Stalked

“A lot of travel, but mostly just excuses on my part.”

“How can I help you?”

“I need you to come to Quantico tomorrow and gather evidence from Agent Presidio’s office.”

“The instructor who had a heart attack?”

“Yes. I want to make sure that there’s nothing in here that might have caused him to go into cardiac arrest.”

Trisha didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Are you saying he could have been murdered?”

“No.” Then he stated carefully, “I’m saying I want to make sure there’s nothing in his office that might have caused him to go into cardiac arrest.” If Tony was murdered, that put the murderer at Quantico. As soon as Hans put this in a report, it would be part of the system. Even if they classified it, if someone had killed Tony, they would wonder why his file was classified. “I need someone who can be discreet.”

Trisha said, “I’ll be out tonight.”

“I appreciate it.”

Hans hung up and then dialed Sean Rogan.

“Hello, Dr. Vigo,” Sean said. “I suppose I don’t need to guess why you’re calling.”

“You’re a smart boy,” Hans said. He liked Sean quite a bit but worried about some of his activities. It was no secret that Sean had had trouble in his youth, but Hans suspected it went a lot deeper than even he knew. Hans felt oddly protective of him, maybe because he’d captured Lucy’s heart and Hans wanted to make sure Sean didn’t make an illegal detour that would break it.

Still, Hans wanted answers and Sean could get them. “I know you’re digging around in this and that.”

“You may have to define what you mean by this and that.”

“Peter McMahon.”

“I’m trying to find him.”

“Call me if you do.”

“Why?”

Hans became irritated. He was an assistant director in the FBI and no one challenged his authority. He had to remind himself that not only was Sean not his employee, but also Sean challenged everyone.

“It’s relevant to the Rosemary Weber murder. Lucy filled you in?”

“She did. Do you think he’s guilty?”

“I think he needs to be found.”

“All right. I’ll let you know. Now I have a question for you. Do you know a cop named Bob Stokes? He was a rookie during the McMahon case, became a detective pretty quick. Weber dedicated her first book to him.”

“I remember the name.”

“I thought he’d be a good place to start, but Patrick found out he died. Six weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“Heart attack.”

Hans frowned. “How old was he?”

“Forty-one.”

“Was there anything suspicious about his death?”

“No, but they might not have been looking for anything suspicious.”

“And you are.”

“I’m curious. Just want to answer these nagging questions.”

Hans didn’t believe in coincidences, yet causing someone to go into cardiac arrest wasn’t easy. The killer would need both knowledge of poisons and access to the victim. And there was no guarantee that the victim would die. Such a premeditated murder would need planning and foresight. And there wasn’t any connection between Detective Stokes and Tony except a fifteen-year-old case.

“Doc, you there?”

“Let me know what you learn as soon as you learn it, especially if you locate McMahon.”

He hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Tony, you knew something. What was it? Did it get you killed? Did it have anything to do with Rosemary Weber?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Nine Years Ago

I kept to myself my freshman year of high school.

I was smart, but that didn’t make me popular. I wasn’t an athlete because I was too short and, when I was younger, Grams didn’t have the energy to take me to practices or games. I had told her I didn’t care about playing soccer or football or lacrosse, even though I kind of did. But she needed me and I wasn’t going to let Grams down. And then she died and I was back where it all began, and hiding behind Grams’s last name no longer helped.

Being smart has its advantages, and I kept telling myself if I could just get through four years of high school I could go to any college I wanted, far away. I didn’t make many friends. Maybe because I didn’t try and use Rachel as an excuse. I was, after all, the kid whose sister had been murdered by a pervert who went to his parents’ sex parties. It didn’t matter that my parents divorced, my father moved across the country, or I hated my mother. I was the freak. People either felt sorry for me or thought my misfortunes would rub off on them. I don’t know. Maybe it was just because of me.

It didn’t help that everyone knew about the book. The book that reminded me that I was nobody except Rachel McMahon’s little brother.

Most of the kids left me alone. They probably thought I was going to blow up the school. I guess I looked like the type of kid who would do that-short; shaggy hair; dressed in black; friendless; and a geek. Sometimes, I thought about doing something big. Not blowing up the school, I didn’t want to hurt anyone, except one person. My mom. Or maybe something bigger, like blowing up the prison where Rachel’s killer sat filing appeal after appeal in his attempt at gaming the system.

Someone, though, had it out for me. All that year, watching me.

It started with the note in my locker, but it got worse. I never knew when-sometimes weeks would pass, sometimes only a day or two. A picture of my sister. Copies of the articles from the murder investigation. And on the anniversary of Rachel’s death, the creep filled my locker with worms.

But on the last day of school, I think my latent instincts kicked into high gear, and I believed for the first time that someone wanted to kill me.

I hadn’t planned on going to school. It was a half day, everyone was signing yearbooks, and there wasn’t anyone I cared to sign mine. But Mr. Doherty had graded our English essays, and he said he wanted to talk to me about mine. So I rode my bike to school, kept my head down so no one would feel like they had to ask me to sign their yearbook, and went upstairs to Mr. Doherty’s class. I waited until he was done talking to some students; then when they left I stepped inside and cleared my throat.

“Hey.” Mr. Doherty was my favorite teacher. His was the only class I really liked. He loved to read and loaned me books. I never talked to anyone about what happened to Rachel, but I told him about Grams. Having him listen helped, and every time I thought about running away I remembered I had a book I needed to return or an essay I wanted to finish. He always wore a blazer with leather patches on the elbows, either a tweed coat or a dark blue coat, and the familiarity was comforting, like the smell of my grams’s soap.

He smiled. “Peter, come in, please.”

I stood in front of his desk, still and silent, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I slid back my hoodie as a sign of respect, the most I’d do for a teacher I liked.

“Sit down.”

I didn’t want to, but I pulled one of the desks up and sat on the edge of the attached chair. “Do you have my essay?” I had my grades already. The school mailed them to my mother, but since my teachers liked me I just