Carla Neggers - The Mist

She got up without his assistance. Should she scream? Kick him? Create a scene? If a man was dying…

She raised her chin to the Brit. “My sisters are under police protection.”

He smiled. “You will be now, too. Alley. Your dad. Abigail. You can remember?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s important not to leave loose ends.”

Fiona didn’t breathe or speak as he trotted lightly up the steps and back out to Charles Street.

A cab pulled up to the hotel and a small, black-haired woman got out.

Lizzie Rush. As promised.

Boston, Massachusetts

5:35 p.m., EDT

August 26

Lizzie headed toward the Whitcomb lobby, shaking off the pummeled feeling she always had after the long flight across the Atlantic. It was late afternoon in Boston, late evening in Ireland, but she wasn’t quite on either clock. She figured she’d need the five hours she’d gained heading west from Dublin. She didn’t know how long she’d have before Will turned up. Based on the text message she’d received from Justin when she landed, probably not long: Brit to Boston. Right behind you.

Justin wasn’t one to waste words.

Spending the night in the same suite as a British intelligence agent was one thing. Having him following her was another, but Lizzie had an advantage in Boston. She knew the city and had family there, and Will didn’t. She’d contemplated him, her situation and her options while playing one solo game of bridge after another on her little tray table.

How did Will Davenport fit into whatever was going on, and where was he now?

Was he trouble?

“Everyone’s trouble,” she muttered, quoting her father, even as she welcomed the familiar surroundings of the Whitcomb’s classically appointed lobby.

A dour-looking Sam Whitcomb, in actuality a firebrand privateer during the American Revolution, stared down at her from his oil portrait above the unlit marble fireplace. Henrietta wanted to replace him with one of Keira Sullivan’s wildflower watercolors.

Lizzie focused on the situation at hand, smiling at her cousin Jeremiah as he stood up from his desk. “I cut my trip to Ireland short,” she said.

“Justin’s already filled me in,” Jeremiah said, shaking his head. “Lizzie. What’s going on? All hell’s broken loose in Boston. I’ve never seen so many cops on the streets.”

“I noticed. What do you know?”

“Nothing. Fiona O’Reilly’s here. Cops are mum on the details about the fire at her father’s place and the evacuation at the Garrison house. Your friend Norman Estabrook’s disappeared, too. You know that, right?”

“Yes, but I’m not in contact with him.”

“The FBI hasn’t been in touch?”

Lizzie shook her head. No need to mention that she’d been in touch with John March herself. “I haven’t spoken to Norman since his arrest.”

Jeremiah seemed faintly reassured. “But you’re back here because Simon Cahill and FBI Director March are in town, aren’t you?” Her cousin narrowed his eyes on her. “Lizzie…”

Of all her cousins, Jeremiah was the one most tuned in to the history between March and her mother, but Lizzie dodged his question. “I’m not involved in Norman ’s legal case, Jeremiah. I wish I’d never had anything to do with him.”

“I don’t blame you. I imagine most of his friends feel the same way. What are you going to do now?”

“Pick up my car and head to Maine.”

Go to Maine, she’d decided on her flight across the Atlantic. Figure out what she could do to help find Norman and leave the rest of her family out of it. John March might give her time, but if Scoop Wisdom had provided her description to his BPD colleagues, they could already be after her. Best, she’d reasoned, to stick to her cover story and go about her business as if she had nothing to hide. She’d gone to Ireland to hike the Beara Way and pop in on Simon Cahill, only to end up in the middle of a knife fight. It made perfect sense that she’d come straight home and head to her house in Maine.

Whether or not Norman thought she was an ally-believed she hated John March as much as he did-Lizzie had no doubt he would expect her to head to Maine.

Jeremiah touched her shoulder and looked past her. “Fiona…”

Lizzie turned as Fiona O’Reilly stumbled on the steps up from Morrigan’s and hesitated, very pale, barely breathing. She stared at Lizzie a split second before bolting down the main steps and out to Charles Street.

“I wonder what just happened,” Jeremiah said. “A man joined her downstairs. I’ve never seen him here before. He just left.”

“What did he look like?” Lizzie asked.

“Brown hair, fit-not that he did push-ups on the floor, but I wouldn’t want to take him on in a bar fight.”

Lizzie felt the same shiver of coolness she’d experienced last night questioning Michael Murphy. “Was he British?”

“I didn’t hear him myself. Lizzie, we’re not talking about Lord Davenport, are we?”

She shook her head. “For one thing, Will’s blond. Put hotel security on alert. I’ll go after Fiona.”

Her cousin took a sharp breath. “Should we call the police? Fiona’s father-”

“Yes. Call Lieutenant O’Reilly and tell him something’s up with her.” Lizzie thought quickly. She didn’t like keeping Jeremiah in the dark, but there was no time. “I owe you an explanation, but right now I need to go after Fiona. Keep her here if she returns.”

“I should go.”

She managed a smile. “My father taught me the tricks of the trade, not you.” But her smile faded. “If the man who was with Fiona shows up again, don’t confront him. Don’t go near him. He’s dangerous, Jeremiah.”

“Who is he?”

“My guess? A British spy.”

Her cousin rolled his eyes. “You think my golden retriever’s a spy.”

“He is, but of a different sort.”

The humor helped break the tension, just enough to give her energy. Wishing she had on the shoes she’d worn last night in the stone circle instead of her flats, Lizzie headed out to Charles Street and up past a knot of college students and tourists to the intersection at Beacon Street. She spotted Fiona running in the direction of the Garrison house in what appeared to be blind panic.

Cursing her shoes, Lizzie took off after her on the uneven sidewalk. “Fiona, hold on,” she called as she closed in on the teenager.

Fiona didn’t break her stride. “I have to hurry.”

“Why? Jeremiah told me a man joined you just now.” Lizzie kept her voice calm. “Fiona, what did he say to you?”

“Did you see him? He thinks we’re friends. I told him I hardly know you. It’s true. He said not to follow him.” She slowed slightly, clearly terrified. “You didn’t try-you didn’t send Jeremiah-”

“No one’s following him.”

“He knew you’d come. He told me a man’s in danger and I should go to the alley by the Garrison house and-and-” Already close to hyperventilating, she gulped in more air as they continued up Beacon Street. “And then call my dad.”

“Did this man threaten you?”

“He implied Abigail’s life depends on my cooperation. There’s a man dying. What if it’s someone I know-one of Dad’s detectives, one of my friends? We practice at the Garrison house. We-”

“Don’t speculate.” Lizzie tried to penetrate Fiona’s mounting panic. “Let’s just figure out what to do.”

Fiona was marginally calmer as she glanced at Lizzie. “He said you could go with me.”

“All right. Let’s do this together.”

Fiona slowed her pace and walking now, still breathing hard, turned onto a side street that led up onto Beacon Hill. She stopped at the entrance to a narrow alley that ran behind two elegant brick mansions.