Carla Neggers - The Mist

He sidestepped the question. “How did you see her role with Estabrook?”

“They were friendly, not in a romantic way. She wasn’t involved in his riskier adventures. She’d organize a hike in the Grand Canyon, a whale-watching trip, a kayaking tour of the Maine coast-the normal stuff people want to do.”

“And all the while, she was gathering information on Estabrook and his friends and passing it on to John March.”

Simon leaned over and straightened one of the flowerpots. “I knew we had an anonymous source. An important one. But Lizzie…” He shook his head. “She never was on my radar.”

Will stared at the geraniums. How had he let his life become so complicated? He could see his mother walking in his garden in Scotland, not far from her home village. She’d never imagined herself marrying his father. What had Lizzie thought as a little girl, playing out here in this alley? Had she ever imagined finding a man murdered up the street?

“Lizzie’s father is an intelligence officer who taught her his tradecraft,” Will said. “She knew how to keep you and Director March from discovering her identity. When did you first meet her?”

“Last summer, here at the Whitcomb. That’s when Norman hired me. I was in Boston for a Fast Rescue dinner, and he was a guest at the hotel. He and Lizzie were already friends.”

“With your search-and-rescue expertise, you were in the perfect position to go undercover.” Will toed a bit of broken asphalt. “As we’ve seen in the past two days, Lizzie is brazen and resourceful. Does she know March?”

Simon looked uncomfortable.

“This isn’t about my own history with Director March,” Will said. “I’m trying to ascertain the facts. When did you become aware March had a source?”

“Last summer. We didn’t want to endanger whoever it was by getting too close. We both assumed we were dealing with a professional. Of the possibilities-Lizzie Rush wasn’t even on the list.”

“Could she be affiliated with an intelligence agency?”

Simon sighed. “I think she is exactly what she appears to be.”

“She’s playing with fire,” Will said. “But she could also be the one who can lead us to March’s daughter.”

“I’d trade myself for Abigail in a heartbeat.” Simon’s guilt was palpable as he continued. “So would her father. She got caught in the middle. This isn’t her fight.”

“Why kidnap her but try to kill Keira?”

“Norman’s making us suffer. That’s all I know. We have to find him, Will. His plane didn’t evaporate into thin air. Owen Garrison will find it.” Simon plucked a dried, brown leaf from a geranium and smiled sadly as he looked at Will. “Scoop’s influence.”

“Simon…I’m sorry. But you must understand. You are not responsible for Norman Estabrook’s actions.”

“Could we have this wrong, Will? What if Fletcher is working for the drug cartels and not for Norman?”

“Regardless who is paying him, Myles is working for himself.”

Simon crumpled up the dead leaf. “According to Tom Yarborough, the dead man Lizzie and Fiona found had a deep scratch on one arm. We know Abigail got a piece of whoever kidnapped her yesterday. There was blood at the scene. If he was the one who grabbed her and Fletcher killed him-”

“Fiona had seen him. She’d have remembered eventually. It’s not the sort of risk Myles would take. He could simply have handled a problem and tried to mislead us at the same time.”

“So he shot a man in the head for a reason instead of just because he could?”

“Fair enough, Simon. Nonetheless, I doubt Myles would get in the middle of a scheme for violent revenge, even a well-paying one. If he’s working for Estabrook, there’s likely another reason.” Will regretted he hadn’t arrived in Boston in time to deal with Myles himself, but hadn’t that been his old friend’s plan? Myles had known Lizzie had left Dublin that morning-and undoubtedly knew that Will had, too. He pushed back his fatigue and worry, forcing himself to continue. “Simon, Myles and Estabrook can’t discover Lizzie is an FBI informant.”

“I know. If they do, she goes onto Norman’s hit list right up there with March and me.”

Will pictured Lizzie sitting across from him at their lace-covered table in Dublin. He could see the intensity and the light green color of her eyes, the shape of her mouth as she’d tried to put her fight in the stone circle behind her and decide what to do about him. He’d checked on her during the night, her duvet half off, her skirt and T-shirt askew as she’d slept on the sofa.

“Will? I’m losing you again.”

He heard the concern in his friend’s voice. “I need to leave now, Simon. I trust you, and I trust Josie. I’ll keep an open mind when it comes to everyone else.”

“Right, Will,” Simon said, skeptical, but he managed a quick smile. “You’ve always wanted a woman who could put a knife to your throat.”

The back door to the hotel opened, and Jeremiah Rush jumped down the half-dozen steps in a single bound. “Two detectives are here to interview the staff and anyone who might have seen the Brit who scared the hell out of Fiona O’Reilly. I thought you’d want to know. My dad’s on his way. He’s not wild about a killer showing up here.”

Simon eyed the younger Rush. “Do you know where your cousin went?”

“Lizzie?” Jeremiah instantly looked uncomfortable.

“That would be the one, yes.”

“She’s like a sister to my brothers and me. Her father’s a great guy, but he was on the road so much…” Jeremiah shoved a hand through his tawny hair and gave a quick laugh, obviously trying to divert the FBI agent in front of him. “We all think he’s a spy.”

Will almost smiled. “So your brother Justin said this morning in Dublin.”

Jeremiah’s hand fell to the back of his neck, then his side, as if he was feeling cornered, torn by what he knew and what he feared. “You two…” He motioned first to Will, then to Simon. “Lord Davenport, Special Agent Cahill. How do I know I can trust you?”

“We’re not a danger to your cousin,” Will said.

“The people you hang out with are.”

“What about the people she hangs out with?” Simon asked sharply.

A ferocity came into Jeremiah’s eyes, one that Will had seen in his cousin. “I hope Norman Estabrook ends up dead or in a holding cell by nightfall.”

Simon didn’t react to Jeremiah’s emotion. “Your family has resources, contacts. Are you looking for Estabrook yourselves? What about your uncle? What’s he up to?”

“Uncle Harlan? I have no idea. We all want to do whatever we can to help.” Jeremiah was clearly worried-and angry. “I thought Lizzie had hooked up with a rich eccentric and was having a little fun for herself. Estabrook held a New Year’s Eve bash for his friends at our hotel in Las Vegas. Lizzie didn’t want me to go, but we were having our own family party and I dropped in on him and his friends.”

“I remember,” Simon said.

Jeremiah fastened his gaze on the FBI agent. “I should have thrown him off the roof that night. Uncle Harlan would have helped me make it look like an accident.”

Simon’s brow went up, obviously as uncertain as Will whether Jeremiah Rush was serious. The entire Rush family defied stereotype, and not one of them was to be underestimated.

Will didn’t want to come under the scrutiny of the Boston detectives now on-site. They might not be as amenable to letting him go about his business as Bob O’Reilly had been. They could easily conclude the lieutenant had been under duress, considering his daughter had just encountered a killer and a murder victim, and wasn’t thinking straight. Even with Simon, an FBI agent, at his side, Will could find himself with a long night of explaining ahead.