The Prey (40 page)

She would stop him.

She had to find a way to take him down with her. He wasn’t going to kill her outright. If he were, he’d have done so already. He would have killed her with a bullet in the back instead of drugging her. Because of that, because of his propensity to play with her mind, she had a chance.

Her survival meant nothing to her anymore. But her death would mean something if she dragged Bobby down to hell with her.

Footsteps on hardwood. Stairs. He was coming upstairs toward her.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap
. Closer, heavier. Pause. Rattle. He was behind her. A lock turned and she strained to face him, but couldn’t. The door creaked.

Her heart beat so loudly it drowned out her thoughts. She broke out in a sweat despite the too-cold air conditioning.

Lights blazed and she squeezed her eyes shut, but not before pain shot through her head at the sudden brightness.

“Hello, Lily. I know you’re awake.”

She heard her brother cross the floor toward her. Bobby grabbed her hair in his hand and yanked. She tried to open her eyes, but the light blinded her.

He laughed, dropping her head. He untied her, pulling hard on the ropes in the process, but she refused to cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking her. When her limbs were free, the blood rushed to her hands and feet in a painful flood. She tried to get up but failed, collapsed, breathing heavily.

“I’ll let you pull yourself together, Lily Pad. It really wouldn’t be that much fun to kill you now when you don’t even have a chance.” His voice was older, but still held the singsong taunting of his youth.

“I. Will. Kill you.” Rowan’s uneven breath sputtered a curse.

He laughed again. “Hope. Enjoy it while you still have some. I have . . . things to get ready for you downstairs. So just relax while you can.”

She heard him cross the floor and close the door behind him. The lock turned. He’d left the light on and she slowly opened her eyes. She was in the middle of a large bedroom. Though her vision was blurred, she made out the bottom of a bed, a pale blue dust ruffle ten feet away.

Gradually, she pulled herself on all fours, ignoring the ache in her chest, the throbbing of her shoulder from where the dart had hit her, the hot, painful tingling in her hands and feet. She remained in that position for quite some time, until the nausea passed and she could sit up.

Her vision cleared, and it looked as if someone were lying in the bed. Who? The owners of the house only stayed in the late summer and fall. Someone would have noticed if anyone from the property management company were missing.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the woozy sensation, a leftover from the narcotics. “Hello?” Her voice came out a croak and she cleared her throat.

She looked. Lying on top of the covers was a fifty-something woman. Her vacant eyes stared directly at Rowan, locked in terror. Small flies buzzed around her face. There was a single bullet hole in her forehead.

The pillow was stained dark red. Dried blood. But this woman had been awake when she died. She’d known her fate, her eyes reflecting her fear. Even as Rowan turned away, she knew who the woman was. She and John had seen her picture in the news while at the safe house in Cambria. She’d been driving from the hospital after visiting her first-born granddaughter somewhere in Arizona when she disappeared. Rowan hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but like any good FBI agent, she made a mental note of her photograph.

Arizona, on the way from Texas to California.

She screamed.

On the other side of the door, Bobby laughed.

Adam dreamed.

He was driving Barry’s truck. He stopped at the flower stand and the man with money was there. But he saw him now like the picture. The picture John had shown him. Blond hair, blue eyes. But they weren’t nice eyes. They were cold. Blue and cold.

“She likes lilies.”

Adam shook his head. “No. No, she hates lilies. She broke the vase last time.”

“Trust me.”

“No, I want to buy roses. White roses.”

And he did. But when he turned into Rowan’s driveway, he wasn’t driving Barry’s truck and he didn’t have white roses.

He was in Rowan’s car and he had lilies. He hid them behind his back so she couldn’t see them.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the sunset over the ocean,” Rowan told him as she unlocked her door. Adam followed her to the deck, and at first he was a little scared. The ocean looked awfully big. He couldn’t swim.

“Do you want some cookies?”

He nodded and smiled, and Rowan went back inside.

He stared at the ocean, scared and in awe at the same time. He had never seen anything like it before. He’d seen it in the movies, of course, but nothing like this. He stood on the edge of the world, and that felt powerful.

Something burned his eyes, like a reflection. He turned in the direction it came from. The house next to Rowan’s. He looked up at the second-floor windows, and the drapes fluttered.

He saw him. The money man.

Rowan cowered in the corner for several minutes before gathering her courage. The shock of seeing the dead grandmother had worn off and the viciousness of Bobby’s crimes hit her.

Someone had to fight for the victims.

How many innocent people had Bobby killed, all because he wanted to torment her? All because she was the one who got away?

“I will kill you, Bobby MacIntosh,” she said out loud to no one, except the dead.

She searched for anything that could be used as a weapon. Anything. But there was nothing. Bobby had stripped the room. There wasn’t even bathroom cleaner remaining in the cabinets, a razor blade stuck between drawers, or a wire coat hanger hanging in the closet. There was nothing.

She would have to rely on her own strength and training. She positioned herself inside the door and listened. Waited.

John slammed his fist on the table in the FBI conference room. It was after midnight and they had nothing.

A madman had Rowan somewhere, and John had no idea where to start looking. It was as if they’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

Peter O’Brien sat at a desk, quiet and solemn. John almost forgot he was in the room until he said, “Rowan is strong. She’s not going to give up.”

“He’s been tormenting her. Sending her proof of his crimes. Mementoes,” he said bitterly.

“But she didn’t break.” Peter paused. “Four years ago, when she left the FBI, she thought she was losing her mind like our father and that solitude was the only way to keep her sanity. I tried to explain that she was stronger than she thought, that knowing she needed time away proved she was saner than most people.” He shook his head. “Rowan didn’t understand.”

John caught Peter’s eye. “I think she understands now. But MacIntosh is a violent killer. Smart. Shrewd.” He sank into a chair and leaned forward, helpless. He banged his head against the polished surface of the conference table, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

“I should have brought her with me,” John said. “I should have known she wouldn’t stay put.”

Peter nodded. “Rowan doesn’t like people to fight her battles. But she sure takes them on for others.”

John leaned back in his chair and looked at him. “What did you know back then? Did you know your brother was so twisted?”

Peter frowned and closed his eyes. “Bobby took pleasure in tormenting the women in the house. And me, but mostly the girls. He called our mother a whore. Accused her of sleeping with the neighbors, Dad’s boss, anyone. She would turn away and cry, but never correct him. Never punish him. She probably couldn’t.

“She loved us, but worshipped our father.” Peter paused. “Dad hit her. I didn’t see it happen more than twice, but I saw the aftermath many times. He was always so sorry afterward, and she never said anything about it.

“But once I heard Bobby yell at Dad to stop apologizing. Saying she deserved it. Dad hit him, and Bobby left for days. Though my mother was worried about him, it was like a dark cloud had been lifted from the house. We all breathed a little easier.

“Then he came back. And it got worse.”

Peter opened his eyes and looked at John. “I’ve counseled women in abusive situations. I’ve explained to them that just because their husband is head of the house doesn’t mean he can hurt them. I’ve helped several women leave their husbands and find help. I hate splitting up the family, but I know if they didn’t leave, they could end up just like my mother. Dead. Their innocent children orphans. Or worse. When they leave, they leave for their kids. Not for themselves. Somehow, deep down, they think they deserve the abuse. Or that their husband will change. Or they believe he’s truly sorry.

“In all the years and the families I’ve counseled, dozens of them in abusive situations, only one husband has ever repented and gotten beyond his violence.” Peter sighed, sounding weary. “The statistics aren’t promising.”

“How do you do it? How do you face those women and not relive what happened to your family?”

“Remembering what happened to my family propels me forward. It’s what drives Rowan, though she buries her feelings. I’m hurt and angry, but I can help other families escape the violence. Rowan’s hurt and angry, so decided to fight for families who never escaped. The victims. The difference is she never understood why she did what she did. When she saw the family in Tennessee, the hard reality of her life overwhelmed her and she quit. To survive.”

John mulled over everything Peter had said. He had an uncanny way of pegging things just right. He understood Rowan, her motivation and her conflicts. Yet Rowan admittedly kept her brother at arm’s length. Why? Because Peter reminded her of the past? Or because he knew her so well?

He was about to ask how often they spoke when his phone rang. He grabbed it immediately. “Flynn.”

Silence on the other end.

“Rowan?” he asked, jumping out of his chair, hopeful.

“N-no,” a small voice said. “It-it’s Adam.”

“Adam?” John sank into his chair, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“You gave me your number. Is-is it okay to call?”

“Of course. Of course you can call me anytime. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I remembered something.”

John stiffened, fully alert. “What? What did you remember?”

“I told you the man at the flowers looked familiar, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been having this dream. Over and over. But I didn’t know why. Until tonight. See, I thought all day about the first time Rowan took me to her house. We watched the sunset together. I’d never seen one before, and she—”

“Adam,” John interrupted, trying to keep the frustration from his voice, “where did you see the man?”

Adam paused, and John feared he’d scared him.

“Please, Adam,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm. “This is very important. Where did you see the man?”

“The window. In the window of the house next to Rowan’s.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to kill someone? Just for the sheer pleasure of it?”

Bobby stared at Rowan with a sparkle in his cold blue eyes.

She was tied to a chair in the dining room and Bobby sat at the head of the table, drinking Scotch and holding a gun on her.

She’d lost the battle.

He’d anticipated that she would attack him and was prepared. She couldn’t even land a single blow. He’d come in low and spun around, grabbing her.

She’d been too emotional, too unfocused.

She wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. If there was a next time.

“Well?” he prodded, swirling his Scotch, the ice rattling around in the glass, much in the same manner as it had in their father’s years ago.

“I saw him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Daddy.”

Bobby scowled, his face full of contempt. “Weak fool! He couldn’t stomach that the bitch was finally dead. He was pussy-whipped. Nothing like the man I thought he was.”

Rowan worked to control her expression. She could not allow Bobby to bait her if she hoped to defeat him.

Sitting here in the formal dining room, at a highly polished and rarely used table, with her lunatic brother felt surreal. She reminded herself Bobby
wasn’t
a lunatic. He was a coldblooded killer who’d planned vicious, brutal crimes and followed through with precision.

And he was her brother. They’d been born to the same parents, had been raised in the same house. They’d both witnessed their father’s abuse of their mother, but Bobby enjoyed it. Relished it. She abhorred it.

Had Bobby been born evil? Or had he watched their father’s extreme mood swings and been affected? Did he have a twisted gene that turned evil when he witnessed it? Or did the circumstances of their upbringing turn him into a killer and her into a cop?

She reminded herself that she wasn’t a cop anymore. And if she had any control over it, Bobby’s killing spree would end here, tonight.

“Daddy spoke to me,” Rowan said.

“Dad? Bullshit.” Bobby laughed, shaking his head.

“He called me Beth.”

“He’s lost his fucking mind. I saw him, too. Stupid fuck. His mind’s gone, he lost it twenty-three years ago. He could have pled temporary insanity. Bet some bleeding-heart jury would have bought it. But he’s fucking insane.”

“You’re not,” Rowan said.

“Damn straight I’m not.” He slammed his glass down on the table. “I think you’re playing me. The fucker didn’t say a word.”

Rowan would never forget what her father had said when he thought she was her mother.
Bobby saw you with him again. I told you to stay away from him, but you didn’t
.

“You told him that you saw Mom with another man. Not for the first time.”

His brows furrowed and he looked pissed. “I don’t know how you know that, but it didn’t come from
him
. He was as crazy as a loon when I saw him.”

“When you saw him, you told him I was as good as dead.”

“And you will be soon.” Now Bobby looked more than a little pissed off. His blue eyes took on a violent darkness. Rowan wondered if he’d tried to bait their father into talking and failed. The fact that their father spoke to
her
must irritate him.