came back up to him, white-faced now. “Lieutenant…I just…”

The kid was standing next to March, who said quietly, “Easy, Officer. Just say what you have to say.”

The rookie didn’t meet the FBI director’s eyes, as if he thought he might go up in a puff of smoke if he did. “I just spoke to Detective Yarborough. Owen Garrison wanted to come over here and headed to his car after evacuating the Garrison house. He checked it first, and…”

“And what?” Bob asked. “He found a bomb?”

The rookie nodded. “Yes, sir. The bomb squad’s on the way, but Mr. Garrison has already disarmed the device himself.”

“Himself,” Bob said, sighing.

Simon and March didn’t speak, but they were well aware, as Bob was, that Owen would know how to disarm a wide variety of bombs. The one in his car opened up a second crime scene.

How many more bombs would they find? Who’d planted them? How? When?

Why?

It was going to be a long day. Right now, Bob just wanted to see Scoop and his daughter, but he had to get one more bit of black news over with.

He turned to Simon. “Keira called from Ireland.”

The color drained from Simon’s face. “Why, Bob?”

“She and another woman called to warn me there was a bomb on Abigail’s back porch.”

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

8:05 p.m., IST

August 25

Lizzie had used the bungee cords in her pack to tie the Irishman’s wrists behind his back. He was sullen now as they headed back to the village, she on his right, Will on his left. Keira walked quietly behind them. The black dog skulked in the shadows above the ancient wall along the lane.

“Keep up,” Lizzie said to the Irishman, “or we’ll leave you to the dog.”

He turned his gaze to her, his eyes flat. “I’ll keep up.”

When they reached the village, the dog bounded off suddenly, disappearing into the hills.

Lizzie glanced back at Keira, her hair hanging in wet tangles. She’d tried calling her uncle in Boston again but was unable to get through to him. “There’s still hope,” Lizzie said. “Don’t give up.”

Keira smiled faintly. “You’re an optimist.”

“Most days.”

“Most days I am, too.”

But she obviously knew, as Lizzie did, that hope and optimism wouldn’t dictate whether Bob O’Reilly and whoever else was at the triple-decker in Boston had survived the blast. It would depend on luck, skill, training and timing.

Unless fairies showed up. For all Lizzie knew, they’d had a hand in what had just happened up at the stone circle. She and Keira had dealt with the Irishman and kept him from killing them, but the mysterious black dog had persuaded him to tell them about the bomb.

It was all very strange.

There was no question in Lizzie’s mind that Norman Estabrook was responsible for the attack on Keira Sullivan and the bomb in Boston. He’d gone after Simon’s new love and John March’s daughter.

And it was just the beginning.

Eddie O’Shea and two other small, wiry men, all in wool caps, materialized out of the shadows and jumped lightly off the stone wall onto the lane. Lizzie had had no idea they were there. The barman fell in next to her. “My brothers, Aidan and Patrick,” Eddie said by way of introduction as the other two men dropped back to Keira.

Will greeted the brothers with a nod. He’d said little since the connection to Keira’s uncle in Boston went dead. He was a man, Lizzie thought, of supreme self-control. He’d briefly questioned the Irishman, who insisted he’d come to the Beara Peninsula alone and had no partners waiting in the village. Lizzie believed him, if only because of his deep, palpable fear of the black hound.

Aidan pulled off his jacket and draped it over Keira’s shoulders, and she managed a smile, thanking him. When they came to the pub, Eddie’s dog was at the door to greet them.

The pub was empty, the local farmers and fishermen gone home for the night. The springer spaniel collapsed lazily in front of the fire.

Will shoved their would-be killer onto a chair at the table Lizzie had vacated earlier. His ski cap had come off in his scuffle with her. He had sparse, dark hair and blue eyes, and she saw now, in the light and relative safety of the pub, that he was muscular and fit. She realized she’d done well to best him.

She also realized Will would have had no trouble if he’d arrived in the stone circle a bit sooner. Lizzie reminded herself not to be fooled into thinking his expensive clothes and aristocratic background meant he couldn’t fight as well as any other SAS officer and spy.

“I’ll ring the guards,” Patrick, the youngest O’Shea, said.

“Patrick and I’ll watch for them,” Aidan, the eldest, added, and the two brothers headed down a short hall to the back of the pub.

Keira shrugged off Aidan’s coat and hung it on a peg, then joined Lizzie and the dog by the fire, all of them muddy and wet. The pub was toasty warm, but Lizzie had to fight to keep herself from shivering. She slipped the thug’s spare assault knife into her jacket pocket and held her hands toward the flames, spreading out her fingers. She noticed bloody scrapes on her knuckles and wrists, but she couldn’t remember any pain and felt none now.

“I’ll have Patrick and Aidan fetch some ice and bandages,” Eddie said.

“Thank you, but there’s no need, really.” She gave him a quick smile. “What I’d truly love is a sip of brandy.”

He nodded, but gave his bound fellow Irishman a hard glare. “Move a muscle, and I’ll have a knife to your throat before your next breath.”

The thug glowered but said nothing.

Eddie went behind his bar and got down three glasses and placed them on a tray. Keeping an eye on his customers, he uncapped a bottle of brandy and splashed some into each glass.

Keira took a breath, containing her emotion. “Why are you here?” she asked Will. “Have you talked to Simon?”

“Earlier. Not in the past few hours. I spoke to Josie at your cottage and again on my way to the stone circle.” He studied her carefully, obviously debating how much to tell her about what he knew. “Norman Estabrook’s no longer in U.S. federal custody.”