The Search

by Nora Roberts

  “Near the prison,” she murmured. “Near Perry. Why would he buy them there if he didn’t live or work or have business there? A prison guard.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “An inmate who was released or, or a family member. Or—”

  “Fiona, believe me, trust me, we’re covering all possibilities. Agent Mantz and I have interviewed Perry. He claims he doesn’t know anything about these murders—how could he?”

  “He’s lying.”

  “Yes, he is, but we haven’t been able to shake him. Not yet. We’ve had his cell searched, multiple times, all of his correspondence is being analyzed. We’ve interviewed prison officials and inmates he interacts with. We’re watching his sister and are in the process of identifying, locating and contacting anyone—former inmates, prison personnel, outside contractors and instructors—he may have had contact with since he went in.”

  “A long time.” She set the cookie aside. She’d never be able to swallow it now. “Do you think he’s directing this, or at least lit the fuse?”

  “At this point, we have no proof—”

  “I’m not asking for proof.” She paused to smooth the sharp edge out of her tone. “I’m asking what you think. I trust what you think.”

  “If he isn’t directing it or hasn’t incited it, he’d be furious. He’d control the anger, but I’d have seen it.”

  She nodded. Yes, he’d have seen it. They knew Perry, she and Tawney. They knew him all too well.

  “This was his power, his accomplishment,” Tawney continued. “Having someone else pick up that power, claim new accomplishments while he’s locked up? Insulting, demeaning. But selecting or approving the person to continue for him, he’d find pride and pleasure in that. And that’s what I saw when we talked to him. Under the control, the feigned ignorance, he was proud.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, then got to her feet to walk to the window, to comfort herself watching her dogs roam the front yard, the field. “That’s what I think, too. I’ve studied him, too. I needed to. I needed to know the man who wanted to kill me, who killed the man I loved because he failed with me. I read the books, watched the TV specials, dissected all the articles. Then I put them away, put them aside because I needed to stop.

  “He never has,” she said, turning back. “Not really, has he? He’s just bided his time. But why didn’t he send this proxy for me first, before I could prepare?”

  She shook her head, waved away the question as the answer was right there. “Because I’m the big prize—I’m the main event, the reason. And you need to build up to that. The others? They’re opening acts.”

  “That’s a hard way to put it,” Mantz commented.

  “It’s a hard way to think of it, but that’s how he sees it. It’s a kind of rematch, isn’t it? Last time, I won. Now he’s going to fix that. Maybe by remote, maybe by proxy, but it’ll clear his record. And the opening acts give him his sick satisfaction with the bonus of making the big prize sweat. He wants my fear. It’s part of his method and a large part of his reward.”

  “We can take you in, put you in a safe house, offer you protection.”

  “I did that before,” Fiona reminded Tawney, “and he just waited me out. Waited me out, then killed Greg. I can’t put my life on hold again, I can’t give him that. He’s already taken so much.”

  “We have more leads this time,” Mantz told her. “He’s not as careful, not as smart as Perry. Sending you the scarf was stupid. It’s taunting. Buying them in multiples, from one area, another mistake. We’ll find him.”

  “I believe you will, and I hope it’s soon, before someone else dies. But I can’t hide until you do. That’s not being brave so much as realistic. And I have the advantage here. He has to come to me. He has to come onto the island.”

  “Your local police department can’t monitor everyone who gets off the ferry.”

  “No, but if he does manage to get this far, he’s not going to come up against a twenty-year-old girl.”

  “At the very least you should take more precautions,” Mantz advised. “You should have better locks installed. You should think about an alarm system.”

  “I have three of them. I’m not being glib,” she added. “The dogs are always with me, and between the police and my friends, I’m being checked on several times a day. Simon’s staying here at night. I’m actually going away next week for a couple of days with a friend and my stepmother. I have a friend staying here with his dog to watch mine and the house.”

  “You mentioned that on your blog.”

  She smiled at Tawney. “You read my blog.”

  “I keep up with you, Fiona. You said you were taking a quick mental health trip with girlfriends, and intended to relax and pamper yourself.”

  “Spa,” Mantz said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t say where you were going, specifically.”

  “No, because everyone and anyone can read a blog. I’ll talk about it after, if it seems interesting. But most of what I write about is dog related. I’m not careless, Agent Tawney.”

  “No, you’re not. Still, I’d like the information—where you’ll be, the exact dates, how you’ll get there.”

  “Okay.”

  When his phone signaled, he held up a finger. “Why don’t you give them to Agent Mantz,” he suggested, and walked out onto the porch to take the call.

  “We’re driving up to Snoqualmie Falls next Tuesday,” Fiona told her. “Tranquillity Spa and Resort. We’re coming back Friday.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah, it will be. It’s our version of a long weekend, as actual weekends are busiest for all of us. I’m going with Sylvia and a friend. Mai Funaki, our vet.”

  Mantz noted down the information, then glanced over as Tawney stepped back in.

  “We need to go.”

  Fiona got to her feet even as Mantz did. “They found another.”

  “No. A twenty-one-year-old woman’s been reported missing. She left her off-campus housing at about six this morning, on foot, on her way to the university’s fitness center. She never got there.”

  “Where?” Fiona demanded. “Where was she taken?”

  “Medford, Oregon.”

  “Just a little closer,” she murmured. “I hope she’s strong. I hope she finds a way.”

  “I’m going to stay in touch, Fiona.” Tawney pulled out a card. “You can reach me anytime. My home number’s on the back for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She walked out with them, stood with her arms folded over her chest against her thudding heart and the dogs sitting at her feet as they drove away. “Good luck,” she murmured.

  Then she went inside to get her gun.

  FIFTEEN

  Simon carved the scrolled detail into the header for the custom china cabinet while The Fray blasted out of the radio. Meg Greene, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—except when she changed her mind—had asked to adjust the design four times before he hit the mark for her.

  To ensure she didn’t adjust it again, he’d put aside other work to focus on the cabinet. It was a big, beautiful bastard, Simon thought, and would be the showpiece of Meg’s dining room. Another few days, and he’d be done with it, and between the staining and varnishing, he could get serious about the sink base. Maybe work in a few pieces for Syl and have them done when she got back from the spa deal.

  If he delivered the stock while she was gone, she couldn’t drag him into talking with her customers. That added motivation.

  Starting the day earlier meant he got a jump on things, which almost offset quitting at specific times each day instead of going until he’d had enough.

  Stopping, even though he might be on a solid roll, went against the grain, but knowing Fiona would be alone if he didn’t would only screw with his concentration anyway.

  But the arrangement had benefits—and not just the sex.

  He liked hearing her talk, and listening to the stories she told him about her day. He didn’t know why
she relaxed him, but she did. Most of the time.

  Then there was the dog. He still chased his tail like a maniac, and stole footwear—and the occasional tool if he could get to it. But he was so damn happy, and a hell of a lot smarter than Simon had given him credit for. He’d gotten used to having the dog curled up under the workbench snoozing or running around outside. And the sucker could field a ball like Derek Jeter.

  Simon stood back, studied the work.

  Somehow he’d gotten himself a dog and a woman, neither of which he’d particularly wanted. And now he couldn’t imagine his days, or his nights, without them.

  He’d gotten more done than he’d expected, and glanced at the clock he’d hung on the wall. Funny, it felt like more than a couple hours since he’d started back up after the grab-a-sandwich, throw-the-ball break he’d taken.

  Frowning, he pulled out his phone, read the time on the display and swore.

  “Damn it. Why didn’t you remind me to change the batteries in that thing?” he demanded as Jaws trotted through the open shop door.

  Jaws only wagged his tail and dropped the stick he’d brought in.

  “I don’t have time for that. Let’s move.”

  He tried to time his trip to Fiona’s so he arrived long enough after her final class to avoid the inevitable stragglers. Otherwise, she’d start introducing him to people, and there had to be conversations. But he aimed for timing it so she wasn’t alone more than fifteen or twenty minutes.

  It was, for him, a delicate balance.

  Now, he was nearly two hours behind.

  Why hadn’t she called? Wouldn’t any normal woman call to say, Hey, you’re late, what’s going on? Not that they had a formal sort of arrangement. He said see you later every day, left, then he came back.

  Nice and easy, no big deal.

  “Women are supposed to call,” he told Jaws as they got in the truck. “And nag and bug you. It’s the way of the world. But not her. There’s never any Are you going to be here for dinner? or Can you pick up some milk? or Are you ever going to take out that trash?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe she’s lulling me into complacency, stringing me along until I’m . . . more hooked than I already am. Except she’s not, which is one of the reasons I’m hooked, and I’m already taking out the trash because it’s just what you do.”

  The dog wasn’t listening, Simon noted, because he had his head out the window. So he might as well save his breath.

  No reason to feel guilty because he was a couple hours later than usual, he told himself. He had his work; she had hers. Besides, he thought as he turned into her drive, if she’d called, he wouldn’t be later than usual.

  Maybe she hadn’t been able to call. His stomach knotted. If something had happened to her . . .

  He heard the gunshots as he drove across the bridge where dogwoods bloomed snowy white.

  He floored it, then fishtailed to a stop even as Fiona’s dogs charged around the side of the house. Gunshots ripped through the fear that buzzed in his head as he leaped out of the truck. He left the door swinging open as he ran toward them. When they stopped abruptly, he heard his own heart roaring in his ears.

  He pulled in the breath to shout her name, and saw her.

  Not lying on the ground bleeding, but standing, coolly, competently shoving another clip into the gun she held.

  “Jesus Christ.” The anger flew through him, stampeding out the fear. Even as she started to turn, he grabbed her arm, spun her around. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Careful. It’s loaded.” She lowered the gun, pointing it toward the ground.

  “I know it’s loaded. I heard you blasting away like Annie fucking Oakley. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Let go. Earplugs,” she said. “I can barely hear you.” When he released her arm, she pulled them out. “I told you I had a gun, and I told you I’d be practicing. There’s no point getting pissed off that I am.”

  “I’m pissed off about the five years you shaved off my life. I had plans for them.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send out a notification I’d be getting in some target practice.” Her movements as testy as her tone, she shoved the gun into the holster on her belt, then stalked over to set up a variety of cans and plastic water bottles she’d obviously killed before his arrival.

  “We can argue about that, seeing as you knew I’d be coming by and might have a strong reaction to gunfire.”

  “I don’t know anything. You just show up.”

  “If you have a problem with that you should’ve said so.”

  “I don’t.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Go ahead and take the dogs inside if you want. I won’t be much longer.”

  “What crawled up your ass? I know your face, so don’t tell me about not getting pissed when you’re already there.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you. You should take Jaws inside. My dogs are used to the sound of gunshots. He’s not.”

  “Then we’ll see how he deals.”

  “Fine.”

  She took out the gun, shifted into the stance he’d seen cops use on TV and in movies. As she fired away, Jaws moved closer to his side, leaning against him, but cocked his head and watched—as Simon did—the cans and bottles fly.

  “Nice shooting, Tex.”

  She didn’t smile, but walked over to set up fresh targets. Behind her a few big-leaf maples, boughs heavy with clusters of blossoms, shimmered in the sunlight.

  It made, to his mind, an odd contrast of violence and peace.

  “Do you want to shoot?”

  “What for?”

  “Have you ever shot a gun?”

  “Why would I?”

  “There are a lot of reasons. Hunting, sport, curiosity, defense.”

  “I don’t hunt. My idea of sport is more in line with baseball or boxing. I’ve never been especially curious, and I’d rather use my fists. Let me see it.”

  She put the safety on, unloaded it, then offered it to him.

  “Not as heavy as I figured.”

  “It’s a Beretta. It’s a fairly light and very lethal semiautomatic. It’ll fire fifteen rounds.”

  “Okay, show me.”

  She loaded it, unloaded it again, showed him the safety. “It’s double-action, so it’ll fire whether the hammer’s cocked or not. The recoil’s pretty minor, but it’s got a little kick. You want to stand with your feet about shoulder-distance apart. Distribute your weight. Both arms out, elbows locked, with your left hand cupped under your gun hand for stability. You lean your upper body toward the target.”

  It was an instructor’s voice, he realized, but not her instructor’s voice. That was bright and charming and enthusiastic. This instructor was flat and cool.

  “And you remember all that when bullets fly?”

  “Maybe not, and maybe one-handed or a different stance would suit the situation better, but this is the best, I think, for target shooting. And like with anything, practice enough and it becomes instinctual. Tuck your head down to line up the sight with the target. Try the two-liter bottle.”

  He fired. Missed.

  “A little more square, and with your feet pointed at the target. Aim a little lower on the bottle.”

  This time he caught a piece of it.

  “Okay, I wounded the empty Diet Pepsi. Do I get praise and reward?”

  She did smile, a little this time, but there wasn’t any light in it. “You learn fast, and I have beer. Try it a couple more times.”

  He thought he got the hang of it, and confirmed the hang of it didn’t particularly appeal to him.

  “It’s loud.” He put the safety on, unloaded it as she’d shown him. “And now you have a bunch of dead recyclables in your yard. I don’t think shooting cans and bottles comes close to shooting flesh and blood. Could you actually aim this at a person and pull the trigger?”