Allison Brennan - The Prey

The doctor was excited. “I never thought you’d visit, but you helped him make an incredible breakthrough. Incredible.” Dr. Christopher bounced on his heels. “Will you come again? We can work together to bring him out. For the first time, I think we might be able to reach him.”

Rowan stared at the doctor, her mouth dropping open, eyes wide. “Are you serious? I hope he rots in hell.”

The doctor frowned and blinked. “He’s mentally ill, Ms. Smith. He didn’t know what he was doing when he killed your mother.”

“I don’t believe that. I hope he’s suffering in the world he’s created for himself. He used to hit my mother. Hit her until she bruised and bled. She stayed because she said she loved him.” She laughed without humor. “And she’s dead. He killed her. I hope he burns hot when he finally dies.” She paused and stared at the doctor defiantly.

“I never thought there was a worse punishment than death. But maybe there is.”

“Are you okay?” John asked as they waited for a table in the hotel restaurant.

After leaving Bellevue, they went directly to the local FBI office where Collins had set up a temporary operations room to coordinate with Los Angeles and Washington. The number-one priority was to distribute Bobby MacIntosh’s photo to all airline security personnel in the country. After 9/11 there was a mechanism in place to do just that, but the success still relied on the competence of local officials.

After Rowan told Collins about what her father had said, she clammed up. John didn’t blame her. He’d want time alone after something like that. Now they were alone. Collins had retired to his room, though John didn’t think he’d be sleeping. Guilt was a powerful insomniac.

“I’m okay,” Rowan said.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

She looked at him quizzically and John frowned. Didn’t she trust him? After everything they’d been through?

Yet he’d treated her like crap after Michael was killed on Friday.

Friday. It had been three nights-seventy-two hours since Michael was gunned down. And John was here eating dinner in a nice Boston restaurant with the woman Michael had half fallen in love with.

“John?” Rowan asked, concern in her voice.

He didn’t want to talk about Michael, but she had a right to know what he was thinking. “I don’t blame you for Michael’s death. Please believe me. I wasn’t myself, and I said some things I didn’t mean. I was out of line.”

She absorbed what he said and he watched her shake her head slightly. “You may not blame me, but that doesn’t make it any less my fault.”

“Rowan, you had no idea the killer was your brother. You had every reason to believe he was dead.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I can’t believe Roger kept this secret for so long.”

The hostess approached. “Your table is ready,” she said. “For three?”

John nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Who are we waiting for? Not Roger. I-I can’t deal with him right now.”

“Not Roger. Peter.”

Her eyes widened in concern. “Peter? But he has to keep a low profile, what if-”

He put his finger to her lips. “Rowan, I got his number from Roger and called him. He wants to see you. I think it would be good for you, especially after today.”

The indecision on her face was clear. She loved her brother, but feared for him.

“He has an FBI escort, if that makes you feel any better.”

“A little,” she admitted.

They sat at the table and Rowan kept turning her head to look for her brother.

She drew in a deep breath, a hitch in her voice. “John, I cared for Michael. I liked him. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”

“Stop.” His voice was harsher than he’d intended. “I don’t blame you, Rowan. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

He took a deep breath. His hands had become tight fists and he slowly flexed them, trying to ease the tension that had been building since Michael was killed. It was more his fault than anyone’s.

He didn’t want to yell at her, but he had to make her understand. “I’m just as responsible for Michael being there as you. I should never have taken him off that night. It was me being selfish and judgmental.” Damn, it hurt to say it out loud, but there it was.

“Who’s Jessica?”

John blinked, surprised at the change of subject. “A woman Michael was involved with.”

“I overheard you and Tess talking about me being another Jessica. What did you mean?”

John mulled that over. He couldn’t tell her everything without betraying Michael on some level, but he didn’t want to lie to her. Couldn’t lie to her. He opted for a sanitized version of the truth. “Michael was a cop and caught the case. Jessica’s ex-boyfriend was stalking her. Some badass junior Mafia goon. Michael helped her, continued to see her. Fell in love. It didn’t work out. Jessica went back to the guy, ended up dead.” He paused. “He has a thing for damsels in distress.”

“I’m hardly a damsel in distress.” She glanced down, and John couldn’t read her expression. It was hard enough with all her self-imposed barriers, but if he couldn’t see her eyes he didn’t know what she was thinking.

“No, but you’re a beautiful woman who needed someone to watch over her,” he said softly. He reached over and took her hand. “Rowan, I’m not going to get over Michael’s death anytime soon. It’s my fault he was alone. I didn’t think-no one thought-that Bobby would go after him.” He put his free hand up when she looked like she was going to interrupt him. “But,” he continued, “I’ll deal with it in my own time and my own way.”

She nodded, understanding in her pretty eyes.

“Rowan,” a voice said behind her.

Rowan felt John tense, but she smiled, let go of his hand, and stood. “Peter,” she whispered, turning to face her baby brother.

Peter wore a simple, dark sweater over his cleric’s collar, his gray eyes shining bright with concern. He held out his arms and she stepped into his warm embrace, breathing in his safe and familiar scent, her cheek on his chest. He was quite tall, taller than John, and on the thin side.

She stepped back and inspected him. Definite worry in the faint lines of his handsome face. His dark hair had started graying on the sides, a few white strands intermingled here and there. He was only thirty; where had the gray come from?

She touched his face. “It’s so good to see you.” And it was. More than good; seeing him was almost like healing.

He kissed her on the forehead, then stepped back and extended his hand to John, who had stood and assumed his bodyguard stance behind her and to the side. “John Flynn?”

“Yes, Father.”

Peter smiled wide, a touch of humor glimmering in his eyes. “Peter will suffice. Thank you for calling me.”

John nodded, motioning for him to sit. Once they were all settled, the waitress took their orders and left.

“What did John tell you?” Rowan asked, breaking an awkward silence. Both Peter and John seemed to be sizing each other up. It made her feel strange.

“I suppose I should ask what he didn’t tell me.” Peter frowned. “Why did you come to Boston?”

Rowan closed her eyes. “To see our father.”

“What?” The quiet shock in Peter’s deep voice surprised Rowan. “But-I never thought you-” He stopped himself. “Why?”

“Bobby is alive,” she said quietly. “Alive and killing people. He’s the killer, Peter.”

Rowan told Peter everything, from beginning to end. About the murders, the pigtails, the lilies, Roger’s lies. Their food came and they picked at it, no one in the mood to eat.

When she was done, Peter turned to John. “I am so sorry about your brother.”