“It’s a curious world,” T.J. said.
Rook laughed in spite of himself. Nothing ruffled T. J. Kowalski. When he pulled into Rook’s driveway, T.J. shook his head. “Another thirty grand, and this place will look like a hard-ass FBI agent lives here instead of a sweet little old grandmother.”
“Shut up, Kowalski.”
“Used to stop here for homemade cookies after school, didn’t you?”
“I’m armed.”
But what T.J. said was true. Rook had grown up within walking distance of his grandmother’s house, and as a kid he’d stop by for cookies, to help her with chores, to tell her his tales from school. When he joined the FBI, he’d never expected to end up back in Washington, living in his old neighborhood—the Rook neighborhood. His seven years in Florida had given him distance from his tight-knit family, provided a perspective he’d never have if he’d stayed. When his grandmother died, he’d intended to fix up the house and sell it, but once he’d started working on it, he’d found himself staying. He added skylights on the stairs and in the kitchen, stripped the carpet to reveal hardwood floors. It was looking less grandmotherly, but the dogwoods and bird feeders in the garden still reminded him of her.
She knew he’d go into law enforcement. It was the Rook destiny. He couldn’t see himself switching careers the way Mackenzie had, after all she’d invested toward earning her doctorate.
He noticed his nephew’s car in the driveway. The kid was a casualty—with any luck a temporary one—in the ongoing battle between Scott Rook and his wife. To please one, he had to disappoint the other. To please them both was impossible—and not, they knew at some level, Brian’s responsibility. They loved their oldest son more than life itself, but every day, they woke up thinking about how they could motivate him, focus him.
“I saw the sketch of this guy with the knife,” T.J. said. “He could be anybody. If the police up in New Hampshire think he’s a deranged hiker who slashes women for kicks, who am I to argue?”
“I don’t like coincidences.”
“Life is full of them. I asked around about Deputy Stewart. Word is she’s cute as a button, smart as a whip and could kick your ass—provided she got half a chance. She’s hard on herself. Her fellow marshals are protective of her, which she hates, and word’s getting around that some FBI asshole broke her heart.” T.J. looked over at Rook. “That would be you. I could get good money for turning over your name.”
“I didn’t break her heart. We only went out a few times.”
“One of them was dinner here.”
“Almost. That’s the date I canceled.”
“There’s discipline for you. If it’d been me, I’d have had dinner first, then dumped her.”
“I’m not talking to you about Mackenzie anymore. It’s Harris I’m after.” Rook shoved open the car door and got his bag from in back. “Harris is a bitter, entitled old man who drinks too much, T.J., and I don’t know if he’s on the level or spinning bullshit. If he’s on to something—”
“Then he needs to start talking and stop with the bullshit. He’s a smart man. If he’s serious, he’ll know telling us what’s going on is his only option. Ten to one he got cold feet and bailed on us.”
“I hope so.”
Rook shut the door and headed inside, straight upstairs to the computer room. His nephew barely looked up from the flat screen. “I’ll be off in a sec.”
“You have to work tomorrow?”
“I gave my notice, and my boss said not to bother to come in.”
“You gave your notice? Why?”
“I don’t like to work weekends.”
Rook kept his irritation to himself. It was the second job of the summer Brian had quit—a retail job with irregular hours. His mother had wanted him to study abroad over the summer. His father had wanted him to get a job and at least pay for his car insurance. But Brian had flunked out of college instead.
“Put in any applications?”
“Nah.” Brian tapped on the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m going to work anymore this summer.”
“That must mean you’ve decided to go to college this fall, after all.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”
“You’ll need to get applications in.” When his nephew didn’t respond, Rook sighed. “Brian…”
The kid looked up at him. His features were so like his father’s, but he didn’t have Scott Rook’s self-discipline and hard edge. “If I take the year off to work, I can afford not to work for a few weeks now.”
The logic in that statement was typical Brian. “We can talk about it tomorrow,” Rook muttered.
“Yeah. Okay. How was New Hampshire?”
“You’d have hated it. No computers, no cell phone service—I didn’t even bring an iPod with me.”
The kid grinned awkwardly. “What’d you do, listen to the mosquitoes buzz in your ear?”
“Loons,” Rook said.
His nephew gave a mock shudder. “Even worse.”
Fourteen
Jesse loved to fly, especially alone. All his problems fell away. He felt free in the air, unencumbered by his obsessions. He was apart from the world. There was no past or future, only now. As he looked down at the sprawl of greater Baltimore and Washington, D.C., he welcomed the sense of superiority and peace that overcame him.
He’d gotten out of New Hampshire without so much as a second glance from the couple at the bed-and-breakfast, the other guests, the people at the airport.
The police had no idea where their perpetrator was, who he was. Nothing. Their sketch didn’t look anything like the upscale hiker he’d become after the organic farmer had dropped him off.
Jesse had spent Saturday and Sunday roaming the famous Presidential Range, its peaks named after U.S. presidents—Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Adams, Monroe. At night, he’d regaled his hosts with stories of his mishaps, his fascination and appreciation of the White Mountains. There was no way—none—that they’d think he was the fugitive slasher.
Today—Monday—he had slept late, focusing on the work that lay ahead. It was midday now. His time in the mountains had helped center him. He’d thought about Mackenzie Stewart a lot. And Cal. That corrupt bastard must be beside himself at this point, wondering where Jesse was, debating whether he’d call from Mexico in surrender, turn up in Washington again or just disappear.
Disappear.
Just keep flying. Refuel, continue on to the Caribbean.
Start over.
But he didn’t want to start over. He had a life in western Mexico—a home in Cabo San Lucas, on the tip of the Baja Peninsula, with stunning views of the Sea of Cortes. It was everything he wanted. There, he was a successful American business consultant, with no ties to New Hampshire or Washington, D.C.
Cal and Harris had found out about Cabo.
Jesse knew he couldn’t go back without dealing with their treachery. He’d had to stretch his finances to buy his Mexican dream house. He needed the million he was due, but he could find a way to replenish his accounts if he refused to cave in to Cal’s demands. He had been putting together deals since his parents ran him out of the house.
He’d learned the hard way to rely on no one, trust no one, but himself.
If he kept on going now—if he didn’t dig back into the lives below him—he would have to give up Cabo. With no control over his own identity, Jesse couldn’t trust Cal Benton to hold up his end of the deal—to send the money and keep quiet.
Never.
And with that idiot Harris sneaking off to the FBI, Jesse wasn’t willing to risk having Cal’s “insurance policy” end up in the feds’ hands.
He had two choices. Disappear and rebuild his life from scratch. Establish a new identity. Find a spot that he loved as much as Cabo. Give in to blackmail and thievery.
Or…not.
He was the one who turned other people’s lives into nightmares. People paid him to go away. Cal and Harris had turned the table
s on him, threatening to become his nightmare. Jesse drove a hard bargain, but if they had cooperated and kept up their end, he’d be back in Cabo by now, investing his profits and enjoying his life.
Leaving behind the money those two weasels had stolen from him was possible but not desirable. It would be annoying to have to replace it. Very annoying. But he could. There were always people with secrets who would pay not to have them exposed to the world.
Jesse had secrets of his own. Cal and Harris hadn’t unearthed all of them.
It was almost as if they’d ripped out his soul and were holding it hostage. How could he just leave now, without putting things right? He wasn’t going to return to Cabo and look over his shoulder for the foreseeable future. He had no intention of giving up his life there out of fear of what they had squirreled away on him.
On the other hand, if they hadn’t betrayed him, he never would have seen Mackenzie Stewart. He never would have attacked her.
That’s changed everything, hasn’t it?
A silver lining in his dark cloud. How could he just fly away without seeing his redheaded girl marshal again?
A sudden bump from a shift in air pressure brought him back to the present. Flying required concentration. It anchored him. He couldn’t let his thoughts drift for very long or he’d crash.
A simple enough equation.
He landed at a small, private airstrip northwest of Baltimore. Another rented BMW awaited him. As he disembarked from his plane, Jesse visualized Deputy Mackenzie. She was self-reliant, too. Her ability to fight, her gritty determination and her work as a federal agent were incongruous with her delicate appearance and soft, heart-melting eyes.
She didn’t belong in the violent world she’d chosen. Jesse wasn’t at all sure that he approved.
He caught his reflection in the side mirror of the BMW. He didn’t appear hunted or out of control. It was a steamy, hazy Monday afternoon in the Washington area, and he looked good in his expensive, casual clothes. Nothing of the deranged mountain man remained.
Within the hour, he unlocked the door to the expensive condominium he’d leased in the same complex where Cal Benton had bought his post-divorce home. Cal’s condo was one floor below. But of course, he had no idea who his upstairs neighbor was.
Using his cell phone, Jesse dialed Bernadette Peacham’s number in New Hampshire. He knew it by heart, because he was a planner. He doubted she had caller ID, but it wouldn’t have mattered—his was a private number.
“Hello.”
Mackenzie. His throat tightened. He pictured her, her big blue eyes staring out at the beautiful lake. Was she healed enough to wear her gun? It was wrong, her and guns. So wrong.
He heard her inhale.
“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong number.”
He hung up and looked out at the Potomac River, calm and still in the hot afternoon sunlight. He was no longer a knife-wielding lowlife. He was a wealthy Washington consultant home from an important meeting.
His transformation was complete.
Fifteen
Mackenzie pulled her backpack out of the small plane’s overhead compartment and slung it over her right shoulder. The tight quarters and the rough skies had jostled her just enough to make her feel every millimeter of her wound, but she’d resisted reaching for pain medication. She hadn’t taken any since Saturday. It was late Tuesday now, four days since the attack that had slit open her left side.
Four frustrating days, she thought as she disembarked, trying not to look too grouchy in front of the flight attendant, pilots and her fellow passengers.
Time to return to her ghosts, fall into her own bed and get back to work in the morning. Her attacker’s trail was stone-cold dead. The search teams hadn’t turned up any evidence of his identity or whereabouts in the mountains, and prints the police got off his knife didn’t match anyone in the system. Mackenzie had done what she could to help with the search, but she’d been too optimistic about diving right back into work.
She melted into the line exiting the Jetway. Her side ached, but as much as she wanted to go straight home, she had one stop to make first.
Bernadette Peacham had asked to see her.
A taxi was in order tonight, Mackenzie thought as she made her way into the crowded terminal. She could have called any number of people for a ride, but she’d kept her flight arrangements to herself. She was bedraggled and wobbly. If she had a good night’s sleep, she was confident she could be her usual kick-ass self by morning.
But as she stopped to figure out which way to turn to reach the terminal exit, Andrew Rook eased in next to her, catching her totally by surprise. He was in jeans and a lightweight jacket, and he was heart-stoppingly sexy, looking neither bedraggled nor wobbly.
“Allow me.” He took Mackenzie’s backpack from her shoulder. “All those pink swimsuits and dolphin towels get heavy, don’t they?”
“Rook, if you told anyone it was a pink suit—”
“I didn’t have to.”
“It’s all over Washington, isn’t it?”
“The suit. Not as many people know about the dolphin towel.”
Small comfort, she thought. “What are you doing here? How did you find out what flight I was on?” She stopped herself and sighed. “Damn FBI.”
He smiled. “We aim to please.”
Although he was dressed casually, it was a Washington crowd at Reagan National Airport. Anyone paying attention would peg him as an FBI agent. That she hadn’t the night they’d met still stuck in Mackenzie’s craw. No one would see her and think, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Certainly not tonight, with her hair yanked back in a loose ponytail and her baggy, casual attire covering up her bandages for the flight. She had dark circles under her eyes from pain and four nights of near sleeplessness as she’d tried to figure out who her attacker was, and rehashed all she’d done wrong.
Free of the backpack, she picked up her pace and said good-naturedly, “I liked you better when I thought you worked for the IRS.”
He ignored her. “My car’s in the parking garage. Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?”
“Since you have zero sense of humor, I assume you’re serious. No, I do not want you to get me a wheelchair. If you want to do something for me, flag me a cab.”
“Not a chance, Deputy.” He glanced at her, his eyes darker than usual. “If I let you take a taxi and you tripped in the dark and loosened a couple of stitches, I’d be in big trouble.”
She stopped abruptly. “Who put you up to this? Gus? Did he call and tell you I was on the way?”
“I called him.”
“Why?”
“To check on you.”
Her mouth snapped shut, and she resumed walking, telling herself not to expend any energy trying to figure out Special Agent Rook. “Maybe that was your cover story with Gus, but you have an agenda that has nothing to do with my health and well-being.”
With his free hand, Rook dug his car keys out of his jacket pocket. “Were you this cynical when you were a college professor?”
“Instructor. I was never a professor. And I’m not cynical. I’m realistic.”
When they reached his car, Mackenzie was out of breath, which irritated her. But four days of a downsized workout or none at all had taken its toll. She’d get up early and do some kind of exercise before she went into work, stitches or no stitches.
Rook tossed her pack onto the backseat of his car. “If it’s any consolation, Gus didn’t suggest I pick you up. He said if I did, I should treat you right.”
“He raised two nieces—he has a good eye for men like you.”
“Men like me? Carine’s married to a pararescueman. Antonia’s married to a U.S. senator and former rescue helicopter pilot.”
Mackenzie frowned at him. “You’ve done your research. Do you know Antonia? She lives in Washington.”
“I think she might have checked me out for a concussion once.”
Mackenzie wasn’t sure what to believe. Antonia, the middle Winter s
ibling, was an emergency room physician. She and her husband, Hank Callahan, the junior senator from Massachusetts, had invited Mackenzie to their house in Georgetown twice since her arrival in Washington. Had Rook checked out all the Winters because of his investigation? Because of the attack? Because of her?
“I’m in good company, if you ask me,” Rook added. “And Nate’s a decent guy—”
“Thanks to Gus, or so he’d say.”
“You stayed at his house after I left?”
She nodded. “Just at night. It was easier than having him on my case or, worse, insisting on staying up at Beanie’s with me. He’s a fabulous cook. That helped.”
“They treat you like one of the family.”
“But I’m not,” she said, stepping past him to the passenger door. “I have both my parents.”
Rook pulled open the door for her. “You were a hellion as a kid, pretty much on your own after your father was hurt. Your sense of humor and red hair and cute freckles must have kept you from getting throttled on a regular basis.”
She hustled in front of him and got in the car. “You have been talking to Gus.” She looked up at Rook, who might have been grinning, but it was difficult to tell in the dark. “Were you questioning him as part of your investigation?”
Without answering, Rook shut the door and walked around to the other side of the car.
When he got behind the wheel, Mackenzie, eyes focused straight ahead, said, “I have one stop to make.”
“Mac—”
“Bernadette summoned me to see her. She’s not someone easily put off. It’s up to you whether or not you want to drive me there.”
She thought she saw the muscles in his forearm tense as he stuck the key in the ignition. “It’s not a problem.”
“She lives off Embassy Row.”
“I know where she lives.”
Mackenzie sank back into the comfortable seat. “Of course you do.”
Bernadette Peacham’s elegant 1920s house on a quiet street off Massachusetts Avenue always made Mackenzie think of garden parties with its ivy-covered brick and lush landscaping. Rook parked under a massive oak, and when she climbed out of the car, the humidity almost took her breath away. The night air and massive shade trees hadn’t cut the stifling heat.
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