Carla Neggers - The Mist

Lizzie emerged in the laundry room. It was equipped with an old washer and dryer, a freezer and a wall of hooks and shelves. Abigail, panting and ashen, held a pair of large, rusted garden shears. “I’d rather have my Glock. Stay behind me, Lizzie. Let me-” Abigail frowned as Lizzie grabbed her grandmother’s old walking stick. “What are you doing?”

Lizzie held the stick at her side, felt its worn, smooth wood as her eyes misted. “My gran…I can see her now, walking in her garden. She was so proud of her delphiniums.” She shook off the memories. “I’m pretty good with a bo.”

“You know martial arts?”

“Harlan Rush arts,” Lizzie said with an attempt at a smile.

“We can do some damage with garden shears and a walking stick, but they’ve got automatics.” Even bruised, Abigail looked like the experienced homicide detective she was. “Nothing crazy, okay?”

They eased out into the hall. Lizzie pulled open the door, wincing at every noisy creak it made, and they slipped outside, into the fog, squeezing along the edge of the six-foot hydrangeas that grew on the hillside. She shut the door tightly behind her.

Abigail was clearly done in, fresh blood oozing from a cut on her cheek. Lizzie smelled the hydrangeas in the damp air and fought an urge to hide under their low, thick branches. But she knew what she had to do. “You’re hurt, and you’ve been through hell,” she said softly. “Let me do this, Abigail. Norman thinks I’m on his side-”

“No. We stay together.”

She touched Abigail’s shoulder. “Fletcher needs something from Norman. It’s important, and I can get it. If he gets away now, we’ll never find him. He’ll win. He will be your father’s nemesis.”

“I can’t let you-”

“I’ll at least buy you all time. I won’t take unnecessary risks. Here.” Lizzie pointed Abigail to an old wood bench hidden among the hydrangeas. “I knew I didn’t have these bushes cut back for a reason. They’ll hide you.”

Abigail sank onto the bench. “Stay here with me.”

“There’s no way Fletcher can do this alone. Norman trusts me. If I don’t do what I can now-” Lizzie didn’t finish. “Make sure Will and Simon know Fletcher’s one of the good guys. Another reason for you to stay behind. We don’t want a friendly-fire incident.”

“No, but-”

Lizzie straightened with her walking stick and smiled. “Don’t make me knock you out. I’m trusting you and our fairy prince, Prince Charming and dark lord to come save me.”

“Simon, Davenport and Fletcher.” Abigail smiled weakly. “Very amusing. You can take my garden shears.”

“Take a look around at all the overgrown stuff. Do you think I’m any good with garden shears?”

Lizzie didn’t wait for an answer and walked out from the cover of the hydrangeas toward the stone steps. She couldn’t see anyone through the fog and continued down the sloping yard. She debated calling out for Norman, but she spotted him by himself next to the wild blackberries and roses above the rocks.

She waved and ran toward him. “ Norman! Abigail just almost killed me! She used me as a hostage-I’m sorry. I took off. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s gone upstairs. She’s looking for you. She thinks she can take on your men.”

“She’ll learn otherwise.”

“ Norman…” Lizzie caught her breath. “This is for real, isn’t it?”

His eyes were cold, and beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip. “Very real,” he said. “And whether or not you’re lying, Lizzie, you’re mine now.”

Fog enveloped the coastline in its shroud of gray. Abigail shivered as she crept toward the sounds of the ocean, staying in the cover of overgrown shrubs and gnarled, drooping evergreens. She ached and she was sick, but she would do what she could to distract and divert Estabrook and his men-anything to back up Lizzie Rush.

Her teeth chattered now.

Simon materialized through the fog as he came up from the rocks. He lowered his pistol when he saw her. A tall, light-haired man, also armed, came up beside him. Simon’s British friend, Will Davenport.

Lizzie’s Prince Charming.

Abigail fought back a surge of emotion. “Estabrook has Lizzie Rush.”

Simon took in her injuries with a quick scan. “We’ll take care of her, Ab.”

Her cut, swollen lip cracked painfully as she gave him the barest of smiles. “Ab. Hell, Simon.” She focused and described the situation to the two men. “Lizzie’s trying to stall Estabrook. She thinks Fletcher needs information from him. He’s-I don’t know what he’s doing. Estabrook has two other men. Hired guns.”

Will squinted toward the water, into the gray, then turned to Abigail. “Myles has been alone long enough.” He seemed to struggle a moment. “Lizzie’s as stubborn and independent as he is.”

Abigail hugged her arms to her chest, the damp air making her ache even more. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop her,” she whispered.

“No one’s been able to stop her for a year,” Simon said.

Will looked at him. “I have to go.”

Simon straightened, a federal agent taking charge. “Will-hell. Fletcher’s a British agent, isn’t he?”

“Now. Yes. I didn’t know.”

“You two can at least try not to kill anyone else on U.S. soil.”

Without comment, Will headed back past the evergreen and down toward the water, disappearing in the fog.

Abigail put a hand out to Simon. “Give me a gun. I’m not going after these bastards with garden shears,” she said, tossing them to the ground.

He smiled grimly as he handed her his pistol, retrieving another from his holster.

Abigail felt marginally better having a gun in her hand. “We need to hold off on firing as long as we can. If Norman thinks he’s lost…” She knew she didn’t need to finish. She glanced toward the water, almost invisible now in the fog. “Simon…can you at least clue me in?”

“ Afghanistan,” he said.

It was enough. Drugs, terrorism. Whatever the specifics, the Brits were on the case.

So, undoubtedly, was her father.

And Lizzie Rush.

Near Kennebunkport, Maine

8:56 a.m., EDT

August 27

A fine mist was falling now, collecting on Lizzie’s hair and shoulders. She saw a Zodiac tied to the ancient dock her grandmother had meant to have removed. But her husband had built it with their two sons, and it had stayed.

Norman walked behind her with a nine-millimeter pistol pointed at her back. He’d pulled it from under his lightweight jacket. As far as Lizzie knew, none of his exploits over the past year had included guns, but how much did he need to know about shooting? He just had to pull the trigger.

He hadn’t taken her walking stick from her. She used it now to navigate a steep, eroded section of the familiar path down to the dock. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Trust me, Lizzie.” When they reached the bottom of the path, he moved in front of her and steadied his gaze on her. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Sure, Norman, I trust you, which I’d say even if you didn’t have a gun in my face. Will you put that thing away?”

He lowered the pistol but didn’t holster it. He was breathing rapidly, almost panting as he peered up toward the house, invisible in the gray. “I can’t see through this fog.”

“Going on a boat probably doesn’t make much sense in these conditions.”

Irritation sparked in his eyes as he focused back on her. “You’re not to worry.”

“I can’t help it.” Lizzie hoped she was striking the right note-not too combative but not too meek, either of which Norman would hate. “Where are your men? The Brit and the other two?”