Carla Neggers - The Mist

Time to make his exit.

He clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder, nodded to March and left without saying anything else. What more was there to say? He headed into the foyer and down the front steps onto the wide sidewalk. A half-dozen fellow FBI agents and BPD officers watched him, and he wondered if they had orders to make sure he didn’t go off on his own.

Too bad if they did.

The air was warm, even hot, in the fading afternoon. He thought of Will’s description of the woman who’d intercepted the man sent to attack Keira in Ireland. “Long, straight black hair and light green eyes,” Will had said. “She’s small, but very fast and self-assured. I saw her tackle Murphy from a distance. She had him on the ground, his own knife to his throat, before I’d cleared the fence. Who do you suppose she is, Simon?”

He’d said he had no idea, which was true.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. A woman did come to mind, but it made no sense at all.

Lizzie Rush, kicking ass in an Irish stone circle?

She was one of the many high-end members of Norman ’s entourage who’d claimed to be shocked by his illegal activities.

The FBI agent who’d interviewed Lizzie after Norman ’s arrest had described her to Simon. “Clueless. A little annoyed. Very eager to get back to her reprobate daddy in Las Vegas.”

The last time Simon had run into her, she was wearing a slim, expensive black dress with a bottle of water and a martini at her elbow as she’d amused herself at a cocktail party at Norman ’s Cabo San Lucas estate. Afterward, she, Norman and Simon had discussed preliminary plans for a Costa Rican adventure. She obviously knew her business, if not what her financial-genius friend was up to.

So what was she doing in the same Irish village as Keira?

“I’d have managed on my own somehow,” Keira had said, not with bravado but a calm certainty that Simon had learned over the past two months not to doubt. “But I was glad to have help.”

Regardless of who’d saved whom, someone had sent a killer after her.

Simon crossed Beacon Street and took the steep, stone stairs down to Boston Common. A breeze stirred through the tall trees, and he glanced back at the Garrison house to see if anyone had followed him.

Not yet, but his fellow law enforcement officers were still watching him. In their place, he’d be doing the same.

He dialed a London number on his cell phone. “Moneypenny,” he said when Josie Goodwin, Will’s assistant, answered. “Dare I ask where you are?”

“Special Agent Cahill,” Josie said. “I suspected I might hear from you tonight.”

“I have a name for you.”

“I’m ready.”

“Lizzie Rush. If she’s our black-haired mystery woman, you can have Will tell her to back off and mind her own business.”

“Perhaps she knows more than you realize.”

“Then she can call me and tell me. She’s bored, rich and very pretty, Josie. She can’t interfere-” But he stopped abruptly. He’d been thinking about Lizzie Rush ever since he’d spoken to Will and Keira, when and where he’d seen her, her relationship with Norman. What if she did know more than he’d realized? He sighed. “Hell, Josie.”

“Indeed, Simon,” she said. “Suppose this woman has been a quiet player right from the start? Is it possible Director March had an anonymous source funnel him information?”

It wasn’t just possible. He did have one. A dozen times over the past year, March himself had handed Simon critical pieces of information-photographs, names, account numbers-that could only have been obtained by someone close to Norman Estabrook. March never confirmed or denied the existence of a source and instructed Simon not to speculate. Just take the information and do his job.

Of course, Simon had speculated, especially in the weeks since Norman ’s arrest. Various names came to mind-accountants, bookkeepers, hedge-fund staffers, household help…

But Lizzie Rush?

“Leave her to Will,” Josie said.

Simon heard something in her voice. “Moneypenny,” he said, “you wouldn’t be holding back on me, would you?”

“Why, Simon, what a thing to say.”

She disconnected in mock horror.

Which told Simon she was holding back. Josie Goodwin was a force unto herself, but she would only go so far with Simon, friend of her boss or no friend. Will was a lone wolf who lived a dangerous life and tried to protect those around him from that life.

It wasn’t always possible, Simon thought as he dialed Owen’s cell number. “March still breathing down your neck?”

“Right here.”

“I’ll help you get to Montana.”

Owen was silent a moment. “Thank you.”

“Like you aren’t already plotting how to get there on your own. At least my way will keep you from getting arrested.” But Simon couldn’t maintain his normal good cheer. “I’ve done search missions with you, Owen. If anyone can find Norman ’s plane, it’s you.”

“I’m ready to leave now.”

Simon managed a smile. “I thought you might be.”

Seeing how his Boston residence had just been totaled by fire, smoke and water damage, Owen had nothing to pack. He could always stop at a Wal-Mart on his way to Montana.

As he shut his phone, Simon looked east toward Boston Harbor, squinting as if it would help him see past the tall buildings and the Atlantic and connect with Keira in Ireland. He concentrated on his love for her. Will wouldn’t leave her until he was satisfied that the garda, her fairies and the O’Shea brothers would keep her safe.

Keira had objected, but she also understood.

This one wasn’t her fight.

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

10:15 p.m., IST

August 25

Keira stood at the pine table in her cottage on the lane below the stone circle, shoving art supplies-paints, pencils, brushes, sketch pads-into a wooden case. “The woman who helped me tonight knew what to ask. She knew names. Bob, Scoop, Abigail. Simon. Owen.” Keira paused, raising her eyes to Will. “She knew everything. Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” Will said, shrugging on his coat.

Garda detectives had inspected Keira’s cottage for explosive devices and were waiting outside to take her to a safe place. Will had arrived in the stone circle too late to be of any real use. Simon would hate himself for not being there. But it didn’t matter, did it? Their mysterious black-haired woman had dispatched Murphy and questioned him like a professional, then boldly went on her way ahead of the guards’ arrival.

They were looking for her now.

But she’d been right: Will could have stopped her.

Why hadn’t he?

He already knew the answer. He hadn’t stopped her for the same reason he hadn’t interrupted her when she’d asked Michael Murphy about the Brit she’d believed had sent him to kill Keira.

“He’s dangerous and charming and very focused.”

Keira paused a moment in her packing. “You’re going to find out who she is, though, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t stop her from leaving.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Keira’s cornflower-blue eyes leveled on him, but she said nothing further as she flipped through a stack of small sketch pads, choosing two to take with her.

The scent of the rambling pink roses out front sweetened the breeze that floated through the open windows, gentler now that the gale had died down. Keira’s hair was tangled, her clothes and shoes muddy from her ordeal in the stone circle. The Irish detectives had told her she could shower later at the safe house where they were taking her.

Keira had made it plain she didn’t want to go anywhere except to Simon and her family and friends in Boston. She could refuse protection, but she didn’t. Garda teams had kicked into immediate action upon their arrival in the village, taking away Michael Murphy, cordoning off the stone circle and searching the pub, Keira’s cottage and the boat she and Simon had shared for much of the past month for explosive devices and hidden thugs.