US Marshall 03 - The Rapids (3 page)

N
ate Winter came home to find secret service agents crawling all over his house, a reminder of just how much his life had changed in the past four months.

His fiancée, Sarah Dunnemore, was on the back porch having peach cobbler with President John Wesley Poe, who regarded her as the daughter he’d never had. Being together brought out their Southern accents.

Nate had a feeling he knew why Poe was there.

Nick Janssen.

The rich, murdering bastard was finally in custody.

It was hot even on the shaded porch, but the two Tennesseans didn’t seem to mind. While looking for a home of their own in northern Virginia, Nate and Sarah were living in a corner of an 1850s historic house she was researching and getting ready to open
to the public. Supposedly it was haunted by both Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee. Poe liked to joke that he wished he could ask both men for advice. But Sarah, a historical archaeologist, was serious about her ghosts.

Before they’d met, Nate had been a senior deputy U.S. Marshal dedicated to catching fugitives and not much else.

He was still a marshal, he was still dedicated to his work—but now he could come home to Sarah, ghosts, peach cobbler and the occasional presidential visit.

“Mr. President,” Nate said, “it’s good to see you.”

Poe, already on his feet, put out his hand, and the two men shook. “It’s good to see you, too, Nate. Sarah’s ruining my diet with her peach cobbler.”

Nate had helped her pick the peaches from one of the trees in the old house’s sprawling yard, knowing she expected to make jam one evening. The cobbler meant she was upset, because otherwise she’d still be up to her elbows in the hundred-year-old dump she’d found out back and was in the process of excavating. When she was upset, she dug out family recipes, usually ones involving a lot of butter.

Her gray eyes connected with Nate’s for a split second, enough to tell him that Poe’s visit hadn’t been her idea. She had on cropped jeans and a tank top, barefoot even for peach cobbler with the president.

As welcome as it was, Janssen’s arrest had brought back the trauma of her ordeal last spring. Her twin brother badly injured in a sniper-style attack in Central Park, a killer on the loose in Night’s Landing, the Dunnemore family’s Tennessee home, their refuge. John Wesley Poe happened to have grown up next door.

Sarah was fair-haired and beautiful, and Nate—tall, lean, impatient—hated for those dark days to prey on her again. But he’d learned that Sarah Dunnemore wasn’t an ivory tower intellectual who wanted to remain aloof from life. She dove in, sometimes without looking.

“I stopped by to see how Sarah had taken the news of the Janssen arrest,” Poe said. “And Rob. I wondered how he was doing.”

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” Sarah said. “I called my parents a little while ago—they’re fine.”

“I tried to reach Rob on his cell phone earlier,” Nate said. “He didn’t answer. I left a message.”

“How is he recuperating from his injuries?” Poe asked.

Sarah dabbed at the ice cream melting onto her cobbler. “He’s doing well, but he’s frustrated because his recovery took longer than he expected. At least he’s back to his triathlon training.”

Swimming, running, biking. From all accounts, Rob was as fit now as he’d been before the shooting. But he’d endured a weeks-long media barrage.
Now the whole world knew that he’d graduated from Georgetown and spoke seven languages, that he and his twin sister were like the son and daughter President Poe had never had. Rob often came off in media reports as a silver-spoon, Southern frat boy, but nothing about him was that simple.

“Is he back on the street?” Poe asked.

Nate shook his head. “Not yet.”

The president sighed heavily. “I worry about him.”

Which, Nate knew, Rob would hate. Sarah knew it, too, but she nodded with understanding. “It’s hard not to worry.”

“Janssen’s arrest will fire up the media again. I hate to see him go through
that.
They’ll rehash everything that happened in May.” Poe winced. “They’ll be calling you, too, Sarah. And your parents.”

“The marshals have sent someone to Night’s Landing in case it gets crazy. If any reporters show up here, I can handle them.” She smiled and licked her spoon. “I’ll have Bobby Lee or Abe talk to them.”

Nate could see Poe forcing himself to relax. “I never know when you’re serious—”

“
Every
resident of this house since 1875 swears the two of them are haunting the place. I take that seriously.” She rose, calmer now herself, and grabbed her bowl. “Are you going to eat your cob
bler, Wes? Because if not, I’ll take it into the house before the flies get to it. There’s no wasting fresh peach cobbler around here.”

That elicited a real smile. “Can I take it with me?”

She beamed. A Ph.D. with academic credits up and down both arms, and she loved getting compliments for her cooking. “I’ll go wrap it up.”

When he heard the screen door shut, Wes breathed out, any hint of a smile gone. “Nate—I hope you’ll tell Rob he can call me anytime. I’ll make sure he’s put through right away.”

“He knows that, Mr. President.”

The older man nodded. “I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that now that our families’ relationship is common knowledge—” He seemed to fight for the right words. “That it won’t ruin his life.”

Nate had no idea what to say.

A secret service agent stood on the bottom step of the porch.

Time for Poe to leave.

He glanced at the screen door. “You and Sarah are good for each other. After you’re married—” He shook his head. “Well, never mind.”

Nate thought he understood what Poe was getting at. “We’ll want you to be a part of our lives, Mr. President. Both of us.”

He sighed. “Thank you.”

“Rob—”

“Rob’s a different story. He always has been.”

After Poe left with his entourage of secret service and staffers—and his peach cobbler—Nate found Sarah in the kitchen, flipping through her grandmother’s recipes. Given the array of ingredients on the table, she was looking for something that involved both cream of mushroom soup and mayonnaise. He slipped his arms around her. “I don’t think my arteries can take whatever it is you’re about to whip up.”

She shoved the cans aside. “I’m missing an ingredient, anyway.”

“Dare I ask what?”

“Water chestnuts.”

He let his hands move up her midriff toward her breasts. “Do you think Abe and Bobby Lee would object if we made love this early in the evening?”

“If I think about them watching us—”

“I don’t know, it could be fun. A foursome—”

She elbowed him in the gut, registering her disapproval, and he laughed, sweeping her up off her feet, getting her away from her cans and her kitchen. He figured he could ease her stress in other ways.

Rob rolled out of bed at six in his first-floor Brooklyn apartment, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and headed out for his morning paper. He’d ignored all messages from reporters on his voice mail when he got home last night.

A woman in biking shorts was on his doorstep.
“Deputy Dunnemore? My name’s Patty. I’d like to talk to you about the arrest of Nicholas Janssen yesterday in the Netherlands.”

No last name, no credentials. A freelancer. She looked young enough to be a journalism student. She was sweating and panting, indicating she’d pedaled a ways to get to him, which at least meant she didn’t live nearby.

Rob picked up his paper and noticed Janssen’s arrest had made the front page. No surprise.

Patty frowned when he didn’t respond. “Have you and President Poe talked about the arrest?”

Her eyes fell to where his scar was under his shirt. The whole damned world knew the details of his injury. There’d been diagrams of the path of the bullet on TV. Doctors had discussed his prognosis, his recovery, how people could live normal lives without a spleen.

“It’s a nice morning for a bike ride,” he said. “See you, Patty.”

He didn’t like shutting the door in her face, but his other options—for example, talking to her—were even less appealing. When he got back up to his apartment, he looked out his living room door and caught her giving him the finger from her bike.

A pro.

No way would he get a bike ride in himself. Or a run. Or even a swim at the Y. There’d be more reporters to deal with. He’d been shot and his family nearly
destroyed because of their connection to the president. For months the media had hounded him.

Now Janssen was in Dutch custody.

Due to an anonymous tip to a diplomatic security agent three weeks on the job.

Something about it didn’t sit right with Rob. He took a shower, got dressed and headed for work, contemplating the unlikelihood of what had gone down across the Atlantic.

He managed to sneak past a throng of reporters outside the federal building where the Southeastern District Office of the U.S. Marshals Service was located. When he got to his desk, a stack of messages, all from reporters, was waiting for him.

Reporters and a day of desk work.
He swore to himself and dumped all the messages in the trash.

Mike Rivera stood in his office doorway and jerked a thumb at Rob to join him. Rob doubted it was because the chief deputy wanted to put him back on the street. A heavyset man in his early fifties with bulldog features that his wife seemed to adore, Rivera was well respected but not a soft touch. He wouldn’t like having reporters crawling all over his office and harassing one of his deputies.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Who’ve you heard from?”

Rob sat in a spongy plastic chair. “A lot of reporters. I haven’t talked to any of them. There’s not much to say.”

“We can issue a statement. It probably won’t do
much good while the feeding frenzy’s on, but we can try. Do you want to be available for interviews, issue a statement yourself or anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“I want to do my damn job.”

Rivera’s eyes flashed. “Yeah, well, you’re going to need to lie low for a couple of days until the dust settles on this Janssen arrest.”

“I’ve been laying low since May.”

“You’ve been recovering from a goddamn bullet wound that nearly killed you—”

“It didn’t kill me.” Rob kept his voice calm. “I’m fit for duty. I don’t want anyone coddling me.”

“Who the hell’s coddling you? You don’t want to move too fast, get in over your head—”

“What, with a computer?”

“With another asshole with a gun.”

Rob didn’t respond. He hadn’t had a chance in May. He’d dragged Nate down to Central Park to see the tulips—they’d never live that one down—and gotten shot. No warning, no way to fight back. They’d walked into the park and come out on stretchers.

Rivera sat forward, his chair squeaking loudly. “Why do you look so thin?” he asked, making it sound like an accusation.

“I’m back into my triathlon training. I can pass any test you want to throw at me—”

“Yeah, okay. Don’t drop and do push-ups here in my office. You nailed your fitness for duty assessment. I know that. It’s your head I worry about.”

“I’ve done everything I’ve been asked to do, all the desensitizing and reprogramming or whatever it’s called. Time for you all to stop walking on eggshells around me.”

Rivera grunted. “Today isn’t a good day to tell me you’re just a regular deputy trying to do his job.”

His chair squeaked again when he leaned back, bugging the hell out of Rob. Not a good sign, probably, that a noisy chair irritated him. “I want to get out of here, at least for a few days. Let the dust settle.”

“Will you go down to Tennessee?”

“The Hague.”

Rivera stood and turned to his grime-encrusted window. “Christ, Dunnemore. You don’t make my life easy, do you?”

Rob smiled. “Not my job, Chief. Less chance of anyone getting misquoted or harassed if I’m out of the country.”

“So go to Ireland.”

“Nick Janssen’s not in custody in Ireland. The DS agent who got tipped off about where to find him isn’t in Ireland.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Still in his plastic chair, Rob shrugged. “Sure, why not? I can check with our people in the Nether
lands, see where things stand now that the Dutch have Janssen. A Dutch judge is considering our request to interview him. We don’t want anything slipping through the cracks.”

Rivera shifted from the window and held up a hand. “I get your point. What says a Dunnemore showing up in Holland won’t fire up reporters there?”

“Nothing. Janssen’s arrest is a public reminder of my family’s connections to President Poe. There’s not much I can do about that. But the media will be looking for me in New York, not The Hague.”

“You want to do this thing?”

“I can be on a flight out of Kennedy tonight.”

“Listen, Rob, if this is personal—”

“Of course it’s personal.” Rob stood, feeling the August heat even in the air-conditioned room. “Janssen put out word that he’d pay for a presidential pardon. He tried to get under my mother’s skin. Ultimately, he’s the one responsible for everything that happened in May—”

“It was a bad time.”

“Then there’s Charlene Brooker. The Dutch are charging Janssen with ordering her murder in Amsterdam last year. We’re all still scrambling to unravel his network.”

“None of that is why you’re going to Holland.”

Rob shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“You want to know who gave that DS agent the tip.”

“Don’t you?”

Rivera pulled out his chair and plopped down with a loud, obnoxious groan of metal. “Hell.” He looked up at Rob. “Bring me back some Dutch gin.”

“Mike—”

“Just a little bottle. I don’t drink as much as I used to.”

Rob knew he’d won. There was nothing to do now except figure out which flight to take, dig out his passport and pack.

M
aggie stared at her boss in disbelief. “Why me?”

George Bremmerton regarded her with a reasonable measure of sympathy from the other side of her desk, but she knew he wasn’t about to change his mind. “Because he requested you.”

“Why would Rob Dunnemore request me?”

“Because you made the Janssen arrest happen.”

“I got an e-mail tip and made a phone call. That was the extent of it.” She sat back in her chair. “I can’t get out of this?”

“Not unless you find a way to get run over by a bus.”

“Great,” Maggie said without enthusiasm. “You know Dunnemore’s a rich frat-boy type playing marshal until he decides to start living off his trust fund, don’t you?”

Bremmerton almost smiled. He was in his late forties and one of the most respected regional security officers ever, a very serious-minded man who
was nonetheless getting a kick out of her predicament. “I met his parents last winter. They’re not rich.”

“Rich people never think they’re rich. And they’re friends with President Poe. They don’t need to be rich.”

“Are you whining, Spencer?”

She groaned. “Yes, I’m whining. How long is Dunnemore staying?”

“Not my problem.”

Which meant it was her problem. Maggie had seen pictures of Rob Dunnemore. He was fair and very good-looking, more rugged than she’d expected—or particularly wanted to admit at the moment, since she preferred to think of him in terms of stereotypes.

People said he had gray eyes, but she hadn’t really noticed.

“When’s he getting here?” she asked.

“Half an hour.”

“I like the big warning I get.”

Bremmerton shrugged. “I just found out myself.”

“You have his flight information?”

He handed her a printout. “Don’t treat him like a VIP. He’s a federal agent. He’s here on business.”

“Marshal business? Or President Poe business?”

“Don’t go there, Maggie. Dunnemore’s main reason for being here is to see you. He’s not even being very subtle about it.”

Since Bremmerton had more than two decades of foreign assignments behind him and she had three
weeks, Maggie trusted his instincts. She was fortunate to be working with him. He’d gone to Nairobi in the aftermath of the American embassy bombing that had killed scores there. From all accounts, he’d been a steady presence amid tragedy and fear. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone who knew him or his reputation. No task within the realm of diplomatic security was too big or too small for him to tackle, which, along with his mix of competence and genuine decency, had earned him widespread respect and admiration. He also managed to have a relatively normal family life, with his speech-therapist wife with him in The Hague and two kids in college in the Midwest.

Maggie had worked hard to gain George Bremmerton’s confidence in her three weeks at the embassy and didn’t take it for granted.

If he wanted her to baby-sit President Poe’s marshal pal, that was what she’d do.

“I guess I should get going,” she said.

“His twin sister’s getting married in a few weeks to the marshal who got shot with him in Central Park.” Bremmerton shrugged at his own non sequitur. “It’ll give you something to talk about. She’s an archaeologist. Sarah.”

“He’s going to want to talk about Nick Janssen.”

Given the small size of the Netherlands, Schiphol was almost exclusively an international airport—a
very busy one—but Maggie had no trouble finding Rob Dunnemore. She recognized him from all the pictures she’d seen of him since the Central Park attack.

He was even more good-looking in person. Tall, very fit. Lightly tanned. He had on a dark suit that had come through the long flight virtually without wrinkles.

His eyes were, indeed, gray.

She introduced herself. “Can I carry something?”

“No, thank you, I’ve got everything.”

She’d expected more of a Southern accent. He had a small carry-on suitcase that she hoped meant he didn’t plan a long stay.

But as he observed her, she sensed an air of danger about him that took her aback. She quickly told herself she’d imagined it. It was just something she’d assumed because she knew he’d nearly been killed in the line of duty four months ago.

“Decent flight?” she asked, leading him out to her car.

“Uneventful.”

“That’s the way I like it. I always feel as if I’ve come out of the dryer after a long flight. Did you sleep?”

“I’m fine, Agent Spencer.”

But cranky, she thought. “Please, call me Maggie.”

He didn’t seem too excited about riding in her red
Mini. She unlocked the passenger door. “SUVs don’t work that well in Holland with all the narrow streets and teeny-tiny parking spaces.”

“The Mini’s no problem. It’s yours?”

For the first time, she detected his Southern accent. She nodded. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

She thought he might have smiled.

“Jet lag’s a killer,” she said when she got in behind the wheel. “My father used to swear by drinking a gallon of water on the plane and not eating a bite. I thought he was exaggerating, but he meant it. A whole gallon of water.”

“I ate everything that was offered.”

Maggie smiled. “That’s what I do.”

Dunnemore stared out his window most of the drive back to The Hague. She didn’t bug him. It was still before dawn his time. His body wanted to be in bed, asleep.

“I’ll drop you off at your hotel,” she said. “You can get settled, and I’ll come fetch you when you want—”

“I can make it to the embassy on my own.”

So it was going to be that way.
He wanted control. No suggestions from her. She shrugged. “Fine by me.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound surly. Thank you for trekking me around.”

“You asked for me. My boss gave the order.”

“I asked if I could talk with you. I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She smiled over at him. “You’ve got me for the duration of your visit, Deputy.”

When they arrived at his hotel, he turned down her offer to make sure his room was ready. He’d see to it. He was definitely independent. Self-sufficient. Not one who played well with others. Maggie hoped it wouldn’t become a problem. She didn’t want to bump heads with Rob Dunnemore, friend of the president.

Thomas Kopac intercepted her when she got back to the embassy. “Rumor has it you’re escorting President Poe’s—”

“You shouldn’t be listening to rumors.”

“Rob Dunnemore. He’s here?”

“He’s freshening up at his hotel. He’s a marshal. We’re not supposed to think of him as Poe’s surrogate son.”

Kopac grinned. “Says who?”

“Says me. Anything I can do for you? Or do I get to do a little work before Dunnemore gets here?”

“Nothing you can do for me, Special Agent Spencer.” He leaned in toward her, adding in an amused conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll be in my office if you need a place to scream. It’s in the bowels of the building. No one’ll hear you.”

“Very funny.”

He laughed. “I thought so.”

When she got back to her desk, Maggie checked her e-mail, hoping for another tip, something that would force Bremmerton to find someone else to
stick Rob Dunnemore with. The guy put her nerve endings on edge. It wasn’t the Poe connection, she decided. It was the gray eyes.

But there was nothing.

Her mobile phone rang, almost as if it knew she was looking for distractions.

A private number.

“Maggie Spencer—”

“St. John’s Cathedral is the finest example of Gothic architecture in the Netherlands.”

The voice was male, the accent East Coast American, and the words had her sitting up straight. St. John’s was in ’s-Hertogenbosch, the same city where Dutch police had picked up Nick Janssen yesterday.

“Who is this?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. It’s important that we talk.”

“I understand, but I need more information—”

“Just trust your instincts.”

“My instincts tell me this is a crank call.”

She thought she heard the start of a laugh. “I doubt that. Do people still call you Magster? Your father did when you were small, didn’t he?”

Magster.

Her stomach flip-flopped, but she warned herself that using her childhood name could just be a good guess, a way to manipulate her. It didn’t mean he knew anything about her father’s death. She couldn’t let herself think it was anything more.

“Who are you? I need a name.”

It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “Come alone. If you don’t, I’ll disappear, and you’ll have missed an important opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?”

But he was gone, the connection dead.

A meeting. Was the guy out of his mind?

He must have prepared every word in advance. Of
course
her father called her Magster. What father with a daughter named Maggie didn’t?

Some days she couldn’t believe it’d been eighteen months since his murder; other days, it was as if her father was more a dream than anything else, lost in a fog of memories and lost possibilities.

Had the caller known him?

Maggie felt a sudden rush of tears that she immediately fought back, impatient with herself.

But Rob Dunnemore materialized behind her, startling her with his good looks. The ends of his fair hair were still damp from his shower. He hadn’t wasted any time in getting cleaned up and settled in.

She smiled quickly, hoping there was no sign of even one damn tear in her eyes. “Have a seat, Deputy. We can get started.”

“Bad day?”

“What? Oh.” She made herself smile. “No, not yet.”

He didn’t seem to believe her. “That’s good.”

Maggie wished she’d indulged in chocolate sprin
kles that morning, because it was going to be a very long day.

Magster.

She’d figure out what to do about her anonymous caller when she didn’t have Deputy Dunnemore’s gray eyes on her.

Wide awake despite his overnight flight and long day, Rob sat on a wooden chair at a small table in his room on the top floor of his hotel, a renovated eighteenth-century building. It had low, slanted ceilings and no air-conditioning, but it wasn’t a hot night, at least by middle Tennessee standards.

He heard laughter through his open window and looked down four floors at a young couple standing under a linden tree, its branches carefully trained.

Rob turned away from the scene.

His eyes were heavy, scratchy, from fatigue and jet lag.

Maggie Spencer had walked with him back to his hotel, turning down a quick after-work drink.

A woman with things on her mind, Special Agent Spencer.

He’d gone into the dark, quiet bar by himself, but in a few minutes another man joined him, introducing himself as Tom Kopac, an embassy employee. Maggie’s friend.

They’d had a beer together. It was clear word had gotten out that the wounded marshal from the Jans
sen mess in May—the marshal who was friends with the president—was in town and Maggie was stuck with him.

Kopac had decided to check him out.

Their conversation was cordial but superficial. Rob had smiled at the older man. “Maggie’s a DS agent. She protects you. You don’t protect her.”

“She’s also a friend.”

After Kopac left, Rob had a spicy, meat-filled
kroket
with mustard, then went up to his room.

Why the hell was Kopac suspicious of him when Spencer was the one who had received the damn anonymous tip about Janssen? Not even an hour afterward, he was under arrest. Tips like that didn’t happen often, even with minor nonviolent fugitives, never mind with violent fugitives with international warrants out on them.

Was it someone wanting to collect the reward for information leading to Janssen’s arrest?

No one had come forward.

Rob put aside his questions and picked up the phone, dialing his future brother-in-law’s office in Arlington.

“What do we know about the DS agent who got the Janssen tip? Maggie Spencer.” Rob didn’t mention her rich red hair, her turquoise eyes, her creamy skin, and chastised himself for his gut-punched reaction to her. “She’s gritting her teeth, but she’s not complaining about getting saddled with me. At least not to my face.”

“Her name’s familiar,” Nate said.

“Because she’s the one who got the Janssen tip—”

“No, it’s something else.”

“You want to see what you can find out?”

“Sure.”

“She’s fetching me up in the morning and carting me to the town where Janssen was picked up.”

“Her idea?”

“She’s finding things to do with me.”

The alternative meanings of what he said struck him like a junior high student.
Jet lag.

“I’m not touching that,” Nate said with a chuckle. “I’ll check her out, let you know if I find out anything. Has she given you any idea of who she thinks gave her the tip?”

“She’s not a talker—she’s not easy to read.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do. Isn’t it midnight there?”

“Just about.”

“Go to bed. Take a sleeping pill.”

“I don’t want to oversleep and miss my field trip.”

Then again, Spencer was probably the type to throw a brick through his window to wake him up.

“I’ll tell Sarah you called,” Nate said.

“And the president?”

Silence.

“He wanted to know how I reacted to Janssen’s arrest, didn’t he?”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It never is with Wes. Yeah. Say hi to Sarah for me.”

When he hung up, Rob glanced down at the street and saw that the laughing couple was gone. The street seemed empty, almost too quiet. He lay atop his bed in his shorts. No shirt, no shoes. He’d visited his parents in Holland in April, when Nick Janssen was just wanted for failing to appear in court to face tax evasion charges. He’d made a move on Rob’s mother, and Rob hadn’t even known it.

So much had happened since then.

But his parents were back in Night’s Landing, permanently, and his father, in his late seventies, was finally easing up on his schedule. His mother seemed more at peace than she had in many weeks. Neither had wanted Rob to go back to work after the shooting—they hadn’t wanted him to become a marshal in the first place.