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.
CHAPTER 12
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.
Normally she had an ironclad stomach. But these circumstances could hardly be called normal.
When she ran this morning with Michael, she’d missed John’s presence. It wasn’t that Michael wasn’t a good bodyguard. Michael was more than competent, though she was uncomfortable with the amount of time he spent looking at her when he didn’t think she noticed.
John was more like her. When she looked at John, listened to him, she sensed he felt the same about things as she did. Not just justice-Michael had been a cop and acted it. He believed in justice. But John understood what justice really meant, especially to the victims who couldn’t speak for themselves.
Justice didn’t always mean prison.
But it was more than that. John’s worldview was unique and his own. After talking to Roger last night she’d quietly called around and learned more about John Flynn. She wasn’t impressed easily, but she felt a certain pride she didn’t understand knowing that John was one of the good guys, even when some operatives in government didn’t think he wore the proverbial white hat. Justice came first to John. It almost made her feel guilty for quitting the agency. Justice used to be as important to her.
Now survival was all that mattered.
John had been in harrowing situations, including a South American prison, and he’d never broken. He simply changed his boss from the government to himself and went right on fighting for justice. It was damned admirable, and Rowan hated that she hadn’t been able to do that four years ago.
But she had thought she was losing her mind.
She couldn’t help but wonder about John’s past. What did he do in Delta Force? What about after? Roger said he was DEA turned independent consultant-why had he left? To start his business with Michael? Or were there other, deeper, private reasons? Everything she’d learned about John intrigued her. She wanted to know more.
Rarely was her curiosity piqued as it was now. She didn’t focus on other people, because that meant she might start to care. And if she started to care, she might care too much.
She feared she’d already crossed the first threshold with John. She already cared.
When she walked downstairs, John and Michael were standing in the foyer talking to Quinn. All three men in tuxedos, all remarkably handsome.
John caught her eye. Her breath hitched in her chest and for a split second she saw something, sensed something, that went beyond a professional relationship.
He raised his eyebrow. He sensed it too.
Then Michael was at her side and she felt tension between the two brothers.
The last thing she wanted was to cause friction in their family. When John first came back from South America, she’d seen the quiet affection between the brothers. They would be family long after this case was settled, long after she was a dim memory.
“Rowan,” Michael began, his hand on her arm.
Quinn interrupted. “There’s been another victim. Melissa Jane Acker, twenty-four, brunette, picked up by the unknown subject at the Metro station in Falls Church, raped and strangled.”
Rowan had tried to steel herself against the pain, but it hit hard and she almost staggered. “When?” she asked, her voice dull and clipped.
“Last night. When she didn’t come to work this morning, her employer called her apartment, got no answer. Her mother went over to see if she was all right and found her.” Quinn paused, his voice softer. “I’m sorry.”
Rowan closed her eyes. She felt Michael’s hand rub her arm, trying to support her, to share his warmth. He was a comforting presence, and right now she appreciated his coddling. The way John stared at her, he seemed to be accusing her. Or maybe it was her imagination. You can trust me, he’d said when she freaked out over the lilies. But could she?
How could her past have anything to do with what was happening now? Even Roger thought her fear was misplaced. He, more than anyone, should know. He’d been there-he’d fought for justice for Dani and everyone else who died.
But, dammit, that fear bubbled and brewed and threatened to burst through the surface. Just because her fear was misplaced didn’t mean it wasn’t real. How long could she keep it under control?
“You don’t have to go,” Michael said. “No one will blame you.”
Rowan glanced from his concerned eyes to John’s intense glare. They both waited for her answer, but John seemed to be waiting for something more.
“I’m going,” Rowan said. “If he’s watching, he’ll know he got to me if I don’t go. I can’t let him see that I’m-worried.” She’d almost said scared. But she wasn’t going to admit it in front of these three men.
John smiled, almost imperceptibly, but Rowan felt his approval. “The place is covered. Peterson walked me through today and it’s clean.”
“Bomb-sniffing dogs are going through it right now,” Quinn said, “and you’ll go in through the back.”
“The back? If he’s watching, he won’t see me.”
Quinn glanced at Michael, his expression one of concern. “It’s the reporters, Rowan. We didn’t think you’d want to face some of the questions they might have.”
Damn, she didn’t want to, but she wasn’t going to show the killer she was afraid. “I’m not going to slink around like some scared rabbit. I’ll go in through the front.”