“I wonder what just happened,” Jeremiah said. “A man joined her downstairs. I’ve never seen him here before. He just left.”
“What did he look like?” Lizzie asked.
“Brown hair, fit-not that he did push-ups on the floor, but I wouldn’t want to take him on in a bar fight.”
Lizzie felt the same shiver of coolness she’d experienced last night questioning Michael Murphy. “Was he British?”
“I didn’t hear him myself. Lizzie, we’re not talking about Lord Davenport, are we?”
She shook her head. “For one thing, Will’s blond. Put hotel security on alert. I’ll go after Fiona.”
Her cousin took a sharp breath. “Should we call the police? Fiona’s father-”
“Yes. Call Lieutenant O’Reilly and tell him something’s up with her.” Lizzie thought quickly. She didn’t like keeping Jeremiah in the dark, but there was no time. “I owe you an explanation, but right now I need to go after Fiona. Keep her here if she returns.”
“I should go.”
She managed a smile. “My father taught me the tricks of the trade, not you.” But her smile faded. “If the man who was with Fiona shows up again, don’t confront him. Don’t go near him. He’s dangerous, Jeremiah.”
“Who is he?”
“My guess? A British spy.”
Her cousin rolled his eyes. “You think my golden retriever’s a spy.”
“He is, but of a different sort.”
The humor helped break the tension, just enough to give her energy. Wishing she had on the shoes she’d worn last night in the stone circle instead of her flats, Lizzie headed out to Charles Street and up past a knot of college students and tourists to the intersection at Beacon Street. She spotted Fiona running in the direction of the Garrison house in what appeared to be blind panic.
Cursing her shoes, Lizzie took off after her on the uneven sidewalk. “Fiona, hold on,” she called as she closed in on the teenager.
Fiona didn’t break her stride. “I have to hurry.”
“Why? Jeremiah told me a man joined you just now.” Lizzie kept her voice calm. “Fiona, what did he say to you?”
“Did you see him? He thinks we’re friends. I told him I hardly know you. It’s true. He said not to follow him.” She slowed slightly, clearly terrified. “You didn’t try-you didn’t send Jeremiah-”
“No one’s following him.”
“He knew you’d come. He told me a man’s in danger and I should go to the alley by the Garrison house and-and-” Already close to hyperventilating, she gulped in more air as they continued up Beacon Street. “And then call my dad.”
“Did this man threaten you?”
“He implied Abigail’s life depends on my cooperation. There’s a man dying. What if it’s someone I know-one of Dad’s detectives, one of my friends? We practice at the Garrison house. We-”
“Don’t speculate.” Lizzie tried to penetrate Fiona’s mounting panic. “Let’s just figure out what to do.”
Fiona was marginally calmer as she glanced at Lizzie. “He said you could go with me.”
“All right. Let’s do this together.”
Fiona slowed her pace and walking now, still breathing hard, turned onto a side street that led up onto Beacon Hill. She stopped at the entrance to a narrow alley that ran behind two elegant brick mansions.
“This must be it.” She had her cell phone clutched in one hand. “He told me to call my dad and not go in the alley.”
Lizzie peered into the alley. “He didn’t say I couldn’t go in, did he?”
Fiona shook her head, already dialing her cell phone.
“I’ll stay in sight. I’m not leaving you, Fiona.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Lizzie stepped into the alley, which dead-ended at a tall stockade fence. She expected to hear a moan, ragged breathing, a cry for help, but there was nothing. She glanced back at Fiona, who was holding herself together as she talked on her phone, and took another two steps. A car was parked along the fence. She walked around it, past a stack of empty flower pots. The sounds of Beacon Street traffic fell away, blocked by the two big houses.
She stopped abruptly, hearing flies. Placing a hand on the car’s hood, cool in the shade, she leaned forward and saw a man was on the ground, slumped against the fence.
Even from a distance of a few yards, Lizzie could see he was dead.
Fiona, off the phone now, started into the alley. Lizzie shook her head at her. “Don’t, Fiona. You don’t need to see this.”
But Fiona covered her mouth with her wrist and kept coming. Mindful that she was in what was now a crime scene, Lizzie edged closer to the dead man. She had to be sure she hadn’t made a mistake and he was alive.
No mistake. He’d been shot-obviously-in the left temple. He was middle-aged and slightly overweight, dressed in dark chinos and a dark polo shirt, with a gash on his right forearm, as if someone had fingernail-clawed him.
Fiona gasped, “Is he-”
“He’s dead, Fiona.”
She dropped her wrist from her mouth. She’d stopped shaking, but her face was ashen. Her blue eyes were fixed on the dead man.
Lizzie felt her heart jump. “Fiona, do you know who this is?”
“No-I mean, I don’t know his name. We never…” She motioned back toward Beacon Street. “I saw him on the street when I arrived at the Garrison house yesterday morning. He was walking across from the Common. I didn’t talk to him.”
“Was he alone?”
She nodded. “He said hi to me. He-” She squinted, as if digging deep to remember more. “He had a messenger bag with him. I remember thinking it looked heavy. It…he…”
“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” Lizzie said quietly.
“He must have had the bomb in the bag. I could have stopped him. If Owen hadn’t been warned, he’d have-the bomb would have gone off.” Fiona stopped suddenly, focusing on Lizzie. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. About the bomb.”
“It’s okay,” Lizzie said. “I already figured it out.”
“The man…the Brit…he…”
Fiona broke off, turned and fled, tripping, gagging, back out to the street. Lizzie ran after her, slowing when she saw that Will Davenport had intercepted Fiona. He had an arm wrapped around her waist as she covered her mouth with both hands and cried.
“It’s all right.” He spoke firmly, but his tone was reassuring. “You’re safe.”
Fiona took a step back, and Will let her go. “The man who…” She was hyperventilating again. “He had an English accent. I think it was English. He said I…” She gulped in a breath and mumbled, “My dad will be here any second.”
Lizzie understood Fiona’s fear and tried to reassure her. “This is Will Davenport. He and Simon Cahill are friends.”
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Will said gently.
“There’s a man dead in the alley,” Lizzie told him. She heard sirens. The police would be there soon. “The Brit I ran into in Las Vegas and Eddie O’Shea ran into at his pub is in Boston. He told Fiona to come here. He knew I was headed back from Ireland.” Lizzie gave Will a hard look. “Did you tell him?”
“No, Lizzie.” He didn’t look tired or even rumpled after his long flight, but his expression had taken on a studied control, a certain distance. “I told you this morning. For the past two years, I’ve believed Myles to be dead.”
“Then you haven’t been lying to me?”
“I have not.”
“Who is he? Who is this Myles?”
“You’ve just seen for yourself.” Will’s eyes were flinty. “Myles Fletcher is a killer.”
Fiona, listening to every word, cried out in shock but didn’t move.
Lizzie glanced back toward the alley. “Yes. I did just see for myself. Are you going after him?”
Fiona gasped and grabbed Will’s wrist. “No! You can’t! He said-he said not to follow him. He said he’s Abigail’s only hope.” She was close to hysteria. “Please.”