Abandon (10 page)

The trail became soft and damp as they came to a trickling stream that emptied into the lake. She paused as Rook came up beside her, then pointed across the rock-strewn creek. “There’s a clearing on the other side of that hill. Thought we could check it out.”

“Need a hand crossing?”

“No.”

She jumped over the narrow stream as she answered, but one sneaker landed in a squishy, near-black stew of dirt and rotted plant matter. Normally she’d have cleared the mud by a good eighteen inches. She jerked her foot out of the muck, prompting a jolt of pain from her cut, and bent forward, hands on her knees, teeth gritted as she bit back a curse and waited for the pain to subside.

“There.” Mackenzie straightened slowly and smiled at Rook, who’d cleared the mud easily. “Stitches are all intact. I’m rusty on crossing streams.”

“You didn’t take any pain medication this morning, did you?”

“None of the stuff with the codeine. I took a couple Tylenol.”

“You don’t have to be out here. It’s not your job to find the man who attacked you.”

“Not yours, either.”

She continued through a patch of invasive Japanese honeysuckle and barberry that Bernadette had been battling for years. Walking helped clear her head. She’d looked at dozens of mug shots yesterday at the police station after her trip to the E.R. She’d done dozens of different computer searches for her fugitive, using different sets of criteria. Beard, no beard. Blue eyes, no eye color. Restricted geographic location, virtually unrestricted geographic location.

Looking at too many faces wasn’t a wise idea. She needed to stick to shots of real possibilities. She didn’t want the faces on the computer screen to start to blur with the one in her mind of the actual perpetrator. She was trained to recognize features that could be plugged into a database or help with a sketch, but eyewitness accounts, including hers, were notoriously unreliable.

But she’d seen this man before, somewhere. She was sure of it.

Last night, she’d found a pad of paper and a pencil in her nightstand, and had jotted down everything she could think of about the attack. She didn’t censor herself. Whatever came into her mind went on paper. Colors. Thoughts. Smells. Tastes. Where she’d felt the breeze. How she’d thought it was wild turkeys she’d heard in the birches.

The exact moment she’d realized she’d been cut.

When she’d felt the blood. The pain.

The lapping of the lake water on rocks and sand, and the chirping of birds in the distance—and nearby, too. Something else. Not birds—a red squirrel, chattering in one of the hemlocks.

She wrote down a description of the spit on her attacker’s beard. The touches of gray in his dark hair.

His eyes.

Had he guessed he seemed familiar to her?

Did he know where they’d seen each other before?

Mackenzie had a good memory, but nothing she did helped place the man who’d jumped her with an assault knife. She understood that the investigators suspected her attacker had seemed familiar to her because of some kind of life-and-death defense mechanism.

In other words, that she’d unconsciously made up any recognition.

But she hadn’t.

As Mackenzie reached the clearing, the lake sparkled through the trees, a view she’d always loved. “I used to camp out here.”

Rook stood next to her. “On your own?”

“Sometimes. I was never afraid. I don’t know why, because I’d hear animals out here at night.” She smiled. “Of course, my parents and Beanie weren’t far away.”

“Did you always want to go into law enforcement?”

“Never, actually. That came later, when I was working on my dissertation and realized I yearned for something different for myself. You?”

“Always.”

“I can go back to academia if the Marshals Service kicks me out.” She started to pick up a small stone and flip it into the water, but her bandaged side reminded her that probably wasn’t a smart idea. She sighed. “There’s nothing here. He’s probably hiking in Wyoming by now.”

She turned back. When they reached the stream, she didn’t try to cross it in a single leap, but jumped to a rock in the middle, then to the bank. Rook again made it across in one long stride.

Gus and Carine were waiting for them on Bernadette’s porch. Carine had Harry, who was cooing to himself, tucked on her hip. She seemed more herself after their recent scare. Rook quickly excused himself and ducked inside.

“Just checking on you,” Gus said. “There’s nothing new. Beanie called last night. She didn’t want to disturb you. She said to use the house as long as you need to.”

“I appreciate that, but I’ll be getting back to work as soon as I get the okay from the doctor.”

He didn’t argue with her. “Rook’s leaving?”

“He has a flight tonight. Mine’s not until tomorrow—”

“You won’t be ready to fly tomorrow,” Gus said.

Carine grinned suddenly. “You two. I swear you’ve been arguing since Mackenzie could talk. We can’t stay, but if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“There isn’t right now, but thanks.”

After they left, Mackenzie sat in a comfortable wicker chair on the porch, closing her eyes and smelling the clean air, enjoying the relatively low humidity. She could have had this life: a house on a quiet lake, a job that would allow time there. But she’d walked away from it, and now she wondered if the attack yesterday meant that her new life had intersected, somehow, with her old one.

That was a problem for another time, she thought, unable to stop herself from drifting off.

O
n his way to the airport in his rented car, Rook took a detour to the small private college where Mackenzie had taught before she’d headed to FLETC, the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia. Its secluded campus was typical New England, with ivy-covered brick buildings and lush lawns that were relatively quiet in these weeks before the start of classes. A huge handmade sign welcomed incoming freshmen for orientation.

Of all the people in Cold Ridge, New Hampshire, who could have followed Nate Winter into federal law enforcement, Rook suspected Mackenzie Stewart hadn’t been on anyone’s short list of candidates.

He lingered in the shade of a giant oak. Why give up this life? What had compelled her? He pictured her on one of the pretty walkways, rushing to class, smiling at students who weren’t that much younger than she was.

“You’re crazy,” Rook muttered to himself. “Go home.”

Less than four hours later, Rook was back in Washington. T.J. met him at the airport, and Rook filled him in. But T.J. already knew all about the events in New Hampshire.

“Other than walking into the middle of a knife attack on a federal agent, how was it up in the woods?” T.J. asked. “Any sign of our missing informant?”

“Harris can’t even qualify as an informant. He’s been playing games for three weeks. I’ve got nothing.” Rook stared out the window. Even from the air-conditioned car, he could tell the Washington heat wave hadn’t let up. The city looked hot and steamy. “New Hampshire’s one of the safest states in the country, and a knife-wielding lunatic just happens to turn up at Bernadette Peacham’s lake house the day I show up looking for Harris. Never mind Mac and why she was there.”

“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.”

J
esse 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 tables 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.