The Prey (11 page)

Milt used his security pass to open a door at the far end of the courtyard. Both he and Roger had to sign in with the guard, and then they proceeded down a wide, white hallway, through two more secure doors, until they reached the entrance to Robert MacIntosh’s room.

“Are you sure you don’t trust me on this?”

“I trust you, Milt, but I have to see him myself.”

Milt nodded, then unlocked the door with a key.

Robert MacIntosh sat in a chair facing a wide, barred window that looked out at the courtyard they had just walked through. It was nearly dark, but by the vacant look in his blue eyes, Roger didn’t think MacIntosh knew or cared. He pulled a chair in front of MacIntosh and stared at him, wanting to see something, anything other than the vacuous expression he remembered.

Roger didn’t believe most people were insane when they committed heinous crimes; by all public accounts Robert MacIntosh had been normal twenty-three years ago. What had caused him to break? What had severed the thin thread of sanity? Had he been insane when he killed his wife, or had her brutal murder emptied his mind to join his hollow soul?

It wasn’t fair. He’d wanted to prosecute this bastard more than any other murderer he’d faced in his thirty-five years with the FBI. And MacIntosh had not spoken one word since he was found, sitting next to the shredded body of his dead wife, her blood coating him and the kitchen where she died.

“You bastard,” he whispered.

Milt, the doctor, cleared his throat.

Roger searched Robert MacIntosh’s unseeing eyes, finding nothing human, nothing alive in their depths. Living on the public dole at the cost of more than a hundred thousand a year, this hollow shell of a man should have been shot on sight when the first police officer arrived at the Boston death house.

He stood. “Has anyone been to see him recently?”

Milt blinked. “Actually, yes.”

“I need to see the security logs.”

An hour later, Roger left with copies of visitor logs from May 10 and September 23 of last year, and the promise that Milt would order up the security tapes from those days and send them to FBI headquarters immediately.

In twenty-three years, no one had visited Robert MacIntosh until last year, when Bob Smith came in twice.

Who the hell was Bob Smith?

Rowan woke early with another pounding headache. She reached under her pillow and pulled out her Glock, pausing as she stared at it. She almost didn’t remember switching her gun’s storage spot from her nightstand to her pillow.

She didn’t bother to change—she’d slept in sweats and a T-shirt. She simply pulled her arms out of the sleeves and slipped on a sports bra, then pushed her arms through again. It was a trick her few lovers admired, which should have told her they were too easily impressed.

She went into the bathroom and brushed her hair, pulling it into a hasty ponytail for her morning run. She tried to avoid the hollow-eyed woman in the mirror, but couldn’t.

She’d never paid attention to her looks. Her ex-boyfriend Eric Hamilton had told her she was beautiful, like a sculpted goddess. She brushed off his compliment as a line, not interested in a man who paid more attention to her looks than her brain. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in relationships. Before Eric, she’d been involved with a few men, none of them in the Bureau, none of them serious. Sex and coffee, nothing more.

How could she get close to anyone when everyone she loved died? How could she share her past when she couldn’t even think about it, except in nightmares?

Her relationship with Eric had been as close to a real one as she’d ever had, and look how pathetic that had turned out. He demanded everything from her, but still couldn’t see her for what she was. Damaged. With Eric she played a part, the role of the cool, dedicated, smart FBI agent who wasn’t afraid to confront bad guys in a dark alley. With Eric she was hot in bed, but cold in conversation. She knew it but couldn’t change it. Didn’t know if she wanted to even make the effort.

He’d asked her to move in with him. She had refused. She couldn’t give up her independence, her privacy, her
home
. The life she had painstakingly built couldn’t be merged with that of someone who didn’t understand death and dying.

Eric was a good agent. He was smart, cocky, competent. But Rowan never felt that he tried to understand
her
. He mainly wanted her because she seemed unattainable; when she wasn’t what he thought, or anyone he could mold, he sought comfort elsewhere.

And his betrayal was a relief.

In hindsight, she should have listened to Olivia. When she lived in Washington, before the Franklin murders, she and Eric had often gone out with Liv and her now ex-husband. Neither Liv nor Greg had liked Eric much. That should have told her something.

Rowan shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the past. After brushing her teeth and drinking a cup of tepid water, she went downstairs to fetch Michael from the guest room.

She was about to knock on his door when a voice from the far end of the hall said, “Good morning.”

She turned to face Michael’s brother, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, steaming cup of coffee in hand.

He looked a little like Michael, but his green eyes were darker, his hair shorter, his body leaner. Rowan felt a not-too-familiar flutter in her stomach, confusing her. He was attractive, but it wasn’t as if she let her hormones dictate her life. She swallowed, startled by her reaction. He was too damn sexy for his own good, and he knew it.

John Flynn was an operative. She could tell by his oh-so-casual stance. Under the seemingly at-ease posture was a man rippling with energy, exuding strength and cocky self-confidence without even trying. He wasn’t as big and muscular as his brother, but Rowan knew who she’d bet on in a fight—John would win hands down.

He was dangerous. His ostensibly innocent gaze probed her inner soul. He searched for the motivation that made her tick, the mechanism that made her an agent who’d quit, who wrote, who’d attracted the attention of a serial killer.

Michael Flynn was more easily led. She could control his questions, lead him away from going too deep into her psyche. Keep the relationship professional. Straightforward.

But not John. He would not be led, stymied, or satisfied with the short answer. He was a threat. To her soul.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, walking down the hall to face him.

“Thought Mickey could use a little backup. He’s been 24/7 the past few days.”

She nodded toward the coffee. “Seems you’ve made yourself at home.”

He smiled, revealing a solitary dimple that would have been endearing if he wasn’t such a danger to her privacy. “You have good stuff. Real coffee beans. I like that.”

She brushed past him, trying to ignore the jolt of awareness tingling across her flesh when she touched his arm. To avoid looking at him, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She sipped, then put the mug down. Damn, his blank-faced stare made her nervous. “I’m going for a run.”

He’d turned around in the doorway, but otherwise hadn’t moved. “Are you?”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Any other person would have feared her anger, but he only looked amused. That pissed her off. “Maybe I should wake Michael. Perhaps you can’t keep up.”

Annoyance flashed in his eyes, then the shield came down. So, Rowan thought, he was competitive. Well, so was she.

He approached her, stopping only inches from her face. She didn’t flinch, but stared at him with an expression she deliberately kept blank.

“Who’s Danny?”

She sucked in her next breath and held it, the fear of hyperventilating real. She slowly released the air and took a step toward him, shaking with anger and pain. She tilted her head up an inch from him and whispered, “Fuck you.”

She started past him but he grabbed her arm. She pulled her gun and held it to his head. “Let. Go.” No one,
no one
, grabbed her unless she wanted him to.

They stared at each other for a long minute before John released her. “You will tell me,” he said with complete confidence. A tic in his neck told her he was angry.

She put her gun down, glad she had pissed him off. She hated him. He was a threat to everything she’d painstakingly built over the last twenty-three years. It was as if he could read her mind, see her soul. Dammit, she didn’t need this! On top of everything else, she didn’t need this confusion, this man who seemed to look at her and know everything about her.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t know her, know her past, know her thoughts. That was ridiculous, she told herself as she turned toward the side door.

“Dani has nothing to do with this. It was a case closed long ago. Roger promised me the Franklin files would be here today, and after the brunette pigtails—” her voice cracked and she mentally berated herself. “It’s another connection to the Franklin case.”

She didn’t, couldn’t look at him. She’d already said more than she intended. How did he make her do that? She couldn’t remember saying Dani’s name out loud for years. A virtual lifetime.

“Wait,” John said, lightly laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go first.”

She hated being the protected woman, but allowed John to leave the house, check the perimeter, and come back. “Clear. Where are you running?”

“Beach,” was all she said.

He nodded. “I like the water, too.”

“Navy?”

“Army.”

She cocked her head. “You’re no Army boy. Unless—you were with Delta.” She made the statement as if she knew it was fact.

He raised an eyebrow. “I was.”

She smiled as if she were in on a joke he wasn’t. “Ten miles,” she said and walked out the door.

She set the pace and John stayed a half-length behind her. Instantly, she knew John was far more experienced than his brother. When Michael ran with her, he watched her. John didn’t. He watched the beach, the ocean, the houses. Constantly looking for a sniper, a small boat, a low-flying plane.

Much like her.

Two peas in a pod, she realized as she started the final lap. With Michael, she’d run the beach twice. With John, she ran it three times. She wasn’t going to cut him any slack and suspected he wouldn’t appreciate it if she did.

She tried to forget him as they ran, but it proved impossible. John’s presence overpowered her, and she couldn’t focus on self-preservation. He’d brought up Dani and wouldn’t be as easily put off as Michael.

Michael. She felt a pang of guilt. He’d wanted to kiss her yesterday, and she couldn’t return those feelings. He was kind, smart, attractive—but she didn’t feel the pull. She’d learned to care for him in these few short days, but not in the way he seemed to want.

She cared for him like she cared for Peter. Like a brother.

John would not be put off for long by her refusal to talk, even though there was nothing in her childhood or Dani’s murder that had anything to do with what was happening today. Everyone involved back then was dead. Except her. And Peter. Even Roger agreed it was foolish to bring it up.

But John would probably call in every favor in Washington to find out what made Rowan Smith tick. And she would have to do everything she could to stop him from getting the answers he wanted. If it all came out, she didn’t know if she could rebuild her life again. Already, her past threatened her present. She had to make it stop, but didn’t know how.

As she rounded the far side of the beach, her lungs burned, her skin tingled, and her hair whipped her face as the ocean breeze slapped her cheek. She never felt so alive as she did when she ran. Especially here, by the ocean. If she didn’t love her cabin in the woods so much she’d consider moving to the coast.

She dismissed that thought as soon as it popped into her mind. Too many people. And she hated the house she leased—too bright, too white, too open.

But the beach: She could be at peace here. She’d been told that up the coast, north of San Francisco, there were some secluded oceanfront homes. Too cold to swim, but she didn’t need to swim. She just needed the stinging salt air, the vast churning ocean, the flat wet beach. The colder the better. Being cold meant being alive.

She’d started up the wooden stairs that led from the beach to the deck of her house when John reached out and grabbed her arm, spinning her around. They stood face-to-face, she one step above him.

John breathed hard, which pleased Rowan. So did she, but she hadn’t slowed during the entire run. Endurance was key.

A thin layer of perspiration affixed his T-shirt to his chest, outlining every subtle, well-toned muscle. His face was blank, but his dark green eyes flashed. Anger? Frustration?

Longing?

She blinked, and the sensation was gone. John frowned at her, and she noticed his lips—full, kissable lips. His entire face spoke of subtle masculinity, a man comfortable with himself, a man who knew his place in the world—and it wasn’t at the bottom. A dimple dented his otherwise square jaw, and he hadn’t shaved. His whiskers were damn sexy.

She turned her eyes to his again and wished she hadn’t. Again, she sensed he saw her innermost thoughts.

She involuntarily swallowed.

“You think you’re in control,” he said, voice low and gruff, as rough as the stubble on his cheeks. He leaned forward, his chest still heaving from their ten-mile run. “I will find out what you’re hiding. And dammit, Rowan, if it’s some stupid FBI game that’s going to get my family hurt, you’ll pay.”

Rowan kept her face blank, but felt the steam of anger and fear rise with her words. “None of my secrets have anything to do with this.” As she said it, she feared she was wrong. How else did the murderer know about the pigtails?

Coincidence. Had to be.

That was why she’d quit after the Franklin murders. Those damn pigtails haunted her sleep. She couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t investigate a crime that had hit too close to home. Couldn’t be impartial. So she’d left.

John’s eyes narrowed, and Rowan averted her head to escape his gaze. His hand shot out and held her in place. She karate-chopped his arm and he winced, loosening his hold just enough so she could jerk her arm away from him. “Don’t touch me,” she said through clenched teeth.