The Prey (42 page)

“What?” Rowan wasn’t sure she was hearing Bobby correctly. He saw their father kill their mother? But—hadn’t he come in later?

“You heard me. I told him to kill the bitch. And you know what the fucker did? He hit
me
.”

Bobby sounded surprised. Rowan was stunned.

“So I did what he never had the balls to do. Took Mama’s biggest knife and sliced her open. And he just watched. Stupid fool.”

“You? You killed Mama?” Rowan’s stomach dry-heaved. She’d
seen
her father with the knife. Saw him kneeling over Mama’s body. Saw him drop the knife. Watched as Bobby walked in and said
The bitch is finally dead
.

“Of course I did. He’d never do it. All he ever did was beat up on her and then cry and apologize and whine. Over and over. I was sick and tired of it. I’d have killed him, too, but he wasn’t putting up a fight. Just knelt there and picked up the knife and held it. Lost it completely, by the look of him.”

“You’re sick.”

“You think I’m sick? What about
you
? I’ve read all of your books, Lily. All of them. You came up with crimes so horrific I was shocked.” Eyes wide, he splayed his hand across his chest in mock surprise.

“Really, Lily,” he continued, “your mind is twisted. I only did what you are too weak to do. Made your fantasies real.”

She turned from him, hot with rage she couldn’t act on. She started working the ropes again. Almost free.
Patience, Rowan. Patience
.

He’d killed their mother. Her father was no murderer. It was Bobby. She hadn’t seen her father stabbing Mama, but assumed it because she’d walked in right afterward and he had been holding the bloody knife.

But it had been Bobby all along.

He started the video again and demanded she watch.

Running on the beach. Taken from this house. “I never understood why you run on the beach when there’s a perfectly good gym two miles up the road. It’s cold, and that awful smell of kelp and salt. Fucking gross.” Then a picture of her and Michael on the beach. Then her and John.

Then her and John on the stairs leading up to her deck. John’s hand was on her cheek. She remembered that moment. When she first realized there was a connection between them.

I love you, Rowan.

She willed herself not to show any emotion. It was so hard not to break.

Then the image changed and she was kissing John again, in the dining room. The picture was fuzzy, taken through the window, but it was obvious they were in a passionate embrace.

Her stomach rolled at the thought that Bobby had watched an intimate moment between her and John. That he’d photographed it.

She still felt John’s phantom kiss on her lips. She’d take that last taste of him to her grave.

Bobby stared at his little sister. “Well? Do you have anything to say?”

“No.”

“Oh, come now, Lily. You must be all torn up inside. Knowing that you’re responsible for the deaths of all those people. Doreen. Gina and Natalie and Kimberly Harper. Michael Flynn, your stupid-ass of a drunk bodyguard. He was practically crying in his Scotch that night. Pussy-whipped, just like Dad. Pretty much accepted the fact that you and his brother were doing the dirty deed and he should step out of the way.”

What? Michael had actually talked to Bobby? But he wouldn’t have known Bobby from a stranger; they’d just been two guys drinking at a bar.

Rowan squirmed with frustration. “You asshole! You know nothing about Michael or anyone else. You’re going to rot in hell, you pig.”

Bobby laughed, feeding on her rage. “Oh, yeah, bring it on, babe. Bring it on. I knew that ice-cold exterior would melt. I’ll bet you’re just itching to get to me. After I break your scrawny neck, I’m going to shoot your lover in the back. Seems fitting, doesn’t it? Sort of a re-done ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ Too bad you won’t have time to write about it.”

She leapt from her seat, hands free. She launched herself at Bobby, oblivious to the sting of the whip across her chest. She didn’t realize a scream came from her lungs until she heard it, loud and ringing in her ears.

She had the element of surprise. She put her arms together and swung them at the side of his head. He fell out of the chair with the force of her blow, swearing.

She lunged at him and grasped his neck, pushing her thumbs hard into his windpipe. He thrashed and kicked, throwing her off him. She tried to scramble away, but he grabbed her legs and pulled her back.

Screaming in anger and pain, she fought to escape.

“Bitch, you’ll pay!” He slammed her head into the floor. Her vision blurred. He flipped her over so she faced him, then slapped her. “You’re going to die. Then I’ll get your boyfriend.”

He swung, missing as she kicked him hard in the groin. He grunted and she scurried away, running toward the door.

She had it open, but he slammed it closed behind her and knocked her down.

Then she saw it. The fireplace.

She crawled toward the fireplace and he kicked her.

“Oh, this is too much fun!” Bobby yelled. “Run again.”

He kicked her in the side. She hissed, sucked in her breath. A sharp, knifelike pain dug into her side. She lost her breath and willed herself to breathe again, focus. Control.

He pulled her up, his breath heavy and ragged. She stared into familiar blue eyes, eyes filled with a wild, sick pleasure. A slight smile turned his lips up.

Bobby took a gun out of his waistband and pointed it at her face.

“Run,” he said, laughing. “
Run
!”

John jumped from the car before Agent Thorne stopped and ran down the sloping driveway. There was a crash from inside, and then the door swung open and he saw her.

Rowan. The dim streetlights cast odd shadows on her face; then he realized it was blood. A man loomed behind her and slammed the door shut.

He’s killing her.

Peter was right behind him by the time John reached the door. He turned the knob with his left hand, his gun in his right. The door was unlocked and he swung it open.

“
Run
!” he heard MacIntosh scream at Rowan.

“MacIntosh!” John yelled.

Bobby swung around, blood streaming from the side of his head. He had a gun.

Rowan slipped from his grasp and stumbled into the brick fireplace, her head hitting the hard surface with a sickening thud.

John’s heart jumped as he watched, out of the corner of his eye, Rowan fall. He didn’t take his gaze off of Bobby.

“I was going to get you next,” Bobby told him. “Now Lily can watch you die.”

John started to pull the trigger when Peter stepped from behind him.

“No, Bobby.”

“Peter! Get back!” John snapped, trying to block the priest with his body.

A hint of recognition flickered across Bobby’s face. “No. It’s not possible. You’re dead. I saw you.”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” Peter said. “This must end now. No one else needs to die, Bobby. Put down the gun.”

Bobby’s features twisted in rage. John kept trying to maneuver in front of Peter, but the damned priest wouldn’t stop moving.

Rowan moaned from the fireplace as she tried to sit up, and Bobby’s attention momentarily wavered. John rushed him.

Bobby caught sight of the movement and turned, firing his gun at the same time. The force of the bullet struck John’s right arm and his gun flew from his grasp.

Bobby laughed and took two steps over to him. “Now you die. And it’s even better than I thought—Lily Pad can watch her lover die. Oh, Romeo.” Bobby aimed.

“And then
him
.” He sneered, jerking the gun toward Peter. “You were supposed to be dead!”

Peter stood in the foyer.

“Bobby, stop this insanity. Now.”

Peter’s voice was firm, strong. Rowan opened her eyes.
Peter
? What was he doing here? Her vision was blurry, clouded. She fumbled around for something, anything to defend herself with. To defend Peter.

John was unarmed, blood dripping from his arm. Shot. But he was alive. A huge weight lifted from her heart and soul. John hadn’t been killed in the explosion.

Everyone I love dies . . .

Not anymore. Bobby’s killing spree would end here. Tonight. Now.

“What, preacher man, you going to send me to hell?” Bobby spat out, waving the gun between Peter and John. “Whatever happened to forgiveness?” He barked that cruel, wild laugh he had. It grated on Rowan’s mind, her head pounding, echoing. She shook it, trying to regain her full senses.

Weapon. Weapon. She spotted John’s gun, but she had double vision. She tried to focus, but it was too far away.

“Bobby, you must want forgiveness. You have to be repentant.”

Again, that wild laugh. “You want me to be
sorry
? Okay, I’m sorry.” He giggled. “Sorry you were all born.”

Rowan finally felt something solid. Metal. Glancing to her right, she saw she was holding a fireplace poker. She tightened her grasp. She had only one chance.

The two men she loved—John and Peter—would die if she didn’t succeed.

She couldn’t let Bobby win.

Through her failing vision she noticed John moving carefully away from Peter, away from her. She could attack without Bobby’s full attention. And keep his gun away from Peter.

She inched forward.

“Bobby, the FBI has surrounded the house,” John said. “You won’t get away.”

“I have hostages,” he said mockingly. “Worked with your sister, eh? Sorry she had to be blown up, she was kind of cute. Too bad I didn’t have time to screw her.”

Anger spread across John’s face. “She didn’t die,” he said. “She made it. I disarmed your amateur attempt at making a bomb. You failed.”

“You lie!” Bobby pointed the gun straight at John’s head.

Rowan screamed and lunged at Bobby, the poker in her hand.

A gun went off. Bobby’s? Then another shot. A third explosion. Rowan didn’t know where the sounds were coming from; they seemed to be coming from everywhere.

Bobby turned, eyes wide in rage and pain, and fired as she ran straight at him with the poker. A hot flash of pain hit her left shoulder but she kept moving forward. If she failed, John and Peter would die.

The sick sound of the poker cutting into Bobby’s flesh was followed by an inhuman scream. She stumbled and fell on top of him. Each breath hurt her chest.

Large hands pulled her off. She looked up through the haze. “Peter,” she whispered. “Run. I couldn’t . . .” she coughed and sputtered.

“Shh,” he told her and laid her down gently. His lips moved in silent prayer, but Rowan didn’t know if he was really quiet or if she just couldn’t hear him. He turned to Bobby and made the sign of the cross.

John interrupted Peter. “Don’t you dare pray for him,” he said as he knelt at Rowan’s side.

“He’s dying,” Peter said simply.

“I hope he burns in hell,” John said.

Bobby tried to speak as he clutched the poker sticking out of his stomach. Nothing came out but a gurgle and blood. He sputtered, convulsed, then lay still, his eyes open and fixed.

“John,” Rowan murmured, eyes closed.

“I’m here. Open your eyes.”

“You’re—you’re alive.” Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

“Yes. So are you. Peter, call an ambulance.”

“Why—Peter?”

“Roger called him to come out. We didn’t know where you were. Tess is safe. You bought us enough time.” He leaned over and kissed her, his tears falling on her face. He took off his shirt, wincing as the material pulled out of his wound, and pressed it against the gushing hole in her left shoulder.

“I—I thought you were dead. The bomb.” She coughed, her voice weak.

“Stay with me, Rowan. Don’t let him win.”

“I-I—” She coughed again.

“Shh. Don’t talk.”

“The ambulance is on the way,” Peter said as he squatted and handed John towels. John quickly tossed his shirt aside and held the towels to Rowan’s bleeding wound.

Agent Thorne and two other Feds John didn’t recognize were searching the place. One knelt beside Bobby and confirmed he was dead.

“How is she?” Thorne asked, worried.

“She’ll make it,” John said through clenched teeth.
She has to. I don’t want to live without her. I don’t know if I can
.

“John.” Rowan’s voice was weak, her breathing shallow.

“Shh. Save your strength.”

“I-I love you.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Rowan, you know I love you. Stay with me.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t talk.” Her blood spread under his fingers, but he kept firm pressure on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

She closed her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She coughed.

“It’s over, Rowan,” John said. “It’s over.”

Rowan woke up numb and burning at the same time. Her mind was foggy. She tried to open her eyes, but failed. Everything seemed fuzzy and gray. She had to be dead.

Sounds.
Beep-beep-beep
. A low-level hum. Even breathing. Smells. Clean, antiseptic, sterile.

She tried to speak, but it came out a hollow squeak.

“Rowan?”

His voice sounded far away, down a long tunnel. She tried to answer, but her throat was raw and dry. She’d give anything for water. Was this hell? An eternal thirst . . .

“Rowan, it’s John.”

Suddenly she was back in the beach house, the smell of death surrounding her. Everything came back. The videotape of all the people Bobby killed. The whip. Peter. The gunshots. Stabbing Bobby with the poker. Pain. Intense pain in her shoulder. She’d been shot before, but nothing felt as awful as this. It was as if her arm had been severed and reattached to befit Frankenstein’s monster.

John. John had been shot. “J-John.” Had she spoken? She couldn’t tell; her ears throbbed.

“Shh, honey. It’s me. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay now.” He sounded greatly relieved. Worried and tired, but relieved.

She felt him grasp her hand. She was alive. And John was alive.

Bobby was dead. She’d killed him.

Maybe there was a God after all.

“I’m sorry.”