The Prey Read online

  There had been many, many nights over the years when Rowan had woken in the dead of night, wishing Bobby were alive so she could kill him herself. He’d stolen everything from her, everything but her life, and her very existence felt hollow since Bobby had killed her sisters.

  If it connected to Bobby somehow—that would make more sense to her.

  “You’re checking?” She was desperate. Desperate and grasping at straws. “But why wait twenty-some-odd years? Why wait at all?”

  “I have Vigo working on a profile, but he hasn’t come up with anything useful yet.” Hans Vigo was the top profiler in the agency. But Rowan knew a profile was only as good as the information given to the profiler.

  They were missing a lot of information. More than they should. For the first time in four years, she regretted quitting the Bureau.

  “What about the Franklin murders? You said you were going to talk to Karl Franklin’s brother. Did—?”

  Roger interrupted. “Nothing. I visited him, talked to him. The man is in a wheelchair. I went to his doctor and it’s legitimate. He can’t walk. He couldn’t be involved, even if he had the motive. Everything else in Nashville—a dead end.”

  Dead end. And she’d been so sure this had something to do with the Franklin case. The pigtails.

  Dani.

  It was about Dani; it was about her family.

  “It’s about the past. Roger, you have to find out what’s going on. And tell me right away. I’m serious, Roger, don’t try to protect me. I have to know the truth.”

  Next she tried Peter at the rectory in Boston, but he was in church. She left a brief message, their personal code, then sank into the oversized chair in the den. Burying her face in her hands, she allowed herself a moment of self-pity, to mourn her life. Her dead family. And now, Michael.

  And the loss of something she had almost had with John, a connection she felt with him that she’d felt with no other man. Something that for a short time she thought might become bigger, better than she deserved.

  But it was gone. Like a life ended before its time, whatever fleeting connection that existed between her and John had been abruptly severed.

  What did she expect? She didn’t deserve John. She’d often thought of herself as half a person, incomplete. Less than whole. What she missed she couldn’t lay a finger on, but she knew she lacked something. Why else could she not bond with others like a normal person? Why did she find it so hard to stay in contact with her few friends, like Olivia and Miranda? Why couldn’t she form relationships with men?

  Already she had developed a stronger bond with John than any of her previous lovers, but look where they were now.

  John wouldn’t forgive her. She couldn’t forgive herself.

  The ringing phone startled her, but she grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

  “Rowan, it’s Peter. What’s wrong?”

  He knew she’d never leave a message unless it was an emergency.

  “The bastard killed Michael. My bodyguard.”

  “Dear Lord.” She could picture Peter making the sign of the cross. “Were you—hurt?”

  “No. He was killed during his night off.” While I was making love to his brother. Her entire body shook with restrained guilt.

  “I can be out there in a matter of hours—”

  “No! Stay there. You’re safe.” She hadn’t meant to shout, but if anything happened to Peter—she couldn’t think about that. “Isn’t there some nice, safe monastery you can hang out in for a week or two?” She tried to make her voice light, but failed miserably.

  “If he hasn’t come for me, he doesn’t know about me.”

  “If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do.”

  “I’ll be on alert. And there’s a couple of your FBI friends parked in a very obvious unmarked sedan across from the rectory. I’m sure I’m perfectly safe here.”

  That’s what Michael had thought. She shuddered. “Peter—”

  “I’m staying. Unless you need me there.”

  “Stay far away from me.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I can take care of myself.” She sounded like a petulant child. “I think this guy knows everything about what happened to Mama and the girls. Everything. For some reason, he’s after me. Can you think of anyone—no matter how far-fetched—who could be doing this? Do you remember anything from that night, that time, anything at all, to give to Roger for follow-up?”

  “Roger already called me the other day.”

  “The other day?” She frowned.

  “Yeah, Wednesday I think.”

  Wednesday? But that was before Rowan had talked to him about her new suspicions. Maybe he came up with them himself and hadn’t wanted to worry her. But he didn’t mention that when she’d talked to him earlier.

  “What did he want?”

  “Exactly what you asked. Memories. And I told him I didn’t have anything. Bobby’s dead, and he’s the only one who I can think of who could kill so mercilessly.”

  Heart pounding, John paced Tess’s small apartment like an irate tiger trapped in a cage. His skin burned. Every breath shot hot, piercing pains into his gut.

  Michael was dead.

  When he told Tess, she became hysterical. Gut-wrenching sobs, agonizing cries. For an hour, she clung to John. She blamed Rowan.

  “It’s my fault,” John told her. “I insisted he take time off.” So I could screw Rowan. Black guilt squeezed his heart.

  “No, no, it’s her! Y-y-you s-said she was k-keeping secrets! She killed him. She killed my brother!”

  It took John a long time to calm Tess enough to convince her to lie down. She quietly sobbed, and when she stopped John checked on her. Asleep, her splotchy face bore her grief.

  His rage, his anger, and his guilt ate at his gut until all he saw was red, his fury consuming every pore. He paced. Back and forth.

  I will kill the bastard.

  It’s my fault.

  Michael would have been at Rowan’s if John hadn’t interfered. If he hadn’t been so damned confident he could get Rowan to talk and that Michael would only have been a hindrance, his brother would be alive today. If they hadn’t fought, Michael wouldn’t have been drinking. He could have fought back if he wasn’t impaired. In the back of his mind he remembered Peterson saying he was shot instantly, by an intruder in his apartment.

  No time to react. But Michael was trained. If he hadn’t been mildly intoxicated, he might have had a chance.

  Maybe.

  An agonized groan escaped John’s throat and he swallowed back stinging tears. There’d be time to grieve later. He had a killer to find.

  Calling in a favor, he obtained Roger Collins’s cell phone number and dialed.

  “Collins,” the assistant director answered after three rings.

  “Mr. Collins, this is John Flynn.”

  Long pause. “I heard about your brother. I’m sorry.”

  “And I heard about you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I know all about Lily MacIntosh and that you were her guardian.”

  “Rowan told you?”

  “Eventually. I had to drag it out of her, but she told me everything.” John stared out Tess’s apartment window, not focusing on anything but getting information. “You know the details of this case. The bastard knows about Rowan’s past. He knows about her family. He knows her name was Lily!” He didn’t mean to shout, but his nerves were frayed. It won’t help Michael to lose it now.

  Calmer, John said, “I know Peter MacIntosh is alive and goes by the name Peter O’Brien. He’s supposed to be a priest in Boston. He would know enough about Rowan’s past.”

  “Peter? You’re way off base, Flynn.”

  “I don’t think so. Unless you have another idea.”

  Another long pause. “I’ve had a team watching Peter since the second murder. He hasn’t left Boston.”

  “I think you need to double-check.”<
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  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Mr. Flynn.”

  John ignored the threat in the assistant director’s voice. He couldn’t care less about pissing off high-ranking officials.

  “You know this guy is out for Rowan. And he’s going to get her unless you figure out who knows about her past. You appear to be the only one who’s in a position to do anything about it.” He paused. “My brother is lying in a morgue because you and Rowan hid her past. All the resources spent going through her cases wasted time. We should have been going back even further. Full disclosure. Instead, you kept your mouths shut. My brother’s death is on your conscience.”

  “Don’t you dare lay this at Rowan’s feet, Flynn. She’s been through hell and back, and—”

  “I don’t give a damn.” John squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he saw was Rowan’s wretched face when she’d told him about her mother’s murder. Shit.

  But Michael was dead.

  “Why didn’t you dig deeper, Collins? Even if Rowan didn’t know or understand the full implication of what happened to her as a child, you certainly did.”

  “I’ve been looking at the old files, interviewing people—”

  “Obviously, that wasn’t good enough.”

  “I have six agents tracking down the family of the two guards Bobby MacIntosh killed when he attempted to escape.”

  “It should have been done at the beginning.” John’s jaw was so tight he could barely speak.

  “Flynn, we’re doing everything we can. Can’t you see this is a complex situation?” Roger sounded frustrated, speaking too loudly and too quickly.

  Complex? “What are you hiding?” John asked. Something wasn’t quite right.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roger snapped back. “I’ve been working this 24/7 since Doreen Rodriguez was killed. Don’t think I’ve been slacking off. I care about Rowan more than you can possibly imagine. As if she were my own daughter.”

  Daughter. That reminded him about the priest. “I expect that Peter O’Brien will be checked out in full, and that you’ll look into the murder of Rowan’s family a little more closely. Someone who has intimate knowledge of her family killed my brother.

  “And,” John continued, his voice low, “he will kill Rowan if we don’t find him.”

  “I know.” Collins’s voice shook with anger.

  Good, John thought. He needs to be pissed off.

  “Flynn, I know this is a difficult time right now, but are you staying on the job? Do I need to replace you?”

  John closed his eyes. The revenge he sought felt thick on his tongue, clouded his judgment. Could he do it? Could he protect Rowan?

  Or would he, too, end up dead, his reflexes hindered by rage instead of alcohol? But what else could he do? Without being a part of this, he’d be out of the loop. He couldn’t stay on the outside looking in, wondering if Michael’s death would be avenged, or if the bastard would get off with life in prison.

  Or if Rowan would end up dead, too.

  His emotions were too raw where she was concerned, so he banished her from his thoughts and said to Collins, “Tomorrow I’ll be back. Today I need to take care of my family.”

  “I understand.”

  “Keep me informed,” John said as he hung up.

  He couldn’t think about Rowan. Not now. This was a job, and more than just a job. He’d keep her in the back of his mind, at least for today.

  He went to Tess’s room. He’d thought he heard her stirring when he was on the phone and wanted to make sure she was all right. “Tess?” He knocked lightly.

  No answer.

  He opened the door and stared at the rumpled bed. She wasn’t there. A quick look through the apartment showed that she’d left.

  He knew exactly where she’d gone.

  Rowan heard the familiar buzz of a Volkswagen in the driveway and suspected Tess was here to say her piece. She closed her eyes and leaned back into her favorite chair, the overstuffed reading chair she’d loved since walking into the sterile beach house with Annette months ago.

  She’d planned to be here through July, then go back to her cabin outside of Denver. She missed the only place she’d ever considered home since that fateful night twenty-three years ago.

  But would Rowan be able to leave in two months? Would this killer be caught? Or would she be his next victim? Would she be the last?

  It might be worth sacrificing her life if she were the last. If she could take him out at the same time.

  The thought actually soothed her. Revenge, justice, peace. After Michael’s murder, nothing short of death would give her peace. Though she hadn’t pulled the trigger, how could she live knowing she was responsible for his death? Michael’s murder sat raw in her soul, a wound she doubted would ever heal. Michael had joined Dani. And Rachel and Mel and her mother.

  While she’d been content in John’s arms, Michael had been gunned down.

  She didn’t know if she even could face John again. The pain and agony he must be experiencing—the grief on his face. She knew exactly how he felt. Her stomach churned painfully.

  The den door swung open so hard the knob hit the wall and dented the paneling. Tess stomped in, her face wet with tears but set with determination. Pain. Hatred. Her short dark hair was a mess, her clothing wrinkled.

  Quinn was behind her looking concerned, but Rowan gave him minimal attention. She focused on Michael’s sister.

  “It’s all your fault!” Tess screamed.

  “I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “Believe me, I am sorry.” She stood, turned to face Tess, ready to take any punishment.

  “You lied! You kept secrets and Michael is dead. John told me everything. I-I-I’ll never forgive you. I hope he gets you. I hope you both burn in hell!”

  What could Rowan say? She hoped he came for her, too. Then she would have a chance to stop him. And if she died in the process, what loss to the world would that be?

  “I know,” she said simply.

  “Tess, you don’t mean that,” Quinn said, putting his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged him off and stepped forward.

  “Yes. I. Do.”

  Rowan hadn’t noticed before, but Tess had the same green eyes as her brothers, only lighter. They all looked alike. Tess. Michael. John. She couldn’t think about John or what they’d done last night. What a foolish, selfish mistake! A mistake that cost Michael his life. Michael should have been here, safe.

  But if John had gone home, would the bastard have gone after him?

  Michael wouldn’t have been preoccupied, angry at his brother for forcing him to take a break. Angry at John because of her.

  The realization hit her and she stumbled backward. Michael had known, at least sensed, the tension and attraction between her and John. He was jealous. He’d fought with his brother because of her, not just because John insisted he take time off.

  It was her fault.

  She tilted her chin up and nodded at Tess. “I don’t blame you, Tess. Michael was a great guy, and I’m—”

  “Don’t!” she screamed and approached Rowan, hands bunched at her side. “Don’t talk about him! He was my brother! You bitch!” She started pounding Rowan with her fists and Rowan let her. She was numb, dead inside. Did she have any grief left to give? The pain from the punches couldn’t compare to the agony of death, the added nightmares, the guilt seizing her soul with its piercing grip.

  “Tess, please.” Quinn rushed over and tried to gently pry her off.

  The front door slammed, and Quinn pulled his gun and ran from the room. A moment later, John burst in, Quinn behind him.

  “Tess!” John grabbed her and spun her around. Tears streamed down her face and she pounded her brother in the chest. He took hold of her wrists and gently wrestled her under control. “Tess, honey. Stop. Please, sweetheart, stop.” His voice was calm, soothing, very much in control.

  Tess’s bottom lip quivered; tears streamed down her face. She collapsed i
nto his arms, sobbing.

  John caught Rowan’s gaze before he led Tess from the room. The mixture of pain and rage she saw in his hard, chiseled expression stabbed her heart.

  Quinn crossed to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and eased her into the reading chair.

  “Rowan, it’s not your fault.” He rubbed her back and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  She didn’t say anything. What could she say? The last two weeks were one big living, breathing nightmare. Would it ever end? Would he finally come after her so she could have peace?

  Justice.

  She couldn’t let him get away. When he found her, would he glowingly tell her of his crimes, seeking her praise? Her horror? Her anger? Whatever he wanted from her, she wasn’t going to give him anything but a bullet.

  But first, she had to make sure Roger had done what she’d asked.

  “Rowan, Tess didn’t mean any of that. She’s distraught.”

  Rowan looked up at Quinn. His handsome face was long with sadness and worry. “Protect her, Quinn. When people get upset, they do stupid things. And call the Dallas and Chicago police and Bureau field offices. Make sure they understand the seriousness of warning prostitutes. Particularly high-paid call girls.”

  “We already took care of that—”

  “Do it again!” Rowan yelled, then pinched the bridge of her nose. It didn’t do any good to yell at Quinn. It wasn’t his fault.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “Rowan, it may surprise you, but I know what I’m doing. I’ve been an agent for fifteen years. And Roger hasn’t rested since the beginning.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She rested her hand on Quinn’s arm. “It’s just—” She absently waved an arm toward the shelf that housed copies of her books. She walked over to them and stared.

  “It felt so cathartic to write these books, to always have good triumph over evil when we both know the bad guys often win.” She stared at the shelf. Crime of Opportunity. Crime of Passion. Crime of Clarity. Crime of Corruption. And her latest book, the one they were holding until this bastard was caught, Crime of Jeopardy.