“What?” His body tensed, instantly on alert.
She finally glanced at him over her shoulder before turning to her bookshelf. In that moment, her face exposed all the tumultuous emotions she usually kept in check. “He took one of my books. I know it was him. I told Quinn; he had the house dusted, but so far, nothing.
“I don’t know if I can get through this, John.”
He strained to hear her. He put the sandwich and coffee on the desk and stood behind her.
“You will.” He shuddered at the thought that Michael’s killer had been in Rowan’s house. Had he broken in while she slept upstairs? When? How long had he been stalking her before devising this vicious, cruel way to torment her?
“I’m not as strong as you think. I quit the FBI because I was weak.”
“You quit because you had to take a break. Everyone needs a break, especially doing what we do. Surrounded by evil. Fighting evil and not always winning.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes surprisingly blank. What was she really thinking? Had she given up?
“You never gave up,” she said. “You never gave up fighting for Denny.”
“That’s different.”
She nodded slowly. “Don Quixote and windmills. I’m another windmill, John. Go back to your sister. She needs you. The FBI isn’t going to leave me unprotected.”
She wanted him to leave? “No,” he said. “I’m here until the end.”
She stared at him, her face firm, a slight frown pulling down the corners of her lips. “I can’t live with another death on my conscience.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He took her by the shoulders. He didn’t mean to shake her so hard, just give her a little jolt so she’d know he was serious. But her head jerked forward and he saw some of the fire back in her eyes.
Good. She needed to know he meant business.
“Rowan, I am here until the end. He killed my brother. He’s killed six other innocent people. He’s tormenting you. I will not rest until he’s dead.” He’d meant captured, but didn’t correct himself.
“Or you are,” she whispered as she pulled away from him. She paused by the desk where the sandwich and coffee sat. She looked at the food for a long time, but didn’t touch it. She crossed to the door. “I just talked to Roger. I asked him to send over all the files of my mother’s murder and Dani’s. He told me he’d already done it.” She looked at him, not accusing, but knowing. “When do we leave?”
He should have told her. “I was going to tell you.”
She nodded, didn’t say anything.
“Two hours. Peterson’s putting the files together as they get them from Washington.”
“I’ll be in my room.” She walked out.
Damn. What had just happened? What was she thinking? She had to know he would protect her to the end.
She dreamed.
Powerless to stop the dream, it played in her mind, almost soothing, a lullaby. She stood outside her Colorado cabin, the A-frame she considered home. Peace and joy. Home. Alone at last. Death and violence and blood a distant memory.
It was light when she stood outside the cabin, but when she finally went inside it was dark. None of the lights worked, but she heard someone upstairs. Downstairs. Intruders? Her heart pounded.
Rowan, it’s me.
Michael? She said his name out loud. Michael, you’re dead.
He laughed and she couldn’t help but smile. Dead men didn’t laugh. They didn’t talk and make her feel like everything was going to be all right.
It was all just a nightmare. Everything. None of it happened. No one is out to get you. You’re going to be okay.
Thank God. Maybe Peter’s prayers worked, and the God she’d thought was cruel and vicious had a streak of kindness.
Lily! Play with me!
Dani ran up to her and entwined herself between her legs. She was three, her dark, curling pigtails bouncing up and down.
Dani? But—
It was all a nightmare, Michael said, stepping out of the shadows. He wore a tuxedo. The red stain spreading across the front drew her attention.
Michael, you’ve been shot. Was that her voice? It’s a dream, she reminded herself. None of this is real.
It’s real, Lily. Dani looked up at her with wide blue eyes. Rowan squatted down and reached out to her sister.
Dani, I love you.
She playfully pulled on a pigtail like she used to, but it fell off in her hand. She stared at the hair she clutched, then dropped it as if it burned her skin. She looked at her sister, saw the dark stain on her blue jammies, the glassy gaze in her pretty eyes. Dani fell into her arms, her blood seeping through Rowan’s fingers, and she screamed.
Don’t scream! He’ll hear you.
Michael again. Michael was dead and he was talking to her.
He’ll hear you.
It was Doreen Rodriguez from the couch. Or, rather, her head. The rest of her body was strewn across the room. A severed hand reached for Rowan and she ran to the other side of the room, Dani in her arms.
Lily, sweet Lily.
Mama?
Mama was in the kitchen. She came out, covered in blood. Lily, Lily, I’m sorry. Mama cried tears of blood.
Oh, Mama. I miss you so much!
She pulled Dani close to her, but when she looked down again, it wasn’t Dani.
It was Tess.
No, no! She’d killed Tess. No, not her. She didn’t. He did. But John would never forgive her. First Michael, then Tess. Who else? Who else had to die in her name?
Why, why, why? She squeezed her eyes shut.
She was falling and she opened her eyes. She was in her bed, her own bed in the cabin’s loft. She wasn’t alone. John lay next to her, touching her breast, her stomach. His hands were warm and she sighed, content. This was where she belonged. She snuggled up against him, feeling a peace and longing she’d never known, a deep desire to be close to someone.
John.
He made love to her. Slow, warm, affectionate. It was beautiful, like nothing she’d ever before experienced. He was a part of her. They were inseparable. They needed each other. She needed him. She needed him like she’d never needed anyone.
She rolled over to face him, her movements slow, awkward, like she was underwater, water as thick as blood.
John?
She reached out to touch him. Her hand came back warm and sticky. Wet. She brought her fingers to her face. Blood. John’s blood.
She sat up and stared at her bed. John lay there, butchered. His head hung from his spine, an arm was missing, his torso a bloody mess of guts and muscle. He stared at her with dark, glassy green eyes, accusing her.
It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault.
Suddenly, his exposed heart pounded in his chest, spraying blood all over her. He sat up, his intestines spilling out and crawling toward her. His arm pointed at her. It’s you. You did this. You, Lily Pad, you.
His intestines crawled up her legs and she screamed and screamed and screamed.
CHAPTER
16
He was staring out the living room window thinking about Michael when he heard her scream. It wasn’t just any scream: It was full of stark terror and pain. He drew his gun and took the stairs three at a time, throwing his weight against her locked door.
She was thrashing on the bed, sobbing. He quickly determined no one else was in the room. When he reached her side, he slapped her to shock her out of her nightmare. But when her eyes opened, he saw she was still wrapped in whatever terror she’d imagined. She stared at him, eyes wide, her entire body trembling so violently her teeth rattled.
“You’re dead! You’re dead!” She pounded her fists against his chest, and he held her close as she broke down.
Her anguished sobs broke his heart. He’d never heard so much agony in a voice. But she didn’t allow him to hold her for long. She pulled herself together quicker than he thought she should have and pushed him away. “I need a shower.”
“What happened?”
“Nightmare.” Sliding out of his arms, she disappeared in the bathroom. He heard the lock click into place.
Fifteen minutes later, she came downstairs—freshly showered but still pale and exhausted.
“You need to eat.” He maneuvered her into the kitchen, where he managed to get her to eat half a sandwich and a glass of milk.
They’d just sat down with a fresh cup of coffee when Peterson called to tell John the files were ready for Rowan. John was having second thoughts about this idea. He feared Rowan was on the edge and this might push her over.
But he had to find his brother’s killer.
When there was a battle, justice had to prevail. Any way he could get it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her thirty minutes later as they sat in the almost empty underground parking garage of the FBI’s field office in Los Angeles. Sundays weren’t big overtime days.
She stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “Yes, I do. You know it, and I know it.” Her voice was quiet but firm. She looked at him, her eyes blank. “Don’t worry about me.”
A knife twisted in his heart. Don’t worry about me. She said it as if she suspected he wasn’t worried. And the irony was, when he set this up, he hadn’t been. He hadn’t cared what it would do to her.
Now he did.
He reached out and took her hand. “Rowan, you’re going to be okay. Say the word and I’ll take you home.”
“I have to look. If only I’d figured it out earlier. But I never—never—thought it had to do with my past. My cases, the Franklin murder, a deranged fan—but n-n-not my family.” She took a deep breath and swallowed a sob. “If I had, maybe we could have stopped him before—”
She looked down at their hands but didn’t finish her sentence.
He took his free hand and pushed her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “It’s not your fault. You approached this logically, methodically.” Leaning forward, he gently touched his lips to hers. “You’re not in this alone.”
When he pulled back, he saw her eyes register surprise; then she brought the shield back up, calm coldness radiating from her tight, lanky body. She slowly extracted her hand from his. “Let’s get this over with.” She opened her door.
When they arrived in the conference room, John was surprised to see Tess sitting at the desk in the corner, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her short hair was limp but clean, her face devoid of makeup and set in determination.
Tess looked up, met his eyes, and gave him a weak smile. Then she saw Rowan and quickly turned back to her work.
She needed time. But time didn’t heal all wounds. He hoped Tess wasn’t one of the unlucky ones.
Quinn Peterson sat at the large table, looking through a thick file folder. He stood when John closed the door. “Roger faxed everything we couldn’t download from the archives,” he said. “I sent my partner to pick Mr. Williams up.”
Rowan stiffened. “Adam?” She looked from Quinn to John, unconcealed anger on her face. “You’re dragging Adam down here?”
“He might be our only hope of identifying this guy before it’s too late,” John said quietly.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “He’s never going to recover.” She released a long breath. “But you’re right,” she said, her anger either dissipated or buried; John didn’t know which. “John, could I ask a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Would you go down and meet Agent Thorne and Adam when they get here and explain what’s going to happen? He’s going to be freaked out, being picked up at home and brought here.” She glanced at Peterson. “I wish you’d have told me; I would have talked to him.”
“I don’t think he would have talked to you,” John said, and her attention snapped back to him. Her eyes widened, not in anger but surprise and something more. Disappointment? Hurt? “After the incident with the lilies, I think Adam is a little intimidated.”
Hurt. Definitely hurt in her stormy eyes. She nodded and turned away, but not before he saw the glistening of tears.
“I’ll talk to him,” John assured her and left the room.
Rowan stared at the thick file folder, her heart pounding so loudly she thought for sure Quinn and Tess would be able to hear it. She was so scared, but she wouldn’t admit it. Not now.
“I never knew,” Quinn said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged, worried if she spoke her voice would quiver. “Miranda knew, didn’t she?”
Rowan nodded and let out a long breath. “Most of it. The first week we were at the academy, Miranda, Olivia, and I talked about why we wanted to become agents. We were drinking margaritas. I rarely drink.” She almost smiled, remembering how good it felt to find two women who understood her. “I’d never talked about it before, not even to Roger. Roger didn’t want to talk about it, I don’t think. It was over and I needed to move on. I—well, I had some issues back then.”
“That’s not surprising.”
She waved off his comment and sat down at the table, not looking at the file across from her. She’d have to go through it, but needed a minute. She glanced at Tess, who still appeared to be working on something, but Rowan sensed she had an ear cocked toward their conversation. What did it matter? The truth was going to come out anyway. It was just as well. It wasn’t like Tess could hate her any more than she already did.
“Miranda had been upfront with us from day one. That’s one of the things I love about her.”
Rowan looked up at Quinn who stood with crossed arms and a tight jaw, his dark eyes unreadable. Did he feel guilt or anger over what happened with Miranda at Quantico? Rowan wished she could ask, but Quinn would accuse her of evading.
“Anyway,” she continued, “we were drinking and Miranda asked us why we were there. It just came out.” Rowan paused. Even after telling John everything, it was still hard to talk about what happened that night.
“Why did you want to be an agent? Because of Roger?”
“Partly. He saved my life. Not physically, but psychologically. He gave me focus. He cares so much about justice.”
“So do you.”
“Yes, I care. But he wants to punish criminals. I want to avenge the victims.” She paused. The difference was so subtle, she didn’t know how to explain it.
“I never understood how my father could kill my mother,” she said. “Even with the repeated physical abuse, I never thought—I mean, I really thought he loved her in his own warped way. But I was a kid, I didn’t know any better. I know now after years of psychology and criminology classes that domestic violence isn’t love. But I had to try to find out why my father lost his mind. How Bobby could be so cruel. If I knew why, I could be a better agent. I could better fight for the victims if I understood their attackers.”
“Did you find the answers you sought?”
“No. Every criminal I interviewed I asked why. I never got an answer I understood.”
“Maybe because you’re not a killer.”
No, I’m not a killer. My father is. My brother was. Not me. Not yet.
She stared at the file, dreading what was inside, knowing the pictures and reports would hurt and bring back memories she’d tried to keep buried. She couldn’t run anymore. She had to do it. To stop the insanity.
She opened the file.
The documents, either printed from the computer archives or faxed from Roger, were in little semblance of order. The first page was the original police report. Multiple homicide. The victims were listed by name, age, location, and apparent cause of death.
Elizabeth Regina MacIntosh, 46, white female, found in kitchen. Multiple stab wounds, deceased.
Melanie Regina MacIntosh, 17, white female, found in entry. Stabbed multiple times, deceased.
Rachel Suzanne MacIntosh, 15, white female, found in entry. Stabbed multiple times, deceased.
Danielle Anne MacIntosh, 4, white female, found in master bedroom. Shot once in chest with 9mm handgun, decease
d.
Rowan took a deep breath. She felt like a child again. Saw her mother’s dead and bloody body. Watched her sisters die. Ran with Peter and Dani to the closet.
But Bobby came after them.
Turning the page, she saw her father’s commitment papers. She’d read them so many times before she had them memorized, so quickly turned the page.
Bobby’s arrest.
Suspect in multiple homicide escaped through second story window and was pursued to the corner of Crestline Drive and Bridgeview Court where he was apprehended without further incident. Read Miranda warning and suspect asked for an attorney.
His description was listed in clinical terms. Robert William MacIntosh, Junior, 18. Blond hair, blue eyes, six feet one inch, 170 lbs. No distinguishing marks. No tattoos. No piercings.
Bobby looked like a nice guy, but Rowan knew the truth about him. She’d known forever that Bobby was evil. Thank God he was dead.
Yet from the grave he’d pursued her. In her nightmares. In her choice of career, both to join the FBI and ultimately to quit the FBI. He’d been controlling her life since the beginning, more now that he was dead than he ever could when he was alive. How could she not see it? How could she have lived for so long under his evil shadow and not seen how much he still controlled her?
Now she knew. She wouldn’t let him do it any longer.
She turned the page.
“You okay, Ro?” Quinn asked quietly as he slid a glass of water in front of her.
She nodded and gratefully accepted the drink. She sipped, the cool liquid soothing her raw throat. Quinn stood behind her like a soldier. She felt his gaze boring into her back. She heard the click-click-click of Tess on the computer. Pause. Click-click-click. It’d be annoying if it weren’t so rhythmic.
She turned another page.
Photos.
She carefully put the glass down, afraid her shaking hand would spill water on the file. The kitchen. Mama wasn’t in it, but she saw the starkness of the black-and-white imagery, the blood-spattered walls, the overturned chair. Some artists chose black and white because its impact was far more powerful than color. There was nothing to compare with blood in stark gray. You expected it to be red in color; you didn’t realize it had such depth until the color was leeched from the image.
The Prey Page 20
