Carla Neggers - The Mist

“Yes. She said she was walking the Beara Way, but she knew about Norman Estabrook, the billionaire Yank-”

“I know who he is.”

“That’s not a surprise.” Eddie hesitated, then said in a near whisper, “Lord Will was here, Bobby.”

“Simon’s friend?”

“We can trust him. I’m sure of it. And Keira. She’ll be safe here, Bobby. She has more spine than most.”

“That she does.” Bob didn’t want to hang up. He hated the idea of Keira being across the ocean, alone, worried about Simon, targeted by a killer. She’d always been like another daughter to him. “Crazy artist. Tell her to cool her heels and paint pictures of Irish fairies and thistle, and I’ll be in touch when I can.”

Bob disconnected and got out of the car. The ATF guy came over. “Who were you talking to just now, Lieutenant?”

His open suspicion and arrogance went up one side of Bob and down the other, and he decided he just wasn’t doing anymore right now. “A bartender in Ireland,” he said. “I asked him for his recipe for rhubarb crumble.”

Bob headed back to his ex-wife and his daughter before the ATF guy could rip his head off.

Off the coast of Massachusetts

7:45 p.m., EDT

August 25

Abigail rode out another wave of nausea, forcing herself not to give in to seasickness. What would Owen say? He’d never been seasick in his life. Thinking about him gave her strength. He’d tell her to sleep while she could. Bob, Scoop, Yarborough, Lucas-her father. They’d all tell her the same thing. Simon would, too, but she didn’t know him as well as the others.

Although some days she wondered if she knew her father at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut and fought back tears. They would only make her blindfold wet and worsen her discomfort. She ached, and she itched, and she wanted to fight these bastards but couldn’t. They’d taken turns checking on her, providing a sip of water, threatening her if she tried to escape.

Two men whose voices she didn’t recognize were arguing on the other side of the door. One man was clearly American-petulant, arrogant. The other was British-fearless, angry.

“You promised you’d be there for me,” the American said.

The Brit snorted. “Not like this, you bloody fool.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“I’ll talk to you any way I choose. I agreed to do a job, and you went behind my back and hired these utter morons to indulge your petty desire for vengeance.”

“There’s nothing petty about anything I do. I don’t care what your credentials are, you’re a mercenary who works for me. You’re to do as I say.”

“I will, but in my professional judgment-”

“You’ve made your opinion clear,” the American said, less irritated. “Let’s go forward from where we are now and not worry about the past. Agreed?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Agreed.”

The door creaked, opening abruptly. Abigail straightened as best she could. Her shoulders and thighs were painfully stiff, and her fingers and toes, despite her efforts to wiggle them, had gone numb.

She heard footsteps circling her chair. “My, my. You have had a difficult day, haven’t you?” It was the American, smug, yet also, underneath, clearly agitated. “I have, too. I had a long, hard journey from Montana.”

Norman Estabrook.

Abigail forced herself not to react.

“The risks I’ve taken today and the aggravation I’ve experienced are worth it, Detective Browning, just to see you here, at my mercy.” He was in front of her now. “Your daddy and your friends in law enforcement have no idea where you are or where I am. None whatsoever.”

“Enjoy your role as kidnapper in chief while you can, Norman.” Abigail hated the raspiness of her voice, but at least it was strong. “It’s not going to last. You screwed up today, didn’t you? Everything didn’t go as planned, did it?”

She felt his breath hot against her face. “I have you. I have Abigail March Browning, John March’s daughter. Tell me, Detective. Don’t you think your father needs his own personal devil to fight?”

“We can call and ask him.”

“He needs me. He needs an enemy who is his equal. You learned about good and evil this summer, didn’t you? The serial killer who came after your friend Keira was fascinated with the devil. You investigated him. He understood that God needs Lucifer.”

Abigail suppressed a shiver of fear. She’d learned more about the nature of evil in June than she’d ever wanted to know. In her eight years as a detective, she had never come across such flat-out evil-the conscious, deliberate choice to commit vile acts of gratuitous violence on innocent people.

“I don’t know about God and Lucifer,” she said. “My father’s an ordinary human being. So are you.”

“There’s nothing ordinary about me. Prosecutors and even my lawyers made the mistake of thinking I was like other men. I have resources and connections the FBI can’t touch.”

“You won’t when you’re in prison.”

Estabrook gave a low chuckle. “Your father must be in torment right now, knowing that I have you and he’s responsible. Knowing he had me, and he let me go.”

“It wasn’t his idea. He objected to your deal. He’s not all powerful.”

“He didn’t believe I was capable of violence. He wanted my friends more than he did me. Imagine the possibilities going forward, Detective. I challenge the most powerful law enforcement officer in the world every day for the rest of his life, until he finally dies a bitter, broken old man.”

“You’re just not that special,” Abigail said.

This time, Estabrook’s laugh wasn’t right in her ear, and she realized he must have stood up straight. His voice was congenial when he spoke. “At first I just wanted John March dead. Now, I want him to suffer. I want him to suffer and suffer and suffer.” Estabrook was silent a moment, then added, “There are others I want to kill with my own hands.”

Abigail concentrated on her breathing before fear could take hold, as her captor obviously hoped it would.

In for eight. Hold for eight. Out for eight.

She heard a door click shut but continued with her breathing exercise. She did three sets before she stopped and focused again on her surroundings.

“You have relentless friends.” It was the man with the British accent, speaking softly, close to her. “They’re looking for you now.”

“Estabrook’s gone?” she asked, calmer now.

“For the moment.”

She swallowed, her mouth and throat dry from lack of water-and from tension, from fighting panic, nausea and claustrophobia. “It’ll go better for you if you set me free now, before my friends find me.”

“I take your point.”

He sounded pragmatic, neither relishing nor concerned about the prospect of going up against various arms of the law enforcement community.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Around eight o’clock. Are you injured?”

“I’m fine. Let me go before-”

“You’re in a tough spot, Detective. I suggest you not waste your energy arguing for something that can’t happen.”

“Then tell me about my friends who were home when your bomb went off. Scoop, Bob, Fiona.” She used their first names to humanize them, to make them real to this man. “What’s their condition? Are they all right?”

“There were no deaths, and Detective O’Reilly and his daughter are uninjured.”

She steeled herself against any emotion. “Scoop?”

“Detective Wisdom was cut by flying shrapnel. He’ll survive, but he’ll have a rough go for a while.”

“Owen,” Abigail whispered. “What about him?”

“A handy sort, your man Owen.”