She was aware of Fletcher waiting by the door with his arms crossed on his chest. He managed somehow to look both bored and impatient.
Estabrook set the eight ball back on the table and gave it a sharp spin. “Lizzie’s mother was Irish. Shauna Morrigan Rush. She died in Dublin when Lizzie was seven months old. Her death was ruled an accident-a freak fall-but who’s to say? It’s daunting to think about the little things that can have such an impact on our lives. One wrong move on an unfamiliar cobblestone street, and your daughter’s an orphan.”
Abigail subtly held on to the edge of the table as she tried to control another wave of her persistent nausea. “Do you have plans for Lizzie? Is she helping you?”
“All in good time.”
Whatever her role, Lizzie Rush wasn’t his equal, not in his eyes. Her father was. Simon? Estabrook, Abigail thought, would take special pleasure in exacting his revenge on Simon Cahill.
Estabrook turned abruptly to Fletcher. “Continue.”
“I need you to leave,” the Brit said.
“As you wish,” he said coolly.
Fletcher lowered his arms to his sides and walked over to Abigail. He put his finger on her chin and tilted her bruised cheek toward the light. “The swelling’s down a bit.”
“I think so, too. How did you and Estabrook meet?”
“We had tea together at Buckingham Palace.”
“For all I know you’re telling the truth. You seem like a practical sort. What do you want out of this?”
“Money.”
“I have access to money. We can work out our own deal.”
“You’re feeling sick,” he said.
“I’ve turned green, have I?”
“More chartreuse.”
“Ugly color, chartreuse, but to each his own. I hope being pregnant isn’t this bad.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I want kids. Do you have any?”
His eyes went flat. “No.”
There was something there. A loss, a chance missed. “Give up Norman in exchange for cash and a safe exit back to whatever hole you crawled out of. There’ll be a reward for my safe return.”
“Mr. Estabrook has access to hundreds of millions of dollars. What do you suppose the FBI or Boston police would pay for you? Your fiancé comes from a wealthy family, but compared to Mr. Estabrook? I don’t think so, love. Sorry.”
“We can set you up with a new identity. He’d never find you. In your line of work, you must have enemies hunting you. You can make a fresh start.”
“I’ve made my choices.”
Abigail rolled a yellow ball from one end of the pool table to the other, without it hitting any other balls. “What does Estabrook want?”
Fletcher didn’t hesitate. “To kill the people who tried to destroy him.”
“It’s not that simple, and I think you know it. And no one tried to destroy him. He broke the law.” She stood up from the pool table. “He’s become more and more obsessed with thwarting my father, hasn’t he?”
“I’m afraid I’m not particularly interested in his motives.”
“He appreciates an adversary as strong as he is. He sees himself as a special person, and he wants special adversaries-such as the director of the FBI.”
Fletcher picked up a pool cue and examined the array of balls on the table.
“You’re obviously not stupid,” Abigail said. “Anyone taking the risks you’ve taken would want to be well paid.”
“You’re making assumptions that perhaps you shouldn’t.”
Without a doubt, but she said, “You should listen to me.”
He got down low, sized up the array of balls on the table. “You’re aching to shoot me and dump me overboard, aren’t you, love? I can’t say I blame you.”
“I wouldn’t dump you overboard. I’d let your body fall into the ocean if the bullets took you in that direction. Norman ’s, too.” She walked to the end of the table, watching as Fletcher lined up his cue on a solid red ball. “I heard a smaller boat coming and going again. Have you kidnapped anyone else?”
He made his shot, crisp, clean, two solid-colored balls pivoting into pockets. But he didn’t answer her.
“Is Lizzie Rush on board?” Abigail asked. “Are we on our way to meet her somewhere? Maine, maybe? Estabrook mentioned her grandmother had a house there.”
Fletcher walked around the table, standing close to Abigail as he sized up another shot. “You know more about Miss Rush than you let on to Mr. Estabrook.”
“Not much more. Simon Cahill met Estabrook at a Fast Rescue fund-raiser held at the Rush family’s hotel in Boston last summer. My fiancé is the founder and director of Fast Rescue. But you know that already, don’t you?”
Fletcher leaned far over the table and angled his cue sharply. “It’s good that you didn’t lie about that one, love,” he said, making another perfect shot.
“I’m not the one with something to hide. For example, kidnapping a police officer.” She fought more seasickness, bile rising in her throat. “Not going to tell me Estabrook’s plan for me, are you?”
“There is one. Have no doubt of that.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” Abigail stepped back away from the table, giving him room for another difficult shot. “You don’t like this, do you? You’re a professional, and Norman ’s a brilliant, narcissistic, crazed amateur. He’s off the reservation, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps you should vomit and get it over with.”
She ignored his remark. “If you had your way, what would you do, put a bullet in my head and dump me overboard?”
“No profit in that, love.” He tapped a ball into a side pocket. “Does talking keep you from vomiting?”
She almost smiled. “So far, so good.”
Eyeing the remaining balls on the table, he said, without looking at her, “There’s a way you can help me. If you do, I’ll help you when the time comes.”
“What can I do for you?”
Fletcher positioned his cue for another shot. “You can tell me what you know about Will Davenport.”
This was a surprise. “He’s a friend?”
“Once upon a time.”
Abigail considered her answer and decided there was little risk to the truth. “I’m sure I know less about him than you do. He and Simon were friends before Simon hooked up with Fast Rescue. I’ve never met Davenport, but I understand he’s a wealthy British noble, a former military officer. I don’t know the details, but I suspect he and Simon didn’t meet over tea and crumpets.”
“Correct. They did not.”
“Simon worked in counterterrorism before he went undercover after Estabrook. I’ve wondered if he was on to some kind of drug-terrorism connection there. What about you, Fletcher? How do you know Davenport?”
He fired off another shot without answering.
“You were with the good guys?”
“I was with them. I wasn’t one.”
His hard, quick shot sent balls banging into each other, richocheting off the sides of the table.
Abigail maintained her composure. “ Davenport provided assistance-voluntarily-with the Ireland end of a case we wrapped up earlier this summer involving a serial killer.”
“Then Will hasn’t been to Boston?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I believe you. Now,” Fletcher said, moving around the table, his tone unchanged, “tell me about Fiona O’Reilly.”
He caught Abigail totally off guard, which, she realized, had been his intention. She couldn’t stop herself. The images of the previous day and her fear for Fiona were too much. Bile rose in her throat, and she stumbled. Fletcher moved fast, grabbing her, half carrying her to the bathroom, shoving her in front of the toilet. She vomited until she had nothing left inside her, then dry heaved for a few more minutes.
Finally, spent, eyes tearing and bloodshot, hands shaking, she splashed herself with cold water and looked at her reflection. She was bruised, ashen. “Owen,” she whispered. “Give me strength. I love you so much.”