The Rapids Page 17

His pale eyes twinkled. “Magster. You must have been an adorable six-year-old. Freckles, turquoise eyes, red hair and skinned knees. Am I right?”

  “It’s not that hard. I still have freckles, turquoise eyes and red hair.”

  “And skinned knees. Brooker did that?”

  “My own damn fault.”

  “Phil wanted to be a better father to you,” Raleigh said softly, seriously. “I suspect when it’s all said and done it’s what most of us wish. That we’d done better by those we love.”

  “Listen, okay? I loved my father, and I miss him. I’ll always miss him. But I’m not going to let emotion drive my decisions—”

  He scoffed. “That’s what we always tell ourselves, isn’t it? It’s ridiculous. Emotion drives most decisions. We just don’t like to admit it.”

  The woman came out of the shop with her mums, smiling now, no regrets, no second thoughts about her choice. Even if her mums had bugs, Maggie thought, what was at stake? Throw them out, get new ones. A loss of a few dollars.

  “So you believe the same person—your assassin—killed my father, Tom and Samkevich. Any proof, any leads we can use?”

  “None.”

  “Brooker?”

  “Solid, but he has nothing. We’d tracked Nick Janssen to his safe house in Den Bosch. Before we could confirm it, he was arrested.”

  “I should take you in—”

  “If you do, the stress could cause a relapse of my alcoholism and mental illness.” He smiled, almost looking handsome. “You don’t want to be the laughingstock of the Diplomatic Security Service.”

  She scowled at him. “That’s so lame.”

  He got stiffly to his feet, leaving his iced coffee on the bench. “Transparently halfhearted, isn’t it? I’ve told you what I know, Maggie. Every tangible lead I’ve had on this assassin has evaporated. If I had more, I’d give it to you. I want to find whoever killed Tom Kopac and your father. Vlad Samkevich wasn’t a good man, but his murder…” Raleigh shook his head. “That wasn’t justice.”

  “I can stop you,” Maggie said.

  “Of course you can, Agent Spencer. I’m just an old drunk.”

  He crossed the street, smelled a bouquet of flowers and blew her a kiss.

  And she let him go.

  Just as he knew she would.

  Rob arrived in the village in time to see Maggie’s white-haired guy—William Raleigh—turn the corner and disappear up a side street.

  She was picking up a huge drink cup off her bench.

  “You’re not going to chase him?” he asked her.

  Shaking her head, she squinted at him. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Through Nate, Wes Poe had just vouched for William Raleigh. But Rob shrugged. “Trust in your judgment?”

  “Ha.”

  “You look hot.” He smiled at her. “Very hot, in fact.”

  “As in I could use more iced tea?”

  “As in however you want to take it.”

  “Did you walk?”

  He nodded. “Felt good. I needed the time alone.”

  She winced at his sarcasm. “I’m sorry I lied, but it’s just as well you don’t get mixed up with this guy.”

  “Protecting me, are you?”

  “Trying. So far, so good. You didn’t get killed on Saturday in Den Bosch, and you didn’t get killed today in Ravenkill Creek. Okay—who gave you the word that Raleigh’s okay?”

  “Sure about someone did, are you?”

  “Otherwise you’d have gone after him. You got here in plenty of time. You saw him. Did your source also tell you about Vlad Samkevich?”

  There was no use pretending he didn’t know. “Yes. It was Nate, by the way. He called.”

  “The future brother-in-law. The marshal of marshals.” She smiled. “I’d like to meet him someday. And your twin sister.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I need a minute to clear my head.”

  “Let’s walk.”

  She glanced in the direction Raleigh had just gone, wondering what he was up to—if she should change her mind and follow him after all. “I thought I heard a rumble of thunder a minute ago.”

  “The Franconias said storms are moving in from the west. They’re a pair, those two. Stressed to the point of cracking. Libby Smith suspects they’re overextended.”

  “Not enough to kill people for money, I hope.”

  Rob heard an edge in her tone. “Maggie?”

  “Nothing. I’m not serious.”

  She started up the street, and Rob hesitated, noting the stiffness of her movements. It wasn’t just the dunking in the creek. Raleigh had said something that rattled her. But she kept walking, not looking back, and Rob finally got moving and caught up with her.

  “Your sister and Nate Winter are getting married in a couple weeks, right? Is President Poe coming to the wedding?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  They continued along the country road in the shade of huge old oaks and maples, squirrels chattering at them from overhanging branches. Rob had no illusions that Maggie’s mind was on the scenery or the afternoon heat or even President Poe and his sister’s wedding.

  She kept her eyes pinned to the pavement in front of her. “It’s President Poe’s doing, isn’t it? That Nate Winter got in touch with you about Raleigh.”

  “I really can’t say. I don’t know it for a fact.” Which was true, as far as it went. He didn’t need facts—he knew the information Nate had relayed had come from Wes. “You just let Raleigh go yourself. What did he tell you?”

  “That we have an assassin at work who probably killed Tom and Samkevich. And my father.”

  She spoke briskly, as if she didn’t want to dwell on the emotional impact of her words. She picked up her pace, but Rob had no trouble staying with her. He was taller, he was a runner, and he wasn’t letting her get too far ahead of him.

  “The part about my father could be bullshit—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She stopped abruptly. “Poe? Did he—”

  “I haven’t talked to President Poe.”

  “Goddamn it, quit dancing around in circles! What did Winter tell you? We are talking about my father.” But she put up both hands and shook her head, more at herself than Rob. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  “No one’s taking you off this thing, Maggie. You’re the one Raleigh will talk to.” Rob felt an urge to take her hand, but she had her shoulders squared, her arms tight at her side. Untouchable. “I don’t have any specifics about your father.”

  “He wasn’t just a businessman,” she said.

  “Raleigh isn’t just a retired economist, either.”

  “I knew,” she said, almost to herself. “About my father. I’ve known for a long time. In my gut. He never said anything—he wouldn’t. I think my mother was in the dark. But even as a kid, when he was away for long stretches, I’d make up spy stories about him.”

  “Kids’ instincts can be amazing.”

  She kicked a pebble, sent it flying into a field on the side of the road. “Bank robbers in Prague. Jesus.”

  “Raleigh,” Rob said. “What else did he tell you?”

  He watched her bank back the emotion, pull herself out of the pain and grief she must have felt in the early days after she’d learned of her father’s death. She gave him a quick smile. “He doesn’t care for what’s considered a ‘large’ drink nowadays.”

  Rob said nothing.

  By the time they reached the end of the inn’s driveway, she had repeated her conversation with her father’s friend, her Scarlet Pimpernel from the Dutch cathedral.

  When she finished, Rob could smell mint in the heavy air. The inn was just up ahead. “That’s it, huh? A printout of the Old Stone Hollow’s Web site in Kopac’s apartment?”

  “That’s it. There’s no reason for him to hold back.”

  Unless everyone, including Wes Poe, was wrong, and it was W
illiam Raleigh who was out of control. Mentally ill after all. A drunk. Perhaps he was even their assassin.

  A hawk swooped low over a small meadow of wildflowers. Maggie gave a small cry of pleasure, and Rob saw the shine of tears in her eyes and knew it was as much as he’d get. She was used to holding her emotions closely. She wouldn’t tell him how much pain the talk of her father’s secret life and of an assassin had caused her.

  She didn’t need to, Rob thought. He understood.

  He slipped his hand into hers. “Let’s pretend we really are on vacation. At least for a few minutes.”

  She leaned into him, just enough, just for a second. “I hope the humidity finally blows out of here tonight.”

  “What humidity?”

  She squeezed his hand and even smiled. “My mother loves south Florida. The humidity never gets to her. She and I have a different kind of relationship, but we understand each other. She paints flamingos.” Her smile broadened, and she had a bounce to her step. “You’ll have to see them sometime.”

  “Flamingos,” Rob said.

  “The most amazing flamingos.”

  “How does a flamingo-painting mother end up with a spy husband and a federal-agent daughter?”

  “I think that’s what she wonders, too.”

  But Rob supposed it was no more bizarre than Leola and Violet Poe raising a president, or his own parents raising a marshal and an archaeologist.

  The light was green on the horizon.

  The storms would be rough tonight.

  He decided to wait to tell Maggie that he wasn’t going anywhere. He had his room at the inn, and he was staying.

  Sixteen

  She’d seen him.

  It hadn’t been her imagination.

  William Raleigh was in Ravenkill.

  Libby pushed back a fresh wave of panic and kept herself from puking on the dining room floor. Her father had passed out in this very spot countless times, except there’d been no English antiques and cottage colors in those days—just ratty old junk that he hadn’t been able to pawn off to friends for extra cash.

  She’d always wanted control. Always. She’d fought and clawed for it as a child—for just a few moments when she was in control, for a small space that was hers and hers alone.

  Taking up shooting had helped.

  Now, years later, she had the thrill of her quiet work as a hired killer. The ultimate control. Someone else’s destiny in her hands. Her own destiny, since even the smallest mistake could be costly.

  Philip Spencer had been a mistake.

  She’d known he and Raleigh were friends. She should have killed them both. But she’d believed the stories about Raleigh’s mental breakdown and his chronic drinking and assumed he wasn’t a serious threat.

  There’d been no money in Spencer’s killing and would be none in Raleigh’s.

  Only survival, she thought. No sense of control, no thrill, no profit.

  She hadn’t become a killer because of her father.

  He wasn’t responsible for anything she’d become, good or bad. No credit, no blame. He’d squandered what should have been hers, and he’d provided her a miserable childhood. But she was free of him.

  “Libby?” It was Star, coming in from the porch. “Have you seen Andrew?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  She gave a little hiss of annoyance. “We’re busy outside, and he takes off. Damn him!”

  “I can help. What would you like me to do?”

  “Keep the feds on the porch happy. God! I can’t help it—they make me nervous. Why did they pick here?”

  A good question. Now Ethan Brooker and William Raleigh were sneaking around. Libby tried not to look frozen and sick. “Because you and Andrew have done an incredible job and it’s a beautiful place?”

  Star caught herself, obviously embarrassed by her curt tone. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “I understand—”

  “I hate to ask you—”

  “It’s okay.” Libby smiled. “I like the idea of ‘keep the feds happy.’”

  Star’s relief was palpable. Libby stopped in the kitchen to wash her hands. Maggie Spencer. Rob Dunnemore. Ethan Brooker. Whether they knew it or not, they were all here because of Philip Spencer and William Raleigh.

  Libby dried her hands, feeling less nauseous.

  She wouldn’t get a dime for killing Raleigh. He wasn’t on Janssen’s list—Janssen didn’t even know he existed. She planned to keep it that way. If Janssen had known she had the CIA or whatever Raleigh was on her tail, he’d never have hired her.

  She had to stay calm and make sure none of the loose ends in her life came back to haunt her. Otherwise, Janssen would fire her and hire someone else to do the job for him, and her name would get tacked onto his new hit list.

  And she’d lose this one opportunity to gather her strength, then make her move and take over Nick Janssen’s network. His months on the run had weakened him. He wasn’t getting out of prison anytime soon. He’d left a void. Libby planned to fill it.

  She had to seize the moment. There was no alternative. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life living in a suite in a house that was no longer hers, collecting furniture, killing people here and there for extra cash—for the thrill of it. She wanted more.

  Pasting an insipid smile on her face, Libby headed out to the porch and the two federal agents who awaited her.

  If Juliet drove any faster up Central Park West, the cops were going to pull her over. Then she’d not only have to explain her speed, Ethan thought, but him.

  And her truck.

  “Did this thing pass inspection?” he asked.

  She glanced at him. “Good. You didn’t die on me. I was getting worried. I hate having to explain corpses in my truck.” She tapped the sticker on her windshield. “Vermont says my truck’s fine.”

  “You must have an in with someone.”

  “Are you kidding? I have five brothers. They’re all cops and landscapers. I don’t get cut any slack. Besides, just because you Texans trade in your trucks every two seconds doesn’t mean we Vermonters have to. We’re thrifty.”

  “You’re cheap.”

  She braked at an empty parking space, yellow cabs whizzing past her. Ethan tried to sit up. His head ached. Even his eyeballs were pulsing with pain. “You won’t fit.”

  “If we were parking a Humvee in the desert, I’d defer to your expertise,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she backed up. “But since it’s a truck I’ve been driving forever, and it’s New York City, where I’ve been working for a few years now—”

  “If you hit something, just don’t hit it hard. I have a head injury.”

  She whipped the steering wheel around, maneuvering the truck into the space, which was, in fact, too small. But, undeterred, she inched backward, then forward, barely nudging the bumpers of the cars—both more expensive than her truck—in front and behind her.

  “There.” She turned off the ignition and pulled out her key. “Plenty of room.”

  Ethan grunted. “I’d let the air out of your tires if you parked that close to me.”

  She sighed at him. “Hell, Brooker, you look awful. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the E.R.?”

  He attempted a reassuring smile. “If I survived the ride down here, I can survive anything.”

  “How’s your headache? Not severe, I hope?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You don’t have trouble staying awake, do you?”

  “I did. I don’t anymore. Juliet—”

  “Double vision?”

  He sighed. She was running down the list of trouble signs for head injuries. “No. No weakness in the extremities, no convulsions, no problem walking.”

  “We’ll see about the walking part. I still think you should go to the E.R.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “Chief Rivera gave me the day off. A few days off, actually. I was supposed to go campi
ng.”

  Ethan had met the chief deputy when the feds had questioned him after he took off in May and then came back. A tough guy. Loyal, but he expected loyalty in return. “You told him I showed up at your place?”

  “I’m responsible for my own decisions.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I told him. I didn’t mention the call from your friend.”

  Raleigh. Ethan didn’t want to think about him right now.

  “You’re going to talk to me, Major,” Juliet said. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

  “What if I have amnesia?”

  She ignored him. “Can you carry your backpack?” But she peered at him again, then shook her head. “No, obviously you can’t. Stupid question. I’ll carry it. Wait, and I’ll open the door for you.”

  She shoved her door open with her shoulder and jumped out, but Ethan didn’t wait. His door was stiff and creaky, but he managed to push and kick it open, then climb out onto the sidewalk.

  He reached into the jumpseat for his backpack, but the motion sent blood rushing into his head. His stomach turned over. He grabbed hold of the top of his seat and stood very still, waiting for his vision to clear and his nausea to abate.

  “Don’t pass out,” Juliet said from behind him. “Damn. I’m taking you to the hospital—”

  “No.” He thought he spoke out loud but wasn’t positive. “Just leave the backpack.”

  “You don’t want to fool around with a head injury.”

  “I’m not.”

  She reached behind him and grabbed his backpack, hoisting it over one shoulder. “I should have searched this thing when I had you in my place last night.”

  She was right, but Ethan didn’t say anything. He pried his fingers loose and stood up straight. He didn’t throw up, didn’t pass out. He shut the truck door and followed Juliet up the stairs to her building.

  “You can still go camping,” he said.

  “I’d go crazy. Rivera thinks I’m experiencing post-trauma symptoms from Janssen’s goons, the cave—”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “That kind of thing can grab you from behind when you least expect it.”

  “I got debriefed or whatever they’re calling it now. I passed the fitness-for-duty test.” She stopped herself, glancing back at him. “Not that I have to explain myself to you. Where’s my cell phone?”