Carla Neggers - The Mist

“Bob…” Simon took a moment to clear his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Did you set the bombs?”

“I should have seen this through before I got involved with Keira. Estabrook was already obsessed with John March, but-”

“Stop. You know regrets won’t help now.”

“You’re right.” He blew out a breath, recovering his composure. “I’d like to take Fiona through what happened.”

Lucas heard him and stepped away from her, protective. “You can see my notes.”

Simon ignored him, his eyes on Bob.

Bob sighed. “One fed talks to her. You. That’s it.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“And I stay,” Bob added.

Lucas didn’t look happy, but he moved off without argument. Simon opened up the back door to the SUV, reached inside and got out a bottle of water. He flipped open the top, shut the door and handed the water to Fiona. She mumbled her thanks.

“Feeling okay?” Simon asked.

She nodded. The paramedics had checked her over, but, except for a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, she was fine. She’d cleaned up as best she could, and Bob had bullied his way upstairs to his place and fetched her a fresh shirt. It didn’t smell that bad of smoke and it was in better shape than the shirt she’d worn over there that morning, now soaked in Scoop’s blood.

Staring at the sidewalk, sipping her water, Fiona said that she was picking tomatoes with Scoop and humming Irish tunes, and next thing, he flung her behind the compost pile and there was smoke and fire and debris-and blood.

“Did you see anyone before the blast?” Simon asked.

She shook her head.

“What time did you arrive?”

“Around two. I wanted to talk to my dad about our Christmas trip to Ireland. You know Keira’s going with us, right? Our grandmother was born in Ireland, and my dad and her mom are of Irish descent on both sides.”

Simon smiled gently. “I’m familiar with your Irish family roots.”

“I had some information I printed off the Internet about where to have tea in Dublin on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t that sound like fun, having tea in Ireland on Christmas Eve?”

Bob worked harder on his gum. He’d already been through two packs. Simon wouldn’t care about tea in Dublin or anywhere else, but he said, “I can see your dad at high tea, can’t you?”

“He’ll love it.”

“Probably will. So, you got your print-outs together and headed to your dad’s place. Where were you?”

“The Garrison house on Beacon Street. I was practicing harp.”

“Any of your friends there?”

“No, I was alone. Well, except for Owen, but he was upstairs at the foundation offices. He was there when I arrived at ten.” She’d obviously already gone through the timeline. “Mostly I just practiced.”

“Did you take the T over here,” Simon said, “or did you drive?”

“The T. Then I walked. It was a beautiful day. Is.” She sucked in a breath and took a gulp of water. “I feel sick.”

Simon ignored her. Bob would have, too. “Where’d you get on the T?”

“Downtown Crossing. The Orange Line.”

“Anyone get on with you?”

“I think so. I didn’t pay attention. No one stuck out to me.”

“Anyone get off the T with you?”

“No, and no one followed me. I always check. It’s habit.” Her eyes lifted to her father. “My dad taught me to notice things.”

Simon didn’t even glance sideways at Bob, just stayed focused on Fiona. “So, you’re walking toward your dad’s place…”

“I didn’t notice anything unusual then, either. Cars, people. When I got here, I went out back. I didn’t knock or ring the doorbell or anything.”

“Your dad was expecting you?”

She nodded. “I’d called him on my cell phone when I got off the T. I went out back and yelled up to let him know I was here.”

“Gate to the backyard was unlocked?”

“Yes. I just walked right in. I told Dad I’d pick tomatoes and bring them up to him. Scoop had plenty. Has plenty.” She shot an angry look at Simon and then Bob as if she expected them to argue with her, but it didn’t last. She continued, less combative. “The firefighters and paramedics stomped on the tomatoes getting to us, but I think some of them are still okay. Scoop will be back in his garden soon.”

“All right.” Simon leaned against the SUV, not looking hot, tense or remotely exhausted, despite the guilt and tension he had to be experiencing. “You’re in the backyard. You give your dad a shout. Was he outside?”

Fiona shook her head. “He came onto his back porch when he heard me. He said hi, then went back inside.”

“And Scoop was in the garden?”

“That’s right.”

“Did he invite you to join him, or did you invite yourself?”

“I invited myself. I love tomatoes.”

“So you join him. Then what?”

She drank more water before she answered. “Abigail said hello.”

“Where was she, do you remember?”

“Her porch. I thought at first she was in her kitchen, but I…” Fiona’s hands trembled visibly. This was where her story took a turn from picking tomatoes in the summer sun to hell. “I was wrong. She was on her porch.”

“What exactly did she say?” Simon asked.

Fiona thought a moment. “She said, ‘Hey, Fiona, don’t let Scoop pawn off wormy tomatoes on you.’”

Simon smiled. “Scoop have anything to say about that?”

“He held up a gorgeous, round, red tomato and said, ‘See that, Browning? You can’t buy tomatoes that pretty.’”

“And she said?”

Fiona’s lower lip trembled in a way that reminded Bob of her as a baby. “Nothing. Not that I heard.” She scrunched up her face, concentrating. “A phone rang. I didn’t think of it until now. That must have been-that’s why she went inside.”

“To answer the phone,” Simon said.

“Then Dad yelled, and Scoop grabbed me.”

“So first the phone, then your dad, then Scoop.”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Scoop hurled me behind the compost bin.”

“Did he say anything?” Simon asked.

“Not a word. He knocked the breath out of me. I had just enough time to notice I couldn’t breathe when the bomb exploded. I had no idea what was going on. Then Scoop…” She was taking rapid, shallow breaths now, off in her own world of memory, fear. “Everything felt like it happened at once. The explosion, the concussion-it felt like the air was being sucked out of me, the whole backyard. Scoop grunted and then-there was so much blood.”

“It was pieces of the grill and the propane tank that hit him,” Bob interjected. “Scoop’s injuries had nothing to do with saving you. If he’d jumped behind the compost bin by himself, he still-”

“If I’d protected him instead of him protecting me, he’d be fine,” Fiona said stubbornly, adamant. “Just like I am now.”

Before Bob could respond, Simon stood up from the SUV. “That’s not the way it works. You’re a nineteen-year-old college student. Scoop’s a cop. He did what he’s trained to do.”

“He’s a hero,” she said.

Bob didn’t speak. He couldn’t now. He’d lose it, and that wouldn’t help his daughter.

And it wouldn’t help Abigail.

Fiona handed Simon her water bottle, her hands steadier. “I didn’t see anyone on the street or at the houses next door. I didn’t hear anyone. Nothing. Not even a dog barking or a television. It was all background noise to me. White noise. I remember humming ‘Irish Rover’ as I came into the yard.”

Bob had heard her, his sweet daughter humming one of her Irish tunes. He hadn’t remembered until now.

She smiled suddenly at Simon. “You and my dad both can sing. You should sing with my ensemble sometime.”