The Prey (6 page)

“It would hurt him in ways you can’t imagine,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes. “You have to let me do this my way. I won’t have you threatening him. Adam’s not mentally retarded, but he’s a little slow.”

“We’ll see.” At her stern glare, he relented. “I’ll do it your way—at least at first.”

Rowan directed Michael to a small duplex only three blocks from the studio, in an older, well-maintained section of Burbank. “Adam lives in the rear unit. Please let me handle this,” she repeated.

He wanted to object, but her tense jaw showed her determination. At the same time, fatigue brightened her eyes. He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers, but it turned into a caress. He dropped his arm. “I’ll be your backup.”

Rowan nodded, smiling wanly. She led the way down the drive to the rear unit and knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. “Adam, it’s me, Rowan.”

Shuffling. A bolt slid out of its lock; the door opened. Looking through the screen, over Rowan’s head, Michael saw a tall, skinny, pale kid with enormous brown eyes and short brown hair. He wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans. His face was clear, hairless. He looked so young Michael wondered if he even shaved.

Adam looked from Rowan to Michael and back again, shuffling his feet. “Hi.”

“May we come in, Adam?”

Adam glanced at Michael, suspicious.

“This is my friend, Michael Flynn. He works for the studio.” When Adam didn’t budge, Rowan added, “In security.”

Adam frowned at Rowan. “You knew it was me, didn’t you?”

“I’d like to come in,” she said.

Adam unlocked the screen door and let them in. Michael was surprised at how tidy the kid was, though the room’s décor was bizarre. The worn ’fifties-style furniture was functional if unattractive; the bookshelf in the corner overflowed with books, though Rowan’s four novels were stacked neatly on the top shelf. The horror posters tacked to the walls unnerved Michael, but it was the realistic dummy sitting in the corner with its head half off, blood and tendons hanging out, that made him jump. The blood looked so real it appeared wet. Upon closer examination, it was simply plastic.

“Hey, Rowan!” Adam smiled widely. “Wait here—I want to show you something.” He ran to the back of the house and Michael tensed momentarily. The kid seemed harmless, but appearances could be deceiving. He stood in front of Rowan.

“I thought you said you were backup,” Rowan whispered.

“I’m still your bodyguard,” he said, equally quiet.

Adam bounded back into the room, holding an ordinary box. “I think I solved the problem Barry was having with the blood seepage. I made a valve here, see?” He opened the box and showed Rowan, his back to Michael, effectively cutting him off, like a jealous child. “If we create a vacuum in the bag, once you release the valve, the blood will seep out at a slower rate. I can set the valve for any rate they want.”

“That’s smart, Adam. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Do you think Barry will like it?”

“Yes, I think he will.”

Adam was all smiles, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Adam, I need to talk to you about what happened in Studio B this afternoon.”

Adam frowned, a child about to be reprimanded. “I—I—I didn’t mean to scare you, Rowan. I thought nothing scared you. But Marcy was really mean to Barry this morning. It wasn’t his fault the vase broke before it was supposed to. He
told
her to hold it by the base, and she didn’t listen. She never listens to him. Barry was really upset, and I thought it was okay to scare her because she’s really mean, anyway.” His bottom lip protruded and quivered.

Rowan took Adam’s hand and led him to the couch. She sat down, motioning for Adam to sit as well. She nodded at Michael and motioned toward the chair in the corner, next to the beheaded dummy. He sat and frowned at the mannequin. How could anyone live with that staring at him?

“Adam, I’ve told you before that you can’t play those kinds of jokes at the studio. Some people don’t think they’re funny.”

“But I didn’t hurt anyone! I just wanted to scare her.”

“I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose. But sometimes, jokes go too far.” She paused. “Marcy
is
mean, and Barry didn’t deserve to be yelled at. But Marcy didn’t deserve to be scared. Barry told me that you are very valuable to him, that you do a good job. I don’t want you to jeopardize your job, Adam.”

“Th-they wouldn’t fire me, would they? I didn’t mean—” He was on the verge of tears.

Rowan squeezed his hand. “No, I promise you won’t be fired over this. But tomorrow you’re going to have to tell Barry what you did. And you have to promise him, and me, that you won’t play any more practical jokes on anyone at the studio.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to hurt anyone.” He blinked and looked like a lost puppy. “Are we still friends?”

“Of course. We’ll always be friends, Adam.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Adam, I can trust you, right?”

“Oh, yes. Always.” He crossed his heart like a six-year-old might after making a solemn promise.

“You’re going to be reading some things in the newspaper, and I want to tell you what’s happening. There’s a very bad man who’s killing people and using my stories. He’s taking murders from my books—pretend murders—and making them real.”

Adam’s eyes widened. “That’s bad.”

“The police are investigating, and the studio hired Mr. Flynn here to keep an eye out for me.”

Adam gave Michael a curious, assessing scan, then frowned. “He’s your bodyguard.”

She nodded, though Michael noted she flinched. She still wasn’t comfortable with his role. “I want you to be particularly careful,” she said. “Don’t talk to anyone about me. If someone seems official, ask to see identification. You know the difference between what’s fake and what’s real.”

“I can tell the difference,” he nodded vigorously.

“Good. Tell me if you see or hear anything strange, something that doesn’t seem right. Call me anytime.”

“I’ll watch out for you. I promise.”

“I know you will.” She squeezed his hand and stood up. “I’m going to go now. Remember what I said.”

“I will.” He jumped up and walked them to the door.

From his small front porch, Adam watched Rowan and her bodyguard Mr. Flynn walk down the driveway. When he could no longer see them, he went in and ate his favorite soup—chicken and stars. He ate the whole pot of soup because it was there, then he washed and cleaned up. Rowan had told him it was important to clean up after yourself because no one would do it for you.

When he finished, he sat down with another mystery. And then he forgot almost everything Rowan had told him.

Rowan stared out the passenger window of Michael’s SUV, worried, frustrated, and ticked off. They were headed back to Malibu after a long day. Between the studio, talking to Adam, and the fiasco at the FBI field office in downtown Los Angeles, Rowan couldn’t wait to get to the beach house. Though she hated its sterile décor, she longed for the peace, the sound of the waves crashing against the beach, and most important, privacy.

The L.A. field director had turned over her old case files to Special Agent Quincy Peterson. He was probably waiting right that moment for her at her house. She’d told Roger not to send anyone from Washington, but he trusted Quinn. She shouldn’t have been surprised Roger would want someone they both knew on the case.

She certainly didn’t want to see him again. Out of all the agents Roger could have tagged to help, why Quinn?

“The FBI is taking this seriously,” Michael commented.

She turned from the window and closed her eyes. She wasn’t about to get into her complicated friendship with Quinn Peterson with a virtual stranger.

“They’re reviewing my cases back in D.C. and checking on the status of prisoners and their families, but I asked Roger to let me go through my old cases.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but I need to do something or I’ll go crazy.”

“Roger Collins?”

She nodded, glancing at him. He didn’t sound surprised. Then again, she wouldn’t be shocked to learn he’d run a quick background check on her. “My old boss. He’s an assistant director.” There were several assistant directors, but it was nonetheless a high-ranking position.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but the police found the florist.” He paused. “She’s dead.”

Rowan had expected this, but it didn’t feel any better knowing she was right. The sick dread that had started when she learned of Doreen Rodriguez spread deeper. Her meager hope that all this wasn’t personal now vanished.

It
was
personal. And now the urge to go over her cases one by one to see if she’d missed
anything
was stronger than ever.

“How?” Was that weak squeak her voice? She didn’t recognize it.

“Christine Jamison’s throat was slit.”

“With a knife from her kitchen,” Rowan said, picturing the crime in her mind. Remembering her book. It was straight from her book.

“How did you—? Oh. Yeah.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. About the same time the flowers were delivered to you.”

The bastard had planned it all. Right down to baiting her, sending her the flowers while killing the florist. He probably got a sick thrill out of it, knowing that the police would be able to put together the timeline.

“One of your books was left behind,” Michael continued. He took her hand. She glanced down, uneasy, but didn’t pull her hand away. She hadn’t had much comfort in the last couple of days, and this small bit of human connection gave her some strength to draw on.

“
Crime of Passion
,” she whispered. “In that book, a florist was killed so as not to be able to identify the man who was stalking his victim and sending her white roses.”

“You still think this isn’t about you?” he asked.

“Dammit, I know it’s about me! I just don’t want to accept it. It’s personal, premeditated. And there will be more victims unless we figure this out. And then he’ll come after me.
And I don’t know why
!” She pulled her hand from Michael’s and slammed her fist on the dashboard.

Rowan was grateful for Michael’s silence. She stared out the window, running over every case she’d worked on. Roger would let her know immediately if one of her convicts was out. But few of them could have put together these elaborately planned crimes.

William James Stanton, perhaps. A sexual sadist, he’d been sentenced by a stupid jury to life imprisonment rather than death. They’d bought his twisted sob story that he’d been so abused by his mother as a child that he wasn’t actually killing pretty young moms on the Eastern seaboard, but was killing his own abusive mother over and over.

Rowan hadn’t bought it. Stanton took intense pleasure in torturing and raping his victims.

Or Lars Richard Gueteschow, the Butcher of Brentwood. He’d hacked up teenagers—boys or girls, it didn’t matter; there was nothing sexual about it—and stored their body parts in his freezer. Until one girl got away. Rowan could imagine him getting a twisted pleasure in tormenting her, the agent who’d gathered the evidence and testified against him. But he was on death row in San Quentin.

Most crimes she had investigated were jurisdictional, violent crimes the FBI became involved in because the murders occurred in more than one state. Not many of those killers could have orchestrated such a detailed operation as these new murders.

But where else could she look? Their relatives? Friends, neighbors, colleagues? People who had a grotesque fascination with their crimes? Going that route, they’d have thousands of suspects. Her head ached. She squeezed her fingers into her eyes, suddenly weary.

She just didn’t know if they’d have enough time before the bastard struck again.

Rowan’s hair was limp, her posture now less than rigid. She glanced over her shoulder twice, and jumped when the bodyguard touched her.

Some distance away, he smiled. She was exhausted and afraid. Good. He was giddy that he was giving her sleepless nights. He hoped that whatever sleep she managed was disturbed by nightmares of blood. Did she feel any guilt? Any complicity? After all, it was her own words that determined who lived and who died. He chuckled as he watched.

She’d come home with her bodyguard to that impatient FBI agent who’d been waiting at her door for the last hour. The agent had rung the doorbell several times, glanced at his watch even more often, and paced. The Fed didn’t worry him.

The bodyguard, however, worried him slightly. Knowing Rowan as he did, he hadn’t expected her to ask for help. She was so confident, so cool. Not the type to get a bodyguard. Her lover? No. She hadn’t been with a man since before leaving the FBI. What was that guy’s name? Oh, yeah. Hamilton. Also a Fed.

Oh, yes, he’d been watching her—one way or another—for a long time.

The bodyguard would be dealt with when the right time came. A silencer would do the trick, though he loathed guns. It made killing so impersonal.

That was for later.

First, Rowan needed to be broken. He wanted her to melt, to burn. He needed her emotion, her temper. Mostly, he wanted her fear. Then—only then—would he confront her.

Until that time, he had many things to do. He’d marked the chosen for death. Nothing could now alter their fate. He was a god; fate would run its course. Then he and Rowan would meet again. She would know him and know fear.

And beg for her life before she died.

He waited until dark, then left. He had another flight to catch.

He waited for Tess to close her apartment door, then clamped a hand over her mouth. Thinking fast, she swung her laptop around hard and hit him on the shoulder, but the momentum of her attack enabled him to twist her wrist. He forced her to drop the computer and cruelly bent her arm back. He felt her wince and try to pivot for control. But she’d already lost.

He let her go and flipped on the lights.

“I’ve told you a thousand times that an attacker can use your momentum against you.”

“John! You bastard!” Tess tried to slap him, but he grabbed her arm. “How did you get in here?”