Free The Mist by Carla Neggers Page B

black dog that night, too.
    She and that village were quite the combo.
    She'd given the sketch to Fiona O'Reilly, who'd taped it onto the far wall of the chandeliered drawing room where she and her friends often gathered to play Irish music, courtesy of Owen Garrison, whose family had owned the elegant Beacon Hill house for more than a century. The sparsely furnished first-floor room was used for meetings and functions. The offices of the Dorothy Garrison Foundation, established in memory of Owen's sister, were on the second floor. Owen was just eleven andDorothy Garrison just fourteen when she'd drowned near their family summer home off the coast of Maine. Their distraught parents had relocated from Boston to Austin, Texas. After a stint in the army, Owen founded Fast Rescue, a highly respected nongovernmental organization that provided rapid response to disasters, natural or manmade, anywhere in the world.
    Simon, a search-and-rescue expert himself, had volunteered for Fast Rescue eighteen months ago after he and Owen had become friends through John March. Owen knew March because of their ties to Maine, where Owen had discovered the body of March's son-in-law, Christopher Browning, an FBI agent murdered four days into his Mount Desert Island honeymoon. Last summer--seven years later--his widow and Owen had fallen for each other and finally uncovered the identity of Chris's killer.
    At the same time, Simon had begun working a deep undercover assignment for the FBI, insinuating himself into Norman Estabrook's world of high stakes adventure, finance and criminal activity. A year later, just before Norman's arrest in late June, Simon had met Keira Sullivan...and a few hours ago, because of him, she'd almost been killed for a second time that summer.
    A second simple sketch depicted a Dublin windowbox at Christmas. The box was filled with pinecones, evergreen boughs and baubles and draped with sparkling gold ribbon. As always, Keira had captured more than just a scene...a mood, a wish, a dream.
    Simon's own mood was dark. His sole commitment was to finding and stopping Norman. It wasn't a wish or a dream--it was his damn job.
    The small foundation staff had been sent home, but the bomb squad had gone through the building and given the all clear. Law enforcement was still everywhere, especially in the alley whereOwen had discovered the bomb in his parked car. Bob O'Reilly had been by, in a focused and formidable rage at the day's events. Two bombs in his city. A friend and fellow police officer in stable but critical condition. Another friend and officer missing. A daughter traumatized.
    A niece attacked in Ireland.
    Keira.
    But she was unhurt and in the care of the Irish police. The overriding priority now was the safe return of Abigail Browning. Every available law enforcement resource was deployed in the search for her.
    BPD officers and FBI agents were posted at the Garrison house, hovering in the foyer. Simon had first laid eyes on Keira there in June, just days before she'd discovered her stone angel in an Irish ruin. He could see her standing in the doorway that night with her fairy-princess blue eyes and long, flaxen hair. Maybe it had been love at first sight. Maybe it hadn't, but love her he did. He'd joined her in Ireland in early August. While Keira sketched and painted, Simon did what he could to aid the ongoing investigation into Estabrook and his drug-trafficking friends.
    He walked across the bare wood floor to the middle of the drawing room, where Owen was silently staring up at an unlit chandelier as if somehow it could offer him hope, if not answers. Simon recognized his friend's stillness and pensiveness as his way of containing his emotions--the gut-wrenching fear they all had for Abigail.
    "I'd trade places with her in a heartbeat," Owen said, his gaze still on the chandelier.
    "She knows. She'll latch onto your feelings for her and use them to give her strength. You've seen it before with people in tough