The Prey Page 13

  She stood inside the door, put her hand up, and touched the wood. “Michael, please go away.”

  “You need to talk about whatever is bothering you.”

  “Not now.”

  He paused, but she didn’t hear him walk away. A moment later, he said, “Rowan, please tell me the truth. Are these murders connected to whatever’s been bothering you?”

  Bothering her. As if the murderer were an annoying mosquito, her past that of a simple dysfunctional family. Her mere existence bothered her. Her life was wrapped in pain and hatred and loss that she had to keep boxed deep in her heart in order to function. But the lid had been ripped off. Her heart bled; painful memories invaded her soul. There was no fixing the box, no putting the lid back on. The secrets were tumbling out, bleeding her dry. She was going to have to face the truth. She didn’t have a choice.

  But she didn’t know if she could move on.

  “How’s Adam?”

  “He’ll be okay,” Michael said, but Rowan knew that wasn’t true. She didn’t know how to fix the damage, and she wouldn’t forgive herself for hurting him. “John’s taking him back to the studio.”

  Rowan suspected he would research the flowers. She’d seen how John interacted with Adam while they ate cookies and milk in the kitchen. If anyone could extract information from Adam, it would be John.

  “Michael, go away,” she said, wincing at her harsh tone. “Please,” she added, softer.

  A long pause. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  When she was certain he’d gone, she crossed the room and picked up her cell phone. If John was in the house, she had no doubt he would listen in on any of her conversations. Michael probably wouldn’t. Still, she couldn’t take that chance.

  “Collins.”

  “Roger, it’s Rowan.”

  “What’s wrong?” His voice was clipped, worried.

  “Somebody knows. Somebody knows my name.”

  A long pause. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do. Remember I told you about my young friend Adam? Someone told him to buy me lilies.”

  “Can he make an ID? Get him in front of a sketch artist; I’ll call around and find a good one. And don’t forget—”

  “Roger,” Rowan interrupted, “Adam is going to take time. He’s easily led, and no sketch we get will be reliable. John’s going to see what he can find out.”

  “John?”

  “John Flynn. He’s my bodyguard’s brother and partner. They run the security company. He’s former Delta Force.”

  “I know him.”

  Roger’s tone prompted Rowan to sit straighter. “Oh?”

  “By reputation, not personally. Remember that drug shipment that came in through Baton Rouge six, seven years ago?”

  “There were thousands of drug shipments during my years in the FBI. I didn’t work them.”

  “No, but you’d remember this one. Billy Grayson was killed and George Petri lost his eye and leg.”

  Rowan remembered now. The FBI had been called to back up the sting operation, but it turned into a huge and bloody battle. Four FBI agents killed, three others permanently injured. Billy had been in her class at the academy. The DEA lost even more of their own.

  “How does John Flynn fit into it? It was a royal screw-up.”

  “It could have been a lot worse. Flynn was undercover with Pomera’s operation—he’s a major player originally from Bolivia, but hell if anyone knows where he operates now. They knew about the sting and planned on taking out all the agents assigned to the case. They set up explosives in the warehouse and along the docks. Flynn almost blew his cover defusing the bombs. When they didn’t go off, Pomera’s men panicked and shot up the place. We got six of them. A shot set off a lump of C-4 under the dock and that’s where most of our people lost their lives. Without Flynn, we’d have lost dozens more.”

  Roger paused, cleared his throat. “I learned more about him after that. Doesn’t always play by the rules. He was in a South American jail for six months a few years back, and threatened by the CIA with jail time because he screwed with one of their operations. I don’t know the details, but rumor has it that one of the CIA goons down there went bad and Flynn caught wind of it. They turned on him, left him in prison and pulled the traitor out.”

  Rowan could easily picture Flynn playing secret agent in the Southern Hemisphere. But prison—she couldn’t imagine him locked in a cage. Too much energy, in his mind and body. She sensed that he’d rather die than be imprisoned.

  “Did the CIA get him out?”

  “No. He escaped. Since then, he does very little work for the government. Can’t say I blame him.”

  Neither can I.

  “Rowan, the lilies could have been a coincidence.”

  She closed her eyes. “No, Roger, they weren’t a coincidence. Adam said something about a man recommending them. It’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “The murderer. I know it.”

  “I’ll get Peterson on it right away.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But tell him he can’t press Adam. Adam is smart, but not in traditional ways. He’s a little slow.” She paused and rubbed her eyes.

  “Roger, how does he know my name?” Her voice cracked.

  “Let’s assume this guy is after you. We don’t know why. Maybe someone involved in one of your cases. He’s obviously a meticulous planner. The murders are well executed, well planned, and he’s psychologically torturing you. It would reason that he researched you as well. I buried your files deep, Rowan, but they still exist.”

  “Have you dug deeper into the Franklin murders? I read the files. It’s not a closed case. There’s something there. There has to be.” Because if there wasn’t, it meant someone who knew her as a child was killing people.

  “Karl Franklin’s brother has always said he was innocent. We contacted him and he was bitter, refused to talk. I’m going to Nashville early tomorrow to try to talk to him in person.”

  Hope. “Really? You think it’s him?”

  “I don’t know, Rowan, but we’re working every angle.”

  Rowan swallowed. “Roger, what if this is someone connected to my childhood? Who knows what happened—who knew Dani? The pigtails, the lilies—it’s connected.”

  Roger sighed audibly. When he spoke, his voice cracked slightly. “Rowan, listen to me. Don’t go there. You can’t keep reliving the past. Everyone connected with that night is gone.”

  “But—”

  “I promise, I’ll look at the files tonight. I promise I won’t leave any stone unturned. There’s no one left—except your aunt in Ohio, but I don’t think she’s responsible.”

  Rowan sank to the floor. Her aunt. The woman who didn’t want her or Peter. The woman who turned them away because they were devil’s spawn.

  “I’m not going to the premiere Friday night,” she whispered.

  “Of your movie?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “Peterson said he has it covered.”

  “Perhaps, but this bastard would blow the entire theater.”

  “Would he?” Roger asked quietly.

  Rowan rubbed her head. “No,” she admitted. “He has one more murder to commit. From my fourth book. But he’s deviated before; he could deviate again.”

  “The D.C. police have issued a warning to young brunette women in the area,” Roger said. “We’re not sitting back and doing nothing to protect them.”

  “I know. But—” she stopped. How could they protect every brunette under thirty who commuted to D.C.? Not everyone listened to the news, read the papers, believed they could be in danger.

  That was the crux of the matter. It won’t happen to me. I’m safe. How many survivors had she interviewed who told her, I didn’t think it could happen to me. I never thought my daughter would be kidnapped. I was only gone a minute. My car was only in front of the building. The parking lot was lit.

  On and on. As if, if they ran fast enough, evil wouldn’t see that they
’d let their guard down.

  She shuddered and voiced her fear. “Even though my publisher delayed the release of my next book, the killer might have been able to get an advance copy. There’s been enough publicity and reviews for him to get a sense of the crimes involved. You might want to warn prostitutes in Dallas and Chicago to be extra careful.”

  Roger Collins hung up and sent an e-mail to his assistant to contact the Chicago and Dallas police departments ASAP. He reviewed his flight itinerary for Nashville and made notes for his conversation with Karl Franklin’s brother. All the while, he couldn’t get Rowan’s fear out of his mind.

  Lily.

  Who knew about her past? He’d buried the information deep to protect her, allow her to lead a normal life. But she’d never had a normal life. Even before the violence that took her family from her, she was raised in a cruel environment by an angry father and scared mother.

  He had tried to dissuade her from thinking about her childhood. He was worried for the first time in his life that the lies he’d told all those years ago were coming back to bite him. But how could he have known?

  After calling Gracie to tell her he’d be late again, he went to his private safe and pulled out the thick file that contained Rowan’s past. The past he had tried to bury for her. To protect her. To give her a chance.

  But she’d never had a chance. And the pounding in his head made him realize he might have made a fatal mistake.

  He sat down at his desk and opened the file. He had no intention of moving until he’d reviewed every damned record to see if he had missed something.

  Or someone.

  John glanced at Adam sitting rigid in the passenger seat of the beat-up truck. He frowned, worried about the young man’s withdrawal. He didn’t know Adam well, but sensed that Rowan’s odd behavior disturbed him deeply.

  Before Highway 101 veered east off the Pacific Coast Highway, John saw the flower stand. He’d driven past it several times in the last few days, but hadn’t thought twice about it. “Is this where you bought the lilies?” he asked Adam.

  Adam nodded almost imperceptibly, and John illegally cut across traffic and into the turnout. “Let’s talk to the man who sold them to you.”

  “I don’t wanna.” He crossed his arms and pouted.

  “Remember what I told you, Adam? This man you saw may be the man who’s hurting all those people. And hurting Rowan. I know you like Rowan and don’t want to see her hurt.”

  John didn’t push Adam further, allowing him time to mull over the information. Several minutes passed; then Adam opened the door without looking at him.

  Good, John thought. He slid out the driver’s side.

  Adam dragged his feet, but followed John to the wiry Mexican who manned the flower booth. “Hola, señor.”

  “Hola,” the proprietor said with a nod. He looked at Adam and smiled. “Lady like flores?” He gestured to his colorful display.

  Adam frowned and shook his head.

  “Señor,” John continued, “My amigo—” he patted Adam on the back both to identify him and to keep him at his side—“met a man. Do you remember?”

  “Recuerde?” he repeated in Spanish. “Si.”

  “Can you describe him? His hair?” John touched his hair. “Pelo?”

  “Yes, hair like sand.”

  “The same color as sand?”

  He nodded and waved toward the beach below the cliffs. Blond, John thought. A little darker than true blond.

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  He shook his head. “He wore gafas de sol. Uh, dark glasses.”

  Damn. “Height?” He held his hand up.

  The man looked from John to Adam. “Like him,” he pointed at Adam and then put his fingers together about an inch apart. “Taller.”

  “Do you remember what he was driving? His coche?”

  “American sedan. Like a Ford.” He shrugged. “No seguro.”

  Not sure. “Do you remember which way he went?”

  He pointed toward Los Angeles. Away from Rowan. Had he been by her house? He knew where she lived, but the thought that the murderer was stalking Rowan disturbed John on several levels.

  “Él compró un lirio y lo lanzó del acantilado,” the small man gestured toward the cliff. “Extraño. Pero no hago pregunta.”

  He’d bought a lily and tossed it over the side. Shit.

  “What did he wear?”

  “Nice. Pantalones. Light brown. Shirt like you.” He pointed at John’s polo shirt. “Blue.” He shrugged. “No recuerdo cualquier cosa. Individuo que mira agradable justo cerca de cuarenta.”

  About forty years of age, clean-cut guy. Nothing distinguishing. At least it was more than they had before, John thought as he thanked the man and led Adam back to the truck.

  “Do you remember anything else?” Adam didn’t say anything, but John pressed. “I think you do. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “No, no,” Adam said shaking his head. “Don’t be mad at me too.”

  John sighed, trying to keep his patience. “I’m not mad at you, Adam. This has been a hard day for you, I know that. But if there’s anything you remember, even if you don’t think it’s important, I need to know.”

  Adam bit his lip. “He looked familiar.”

  “Familiar? Like you’ve seen him before?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Think, Adam! This is important.” John didn’t mean to snap, but his frustration level was rising.

  “I don’t know. He just seemed familiar somehow. Like I saw him before. I’m stupid. I don’t remember. I’m stupid!” Adam pounded the dashboard with his fist.

  John took in a deep breath as he turned the ignition. “You’re not stupid, Adam. You’ll remember. And when you do, I want you to call me.” He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a card and handed it to him. “Call me anytime and tell me anything you remember, okay?”

  Adam took the card with a frown, turning it over and over in his fingers. “Okay.”

  He marveled at the numbers of brunettes in D.C. who ignored the warnings issued by the police. Some traveled in groups, but most left work and headed for the Metro alone, or at least parted with their friends before boarding the commuter train.

  He had to thank Rowan for this one. Four of the victims in her book were unidentified, so he didn’t have to worry about finding a victim to fit the name detail. It had been harder in Portland to find a Harper family that fit, but when he saw the younger daughter he knew he could deviate from the plan and send Rowan a little memory. Adapt. He’d adapted to circumstances his entire life. Adapt, manipulate, destroy.

  But to find a single brunette between the ages of twenty and thirty who commuted from Washington, D.C. to Virginia was much easier. He’d picked out a potential victim last week. Tonight he waited by her car.

  Another minor deviation, but one Rowan would appreciate. After 9/11, security had changed on the Metro and he couldn’t take the risk of being caught on camera. He wondered if Rowan would recognize him—it had been a long time—but he thought she would. If she didn’t, certainly they could run any image through the crime lab and learn he had a record.

  That simply wouldn’t do. Rowan would learn his identity soon enough. On his terms, in his time.

  Every one of Rowan’s books fascinated him. They were so full of detail, so rich with life and death. He’d been surprised the bitch was capable of such creativity. He’d studied the protagonist and wondered if Rowan had written Dara Young to be her. Dara was nothing like Rowan; the fictional FBI agent was a brunette with brown eyes, older, and actually had friends.

  No family, he thought with a wide smile.

  Rowan would never suspect what he planned, but it was brilliant. Brilliant! He’d always known he was smart. Much smarter than the average schmo out there. But now . . . now he was inspired.

  He would break her. Then he would kill her.

  He heard the Metro pull into the station, the end of t
he line. He grinned at the irony of it. The end of the line. He looked forward to this particular story. All the victims of Rowan’s fictional villain Judson Clemens were raped. He’d never thought of raping a woman. What was the point? After all, he could get laid whenever he wanted, pay for it if he had to. Not in prison, but the fags had stayed away from him after he sliced the dick of the first one who tried to fuck him. The rapist he knew in the joint had a problem with “anger management,” as the shrinks called it. He laughed. He had no problem managing his anger, no problem at all.

  He concealed it very well.

  But he wasn’t really raping the woman. He was simply following the script Rowan had so graciously laid at his feet. It was her plan, her victims.

  Sorry, Melissa Jane Acker, this is the end of your line.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Rowan dressed in a simple black gown with a single strand of pearls around her neck. She had no desire to dress fancy for this premiere; she didn’t even want to go. But Roger was right about one thing. Though the bastard would deviate if he had to, bombing the theater was not his style.

  Still, her stomach churned and she hadn’t been able to eat anything all day. Before dressing, she drank a glass of milk to settle her stomach, but it sat like a hard lump in her gut and she prayed she could get through the evening without puking.

  Normally she had an ironclad stomach. But these circumstances could hardly be called normal.

  When she ran this morning with Michael, she’d missed John’s presence. It wasn’t that Michael wasn’t a good bodyguard. Michael was more than competent, though she was uncomfortable with the amount of time he spent looking at her when he didn’t think she noticed.

  John was more like her. When she looked at John, listened to him, she sensed he felt the same about things as she did. Not just justice—Michael had been a cop and acted it. He believed in justice. But John understood what justice really meant, especially to the victims who couldn’t speak for themselves.

  Justice didn’t always mean prison.

  But it was more than that. John’s worldview was unique and his own. After talking to Roger last night she’d quietly called around and learned more about John Flynn. She wasn’t impressed easily, but she felt a certain pride she didn’t understand knowing that John was one of the good guys, even when some operatives in government didn’t think he wore the proverbial white hat. Justice came first to John. It almost made her feel guilty for quitting the agency. Justice used to be as important to her.