Carla Neggers - The Mist

“Bombs, Will,” she said suddenly, reaching for a nub of an eraser. “I keep thinking about Scoop. He’s a great guy. He adopted two stray cats-the firefighters got them out safely.” She dropped the eraser into her box and wiped the back of her hand across tear-stained cheeks. “He’s in critical but stable condition. Will…”

He touched her slender shoulder. “Keira, I’m sorry. I know how difficult this is for you.”

“Scoop’s strong. He’ll pull through.” She picked up the brush she’d dropped. “He has to. And Abigail. I can’t-if I think about her, where she could be, what she’s going through, I’ll fall apart, and that won’t help anyone.”

Will had learned from Simon that his newfound love had moved from city to city for years, at home everywhere and nowhere. Finally she’d returned to Boston to be near her mother, who had withdrawn from the world to live as a religious ascetic in a cabin she’d built herself in the woods of southern New Hampshire. Keira had developed a closer relationship with her uncle, Bob O’Reilly, and younger cousins in Boston, and she, Abigail Browning and Scoop Wisdom had become friends.

Then Simon Cahill had entered her life.

“It’s not Simon’s fault.” Keira again fastened her gaze on Will. “He’s a target just like the rest of us.”

“What has Simon told you about Norman Estabrook?”

“We haven’t talked about him that much. He’s petulant, vindictive and brilliant. He courts danger to feel alive.” She reached for more art supplies as she continued. “He trusted Simon with his life.”

“It wasn’t misplaced trust,” Will said. “Simon never did anything to deliberately endanger Estabrook.”

“From what I gather, he’s obsessive about safety measures and backup plans. Whatever happened today-whatever went wrong or right-he’ll have various courses of action from which to choose.”

“That won’t make him easier to find.”

She nodded grimly. “Simon and I have only just found each other. I can hear him singing Irish songs now. He and my uncle have beautiful voices. I can’t sing a note. My mother, either. A few months ago, she was living a quiet, solitary life of prayer in the woods, and now she’s back in the city with all this…” Keira snapped her art case shut. “I wouldn’t blame her if she gives up on us and goes back to her cabin.”

“Your mother’s safe, Keira,” Will said. “The Boston police and the FBI won’t let any harm come to her.”

He read her expression, saw that she was as stubborn and independent as Simon had promised she was, and also as brave. Wherever the garda tucked her for her own safety, she’d do what she could to help the investigation. She wasn’t one to sit back.

There was a light knock on the kitchen door, and an officer poked his head in. “Two minutes, and we have to go.”

Keira took a breath. “I don’t even know what I’ve packed, but I suppose I can always ask someone to make a supply run for me if it comes to that.” She raised her eyes again to Will. “You’ll have to come meet the gang one day. We’re supposed to do Christmas in Ireland this year. My uncle, my cousins, my mother and me.”

“It’ll be cold, dark and wet.”

She smiled. “I hope so. I promised to take my cousin Fiona to pubs to hear Irish music. She has her own Irish band. I want to talk to her, see her-Scoop saved her today. Simon didn’t say so outright, but there must have been a lot of blood.” Keira sniffled back more tears, as much from anger and frustration as worry and grief. “I don’t want to run and hide, Will.”

“That’s not what you’re doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

She didn’t wait for an answer and retreated to the cottage’s sole bedroom, emerging in less than a minute with a brocade satchel, her hair brushed and pulled back into a ponytail. She was lovely, creative and unexpectedly pragmatic. Will wouldn’t be surprised if the garda had found a safe house in the village. She seemed protected there.

“I’ll do whatever I need to do,” she said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

“And Simon knows.” Will smiled at her. “You and your fairy prince will soon be reunited.”

Keira took his hand, squeezing it as she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever debt you think you owe Simon, he says you don’t owe him anything. You never did.”

“This isn’t about debts owed, Keira.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.” Her eyes steadied on him with just a hint of a spark. “If you end up in Boston, beware of sneaking around under the noses of the police there. You’ve never met my uncle, but he’ll be on a tear after what’s happened.”

“He’s Boston Irish, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Will winked at her. “Then I don’t need to meet him.”

She let go of his hand and whispered, “Be safe.”

He left before the guards could change their mind and take him into custody for additional questioning. He’d parked on the lane, his car spotted with bits of pink rose petals flung there in the wind and rain, a tangible reminder, somehow, of Keira’s ordeal.

As he drove toward the village, he looked up at the wild hills silhouetted against the dark Irish night. He hated to leave Keira, but she would be safe here.

And he had a job to do.

A light shone in the window of the pub, and the door was unlocked. Will found Eddie O’Shea behind his bar, cleaning up for the night. The guards had gone, their investigative work completed, at least for now.

When he saw Will, Eddie said, “A bomb sweep is a fine way to scare off paying customers. Will you be wanting a drink, Lord Will?”

“Coffee, please, if you have it.”

“I’ve water still hot in the kettle.” He set a coffee press on the bar and scooped in fresh grounds. “Next time, ring me when you feel an urge to come to Ireland. I’ll be on my toes for trouble.”

“The trouble started before I arrived.”

“True enough. It was the same earlier this summer with Keira and her stone angel and that other bloody killer.” The barman shuddered. “I’ve pictures that’ll never leave my head from those terrible days.”

“I wish it could have been otherwise, Eddie.”

“As do I.” He poured water over the grounds, replaced the top on the press and set it in front of Will to steep. He got out a mug and a pitcher of cream, his movements automatic, routine. “The guards talked to our friend Michael Murphy. It’s his real name. He’s too dim-witted to make one up. He’s a known thug in Limerick.”

“Good at his work?”

“Not good enough…fortunately for Keira and her black-haired friend.” O’Shea pushed the coffee paraphernalia in front of Will and looked thoughtfully at him. “The guards wish we’d stopped her from leaving the scene.”

Will knew they did. “You saw her for yourself-her torn knuckles, her muddy clothes, the way she handled Mr. Murphy. Would you have wanted to take her on?”

“She wasn’t too quick to give up his knife.”

And she’d disarmed him, weaponless herself. Murphy hadn’t expected her, and even when he saw her, he’d obviously discounted her as a threat, especially a lethal one. He was strong and capable, a veteran fighter, but she’d had his face in the mud and manure before he’d had a chance to land a single blow.

Eddie showed not the slightest edge of fatigue despite the night’s events. “I expect the guards will have to sort through layers of tawdry criminals to get to whoever hired Murphy. Man, woman or animal.”

“I expect so,” Will agreed, pouring his coffee. It was very hot and very strong, and suddenly he hoped he’d have reason to sit here one evening, chatting with the amiable Irish barman over matters that didn’t involve violence.