Allison Brennan - The Prey

Or someone.

John glanced at Adam sitting rigid in the passenger seat of the beat-up truck. He frowned, worried about the young man’s withdrawal. He didn’t know Adam well, but sensed that Rowan’s odd behavior disturbed him deeply.

Before Highway 101 veered east off the Pacific Coast Highway, John saw the flower stand. He’d driven past it several times in the last few days, but hadn’t thought twice about it. “Is this where you bought the lilies?” he asked Adam.

Adam nodded almost imperceptibly, and John illegally cut across traffic and into the turnout. “Let’s talk to the man who sold them to you.”

“I don’t wanna.” He crossed his arms and pouted.

“Remember what I told you, Adam? This man you saw may be the man who’s hurting all those people. And hurting Rowan. I know you like Rowan and don’t want to see her hurt.”

John didn’t push Adam further, allowing him time to mull over the information. Several minutes passed; then Adam opened the door without looking at him.

Good, John thought. He slid out the driver’s side.

Adam dragged his feet, but followed John to the wiry Mexican who manned the flower booth. “ Hola, señor .”

“ Hola ,” the proprietor said with a nod. He looked at Adam and smiled. “Lady like flores ?” He gestured to his colorful display.

Adam frowned and shook his head.

“ Señor ,” John continued, “My amigo -” he patted Adam on the back both to identify him and to keep him at his side-“met a man. Do you remember?”

“ Recuerde ?” he repeated in Spanish. “ Si .”

“Can you describe him? His hair?” John touched his hair. “ Pelo ?”

“Yes, hair like sand.”

“The same color as sand?”

He nodded and waved toward the beach below the cliffs. Blond, John thought. A little darker than true blond.

“Did you see his eyes?”

He shook his head. “He wore gafas de sol . Uh, dark glasses.”

Damn. “Height?” He held his hand up.

The man looked from John to Adam. “Like him,” he pointed at Adam and then put his fingers together about an inch apart. “Taller.”

“Do you remember what he was driving? His coche ?”

“American sedan. Like a Ford.” He shrugged. “ No seguro .”

Not sure . “Do you remember which way he went?”

He pointed toward Los Angeles. Away from Rowan. Had he been by her house? He knew where she lived, but the thought that the murderer was stalking Rowan disturbed John on several levels.

“ Él compró un lirio y lo lanzó del acantilado ,” the small man gestured toward the cliff. “ Extraño. Pero no hago pregunta .”

He’d bought a lily and tossed it over the side. Shit.

“What did he wear?”

“Nice. Pantalones . Light brown. Shirt like you.” He pointed at John’s polo shirt. “Blue.” He shrugged. “ No recuerdo cualquier cosa. Individuo que mira agradable justo cerca de cuarenta .”

About forty years of age, clean-cut guy. Nothing distinguishing. At least it was more than they had before, John thought as he thanked the man and led Adam back to the truck.

“Do you remember anything else?” Adam didn’t say anything, but John pressed. “I think you do. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“No, no,” Adam said shaking his head. “Don’t be mad at me too.”

John sighed, trying to keep his patience. “I’m not mad at you, Adam. This has been a hard day for you, I know that. But if there’s anything you remember, even if you don’t think it’s important, I need to know.”

Adam bit his lip. “He looked familiar.”

“Familiar? Like you’ve seen him before?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Think, Adam! This is important.” John didn’t mean to snap, but his frustration level was rising.

“I don’t know. He just seemed familiar somehow. Like I saw him before. I’m stupid. I don’t remember. I’m stupid!” Adam pounded the dashboard with his fist.

John took in a deep breath as he turned the ignition. “You’re not stupid, Adam. You’ll remember. And when you do, I want you to call me.” He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a card and handed it to him. “Call me anytime and tell me anything you remember, okay?”

Adam took the card with a frown, turning it over and over in his fingers. “Okay.”

He marveled at the numbers of brunettes in D.C. who ignored the warnings issued by the police. Some traveled in groups, but most left work and headed for the Metro alone, or at least parted with their friends before boarding the commuter train.

He had to thank Rowan for this one. Four of the victims in her book were unidentified, so he didn’t have to worry about finding a victim to fit the name detail. It had been harder in Portland to find a Harper family that fit, but when he saw the younger daughter he knew he could deviate from the plan and send Rowan a little memory. Adapt. He’d adapted to circumstances his entire life. Adapt, manipulate, destroy.

But to find a single brunette between the ages of twenty and thirty who commuted from Washington, D.C. to Virginia was much easier. He’d picked out a potential victim last week. Tonight he waited by her car.

Another minor deviation, but one Rowan would appreciate. After 9/11, security had changed on the Metro and he couldn’t take the risk of being caught on camera. He wondered if Rowan would recognize him-it had been a long time-but he thought she would. If she didn’t, certainly they could run any image through the crime lab and learn he had a record.

That simply wouldn’t do. Rowan would learn his identity soon enough. On his terms, in his time.

Every one of Rowan’s books fascinated him. They were so full of detail, so rich with life and death. He’d been surprised the bitch was capable of such creativity. He’d studied the protagonist and wondered if Rowan had written Dara Young to be her. Dara was nothing like Rowan; the fictional FBI agent was a brunette with brown eyes, older, and actually had friends.

No family, he thought with a wide smile.

Rowan would never suspect what he planned, but it was brilliant. Brilliant! He’d always known he was smart. Much smarter than the average schmo out there. But now… now he was inspired.

He would break her. Then he would kill her.

He heard the Metro pull into the station, the end of the line. He grinned at the irony of it. The end of the line . He looked forward to this particular story. All the victims of Rowan’s fictional villain Judson Clemens were raped. He’d never thought of raping a woman. What was the point? After all, he could get laid whenever he wanted, pay for it if he had to. Not in prison, but the fags had stayed away from him after he sliced the dick of the first one who tried to fuck him. The rapist he knew in the joint had a problem with “anger management,” as the shrinks called it. He laughed. He had no problem managing his anger, no problem at all.

He concealed it very well.

But he wasn’t really raping the woman. He was simply following the script Rowan had so graciously laid at his feet. It was her plan, her victims.

Sorry, Melissa Jane Acker, this is the end of your line.

Rowan dressed in a simple black gown with a single strand of pearls around her neck. She had no desire to dress fancy for this premiere; she didn’t even want to go. But Roger was right about one thing. Though the bastard would deviate if he had to, bombing the theater was not his style.

Still, her stomach churned and she hadn’t been able to eat anything all day. Before dressing, she drank a glass of milk to settle her stomach, but it sat like a hard lump in her gut and she prayed she could get through the evening without puking.