can.”
“ETA two minutes. Out.”
“Thanks,” John said, and meant it.
“Find her. Before Bobby-before he kills her.”
“I will.”
But he had no idea where to start.
Father Peter O’Brien landed at Burbank Airport after eight that night, having traveled more than ten hours. He hadn’t had much opportunity to sleep. On the leg from Boston to Chicago, he sat next to a ninety-year-old widow who asked him to pray the Rosary with her-all twenty decades. Each ten prayers, he asked for Rowan’s safety and Bobby’s soul.
In Chicago they were delayed three hours because of a security problem. He ate in a cafe in the airport and was subjected to the ridicule of a young couple who found his Church lacking in many ways. On the connecting flight he sat next to a woman diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer and was humbled by her strength of character and quiet confidence that God would use her doctors to make her well. She wasn’t Catholic, but her faith was strong and gave Peter hope.
It was a long trip, and he dozed maybe forty minutes before landing in Burbank. He attempted to contact Roger Collins in Chicago to tell him of the delay, but without success. Once he’d landed, he tried Roger again. Still no answer.
Roger had made it clear that if Peter couldn’t reach him, something had gone wrong.
He took out the note he’d jotted down after his conversation with the assistant FBI director last night.
Flynn was protecting Rowan. But since Roger couldn’t be reached, Peter feared Rowan was in danger.
He dialed the number. After the third ring he became more worried; then someone picked up the phone.
“Flynn.”
“John, it’s Peter O’Brien.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m at the Burbank Airport. Roger was supposed to pick me up, but I can’t reach him.”
There was a pause. “Roger’s in the hospital with a broken back. Why are you here?”
Peter crossed himself. “Roger felt I might be helpful in negotiating with Bobby if it came down to that. Bobby doesn’t know I’m alive.”
“He has Rowan.”
“Dear God,” Peter said, grabbing the side of the phone booth. “Where?”
“Hell if I know. I’m heading down to FBI headquarters now, but I’ll swing by and pick you up. I think Roger may be right. Throw MacIntosh off balance. If we can find him. Meet me outside of the terminal.”
Black. Cold. Very, very cold.
Rowan tried to open her eyes but they felt weighted down with wet sand. Even the smallest effort resulted in a massive headache. She tried to take a deep breath, but her chest was constricted. Her numb fingers and toes began to tingle as she tried to move, and the tingle turned to pain.
It was then that she realized she was trussed up like a pig, her arms and legs pulled behind her and tied together. No wonder she ached.
It smelled like vomit. Very likely, she thought, as she remembered the sting of being shot with the tranquilizer dart. Heavy-duty narcotics could make anyone sick. At first she thought the cold was an aftereffect of the tranquilizer, but the floor was cold. The faint hum of an air conditioner ran behind the walls. Someone had turned it on full blast. She involuntarily shivered.
Her mouth was dry and foul tasting, her body racked with pain as she slowly wriggled, trying to loosen the binds. As sensation returned to her fingers, she felt nylon rope. The more she tugged, the tighter the rope became, so she stopped moving.
At least she was alive. Alive and thinking.
Bobby.
When she’d first seen him holding the shotgun, she’d frozen. This was her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. He looked completely different. She doubted she’d have recognized him on the street. He was forty-one now, a man. His hair was short, cropped. His face fuller, his body broader. He even seemed taller, which wasn’t unusual. Many boys grew well into their late teens and early twenties.
But it was him.
Then he’d pressed a button and her entire life blew up.
John had to be dead. There was no way he could have gotten away so fast. She’d felt the explosion nearly a quarter-mile away.
The guilt hit her first, then a deep, physical sadness that started in her chest and spread out, making her feel more tired, her limbs heavier, her heart weaker.
She hadn’t told John she loved him. But she did.
And he went to his grave not knowing how important he’d become to her in such a short time. How she didn’t want to say goodbye, that he was now an irrevocable part of her life. Her soul.
Bobby had stolen John from her. Her future, however tentative, was shattered without a thought by the one person who knew how to destroy mercilessly.
She choked out an uncontrolled sob, grief causing her to shake, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. What did she have to live for? The memories of everyone Bobby had killed? Her mother? Her sisters? Michael and Tess?
John.
Another sob escaped her throat, but turned into a moan. Her cheek rested on a hardwood floor. She listened, waiting for Bobby to come and kill her. She had nothing left to live for. But all she heard was the dull, static noise of the waves crashing against the beach below.
Waves. Ocean. The familiar rhythm was soothing. They were on the coast. She breathed deeply, ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest. The house smelled musty, stale. Closed up. The artificial Lysol smell of unused house.
As the tranquilizer wore off, her eyelids became lighter and she managed to open them. Pitch black. She could see nothing. But it felt like she was in a large room with high ceilings. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a faint change in the shades of black. Curtains, drawn over windows. That was the direction of the ocean.
Unused house. The house next door? Could he have been in the vacant house next door to her rental all this time? The property management company aired it out once a week, but other than that, no one would have been around.
If he had been living next door, he’d know the shift changes of the FBI agents. Michael. John. Recognize everyone who visited her. Know how to get to Tess.
He’d been watching her.
He’d seen how his actions affected her. He’d been playing his game, using her. He relished it. The control, the power. How long? Had he been to her cabin in Colorado? Followed her to Malibu? Been to the studio to watch her work?
Had he broken into her house and gone through her clothes? Her computer? Her papers? How close had he been without her knowing it? He’d been in her house to steal the advance copy of her book. When? While she slept? While she was working? While she ran?
The emptiness in her soul slowly filled with red rage, so hot it began to physically warm her. Bobby had been in control all this time. She’d been a pawn, reacting to every one of his moves on the chessboard he’d created. Bobby had won each and every move, except the attack on that brave prostitute in Dallas. Now, he was taking his final turn.
She would stop him.
She had to find a way to take him down with her. He wasn’t going to kill her outright. If he were, he’d have
