The Prey (43 page)

“Stop. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Bobby’s gone. And you’re okay.”

She started coughing. “Wa-ter.”

Something touched her lips. A straw. She sucked as hard as she could and managed to bring up a sip of water. It coated her throat and she was grateful for its coolness.

“Tess is okay?” She vaguely remembered John telling her Tess was alive, but she had to hear it again.

“Yes, she’s fine. Broken arm. Both Roger and Quinn are going to make it, too.”

“But—how—?” Then she remembered John saying that she’d bought them enough time. Enough time to get away from the bomb.

She felt tension leaving her body, as if the uncertainty had kept her worried even while she’d been unconscious.

“How long—?” How long had she been here? A day? Two? Longer?

“Shh. Don’t talk, sweetheart.” She felt a feather of a kiss on her hand.

“Rowan, I want you to listen to me. Don’t talk, just listen. You had nothing to do with Bobby’s crimes. Nothing. I know you, I know the guilt is eating at you. But you must not blame yourself.”

He squeezed her hand. “Rowan, I saw the video Bobby forced you to watch. Please, please don’t let it torment you.”

The images on that videotape would forever be etched in her mind. She would have done anything to spare John the pain of seeing his brother like that.

She forced herself to open her eyes. Slowly. As they adjusted to the bright lights, she focused on John.

He hadn’t shaved in two, three days. His hair even looked longer, not the perfect military cut he’d maintained for the three weeks she’d known him.

Three weeks. Had everything happened in that short a time? It didn’t seem possible. It was as if her entire previous life had been a short prologue leading up to a long, torturous book she’d been forced to read.

So much death. So much blood. But it was over. Truly over.

“Peter?” She was certain she’d seen him there, at the house with Bobby. Heard his familiar, kind, loving voice.

“He’s fine. He’s here, waiting for you to recover.” He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, then brought the straw to her mouth. She sipped, feeling a tad stronger than the first time she drank.

“You’ve just been through hell and back. You’re alive. I’m alive. We’ve made it. We’re going to get through this because we’re together.”

“John—”

“Rowan, you love me. You told me so, and you can’t take it back.”

“I do. I love you,” she whispered. But how could she explain that she still wasn’t a complete person? That she needed time to think about everything that had happened, to really and truly put it behind her? She’d never forget, but she felt hope that she could move on. Move forward.

“But—” she began.

“No buts, I said.” He leaned over and lightly kissed her. “Together, Rowan. We’ve been loners for so long, both of us. But together we’re stronger.”

Together we’re stronger
. She smiled weakly. “Yes, we are.”

John tensed when someone knocked on the door. Still in protection mode. Surprisingly, the thought didn’t bother her like it did before. It was comforting to have someone care about her. Especially someone she loved.

John turned without letting go of her hand, relaxing when Quinn Peterson walked in. A large swatch of gauze was taped above his left eye, partially covered by his sandy hair, and his wrist was wrapped in an ace bandage.

“You’re awake,” Quinn said, relieved.

“You thought I was a goner?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t strong, but at least she was coherent.

“No, you’re a survivor.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “The Butcher is back.”

Rowan closed her eyes. “Dammit. She doesn’t deserve this!”

“Am I missing something?” John asked.

“My roommate at Quantico, Miranda Moore, lives in Bozeman, Montana,” Rowan said. “She’d been attacked by a serial killer and lived. Years ago,” she explained quickly when she saw the shock on John’s face. “That’s how we know each other. After her attack, she decided to join the FBI.”

“Oh, she’s one of yours.”

“No, she never graduated Quantico.” Rowan glared at Quinn. He stared back at her. She shook her head. No, he didn’t understand. Maybe he never would. It sure didn’t help that he and Miranda were both so stubborn.

“What happened?” she asked Quinn after an awkward silence.

“Another college student is missing, but the sheriff is certain it’s the Butcher. He called me this morning and asked me to go up there and help. I’ve already cleared it with my office.” He paused, his jaw tight. “The bastard has been killing for fifteen years. We have to find a way to stop him.”

Quinn looked so distraught Rowan wondered if it was really the killer or the thought of facing Miranda after all this time that had him worried. The Quinn Peterson she knew didn’t back down from a professional challenge.

“You’ll do what you do best, Quinn,” Rowan said. “You’ll investigate.”

“Every year he kills and still eludes the police.”

“Maybe he’ll slip up.”

She and Quinn stared at each other. Contrary to popular belief, most serial killers—especially the sadistic kind like the Bozeman Butcher—didn’t want to be caught. His job was to stop them. Rowan had confidence that if the Butcher made even a small mistake, Quinn’s steadfast doggedness would stop him.

“I’m leaving tonight for Seattle to pick up clean clothes, then I’m heading for Montana in the morning,” he said. “I just wanted to come by and wish you well. You deserve a little happiness.” He looked pointedly at John.

“I’m making it my number-one priority,” John said, bringing her hand up to his lips. The simple, romantic gesture moved her.

“Give my best to Miranda,” Rowan said as Quinn turned to open the door.

He glanced over his shoulder and she couldn’t read his face. “I will.” He left.

“Did I miss something?” John asked.

“No. Just Quinn being arrogant and stubborn.” And Miranda, she thought.

“I figured that out working with him these last weeks.” John smiled. “But he’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, he is. One of the best.”

John leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips, then kissed her hand again.

“I hear you have a cabin in Colorado. Believe it or not, I’ve never been to Colorado. Tess is taking a civilian job with the FBI in Washington, so there’s no reason for me to hang around L.A. Besides, I just have this little studio with nothing but a bed and radio. What say you and I head off for a little R & R? Indefinitely.”

Rowan sighed and closed her eyes.

She loved John. And for the first time since she was ten, Rowan felt like she could love someone who would be around for a long, long time.

Was it fate? Destiny? She didn’t know. But she couldn’t imagine waking up alone in bed anymore. She didn’t want to fall asleep with her Glock as her only companion. She wanted more. A friend. A lover.

A husband.

That was down the road. Their love had been forged in a hellish world created by Bobby MacIntosh. The thought of her sick, sick brother made her stomach roll over and she stifled a sob.

But Bobby was dead. And this time, it wasn’t a lie.

“Rowan? Are you okay? We don’t have to rush anything—”

John sounded so defeated, as if she might turn him away.

“No, no,” she said.

“That’s okay. I understand.”

“No!” she said more firmly. She swallowed, opened her eyes and looked at him, willing him to understand what she really meant.

“I love you John.”

“I know. You’re just not ready for—”

“Shh.” She motioned for more water. If he was going to make this difficult, she needed more fuel.

She swallowed the cool liquid and started again. “I need you.”

At first he looked skeptical, then optimistic. “I never expected to hear that from you.”

“I never expected to say it. To anyone.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Does that mean you don’t mind me joining you in Colorado?”

“I need a lot of work,” she admitted. “I still have some—problems. I don’t know if the nightmares are going to go away, or if I won’t snap at you or shut you out or—”

“Rowan!” he said, his voice sharp. “Do you think I care? I have baggage as well. You know about Denny. And Reginald Pomera. If I have a chance, I’m going to go after him.”

“I know. You’ll get your demon, John. Just like I got mine.”

“But now,” he said, his voice softer and full of the love she felt from him, “I have someone to come home to. If you’ll have me.”

“There’s no one I’d rather share my home with,” she said.

She could put everything behind her. And she would much rather wake up with John by her side—in good times and bad—than live the rest of her life without love.

“Then it’s a deal. As soon as they spring you, we’re going to Colorado. Together.”

“That sounds perfect,” she said quietly before drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

I never really understood all that went into producing a book. I thought a writer wrote it, an editor edited it, and a publisher published it. There are multiple editors, copyeditors, cover designers, marketing professionals—dozens of hard-working people who all deserve to be acknowledged for their fine work.

Everyone who had a hand in producing this book at Ballantine, thank you for making this process as easy as possible. Especially, Gina Centrello and Linda Marrow for being so enthusiastic; Charlotte Herscher for encouraging me to dig deeper; and Dana Isaacson for great advice on villains.

Wally Lind and Rick Litts from crimescenewriters were invaluable, sharing their experience, expertise, and time, especially about the prison system. If I’ve made any technical errors, it was certainly not because of them.

Trisha, you believed in me from the very beginning. Thank you for being a true friend.

Jan, Sharon and Amy, thanks for being my first readers—I’d never have finished this book without you.

Karin, Edie, Barbara, Michelle, Kathia & Michele for your constant support and encouragement.

I’d never have realized my dream without my fabulous agent Kimberly Whalen, who really worked above and beyond the call to make everything come together . . . thank you for taking a chance on me.

And of course my husband, Dan, and our kids need to be acknowledged for putting up with my late-night writing binges, quickie dinners, and messy house. You are my motivation. I love you.