The Prey

Boston was unseasonably cold. Instead of a light breeze, blooming trees, and clear skies, everything had a gray pallor; a frosty wetness quickly penetrated layers of clothing, sinking deep into the bones.

Neither John nor Rowan was dressed for Boston. They’d left sunny Los Angeles with the clothes on their back and bought only essentials in the hotel gift shop when they arrived in Dallas. But they both forked over money for overpriced clothes at Logan Airport, including sweaters and windbreakers.

Rowan hadn’t spoken much on the flight or the car ride to Bellevue. John gave her the space she needed. But not too much. He kept an eye on her, staying close so she knew she wasn’t alone. He was her bodyguard, after all. And more.

But he didn’t dwell on that right now.

He didn’t know if he was helping, though every once in a while he caught her looking at him, an odd expression on her face.

He’d never had problems reading people before, but Rowan wasn’t just any person. She’d spent years shielding her emotions to protect herself. He saw that now. There was something in her eyes that called to him. Her eyes showed him her pain, her anger, her fear, her uncertainty. He also saw intelligence, hope, and strength-a vitality that kept her from giving in to despair, turning a ten-year-old trauma victim into an unrelenting FBI agent and an agent into an author. Even though Rowan believed she was weak, hammered with nightmares that caused her to quit the Bureau, he saw a woman who was smart enough to know when she needed a break. Before the job broke her.

She was stronger than him. John was still tilting at windmills, knowing that the biggest windmill-the so-called War on Drugs-was a losing battle. Every time they stopped a shipment, another twice as big came to shore.

But it was what he did. He couldn’t give up, at least while Reginald Pomera still drew breath.

Bellevue Hospital for the Criminally Insane looked serene against the misty gray sky. Roger drove, and Rowan sat next to him. Agent Peterson had taken a flight back to Los Angeles to coordinate the search for Bobby MacIntosh.

Even though John couldn’t see her face, he watched Rowan’s jaw clench and felt tension radiating from her entire body. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her she didn’t have to do this, that he would take her away from the pain.

But she wouldn’t appreciate it. Not now. Maybe later, when it was done, she’d want someone to lean on. He planned on being there for her.

“Rowan,” Roger said as he turned off the ignition, “are you sure?”

She didn’t respond, but shot him a cold look. As she moved to open the passenger door, John quickly jumped out the back and opened it for her. She seemed surprised, then sighed and allowed him to escort her to the main door.

Roger scrambled to follow them. He’d called ahead, and Dr. Christopher met them in the lobby.

“Collins,” the doctor said with a curt nod. Then, “You must be Rowan Smith.”

“I am.”

“I can only allow two visitors with Mr. MacIntosh. I need to be in the room to observe.”

“I’m her bodyguard,” John said as he stared pointedly at Collins.

“I’ll wait here,” Roger said, defeated. He’d screwed up big time, losing Rowan’s trust and respect. John almost felt sorry for him. Until he remembered Michael was dead.

John followed Dr. Christopher and Rowan down the wide corridor. Silence filled the halls, an eerie emptiness that surprised John. Shouldn’t there be orderlies milling around, nurses with medication, patients making demands? It was as if they were the only people alive in the complex, and it made John nervous.

“Where is everyone?” he finally asked when they went through a secure door and still no one had greeted them since their arrival in the lobby.

“We have minimal staff on this end,” Dr. Christopher said. “Our patients are on a strict schedule. They are not your typical mentally disturbed individuals. Everyone here is required to be by court order. Most will die here. The violent patients are in the north wing. That area has far more personnel and is much noisier than this wing. But every room, every hall, is monitored by security.” He gestured to cameras in every corner. “A trained and armed medical team can be anywhere in this facility in sixty seconds or less.”

Dr. Christopher stopped outside a wide door. Through the window, John saw the back of a skinny man sitting hunched in a chair facing a large plate-glass window that looked out onto lush greenery. He glanced at Rowan. She stared at her father, fear making her shake.

John cupped Rowan’s jaw, forcing her to look at him. He caught her eyes and held them. “You can do this, Rowan. I will be with you the whole time. He can only hurt you if you let him.”

“I’m ready.” Her voice was shaky but clear.

“Very well.” Dr. Christopher palmed his badge on the security panel and the door clicked open.

Mind numb, Rowan didn’t move to enter. All she saw was her father, but not here, not in this sterile, sparsely furnished room. She saw him drop a bloody knife and pick up his dead wife. Beth. Beth. What have I done?

“Rowan?”

John’s voice came from far away, at the end of a tunnel, basked in light. She faced him, wanting-needing-his strength. His dark green eyes held hers, sending her his vitality.

“Rowan, I’m right here,” he was saying.

She felt John squeeze her hand. She didn’t know if she’d reached for him, or he for her.

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t alone.

Rowan placed the only other chair in the room in front of her father. With a deep breath, she sat down and forced herself to look into his eyes.

He didn’t see her.

His blue-gray eyes, so much like her own, stared vacantly beyond her. They didn’t see her, didn’t see anything. Her father was still gone, his body an empty shell, just as it was twenty-three years ago after he killed her mother.

“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice a croak. “It’s Lily.”

No recognition. No movement. Nothing but the blank stare.

She tried again. “Daddy, I know that Bobby came to visit you.”

Nothing.

Nothing! How could he sit there and not be in there somewhere? “Daddy, I need you!” Her voice rose. “Wake up, dammit!”

“Ms. Smith, he can hear just fine,” Dr. Christopher interjected. “His brain has stopped making connections between speech and thought.”

“What, he’s brain dead? In a coma?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, nothing like that. Though it’s more like a coma than anything else,” Dr. Christopher explained. “Your father’s condition is purely psychological, and technically a coma is caused by an internal or external injury to the brain. A car accident or a tumor, for example. Your father has a neuropsychological disorder, quite rare but there are several documented cases. Your father hears everything, but can’t understand it. He sees, but can’t process the images. He’s locked himself in his mind because of the trauma of the crime he committed. If he hadn’t, he likely would have committed suicide when he realized what he’d done. In all likelihood, if your brother hadn’t picked up the knife, your father would have used it on himself.”

Rowan listened to what the doctor said, but all she could think about was why? Why did her father kill his wife? Though her years of training reminded her that abusive husbands often killed, she still found it difficult to reconcile the abuse with murder, the violence with her parents.

She wanted to end that part of her life and start over. But as much as she’d become her own person, separate from her upbringing, she was so intricately tied to her father. Her mother. Her dead sisters.

Bobby.

“Why, Daddy?” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so young. “Why did you kill Mama?”

He blinked. She sensed rather than saw the doctor come to attention. No one said anything.

“I saw you, Daddy. I saw you stab Mama.”

“Beth.”