The Prey (22 page)

John barely heard Rowan’s shocked gasp. His heart pounded; his ears rang. His brother. No.

“What hospital? Where—”

“He’s dead.”

“No.” John shook his head. “Goddammit,
No
!” He kicked the glass coffee table with his bare foot, and it toppled over and shattered against the end table.

Michael. Not Michael. John stared at Peterson and knew there was no mistake.

Michael was dead.

An intense, physical hollowness spread through his chest, ten times worse than anything he’d ever felt before. His father’s death had been a shock that jolted the family. His army buddies who’d died had hurt his soul. Denny’s senseless murder had rocked everything John believed in, had finished forming his path.

But Michael. His best friend. His brother.

All the death, all the pointless drug murders. He’d seen more blood and guts than most people see in their lifetime. Nothing had prepared him for this.

He pictured Michael, blood seeping from his lifeless body. His eyes open, glassy . . . He shook away the vision, his eyes blurry with unshed tears.

“What. Happened.” His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to control his rage.

“He went to a bar last night, a few blocks from his apartment. The Pistol; apparently it’s a dive bar that doubles as a cop hangout.”

John knew the place. Michael went there when he was troubled. And he’d been plenty pissed last night.

“He was there for an hour or so, drank on the heavy side of moderate. The bartender didn’t think he was drunk, just tipsy. He went to a fast-food restaurant, ate there, walked home. He was talking to someone at the bar for a short time, and the police are working with the bartender on a description. The guy—dark blond hair, forties—left before Michael, but . . .”

Quinn paused, cleared his throat, then continued. “Michael entered his apartment and the police believe an intruder was waiting for him. He was shot three times in the chest. Died at the scene.”

John’s fists clenched at his side. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to kill someone. “No. I don’t believe it.” But his tone said the opposite.

“He didn’t bother hiding it. Three neighbors called in gunfire to 911. I would have been here sooner, but it took time for the local police to realize there was a connection. It was the chief who ultimately called me less than an hour ago. I came straight here.”

Quinn stared at him, his own face twisted with hurt and regret. “It’s the same bastard. He—left a note. I’m sorry, John. I’m really sorry.”

John’s mind was a jumble of memories and plans and vengeance. The killer went after Michael. Why? It wasn’t in the books. He did it because he could. To show Rowan he could get to her.

He whirled around and stared at Rowan. Complex and conflicting emotions assaulted him. Anger. Grief. Pain. Guilt. It was his fault. He’d sent Michael away to get Rowan to talk.

To get her into bed.

He’d wanted her from the beginning, knew there was an invisible bond joining them from the moment they met. Michael had cared for her, but John didn’t give him any credit for knowing his feelings. He threw Jessica back at him. He pushed Michael aside, manipulated him out of the picture. They fought and John pulled his ace, got the FBI to insist Michael take time off.

John had sent his own brother to his death.

He could never tell Michael he was sorry.

A deep, low, guttural moan escaped John’s throat and he couldn’t look at Rowan or the tears that streamed down her face. He needed air. He had to get out of here.

“Tess,” he said, his voice hoarse with barely constrained grief.

“She doesn’t know. She’s meeting me at the headquarters at nine, but—”

“I’ll tell her.” He passed Rowan without looking at her. He left the house without another word.

Rowan watched John leave, agonizing for him. For herself.

It was all her fault.

The bastard wanted to hurt her, but he was hurting innocent people in the process.

Who was it? Who knew about her past? She had to call Roger. She had to find out what he knew, what he’d found out. He was the damn FBI! They couldn’t be in the dark for this long. They had to suspect someone.

And if the killer knew about her family, he might know about Peter. If anything happened to him—

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Michael.

John. Tess.

Dear God, why? Why did he go after Michael?

Because he could.

“Rowan.” Quinn walked to her side, crunching glass into the carpet. He frowned at the mess, but said nothing. “We need to put you into a safe house.”

“No.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. Her headache that had disappeared sometime last night was now back with a vengeance.

“Be reasonable! Roger would not allow you to—”

“Just, no. The killer will come for me. I’ll kill him.”

“He’s elusive. Smart. I can’t let you put yourself in danger.” He put a hand on her shoulder; she shrugged it off.

“It’s not your choice. I’m not going to run so he can kill more people. If he can kill Michael”—her voice hitched and she swallowed back a sob—“he can get to anyone. You. Tess. Roger. But it’s me he wants. He’s deviating to show me he’s smarter. Stronger.”

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “He doesn’t know who the hell he’s up against.”

Rowan sat on hold for a good five minutes. Finally, Roger came on the line.

Without preamble, she asked, “What have you found out?”

“Rowan, I spent all night going over your files. I have a team tracking down every cop who was assigned to the investigation. And—well, the thought came to me last night. What about the families of the two guards Bobby killed? I can’t see how or why they would go after you, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”

Her heart beat faster. Revenge. They were tormenting her because her brother had brutally killed their father, their brother, their son. It was plausible, especially since Bobby was dead and in hell and they couldn’t go after him. But why now? Why like this?

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.”

“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.”