Carla Neggers - The Mist

“Undoubtedly March didn’t tell them all he knew.”

“Does he ever tell anyone all he knows?”

It wasn’t a question Will was meant to answer. Below him, Lizzie’s hair seemed as black as the rocks that ran up and down the immediate coastline. The famous beaches of southern Maine were farther to the north and south. He envisioned exploring tide pools with her in some vague and no doubt unrealizable future.

“Will? Are you there?”

He understood the concern he heard in Josie’s voice. He wasn’t one for a wandering mind, in part because he was so disciplined about avoiding romantic entanglements, particularly on the job.

But was he, really, on the job right now?

“March attracts tragedy,” Will said.

“No one goes through life without facing tragedy, but a man with his life is bound to face more than his share. Director March is a complex and honest man,” Josie said, unusually thoughtful and introspective. “He’s had to make difficult choices, and he has secrets. They come with the work he does, and he’s been at it a long time.”

“What do you suppose we’ll be doing in thirty years, Josie?”

Her bright laugh broke through their somber mood. “I’ll be having tea with other toothless old women and telling tales about my days working with a handsome nobleman. They’ll think I’ve gone daft and won’t believe a word.” She quickly returned to the serious matters at hand. “Will, if Shauna Morrigan was killed because she was an informant for March, then your Lizzie Rush has reason to hate him.”

“Estabrook must know. Her past could be the reason he befriended her in the first place. He could have been drawn to the drama of it initially, and as his obsession with March grew-”

“He could want Lizzie as his ally in fighting March,” Josie interjected, “or perhaps as a prize of some sort-the motherless child wronged by a powerful and ambitious man. Estabrook’s a very twisted human being, Will. It’s not easy to get inside his thinking.”

“Lizzie knows, or at least suspects, what he’s up to,” Will said. “That’s why she’s here. She hopes he’ll come to her.”

Josie didn’t respond at once. “From what I’ve managed to get out of our Irish friends, Shauna Morrigan was very good. Regardless of how she died. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don’t work out the way we mean them to.”

Will stiffened as he noticed two men emerge from the trees and fog on the path along the edge of the rocks and approach Lizzie.

A dark-haired man touched her arm, and she turned to him.

Will peered through the gloom, recognizing the man’s movements, his posture. “Josie, I have to go.”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

But Will had disconnected.

Lizzie called up to him on the deck. “I’ll be back soon.”

She went with the two men.

With Myles Fletcher.

They ducked behind the evergreen and disappeared up the path, in the thick fog.

Will bolted for the stairs, but Simon was on the top step, blocking the way. “Hold on, Will,” he said, putting up a hand. “Think.”

“Simon, it’s Myles. I can’t let him-”

“We won’t let anything happen to Lizzie. You, me, we’re here for her.”

“You’re an FBI agent. You have procedures you need to follow.”

“Listen to me, Will. Norman doesn’t know Lizzie is March’s source. March didn’t even know until yesterday. I sure as hell didn’t have a clue.” Simon came up onto the deck, its wood shiny and wet from the damp air. “She’s been playing this game for months.”

“Not with Myles she hasn’t.”

“ Norman forced Abigail to talk to her father last night.” Simon turned to Will as he stood in front of the railing. “It was bad.”

Will understood what his friend was saying and didn’t need him to describe the call in detail. “I’m sorry, Simon. I can only imagine how painful that must have been for March-for you.” He walked over to the railing. A red squirrel scampered up the tree where only moments ago Lizzie had been throwing rocks into the water. Had she seen the men on the path? Could she have called for his help sooner, run back to the house-kept them from taking her? “I know how Myles thinks. I know his tactics.”

“And you want him,” Simon said.

“Simon, we must do this my way or Lizzie and Abigail Browning are almost certainly dead.”

“What about Fletcher? Is there a chance-”

“Is there a chance we can trust him? It makes no difference. Whether Myles is with us or against us-or only looking after himself-doesn’t affect what we must do now.”

“All right.” Simon gave a grim smile. “Lucky I came armed.”

“Simon,” Will said, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Does Lizzie have a weapon?”

Will pictured her lithe, small body in jeans and a sweatshirt down on the rocks. He wished he’d shut her up in the fog with him and left Norman Estabrook, Myles Fletcher and their violence to the Americans.

Simon frowned. “Will…”

“No. No weapon. She has her wits, and her father trained her well. She’s managed to keep her secrets for months from you, John March and a brilliant, wealthy risk-taker.” Will looked down at the rocks and water. The squirrel chattered, out of sight. A seagull landed on a large boulder and stared up at the deck as if he had answers, knew all the secrets of his coastline. “Lizzie guessed Estabrook would come here.”

“Maybe she hoped he would.” Simon pulled open a door. “I’ll alert SWAT and get them moving.”

“On our direction. Not a moment sooner.”

“Sure, Will. We’ll make sure they get here in time to save our asses or put us in body bags.”

Boston, Massachusetts

7:02 a.m., EDT

August 27

Bob sat across from John March at a table under a window in Morrigan’s. It was very early, and the bar was closed, the liquor bottles still put away for the night. Jeremiah Rush, who seemed to be perpetually on duty, hadn’t stopped the FBI director-or Bob-from going downstairs. March was alone. He’d shaken his protective detail, told them to go to hell, threatened to shoot them-Bob didn’t know what.

None of them had slept. Him, March, Lucas Jones, Tom Yarborough. Who knew where Simon was. Hearing Abigail tortured on the line with her father didn’t sit well with any of them.

“It’s too early to drink,” Bob said. “You should at least have a cup of coffee.”

“I just wanted to be alone for a few minutes. Here, where…” March cleared his throat without finishing his thought.

“We’re never alone, John. Our ghosts are always with us.”

March’s eyes showed a fear no man should know. “Lizzie Rush. Abigail…” He sighed heavily and nodded to the empty bar. “It all started here thirty years ago.”

Bob didn’t know what good drifting into the past would do. “We’ve made progress in the past few hours. Not much. Some.”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Bob.” March abruptly snapped up to his feet. “Don’t follow me,” he said, making it an order, and started for the half flight of stairs.

Bob’s head throbbed. John March had never made anyone’s life easy. It wasn’t why he was on the planet. Resisting the temptation to sit there and wait for the bar to open, order Irish whiskey and not move for the rest of the day, Bob forced himself to get to his feet.

If he wasn’t breaking federal laws, March had no authority over him.

Bob headed up the stairs after the FBI director. Given what she knew about her mother’s death-what any of them knew except March himself-Lizzie Rush had good reason to hate him, at least to be a little or a lot obsessed with him. She was up on the board as a person of interest, potentially in cahoots with Norman Estabrook and guilty as hell.