Allison Brennan - The Prey

“I should have him arrested.” Practical joke? Perhaps. Michael would be his own judge of the kid’s intentions.

“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.