Carla Neggers - The Mist

She ran between parked cars and a Dumpster out to Mount Vernon Street, finding the gray Honda halfway up to Louisburg Square. It had a Beacon Hill resident’s sticker in the back wind-shield, and every available space beyond the driver’s seat was loaded with fabric samples, empty soda cans, CDs, paperbacks, magazines, torn envelopes. Martha Prescott, indeed, was a slob, but apparently also incredibly creative and good at her job. Anyone who worked for Henrietta Rush would have to be.

The car had a full tank of gas, and Lizzie was quickly on her way.

As she pulled onto Storrow Drive, her cell phone rang. She checked the screen, recognized her father’s Las Vegas number and almost didn’t answer. “Don’t distract me,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage. “I’m in traffic.”

“Dublin?”

“Boston. Storrow Drive.”

Her father sighed. “I just got off the phone with a Boston detective named Yarborough. A real s.o.b. He’s threatening to fly out here. Lizzie, tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So? I’m playing solitaire. Clock. Ever play clock? My eyes are bleeding it’s so boring. I’ve got time. Take me through it. Start to finish.”

“There is no finish. Not yet.”

“All right. Start to where we are now.”

“The two Brits. Will Davenport and the one I asked you about who was in Las Vegas in June-I think they’re both from your world.”

“What world would that be?”

“Dad, I can’t…I have a name for the one we saw in Vegas. Myles Fletcher.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She hesitated. “John March is in town.”

Her father sighed again. “Terrific. Have you seen him?”

“No. I’m trying to get out of here.” She squeezed into the left lane, heading for I-93 North. “Dad, I just found a dead man.”

“Damn, Lizzie.”

“I think he planted at least one bomb yesterday.” Was it only yesterday? “John March’s daughter is missing.” She slowed in the crush of traffic. “Dad, I can help.”

“Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie.”

“Norman’s obsessed with March. I didn’t see it at first. I only saw it in the last days before his arrest.”

“Lizzie.”

“I know March investigated my mother’s death.” She fought back more tears. “I haven’t wanted to tell you. I understand how painful-”

Her father cut her off. “Does Estabrook know about March and your mother?”

“He never said so, but-yes.” She eased onto the interstate, speeding up as she escaped the twists and turns of Storrow Drive. “I’m sure he knows. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think that’s why he made the call threatening Simon and Director March in front of me. He assumes I hate March.”

“So will the cops. Once they put the pieces together, you’ll look as obsessed with John March as this bastard Estabrook is.”

“That’s why I’m not sticking around.”

Silence. “That’s not why.”

Lizzie pictured her handsome father moving a card to the six o’clock position, a glass of Scotch at his side. He never drank Irish whiskey.

“You’re in deep, Lizzie,” he said. “You have been all along, haven’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

Another sigh. “I’m heading to Boston as soon as I finish my game of clock. I’ll run interference with the feds. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

“You hate Boston.”

“Not as much as I hate Ireland.”

She managed a smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

But he was serious. “You’re hoping Estabrook comes after you, aren’t you?”

“If I knew what he was going to do, where he was, I’d tell the FBI.”

“You’re an amateur, Lizzie.”

“So is Norman. He’ll use Abigail Browning to get what he wants. Then he’ll throw her away.”

“I could call Detective Yarborough and have him stop you.”

“You won’t.”

“No.” Her father didn’t speak for a moment. “I have a picture of my mother as a little girl playing dress-up in the drawing room at the hotel in Boston. She has on an Edwardian gown she found in the attic. She’s standing on a chair, giggling in front of a mirror. Imagine your grandmother giggling.”

“Dad…”

“She did her best, Lizzie. We all did.”

“You did great. All of you. I miss Gran, too.” Lizzie tried to concentrate on her driving. “If you don’t get cold feet and actually do head out here, I should warn you that cousin Jeremiah has put his wild youth behind him. He’s a tough taskmaster these days. He’ll throw you out if you don’t behave.”

Her father laughed. “Sounds like a challenge.”

She sobbed out loud when she hung up, but her hand was steady as she dialed the number John March had given her over a year ago.

He answered immediately. “Where are you?”

“My name’s Lizzie,” she said, her voice cracking as she finally told him the truth. “Lizzie Rush. But you know that now, don’t you?”

“You misled me. I thought you were a professional.”

“Was I even on your list of suspects?”

“No.”

“You could have hesitated,” she said, making an attempt at levity.

“I want you to come in. Now. Help us.” He took in a breath. “Lizzie, let me help you.”

“I was with Norman in June when he called Simon and threatened to kill the two of you. I knew he meant it. I knew he would turn violent.” The late afternoon sun beat down hard on the busy road. “I should have found a way to stop him. He has your daughter because I didn’t.”

“You work for a chain of luxury boutique hotels. It’s not your job-”

“Don’t ever let my aunt and uncle hear you call our hotels a chain.”

“Lizzie. Stop. Come in.”

She stayed in the middle lane of I-93. “Did you try to stop my mother? She was your informant, too, wasn’t she?”

“You’re operating on assumptions and suppositions.” His tone was more mystified and worried than harsh. “You’ve done your part. More than you should have. Your efforts helped us arrest major, dangerous drug traffickers.”

“Norman’s free.”

“Not because of you. Stand down.”

“Thirty years ago, you let my mother go to her death, didn’t you? You regret it now.”

“I regretted it then.”

“Did you warn her of the danger she was in? Did she ignore you? Did you ignore-” Lizzie took a breath, gripping the steering wheel of her borrowed car. “Never mind.”

“You are not to endanger yourself. You are not to interfere with this investigation. I’ll sit down with you when this is over and answer every question you have about your mother.” March paused, then added, “Every question I can answer.”

Lizzie knew what she had to do. She’d figured out on the flight from Dublin, before Fiona and Myles Fletcher and the dead man in the alley-before Will had turned up.

Her eyes were dry now. “I’d love to sit down with you and talk about my mother. Until then, Director March, the rules are the same. Norman can’t know I’ve been helping you. He can’t know I’m not on his side. He won’t just kill me if he finds out what I’ve done. He’ll kill your daughter.”

“This isn’t your fight,” March said.

“It is now. Keep your guys and the BPD off my case.”

“Let me help you, Lizzie. Not the FBI. Me. Abigail’s father.”

His anguish brought fresh tears to her eyes. “You know that won’t work. I’m not doing anything crazy. I’m just going about my business the same way I have for the past year.”

“I was your age when your mother died. Looking back, I know now how young I was. How young she was. And your father.”

“Then she didn’t trip on a wet cobblestone, did she?”

“I’ve made mistakes. Don’t become one of them.”