A woman of contrasts, Josie Goodwin.

“You’re a wealth of information, as always,” Will said. “What would I do without you?”

“Live a lovely life in Scotland, I’ve no doubt.” She returned the whiskey bottle to its place in Eddie’s lineup. “Do you believe Miss Rush could help us find Myles Fletcher, that bloody traitor?”

“Josie…”

“It’s a serious, professional question, Will.”

“We’ve no reliable evidence that he’s alive.”

Josie polished off her whiskey, giving a final shudder of distaste as she turned back to him. “The barman’s description, Will. It fits.”

“It fits other British men, too, I’m sure. It isn’t definitive by itself.”

Josie gave him a long, cool look as she rinsed her glass. “You’re trying to spare me.”

He attempted a smile. “You? Never.”

“All right, then. We’ll do this your way. There’s no good answer here, is there? Either Myles Fletcher was a traitor killed two years ago, or he survived and is now a cold-blooded mercenary.”

Myles Fletcher was a name Will knew Josie didn’t want to utter and certainly wasn’t one he wanted to hear. “I should have worked harder to find him.”

“We all did everything possible. Everything, Will.”

“What if he’s not-”

“Don’t.” Her voice was hoarse, her eyes dark and intense. “Don’t, Will. Please.”

He acceded to her wish with a reluctant nod and didn’t continue.

“If Estabrook has hired Myles or allied himself with him in any way, it means he has someone on his payroll who can help him realize any violent impulses he has.” Josie fell silent a moment. “I hope that’s not the case.”

“I do, too.”

She didn’t look at Will. “If Myles is alive, I hope he’s lost his memory and has opened a tea shop in Liverpool. If not…” She glanced up, her cheeks less pale now. “I had the chance to smother him to death.”

“Josie.”

“All right, then. On we go. I’ll investigate possible connections between Myles and Lizzie Rush, between him and her family.” Josie hesitated, then said, “Perhaps she’s in love with him. Myles does have a way with women.”

“From her questioning of Michael Murphy, I would say Lizzie doesn’t know him at all-”

“Which could be what she wants you to think.” Josie came around to the other side of the bar. “I needn’t remind you that Myles is a capable, ruthless killer. If he’s alive, Will, don’t think you can reason with him.”

“Josie, I’m sorry his name’s come up.”

But she wasn’t finished. “If you see him, put a bullet in his head. Find a way to do it. He’s a predator. He hovers in the bush, waiting for the right moment, the right prey. Then he springs. I know, Simon. I was his prey once.”

“He manipulated both of us, in different ways,” Will said softly. “We owe his service, what he once was, an open mind.”

Josie zipped up her coat, her eyes bitter now as well as hard. “Myles knows how to make people see what they want to see in him.” She went on briskly, before Will could respond. “Interestingly the Rush family doesn’t own a hotel in the U.K. They do, however, own what I understand is a charming hotel in Dublin.”

“And how is this relevant?” Will asked.

“Because I reserved a room for you there for tonight. It should be quite lovely. You can see for yourself and let me know. They’re expecting you for a very late arrival.”

“Do you believe that’s where Lizzie went, or do you know?”

“An educated guess, and either way, it’s a good place to start. You are going after her, aren’t you?”

Will thought of Lizzie Rush’s green eyes, black-lashed and bold, yet, he was sure, hiding secrets, fears. But didn’t everyone?

“Yes,” he said, “I’m going after her.”

“Excellent. I approve.” At last, a glint of humor. “Give my best to Simon when you see him. And Keira?” Josie asked, more subdued, speaking as if she knew the woman Simon Cahill had fallen for earlier that summer, although the two of them had yet to meet. “She’s all right?”

Will nodded. “Impatient to be with Simon.”

“Ah, yes. One can imagine. Well,” she added, “you should leave. Dublin ’s over three hundred kilometers, but you’ll manage. You’re accustomed to odd hours, long days-” she gave him a wicked smile “-and longer nights.”

Will sighed and gave no comment.

“In any event,” Josie said, “you’ve much to keep you wide-awake and on your toes.”

“I see that plans have been made and announced, and I have only to comply.”

“Finally he sees the light.”

But their cheerfulness was momentary. “What about you, Josie?” Will asked her.

“I’ve booked a room at a five-star hotel in Kenmare, but perhaps I would be wise not to make the drive over these dark roads after gulping whiskey. Imagine the international row if I’m picked up by the Irish authorities. Much better to work with them discreetly.”

Eddie O’Shea wandered back in behind his bar, nothing in his demeanor indicating he’d eavesdropped. “My brother Aidan has a room at his farm down the lane,” he said to Josie. “You’d be welcome to stay.”

Josie smiled, looking genuinely delighted. “A night on an Irish farm. A perfect ending to a difficult day.”

Chapter 11

Boston, Massachusetts

6:25 p.m., EDT

August 25

The late afternoon sun beat down on the sidewalk in front of the triple-decker where Bob had lived for the past three years. There was no shade and no breeze. Sweat trickled down his temples and stuck his shirt to the small of his back. The firefighters had put out the fire and torn up and hosed down what they needed to, creating a big mess but saving the building, at least structurally. Abigail’s and Scoop’s back porches were cinders. Her apartment would have to be gutted to the studs. Hard to say yet about the other two places. They’d have to get the insurance people out here.

At least no one found any other bombs.

Ever since the ambulance had left with Scoop, bloodied, in rough shape, Bob had made it clear he was in charge of the investigation. He’d gotten through the major briefing with city, state and federal law enforcement personnel held on the street outside the crime scene tape. He had detectives canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses, processing the scene, putting together rudimentary timelines.

The working theory had dirtbag, or dirtbags, slipping into the backyard of the triple-decker and placing an explosive device under the small gas grill on Abigail’s first-floor porch. Since she and Owen rarely used the grill and, given their busy lives, spent little time sitting out on the porch, the bomb could have been there for a few days, a few hours. It had been detonated by a remote-controlled switching device.

The bomb in Owen’s car had to have been placed there after he’d arrived on Beacon Hill. Otherwise he’d have blown up when he turned the key leaving Abigail’s apartment that morning.

According to Fiona, Bob’s warning had given Scoop a split second to grab her and dive behind the compost bin.

Saved by dirt and kitchen scraps.

Only Scoop.

They’d all done the drills. What happens if police officers are targeted by a series of bombs?

This, Bob thought. This is what happens.

He was satisfied that people were doing what they were supposed to, except the idiot who’d thought it would be okay to tell his ex-wife, the mother of their three daughters, where to find him.

Tight-lipped and drawn, Theresa O’Reilly glared at him under the hot sun. “Never again.” She pointed a blunt-nailed finger at him in that way she had. “Do you understand me? Never again.”

Bob let her anger bounce off him. Getting into it with her never worked. “Fiona doesn’t want to go home with you and the girls.”

“I don’t care what she wants. She’s not going back to her apartment.”

“Whoa. I’m with you, Ter.”

Without consulting either parent, their eldest daughter had decided to sublet an apartment for the summer with three of her musician friends. The bomb squad had been through their place in Brighton but hadn’t found anything. They’d also checked the South Boston waterfront apartment where his sister, Eileen, Keira’s mother, was house-sitting after giving up her crazy life in the woods. She’d left Bob a message on his cell phone saying she was praying for everyone’s safety. That was good. He’d surprised himself by saying a prayer himself.