Carla Neggers - The Mist

She sank into her chair, her arms aching from being tied behind her back. How could she have brought this down on her friends? “You have baggage,” Bob had told her when she was a rookie determined to make detective, a grief-stricken widow who had quit law school and wanted to help other people get answers. He hadn’t minced words. “Husband an FBI agent killed on your honeymoon in an unsolved homicide. Daddy set to become the next FBI director. I should send you packing back to law school.”

At first, Bob had considered Owen more baggage, with his wealthy family, his constant travel with Fast Rescue. These were distractions as far as Bob was concerned, reasons she couldn’t dedicate herself to the job, reasons she didn’t fit in with the department and never would. But she had proved herself.

She heard footsteps as the Brit approached her in her chair. “All of you are remarkably lucky,” he said.

“That’s what I feel right now. Lucky. Did you try to kill Owen, or did you mean to kidnap him, too?”

“Kill.”

Her stomach lurched, but she refused to throw up. “Another bomb.” She kept her tone unemotional, professional. “Where? His family’s house on Beacon Street?”

“His car.”

“Bastards.”

“He was warned in time. So, love,” the Brit said, closer to her now, “how do you suppose that happened?”

Abigail wriggled in her chair to distract him from any hint in her expression that she had even the remotest theory.

“You’re meant to respond,” he said mildly.

“I have no idea how it happened. I was stuffed in the back of a van. But your plan hasn’t worked the way it was meant to, has it?”

“Did I say it was my plan?”

She realized he was in front of her, perhaps a few inches away, and she warned herself not to be misled by his quiet, almost wry tone. This was a disciplined, controlled and very dangerous man.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“Nothing at the moment, love. You and your friends are formidable foes. Your dad as well.”

“That’s the fun of it for Norman, isn’t it? You’re a pro. You know he’s taking unnecessary risks for his own amusement.”

“Perhaps in our own way, love, we all do.”

Abigail tried to relax her jaw muscles and ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. “I’ve heard a small boat pull up to this one several times. What did you do, fly Estabrook into a private airport, then bring him here?”

“That doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“That’s true. You can walk away. Help me. Let me go back home and plan my wedding.”

The Brit gave a short laugh. “And what would I get by walking away? Hold still, love. I’m going to cut the ropes on your wrists and ankles.”

“What’s your name? What should I call you?”

“Fletcher.”

“First name or last name?”

“Either.”

It might be real, or it might not. “You’re British?”

“Long live the Queen.”

He had a sense of humor, anyway.

“Wrists first,” he said. “You’ll feel the knife. Don’t panic, although I can see you’re not the type.”

He slid the cool blade of a knife between Abigail’s skin and the rope. He was too efficient-too professional-to indulge in unnecessary cruelty. If he decided to kill her, he’d be quick about it, at least.

“Easy, love,” he said as she felt the bonds give way. “Go slow. You’ll be stiff. You’ve been in the same position for a while. I’m freeing your ankles next.”

As she eased her arms over the back of the chair and onto her lap, Abigail winced at the flush of pain and barely noticed him tackling the ropes on her ankles. She slowly pushed one foot forward, biting back tears. Blood rushed into her toes and fingers, and, against her will, she moaned out loud. He untied her blindfold, carefully peeling it from her eyes. She blinked a few times, unkinked her arms and legs, and finally focused on her surroundings. There was a light on now, and she could see a pool table in the middle of the stateroom, next to her chair, and a low sectional sofa on the length of an interior wall.

Her captor leaned back against the pool table, giving her a moment. He was a clean-shaved, exceptionally fit-looking white male, approximately forty years old, skimming six feet, with close-cropped, medium brown hair and gray eyes. No visible scars or tattoos or other distinguishing features. Not that any were needed for Abigail to remember him.

He smiled. “Take a good look, love. You’ll want to describe me accurately to your sketch artists.” He gestured to the left side of her face. “The men hit you?”

She resisted a wisecrack. “The one with the South Boston accent did.”

“He’s a bit of a hothead. Care to take a moment while I’m here and freshen up?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He stood up from the pool table and gently took her by the elbow. “On your feet, then.”

He started to help her up, but she shook him off and rose on her own. She was stiff and sore, but steady. He led her to a door in the back of the stateroom, next to a wet bar.

“Knock when you’ve finished. You have two minutes.”

“I can’t-”

“You can, love.”

He opened the door and shut it softly behind her when she went in, leaving her in the pitch-dark. She banged up against something-a sink, she thought-and righted herself, feeling on the wall for a light switch. She found one and flipped it on. She saw she was in a small, tidy head equipped with a shower, sink and toilet. There were dispensers of liquid soap and hand cream, a basket of potpourri, a stack of neatly folded hand towels. Touches of comfort and elegance for the prisoner.

Abigail locked the door and turned on the water in the sink while she did her business.

She washed up with soap and water as best she could, skipped the hand cream and buried her face in a fluffy, expensive white towel, indulging in a few seconds of self-pity and fatigue. But there was no time. She dropped the towel on the floor and stuck her mouth under the faucet and drank as much water as she dared. She didn’t want to be sick, but she couldn’t count on when she’d be allowed to drink again. Or eat. She was starving.

Finally she inspected herself for injuries that adrenaline and the numbness from sitting in one position for so long could have kept her from feeling. Her wrists and ankles were rope-burned but not bleeding. She had bruises here and there from struggling to get free on the ride to the marina, but nothing she needed to worry about.

“Thirty seconds,” Fletcher said from the other side of the door.

She looked in the mirror at the swelling on her cheek. She’d have a shiner.

When she unlocked the door, Fletcher took her by the elbow and led her back to her chair. “I won’t tie you up again,” he said, sitting her down, “but not because I trust you not to attempt escape. Because I know you won’t succeed.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“For a little boat ride.” He straightened, looked at her without expression. “Do you play pool?”

“Not really.”

“Your chance to practice, then, love.”

“Why did you stay with me if you weren’t going to tie me back up?”

“I wanted to be here in case you passed out once you got on your feet.” He nodded to the wet bar. “There’s ice, food and drink. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

He left without another word.

Dublin, Ireland

1:05 a.m., IST

August 26

Lizzie welcomed the lights and activity of Dublin late at night. Her cab dropped her in front of her family’s boutique hotel, located on a side street off St. Stephen’s Square. Two uniformed bellmen, one of them her twenty-two-year-old cousin Justin, greeted her at the brass-trimmed main door with a bow that always made her feel like a princess, which she decidedly was not, especially tonight. She was too stiff, too scraped and felt too hunted to be anything but what she was-a woman who needed a hot bath and a friendly face. Although the flight from Kerry to Dublin was less than an hour, she finally felt her fatigue, dragging down her spirits, making her even more aware of her isolation-of what she’d done.