The First Prophet (12 page)

Tucker would have liked to confide in his friend. He thought a great deal of Marc.
They had played cops and robbers as boys, had competed for and fought over girls as
teenagers, and still managed to get together once a week or so even though both had
demanding careers and Marc was now happily married and about to become a father. But
Marc was a solidly—not to say rigidly—law-abiding man, and Tucker had no doubt that,
once told of the situation, he would strongly disagree with the plan forming in his
friend’s fertile and not always cautious mind.

It was a potentially dangerous situation, he would say, and he would be right. From
that point of agreement, they would immediately diverge. Marc thought the police should
handle dangerous situations, that most cops were good cops and could be trusted. Tucker
was beginning to have his doubts, especially after today’s interview with Sergeant
Lewis.

Slowly, Tucker said, “I’m asking for a favor, Marc. I need to borrow your gun for
a little while. No questions asked.”

“That’s a fine thing to say to a criminal lawyer.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m saying it. You still keep the gun here, don’t you? In your
desk?”

Marc nodded.

“Well, then?”

“You aren’t going to rob a bank, right?”

“Very funny.”

“Well, how the hell should I know what you’ve got in mind? When you were writing the
one about a terrorist
group, you damn near ended up with a working bomb, and that one set on a runaway train
got you blacklisted by Amtrak. I shudder to think what’s next.”

Tucker had no qualms in allowing his friend to believe he needed the gun for some
reason associated with his latest novel. Lightly, he said, “You’ll find out when you
read all about it. The gun?”

Marc hesitated, but they had been friends a long time, and so he unlocked a lower
drawer of his desk and produced the holstered gun. Handing it across, he said, “I
just cleaned it the other day. The clip’s full, chamber’s empty.”

“Gotcha. Thanks, Marc. I really appreciate this.”

When Tucker stood up to leave, Marc said only, “I don’t know what’s going on, Tucker,
but watch yourself.”

“You bet. Say hello to Josie for me.”

“I will.”

They didn’t shake hands, though later Tucker wished they had.

He continued with his meal even after he felt more than heard someone slide into the
booth behind him. He heard the waitress come and brightly recommend this week’s chicken
dish, heard a low voice order the chicken with a slight indifference that seemed to
miff the waitress. Either that, or she was upset that her charms had no effect on
this particular customer.

Save it, sweetheart. He’s made of ice.

When she’d gone away, he leaned back, making a
show of sipping his coffee and looking around casually, a satisfied diner relaxing
after his meal. He spoke in a low voice without turning. “It’s no good. Mackenzie’s
suspicious. He won’t buy another accident, especially if Gallagher disappears.”

“You’re sure?” The answering voice was also low.

“Absolutely. And she’s looking to him for help, that’s clear, so he’s going to be
with her. I don’t know what he’ll do next, but if I were in his place…I’d get her
out of Richmond. Fast.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need better information.”

“I’m aware of that.” He heard his voice stiffen and strove to make it once more calm
and casual. There were some men it just didn’t pay to get angry at, and this man headed
the list. “Mackenzie’s been all over the country in the last ten years, researching
and promoting his novels. Believes in immersing himself in a subject if he needs it
for one of his books—and some of those subjects have been fairly esoteric.”

“For example?”

“Explosives—the kind you can put together from ingredients in most kitchens. Computer
hacking. Survival training. Weapons. Defensive driving. He’s taken courses through
the FBI on topics ranging from antiterrorism to psychological profiling. He has a
degree in electronics, and a measured IQ of over one-eighty, which puts him solidly
in the genius range. And he was a fucking Boy Scout. Probably thinks he’s MacGyver.
Oh, and
one last thing. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s always been interested in
the paranormal. You should see all the books on his shelves.”

The ice man’s voice was grim. “In other words, the perfect person to keep Sarah Gallagher
safe.”

“I’d feel safe in his keeping, and I don’t like the bastard.”

“Why wasn’t I told of this before?”

“I didn’t know before.” He forced the irritation from his voice. “Even with my resources
and all the social networking out there, it takes a good twenty-four hours to search
deep background on somebody unless that person is a criminal. Mackenzie isn’t. And
despite being famous in his field, he has a surprisingly small online presence, and
that’s almost entirely about his books.” He fell silent as the waitress returned and
served the chicken dish to the ice man. Once again she tried flirting, and once again
her customer was indifferent.

Wave your boobs in
my
face, sweetheart, and we’ll talk. Hell, we’ll do a lot more than talk.
But she wouldn’t, of course. They never did.

When she’d flounced away, he spoke again. “If Mackenzie didn’t have a certain amount
of celebrity, I wouldn’t have been able to find out as much as I did this quickly.”

But you won’t thank me, will you, you icy son of a bitch. Oh no.

“What else do you know?”

Oh no, no trouble at all. Don’t mention it, really.

“Tax records, voting record, credit report, school records—”

“What do you know about him that will help us?”

He was silent for a minute or two, pushing aside his dangerous anger as he considered
all the varied information about Tucker Mackenzie that had been dumped into his retentive
brain. When he spoke, it was slowly. “He’s a puzzle solver. Creative, of course. Intuitive.
Stubborn. Highly loyal to friends. Athletic; hiking, climbing, and swimming are some
of the ways he keeps in shape. He knows how to get information. He knows how to work
alone. He knows how to think ahead. Plays a mean game of chess. Grand master.”

“What are his weaknesses?”

“He might not take Gallagher’s predictions as seriously as she does.”

“Why not?” Interest quickened in that low voice.

“It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think he believes. He’s debunked a few psychics in
the past, and I hear he’s so good at it he might have made a career out of it. In
fact, I’m surprised you don’t know more about him than I do.”

“We can’t be everywhere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.

Ignoring that, the ice man asked, “What else? Weaknesses?”

“Hell, I don’t know. He could be reckless. Cocky maybe, at least until he figures
out what he’s up against. He’ll underestimate you in the beginning, I’d bet money
on that. I’d say he likes to believe himself in control of any given situation; the
kind of guy who never loses his temper if he’s losing a game, and smiles while he’s
already planning how to kick your ass next time. And—I don’t
know if he could kill someone up close and personal. I don’t know if he’s got that
in him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t. But she does.”

He was tempted to glance back over his shoulder but didn’t. Instead, he lit a cigarette
despite the
NO SMOKING
signs posted and blew a lazy smoke ring. “Whatever you say.” Quite deliberately,
he didn’t ask what he was supposed to do next. He hated that shit, he really did.

Not that the ice man waited for him to ask.

“All right, maintain the surveillance until you hear from me.”

“If he’s going to move, he’ll move quickly.”

“I know. So be ready.”

“Me? What comes next is up to you people. I’m just here to watch, report—and clean
up the mess.”

“You’re here to do whatever we need you to do.” The ice man’s voice was silky.

“I’m not your fucking hired thug.”

“You’re my dog if that’s what I need you to be. Shall I order you to sit up and bark?”

He smoked furiously, hating the bastard. And hating himself. He glared at the waitress,
who had started toward him the instant he lit his cigarette but now decided instead
to clear off a couple of tables.

“Be ready. Understand?”

“Yes.”

A moment later, he was alone in the back of the restaurant. He didn’t see the ice
man leave. Hell, he didn’t even hear him leave. And he should have. He really should
have.

A few moments later, the flirty waitress came back to the ice man’s table, bewildered
by his absence but clearly pleased by the size of the tip left on the table. Even
so, she glanced at the man in the next booth and said rather mildly, “Sir, there’s
no smoking inside.”

He pulled his ID from his pocket and laid it on the table, open long enough for her
to see the badge.

She left without another word.

When Sergeant Lewis lifted his cigarette to his lips, he saw that his hand was shaking.

Sarah drew a breath of relief when Tucker returned to Margo’s house, not realizing
until that moment how tense she had been while waiting for him. As for Tucker, he
too seemed on edge and a bit preoccupied, and she wondered whether he was having second
thoughts about even temporarily hitching his fate to hers.

Not that she blamed him for that. No man in his right mind would want to be saddled
with her.

“Every light in the house is on,” he said mildly as he came in.

She blinked and looked around, surprised to find it true. She had been restless, and
she had wandered from room to room, her skin crawling with that now-familiar creepy
sense of being watched. Her subconscious had obviously felt at least a bit safer with
lots of light.

She had very carefully not thought about the voice in her head.

“He was outside,” she said.

Tucker stood in the small entrance hall, ignoring her automatic gesture indicating
they could go into the living room. He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about.
“When did you see him?”

“Right after Margo left. Across the street, moving between two houses. I didn’t see
him again after that, even though I looked.”
But he’s still there. Still watching. Still waiting.

“I didn’t see him when I pulled up, but it’s getting dark.” Tucker frowned.

She tried to think of something reassuring. “Maybe he’s just watching. Maybe he didn’t
have anything to do with the fire. Or with the wardrobe falling.”

“I hope you’re wrong about that.”

“Why?”

“Bad enough to be looking back over our shoulders for a guy in a black leather jacket;
if he isn’t the only one watching you—if he isn’t the only threat—then we have no
idea what the other threat looks like.”

Sarah half-consciously wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to ward off the
chill.

Tucker reached out and touched her shoulder lightly, but said only, “I’m going to
go turn off some of these lights, okay?”

She nodded and wandered into the living room to wait for him. The plan, agreed upon
earlier in a hasty discussion in the restaurant after Margo had excused herself,
was to return to the apartment over the shop tonight—and to leave Richmond in the
morning.

Sarah wasn’t sure how she felt about that. There was a small, almost distant part
of her that was alarmed by the hurried decision and bewildered by her willingness
to just up and leave everything she had known, yet a larger part of her consciousness
was convinced it was the right thing to do.

Yes. Walk away from your friends, your business, and the ashes of your home, because
you’re afraid. Put your trust in a man you met yesterday because he says he thinks
you can change fate…even though he doesn’t believe you can see the future…

As wrong as it sounded, it felt right. This was what she was supposed to do. This
was her fate. A fate Tucker was somehow part of; she knew that too. And that was what
frightened her the most, because she knew it meant she was already walking the path
that led to her destiny.