Then his father did the unforgivable. He took her hands, got down on his knees, and said he was sorry.
Sorry!
He’d kissed her hands, begged her forgiveness, tears streaming down his face. He was crying. The rage Bobby felt then was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced. Seeing his father cowering in front of a stupid female, on his knees no less, turned something in his gut from anger to raw rage.
He’d gone into the house, unable to watch the spectacle, as his mother got on her knees and kissed him. I know, honey, I know. I’m sorry, too.
They both deserved to die.
Something rubbed against his feet and he looked down to see the puppy his father had brought home for the family two weeks before. It looked at him with such pathetic brown eyes Bobby wanted to kick it across the room.
Instead, he picked the mutt up and left the house.
No one ever saw that stupid dog again.
Bobby shook his head, looked around. He wasn’t fourteen and at home. He was in the middle of a stupid bookstore, waiting. Where was the blonde?
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes! He fidgeted.
He crossed over to one of the counters and cut in front of the line. “I was waiting to find out about Crime of Jeopardy. It was supposed to be here today. Do I have to find another store to buy it?”
The skinny boy behind the counter looked at him oddly, and the little blonde girl hurried up to him. Why did everyone have to be so young?
“I’m sorry, sir, but the shipment hasn’t come in. My manager says that it was postponed and won’t be here for at least a week, maybe longer. Can I help you find anything else?”
Postponed? Why? Was it accidental—or on purpose? Did the cops think that if he didn’t have the book he wouldn’t complete his mission?
Fools. He’d show them he was smarter than all of them.
He stormed out of the store without another word. Maybe this was meant to be. Yeah. Leave her own copy of the stupid book on the whore’s body. He’d already targeted the prostitute.
Sadie.
If they thought they could beat him, they were sorely mistaken. As soon as the whore was dead, he’d confront Rowan. Lily.
Almost sad that the game was ending, he went back to his hotel room to finish the preparations.
CHAPTER
19
Boston was unseasonably cold. Instead of a light breeze, blooming trees, and clear skies, everything had a gray pallor; a frosty wetness quickly penetrated layers of clothing, sinking deep into the bones.
Neither John nor Rowan was dressed for Boston. They’d left sunny Los Angeles with the clothes on their back and bought only essentials in the hotel gift shop when they arrived in Dallas. But they both forked over money for overpriced clothes at Logan Airport, including sweaters and windbreakers.
Rowan hadn’t spoken much on the flight or the car ride to Bellevue. John gave her the space she needed. But not too much. He kept an eye on her, staying close so she knew she wasn’t alone. He was her bodyguard, after all. And more.
But he didn’t dwell on that right now.
He didn’t know if he was helping, though every once in a while he caught her looking at him, an odd expression on her face.
He’d never had problems reading people before, but Rowan wasn’t just any person. She’d spent years shielding her emotions to protect herself. He saw that now. There was something in her eyes that called to him. Her eyes showed him her pain, her anger, her fear, her uncertainty. He also saw intelligence, hope, and strength—a vitality that kept her from giving in to despair, turning a ten-year-old trauma victim into an unrelenting FBI agent and an agent into an author. Even though Rowan believed she was weak, hammered with nightmares that caused her to quit the Bureau, he saw a woman who was smart enough to know when she needed a break. Before the job broke her.
She was stronger than him. John was still tilting at windmills, knowing that the biggest windmill—the so-called War on Drugs—was a losing battle. Every time they stopped a shipment, another twice as big came to shore.
But it was what he did. He couldn’t give up, at least while Reginald Pomera still drew breath.
Bellevue Hospital for the Criminally Insane looked serene against the misty gray sky. Roger drove, and Rowan sat next to him. Agent Peterson had taken a flight back to Los Angeles to coordinate the search for Bobby MacIntosh.
Even though John couldn’t see her face, he watched Rowan’s jaw clench and felt tension radiating from her entire body. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her she didn’t have to do this, that he would take her away from the pain.
But she wouldn’t appreciate it. Not now. Maybe later, when it was done, she’d want someone to lean on. He planned on being there for her.
“Rowan,” Roger said as he turned off the ignition, “are you sure?”
She didn’t respond, but shot him a cold look. As she moved to open the passenger door, John quickly jumped out the back and opened it for her. She seemed surprised, then sighed and allowed him to escort her to the main door.
Roger scrambled to follow them. He’d called ahead, and Dr. Christopher met them in the lobby.
“Collins,” the doctor said with a curt nod. Then, “You must be Rowan Smith.”
“I am.”
“I can only allow two visitors with Mr. MacIntosh. I need to be in the room to observe.”
“I’m her bodyguard,” John said as he stared pointedly at Collins.
“I’ll wait here,” Roger said, defeated. He’d screwed up big time, losing Rowan’s trust and respect. John almost felt sorry for him. Until he remembered Michael was dead.
John followed Dr. Christopher and Rowan down the wide corridor. Silence filled the halls, an eerie emptiness that surprised John. Shouldn’t there be orderlies milling around, nurses with medication, patients making demands? It was as if they were the only people alive in the complex, and it made John nervous.
“Where is everyone?” he finally asked when they went through a secure door and still no one had greeted them since their arrival in the lobby.
“We have minimal staff on this end,” Dr. Christopher said. “Our patients are on a strict schedule. They are not your typical mentally disturbed individuals. Everyone here is required to be by court order. Most will die here. The violent patients are in the north wing. That area has far more personnel and is much noisier than this wing. But every room, every hall, is monitored by security.” He gestured to cameras in every corner. “A trained and armed medical team can be anywhere in this facility in sixty seconds or less.”
Dr. Christopher stopped outside a wide door. Through the window, John saw the back of a skinny man sitting hunched in a chair facing a large plate-glass window that looked out onto lush greenery. He glanced at Rowan. She stared at her father, fear making her shake.
John cupped Rowan’s jaw, forcing her to look at him. He caught her eyes and held them. “You can do this, Rowan. I will be with you the whole time. He can only hurt you if you let him.”
“I’m ready.” Her voice was shaky but clear.
“Very well.” Dr. Christopher palmed his badge on the security panel and the door clicked open.
Mind numb, Rowan didn’t move to enter. All she saw was her father, but not here, not in this sterile, sparsely furnished room. She saw him drop a bloody knife and pick up his dead wife. Beth. Beth. What have I done?
“Rowan?”
John’s voice came from far away, at the end of a tunnel, basked in light. She faced him, wanting—needing—his strength. His dark green eyes held hers, sending her his vitality.
“Rowan, I’m right here,” he was saying.
She felt John squeeze her hand. She didn’t know if she’d reached for him, or he for her.
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t alone.
Rowan placed the only other chair in the room in front of her father. With a deep breath, she sat down and forced herself to look into his eyes.
He didn’t see her.
<
br /> His blue-gray eyes, so much like her own, stared vacantly beyond her. They didn’t see her, didn’t see anything. Her father was still gone, his body an empty shell, just as it was twenty-three years ago after he killed her mother.
“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice a croak. “It’s Lily.”
No recognition. No movement. Nothing but the blank stare.
She tried again. “Daddy, I know that Bobby came to visit you.”
Nothing.
Nothing! How could he sit there and not be in there somewhere? “Daddy, I need you!” Her voice rose. “Wake up, dammit!”
“Ms. Smith, he can hear just fine,” Dr. Christopher interjected. “His brain has stopped making connections between speech and thought.”
“What, he’s brain dead? In a coma?” she asked, incredulous.
“No, nothing like that. Though it’s more like a coma than anything else,” Dr. Christopher explained. “Your father’s condition is purely psychological, and technically a coma is caused by an internal or external injury to the brain. A car accident or a tumor, for example. Your father has a neuropsychological disorder, quite rare but there are several documented cases. Your father hears everything, but can’t understand it. He sees, but can’t process the images. He’s locked himself in his mind because of the trauma of the crime he committed. If he hadn’t, he likely would have committed suicide when he realized what he’d done. In all likelihood, if your brother hadn’t picked up the knife, your father would have used it on himself.”
Rowan listened to what the doctor said, but all she could think about was why? Why did her father kill his wife? Though her years of training reminded her that abusive husbands often killed, she still found it difficult to reconcile the abuse with murder, the violence with her parents.
She wanted to end that part of her life and start over. But as much as she’d become her own person, separate from her upbringing, she was so intricately tied to her father. Her mother. Her dead sisters.
Bobby.
“Why, Daddy?” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so young. “Why did you kill Mama?”
He blinked. She sensed rather than saw the doctor come to attention. No one said anything.
“I saw you, Daddy. I saw you stab Mama.”
“Beth.”
Rowan sucked in her breath. Her father had spoken her mother’s name.
Rowan looked like her mother. Only she and Bobby were fair-haired like her. She nodded. “Yes, Robert, I’m here.”
He blinked again. This time, a single tear ran down his cheek. Rowan watched as it hung off his jaw for a second, then fell onto his hands.
“Robert, I need your help.” He didn’t say anything, but Rowan continued. “Bobby came to visit you. He talked to you. What did he say?”
“Beth.”
This was impossible. She resisted the urge to reach out and slap her father. Instead, she said, “Robert, Lily needs your help. Bobby wants to hurt her. What did he tell you?”
Nothing.
She heard Dr. Christopher writing frantically and he passed her a note. Ask him why he killed you.
She closed her eyes. She could do this. She could. Tears stung the back of her eyes, her throat.
“Robert. Why did you kill me?”
He blinked and turned his eyes toward her. His expression wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t the empty stare he’d had when she first walked in.
Her heart beat so fast her chest stung. She kept her expression blank, firm. She would not break down. Not here. Not now.
“Bobby saw you with him again. I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t.”
Bobby. She stifled a cry and felt a hand on her shoulder. John. Sharing his strength. She took a deep breath.
“Bobby wants to hurt Lily. Please help me stop him.”
Her father shook his head very slowly back and forth. “Bobby killed our children, Beth. Lily’s dead.”
“No, no I’m not, Da—Robert. Lily is alive. Bobby is trying to kill her.”
His head rocked back and forth, very slowly. His voice was as petulant as a child’s. “She’s as good as dead. Bobby said so.”
Rowan wanted to scream, hit him, shake him until he started making sense.
She tried everything she could, but her father didn’t say another word. He sat there, staring at her with odd eyes, eyes that saw and didn’t see at the same time. His head moved back and forth, back and forth, until Rowan couldn’t take it anymore. She jumped up and ran to the door. It was locked; she couldn’t get out. She pounded her fist against the door. John was at her side, his arm around her shoulders. Dr. Christopher let them out.
The doctor was excited. “I never thought you’d visit, but you helped him make an incredible breakthrough. Incredible.” Dr. Christopher bounced on his heels. “Will you come again? We can work together to bring him out. For the first time, I think we might be able to reach him.”
Rowan stared at the doctor, her mouth dropping open, eyes wide. “Are you serious? I hope he rots in hell.”
The doctor frowned and blinked. “He’s mentally ill, Ms. Smith. He didn’t know what he was doing when he killed your mother.”
“I don’t believe that. I hope he’s suffering in the world he’s created for himself. He used to hit my mother. Hit her until she bruised and bled. She stayed because she said she loved him.” She laughed without humor. “And she’s dead. He killed her. I hope he burns hot when he finally dies.” She paused and stared at the doctor defiantly.
“I never thought there was a worse punishment than death. But maybe there is.”
“Are you okay?” John asked as they waited for a table in the hotel restaurant.
After leaving Bellevue, they went directly to the local FBI office where Collins had set up a temporary operations room to coordinate with Los Angeles and Washington. The number-one priority was to distribute Bobby MacIntosh’s photo to all airline security personnel in the country. After 9/11 there was a mechanism in place to do just that, but the success still relied on the competence of local officials.
After Rowan told Collins about what her father had said, she clammed up. John didn’t blame her. He’d want time alone after something like that. Now they were alone. Collins had retired to his room, though John didn’t think he’d be sleeping. Guilt was a powerful insomniac.
“I’m okay,” Rowan said.
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
She looked at him quizzically and John frowned. Didn’t she trust him? After everything they’d been through?
Yet he’d treated her like crap after Michael was killed on Friday.
Friday. It had been three nights—seventy-two hours since Michael was gunned down. And John was here eating dinner in a nice Boston restaurant with the woman Michael had half fallen in love with.
“John?” Rowan asked, concern in her voice.
He didn’t want to talk about Michael, but she had a right to know what he was thinking. “I don’t blame you for Michael’s death. Please believe me. I wasn’t myself, and I said some things I didn’t mean. I was out of line.”
She absorbed what he said and he watched her shake her head slightly. “You may not blame me, but that doesn’t make it any less my fault.”
“Rowan, you had no idea the killer was your brother. You had every reason to believe he was dead.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I can’t believe Roger kept this secret for so long.”
The hostess approached. “Your table is ready,” she said. “For three?”
John nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“Who are we waiting for? Not Roger. I—I can’t deal with him right now.”
“Not Roger. Peter.”
Her eyes widened in concern. “Peter? But he has to keep a low profile, what if—”
He put his finger to her lips. “Rowan, I got his number from Roger and called him. He wants to see you. I think it would be good for you, especially after today.”
“He has an FBI escort, if that makes you feel any better.”
“A little,” she admitted.
They sat at the table and Rowan kept turning her head to look for her brother.
She drew in a deep breath, a hitch in her voice. “John, I cared for Michael. I liked him. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”
“Stop.” His voice was harsher than he’d intended. “I don’t blame you, Rowan. You have to stop blaming yourself.”
He took a deep breath. His hands had become tight fists and he slowly flexed them, trying to ease the tension that had been building since Michael was killed. It was more his fault than anyone’s.
He didn’t want to yell at her, but he had to make her understand. “I’m just as responsible for Michael being there as you. I should never have taken him off that night. It was me being selfish and judgmental.” Damn, it hurt to say it out loud, but there it was.
“Who’s Jessica?”
John blinked, surprised at the change of subject. “A woman Michael was involved with.”
“I overheard you and Tess talking about me being another Jessica. What did you mean?”
John mulled that over. He couldn’t tell her everything without betraying Michael on some level, but he didn’t want to lie to her. Couldn’t lie to her. He opted for a sanitized version of the truth. “Michael was a cop and caught the case. Jessica’s ex-boyfriend was stalking her. Some badass junior Mafia goon. Michael helped her, continued to see her. Fell in love. It didn’t work out. Jessica went back to the guy, ended up dead.” He paused. “He has a thing for damsels in distress.”
“I’m hardly a damsel in distress.” She glanced down, and John couldn’t read her expression. It was hard enough with all her self-imposed barriers, but if he couldn’t see her eyes he didn’t know what she was thinking.
“No, but you’re a beautiful woman who needed someone to watch over her,” he said softly. He reached over and took her hand. “Rowan, I’m not going to get over Michael’s death anytime soon. It’s my fault he was alone. I didn’t think—no one thought—that Bobby would go after him.” He put his free hand up when she looked like she was going to interrupt him. “But,” he continued, “I’ll deal with it in my own time and my own way.”
The Prey Page 24
