The Prey Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Excerpt from The Prey

  Read on for a sneak peak at The Hunt

  On the hunt for more heart-racing suspense from Allison Brennan?

  Copyright Page

  To my mom

  You always had faith in me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I never really understood all that went into producing a book. I thought a writer wrote it, an editor edited it, and a publisher published it. There are multiple editors, copyeditors, cover designers, marketing professionals—dozens of hard-working people who all deserve to be acknowledged for their fine work.

  Everyone who had a hand in producing this book at Ballantine, thank you for making this process as easy as possible. Especially, Gina Centrello and Linda Marrow for being so enthusiastic; Charlotte Herscher for encouraging me to dig deeper; and Dana Isaacson for great advice on villains.

  Wally Lind and Rick Litts from crimescenewriters were invaluable, sharing their experience, expertise, and time, especially about the prison system. If I’ve made any technical errors, it was certainly not because of them.

  Trisha, you believed in me from the very beginning. Thank you for being a true friend.

  Jan, Sharon and Amy, thanks for being my first readers—I’d never have finished this book without you.

  Karin, Edie, Barbara, Michelle, Kathia & Michele for your constant support and encouragement.

  I’d never have realized my dream without my fabulous agent Kimberly Whalen, who really worked above and beyond the call to make everything come together . . . thank you for taking a chance on me.

  And of course my husband, Dan, and our kids need to be acknowledged for putting up with my late-night writing binges, quickie dinners, and messy house. You are my motivation. I love you.

  PROLOGUE

  He studied her from afar. Objectively, as a scientist might contemplate an interesting germ. Even at this distance, she was a beautiful woman.

  Long blonde hair pulled tightly back in a braid; aristocratic profile; small, sharp point for her nose. Her facial bones might be considered regal, though he thought them too angular. Her athletic body lean, quietly muscular. No one feature was soft.

  Except her eyes.

  They were covered behind dark John Lennon glasses, but he remembered they were the color of the sea, the blue-gray hue of the Atlantic Ocean on a clear day. Yes, her eyes were soft because they showed emotion, so she kept them hidden behind those hideous glasses. She wanted to be as hard as she appeared, but inside she was soft. Weak. Female.

  He’d see those eyes again one last time in the moments before he killed her. They would fill with fear; she would know the truth. Heart pounding hard in his chest, he now heard the blood rush to his head. Yes, when she knew the truth, he would be set free. He smiled.

  She thought he couldn’t touch her. Did she even think about him anymore? He didn’t know. But before the game played out, she would be thinking of him, fearing him, feeling his vengeance.

  Killing her wasn’t the beginning, and it certainly wouldn’t be the end. Many others deserved to die.

  But her death would be the most satisfying.

  Watching her, he noticed her hesitate as she opened the door of her black Mercedes coupe and looked around. His heart skipped a beat in excitement. Did she feel him? She couldn’t see him, and even if she did, would she remember? His was an average face, the face of anybody. She knew madness, but he wasn’t mad. She knew terror, but he wasn’t terrifying. Not now. He skillfully concealed his excitement, his anger, his rage.

  It was so much fun playing with her! A final look around; she stared right at him but couldn’t see him. She must have sensed something, though, because she quickly slid into her sporty car and started the ignition. Heart pounding, fists clenched, he envisioned seizing that long, slender neck and snapping it in two.

  No, I won’t break her neck. Too easy, too fast.

  Instead, I’ll squeeze it slowly. Put pressure on her windpipe. Watch as she turns blue. Then release it, give her a breath or two. Make her think she’s got a chance. That there’s hope.

  Then tighten up again.

  He would watch her eyes fill with recognition, fear, and faint hope with each breath he allowed. And finally, the awareness: no hope. Only death. And when those pale eyes looked into his own, she would know it was all her fault.

  She should have died years ago.

  He stared down the road long after her car disappeared from sight. Carefully, he put the binoculars back in their case.

  She wasn’t going anywhere; there was plenty of time to kill her. Walking down to his car, he glanced once again at her house before heading to the airport. There was much to do in the next twenty-four hours, but he’d be back in time to see her face when she was told what had been done.

  Time to begin.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Rowan Smith learned about Doreen Rodriguez’s murder from the reporters camped out in her front yard Monday morning.

  A car door slammed and she awoke with a start. Instinctively, she reached for the gun that was no longer under her pillow, searching the cool cotton sheet before remembering it was in her nightstand. Hesitating briefly, she retrieved the cold Glock. She couldn’t think of a good reason for needing her gun, but it felt right in her hand.

  She’d slept in sweatpants and a T-shirt, an old habit of being ready for anything, and padded down the stairs in bare feet to look out her den window and see who was visiting so early in the morning. The grating sound of a sliding van door shutting told her she had more than one visitor. She used her index finger to bend down the blinds a mere inch to peer out.

  She could tell from their rumpled attire and notepads they were print reporters. Television hounds were far more concerned with appearance. Three vans and two cars crammed the driveway of her leased beachfront home. She despised reporters. She’d had more than enough of them while working for the Bureau.

  The doorbell echoed, startling her. Though she could see the driveway from her den, she couldn’t see the door. Presumably one of the bolder reporters had summoned the courage to ring her doorbell.

  What did they want? She’d just given an interview about the premiere of Crime of Passion two days ago; surely they didn’t need a group session.

  She started for the door, then remembered she was carrying her gun. She imagined the headline: Paranoid Former Agent Armed for Interview. She slid the gun into the top drawer of her desk and briskly walked to the front door, barely registering the coolness of the tile under her bare feet.

  Her phone rang at the same time the doorbell repeated its obnoxious ding-dong. Great. Reporters coming at her from every direction. She’d dealt with them before; she’d have to again. It was only as she opened the door that she feared something bad had happened and that maybe she shouldn’t talk to them.

  Too late.

 
“Do you have a comment on the murder of Doreen Rodriguez?”

  “I don’t know Doreen Rodriguez,” she said automatically, even as alarm bells went off in the back of her head. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. A sick feeling ate at her gut as she tried to connect the dots. As she was shutting the door, another question rang clear:

  “You don’t know that a twenty-year-old woman named Doreen Rodriguez was killed in Denver Saturday night in the same manner as the character Doreen Rodriguez was murdered in your book Crime of Opportunity?”

  Rowan slammed the door shut. She didn’t fear reporters walking in uninvited; she’d have them arrested for trespassing without a qualm. She simply wanted the resounding finality of her “no comment” to ring loud and clear.

  The phone finally stopped ringing. Then, thirty seconds later, the incessant ring-ring started again. She ran back to her den and glanced at the caller ID: Annette. Her producer.

  Picking up the receiver she said, “What in the hell is going on?” She heard yet another car screech to a halt in her driveway.

  “You’ve heard.”

  “I have a bunch of reporters on my doorstep, more arriving as we speak.” She peered out the blinds again. Television van. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Something was very wrong.

  “I got the details from a reporter in Denver,” Annette said rapidly, emphasizing some of her words. “A twenty-year-old waitress named Doreen Rodriguez was killed Saturday night. They found her body yesterday in a Dumpster outside of, and I quote, ‘a small Italian café off South Broadway that could have been called quaint if not for the blood drying on the white brick façade.’ ”

  Rowan listened to the words she’d penned years ago. Rubbing her temple, she craved a cigarette for the first time since she’d quit the FBI four years ago. “This is some kind of sick joke.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rowan.”

  “Dear God, I don’t believe this is happening.” She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to absorb what Annette had told her. Her breath caught, and she placed a hand over her mouth. It had to be a coincidence. Some idiot reporter taking a violent crime and trying to sensationalize it by comparing it to one of her novels.

  The image of Doreen Rodriguez’s bloody, dismembered body flashed in her mind. She opened her eyes immediately, her vision of the murder far too real because she had created it. It couldn’t have been a similar crime. Just the name was the same.

  “Rowan, she was killed with a machete against the restaurant wall, her body thrown in a Dumpster!” Annette’s voice took on a feverish pitch. “She worked in Denver and was born in Albuquerque. Some crazy person copied the crime exactly as you wrote it.”

  Rowan pressed fingers deeper into her right temple. Someone had copied her fictional crime? It couldn’t be possible. How had the killer found someone so exactly like her fictional character?

  More important, why?

  She sunk to the floor next to her desk and buried her face in her arms, holding the phone with her shoulder. She took another deep breath and held it. She had to get hold of herself; then she’d get to the bottom of this.

  There had to be a mistake.

  “Are you okay?” Annette’s voice was full of concern.

  “What do you think?” Her voice came out a raspy whisper.

  “I’m worried about your safety, Rowan.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll come right over.”

  She almost grinned at the thought. Petite fifty-something Hollywood producer Annette O’Dell rushing over to protect her star screenwriter from a pack of vicious reporters. Rowan shook her head. “No, after my run I have to go to the studio and talk to the director about reworking a scene.”

  “The reporters will follow you. They’re probably staked out there now.”

  “Damn the reporters! I have no comment. Period. Nothing, nada, zero. I don’t want you saying word one about this to anyone. I am going to the studio and going to do my job. I’m not a cop; let them take care of this.” She didn’t want to play cop anymore. She didn’t want any more blood on her hands.

  But there it was. She wiped her hands on her sweats until Lady Macbeth came to mind, madly scrubbing her hands of blood that wasn’t there.

  Doreen Rodriguez. Rowan didn’t kill the poor woman, but she had somehow caused her death just the same.

  “Rowan, let me hire a security—”

  Rowan cut Annette off with a click as she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  She took a minute to gather herself before getting up from the floor. Outside, another car drove up, more vultures ready to pounce. It made great copy, she thought wryly. Real-life murder mystery: The Fiction Copycat. The Copycat Killer. The press seemed to actually like murders. Especially high-profile, gruesome crimes. Nothing exciting in a typical domestic dispute, a hit-and-run, or a routine gang drive-by. But being sliced and diced by a machete against the side of a quaint Italian café . . .

  She shook her head. Was she any better? She wrote violent murder mysteries. Even if her corpses were fictionalized, didn’t she do the same thing as the reporters? Capitalizing on people’s interest in gruesome crime? The human fascination with death went back thousands of years. Violent Greek and Roman myths had relieved people’s fear of the unknown. Similar gruesome entertainments could be found in every generation since.

  Doreen Rodriguez. Could the murder possibly have been the same as Rowan had written it? Her heart beat double-time as she imagined the pain and horror that poor young woman had suffered.

  It would do her no good to dwell on the victim now. Rowan mentally summoned more than ten years of training to distance herself. When it got personal, that’s when mistakes happened.

  Ignoring both the door and phone, on her laptop she logged onto the local Denver newspaper website. She hoped against hope there was a mistake, some misunderstanding. But the press was on top of the story. Bad news travels fast, evidence of which was parked in her driveway.

  Everything Annette had told her was there on the screen. Rowan wondered what details had, in fact, been withheld. She wondered how long it would take for the police to come and interview her. With the press already showing an interest in the coincidence, the police wouldn’t be far behind. She’d get more details from them once they tracked her down.

  No. No, she couldn’t get involved. She had a meeting at the studio in two hours. She had made a new life for herself, a quiet life. Damn if she was going to let a murdering lunatic control her future. Again.

  She started for her bedroom to dress for her run when a familiar pounding on the front door interrupted her. Cops.

  That was fast.

  “Ms. Smith!” a mumbled voice called. “Ms. Smith, this is the police. We need to talk.”

  She turned toward the door. It had started.

  They sat at the dining room table, in front of the picture window that framed the blue-green Pacific Ocean. From here, twenty feet above the beach and a good hundred feet inland, one could still see the individual waves and whitecaps, tossed up by a light wind. The tide was out, the beach empty of people.

  Rowan placed two mugs of hot black coffee in front of the detectives, then opened the window. The tangy, salty sea air relaxed her as she breathed in deeply. She needed to be calm and alert, but above all else, she needed to maintain control.

  She sat across from the cops, holding her own coffee mug with both hands.

  Ben Jackson was a short, thin man with skin the same color as the rich coffee in his mug. His poker face couldn’t disguise intelligent eyes. His rigid posture and the hint of muscles under his impeccable coat told Rowan he was fit and took his job seriously. He had flown out from Denver this morning just to talk to her.

  The Denver P.D. wouldn’t waste scarce budget dollars. Obviously they believed the Rodriguez murder was connected to her book.

  Jim Barlow was from L.A.P.D. He was older, his skin ghostly compared to Jackson’s. He looked like the stereotypical
, slightly overweight cop in wrinkled slacks and too-tight blazer with worn leather patches on the elbows. His pale blue eyes seemed to take in everything, while his hands fidgeted, as if he were holding a cigarette. An ex-smoker. Rowan sympathized.

  She liked them both. Her instincts told her she could trust them.

  Jackson began. “You’ve heard about the murder of Doreen Rodriguez.” He motioned loosely toward the front of the house where the reporters were dissipating. The newly arrived cops’ threat of arrest for trespassing had held some weight, she thought with a slight smile.

  Rowan nodded. “I read the article from the Denver paper online.”

  “You were with the FBI.”

  “Six years.”

  “Probably made a lot of enemies. I know I have.”

  “Your point?”

  “I believe your life is in danger and you should consider hiring security.”

  “I’m a trained FBI agent, detective. I know how to protect myself.”

  “You probably do. You probably still sleep with a gun under your pillow.” He nodded, noting some minute reaction on her face, then continued. “This was a brutal crime and it was directed at you. You must be aware of the similarities between the murder victim and a character in your book.”

  “I told you I read the article.”

  It was all Rowan could do to maintain eye contact. She didn’t want to accept the fact that this murder had anything to do with her. But her instincts shouted the contrary. This was personal.

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she said. “If there’s another crime, maybe this maniac will pick another writer to mimic. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be extra careful.”

  Damn, she sounded sarcastic without meaning to. Her defenses were up.

  Jackson paused before speaking. “Did you know the real Doreen Rodriguez? Did you use her for your book?”

  She shook her head. “I just made up the name. The character needed a name.”

  “There was one thing we managed to keep from the press,” Jackson said. “Under the body, the bastard left a copy of your book.”