The Rapids

by Carla Neggers

  Trying to ignore him, she thought about Ravenkill. The Stone Hollow Inn’s Web site had a picture of the room she’d reserved. It had forget-me-not wallpaper, a private bath and a view of a sunflower garden.

  And it had a four-poster, queen-size bed.

  Maggie felt a jolt of heat and awareness so powerful and unexpected she glanced across the aisle at Rob to see if he’d noticed. But as good as his sources were, he couldn’t read minds. Thank God.

  He gave her a half smile. “Long flight ahead of us.”

  A very long flight. She hoped she got a grip before they landed in New York.

  Sitting across from Wes Poe at the White House was just about the last place Nate Winter wanted to be on a Sunday morning. But the visit was Sarah’s idea, and he’d promised to go along with her. Slowly but surely, he was getting used to her relationship with the president.

  Sarah sat forward on her chair across the dining room table from the president. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back simply, and she’d put on a sundress for her trip to Pennsylvania Avenue. She was happiest digging through musty diaries, old family attics and backyard dumps, piecing together the lives of ordinary people. But Nate knew it was a mistake to forget that Sarah, like her twin brother, had the blood of the Dunnemores of old running through her veins. They’d been loggers and riverboat workers, adventurers who’d worked hard and played harder, and too often died young.

  “Rob’s on his way back to New York,” she said. “He didn’t even have a chance to recover from jet lag before he turned around and flew back.”

  “It works that way sometimes,” Poe said gently. He was dressed casually in a polo shirt and khakis. Evelyn, his wife, was out for the day. “I don’t think Rob ever intended to stay that long.”

  Sarah hardly seemed to be listening to him. “You heard what happened yesterday? About the murder?”

  He nodded. “It was a stroke of bad luck.”

  But she obviously suspected more than luck had been involved. “The DS agent with Rob knew the victim. He was a diplomat. He worked at the embassy.”

  Wes’s expression gave away nothing. Nate had no idea what the president knew about Tom Kopac and Maggie Spencer—if anything. Sarah had pieced together her information from talking with her father, whom Rob had also called, and from news reports. Nate had kept his conversation with Rob to himself and intended to continue to do so until he knew more himself. Sarah would understand, but she wouldn’t like it.

  “I don’t have any information you don’t have, Sarah,” Poe said gently. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll call Rob when he gets in,” she said half under her breath. “I’m not sure why he went to the Netherlands in the first place. I know reporters must have been calling and pounding on his door—I’m a little harder to find, but I’ve had my share. And I know he’s been restless—”

  “He’ll find his way,” Poe said. “You both went through hell in the spring.”

  “Rob insists he’s fine. He thinks he’s found his way. You and my father want him to be a diplomat type, but it’s not him. I don’t care how many languages he speaks. He likes law enforcement.”

  “I have complete faith in him, Sarah. If Rob wants to stay in the Marshals Service, that’s his choice. He can go far there. If not—”

  “The shooting’s changed him.” Sarah looked away, her concern for her brother not something she could hide, but she shifted back to Poe. “I’m not sure anyone’s giving me the full story about what happened in Den Bosch.”

  Nate knew he hadn’t. It hadn’t occurred to him that her twin radar would go wild just with the information she had. He didn’t have much more himself. He planned to make some calls once he got the hell out of the White House.

  Poe didn’t answer but kept his gaze on Sarah, as if he expected her to continue without hearing from him.

  She frowned. “Wes?”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Is Maggie Spencer trouble?”

  “In what way?”

  “Any way.”

  “I don’t know her,” Poe said.

  But Nate suspected the president knew that Maggie Spencer’s father had been killed in Prague eighteen months ago under circumstances that just didn’t add up. Nate had dug up that much himself. Whether the Prague murder and the Den Bosch murder yesterday were connected was anyone’s guess, But toss in a DS agent, Nick Janssen and Rob’s abrupt return to New York, and Nate had his questions, to say the least.

  “Did you know Tom Kopac, the diplomat who was killed yesterday?” Sarah asked.

  “No. I know very little about him. I expect to hear more today.” Poe kept his tone steady. “His death is a tragedy. Our people in the Nehterlands are doing everything possible to get to the bottom of what happened. Right now, I don’t have any more details than you do.”

  Sarah swallowed visibly. “What about Nick Janssen? I know he’s in jail, but he was arrested in Den Bosch. Could he be responsible somehow?”

  Nate sat forward. “There’s no evidence to suggest Kopac had anything to do with Janssen or his arrest. We don’t know why he was in Den Bosch.”

  “Why was Rob there?” she asked sharply.

  “Because Maggie Spencer took him to see where Janssen was picked up,” Nate said.

  Sarah spun around at Rob. “You’ve talked to him. When?”

  Nate sighed. “Last night. He called on my cell phone.”

  Poe looked at Nate, then turned to Sarah, but she pushed back her chair. “You marshals,” she said, not sounding that annoyed. “You all stick together. Was he okay?”

  “It hadn’t been a good day, but yes, he was okay.”

  “On the case?”

  Nate nodded, not expanding.

  Sarah frowned at him. “You’re not going to tell me. Or you can’t tell me. Okay, that’s fine. It doesn’t change what I already know.” She glanced from Nate to the president, her expression one of resolve and deep concern. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Sarah,” Wes Poe said. “I know it’s hard not to worry, to feel as if you’re out of the loop.”

  “I am out of the loop. For good reasons or bad.”

  The president’s eyes bored into her. “You were sitting on your porch in Night’s Landing when out of the blue you got a call that Rob was shot. It’s going to take a while for you not to go on high alert every time—”

  “Every time he finds a dead man in a Dutch river?”

  Only Sarah Dunnemore, Nate thought, could challenge Wes Poe like that. But Poe took it. “It would irritate the hell out of Rob if he could hear us now. You know it would.”

  “You’re right about that.” She blew out a breath. “I should let him do his job, right? Trust him. All that.”

  Poe smiled. “We all should.”

  She shot Nate a glance. “What did he want with you last night?”

  “Just to check out Maggie Spencer and Tom Kopac.”

  “I could have figured that out myself. It’s common sense. Why not tell me?”

  But Nate knew she didn’t expect an answer. On a gut level, she would already have it. She wasn’t in law enforcement. She was a historical archaeologist working on a new project. And her brother had called Nate, not her.

  “Rob knows better than to try to protect you,” Wes said.

  “He’s protecting himself. He doesn’t like for any of us to worry about him. He can take anything but that.” She sighed again, no longer as frustrated. “Actually, I understand.”

  Poe quickly changed the subject, asking her about the wedding, then ushered her to the door, hugging her goodbye. He said something innocuous about Night’s Landing that brought a small spark of pleasure.

  But when Sarah wasn’t looking, Poe let his eyes connect with Nate in a way that communicated in no uncertain terms: they needed to discuss Rob’s DS agent, Maggie Spencer.

  Nine

  Ethan Brooker caught up with Raleigh in Amsterdam’s historic Begijnhof, an enclosed cluster of perfectly kept, very old ho
uses built around a trim, green courtyard. It was open to tourists, although there weren’t many on the humid Sunday afternoon, just a few stragglers wandering along the walkway, checking out the bright gardens and the lace-curtained windows.

  But Ethan had never been much of a tourist. “Why can’t we meet at a café?” he asked. “I walked by the entrance to this place three times before I found it. It’s like its own separate world here.”

  “Do you know what the Begijnhof is?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “It’s where the Beguines lived. They were an order of religious women who dedicated themselves to charitable work but didn’t take monastic vows.”

  “Good for them.”

  “There’s a Begijhof in Breda as well. The Beguines died out around 1970.”

  Ethan couldn’t drum up a lot of interest and didn’t want to set himself up for one of Raleigh’s history lectures. The guy couldn’t put enough of a living together to buy himself decent clothes, and he might or might not have all his marbles, but he knew the history of a tucked-away Dutch courtyard.

  Still, it was a pretty spot. Quiet, removed from the city’s congested streets.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Raleigh ambled along, touristlike. “The work we do. Yours as a Special Forces officer, mine as an economic consultant privy to government workings, diplomatic communications. We’re so tapped into what’s going on in the world and yet, at the same time, isolated because of our knowledge and experience.”

  “I was all about accomplishing the mission.”

  Raleigh smiled faintly. He had on the same clothes as yesterday. “You still are, I believe.”

  Ethan changed the subject. “Spencer and Dunnemore got on an early flight this morning to New York.”

  Raleigh stopped in front of a black wooden house. “This is the oldest house in Amsterdam,” he said, but his voice faltered—Ethan’s news had surprised him. “It dates from around 1475. You’ll note it’s constructed of wood. Even then Amsterdam was a crowded city, and wood burns. After huge fires did enormous damage, wood construction was forbidden. I believe there are only two wooden houses in all of Amsterdam. The Dutch are a sensible people. They…” He abandoned any pretext of interest in the historic site. “New York?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then you must go.”

  “I’ve got a ticket for a morning flight. You?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t right now.”

  “Hook up with me when and if you get there. I’ll need more information. What did you tell Spencer, Raleigh? It’s time to talk. Why New York?”

  “Ravenkill. That’s where she’s headed. She must be.”

  “It’s a town?”

  “Yes. It’s on the Hudson River about an hour, perhaps a bit more, north of the city. I saw it—the name of an inn—” Raleigh couldn’t seem to go on and stopped in front of an attractive, spotless brick house, frowning. “The Old Stone Hollow Inn.”

  Ethan stared at him. “What? An inn?”

  “Tom Kopac had printed information about Ravenkill and the inn off the Internet. I saw it in his apartment when I confronted him about why he’d been asking questions in Prague about Maggie, her father.” Raleigh paused again, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I still have friends. They told me he’d been making calls.”

  “When the hell did you see Kopac?”

  Raleigh seemed momentarily confused, flustered. “Was it Friday? Yes, it must have been. It was after Janssen’s arrest. I dropped in on Mr. Kopac before he went to work that morning. He wouldn’t talk to me. We arranged to meet in Den Bosch the next day. Then I called Maggie.”

  “Christ, Raleigh. I should haul your ass to the embassy—”

  He waved a hand irritably. “It would only waste time. The police must have searched Kopac’s apartment by now. They must have the printout. If they don’t—if someone cleaned out his apartment…” He was talking to himself, but stopped, shooting Ethan a distressed look. “Do you suppose she’s gone to Ravenkill on her own? Maggie? I thought she’d do some checking. The Internet, friends, see what she could find out from her desk at the embassy.”

  Ethan felt the sun hot on the back of his neck. He wasn’t fond of Amsterdam. His wife had died here, only blocks away from the quiet, isolated courtyard. “What did you tell Spencer back at the cathedral?”

  “Very little. There was no time.”

  “You used her father’s death to manipulate her, didn’t you?”

  No answer.

  “Come on, Raleigh. You let her think this inn holds the secret to what really happened in Prague. You know goddamn well—”

  “I never said it did—”

  “It’s what you intimated. It’s what you wanted her to think. That’s why she got on that plane yesterday.”

  The older man pursed his thin lips as he moved along the walk, past a small church, in thoughtful, troubled silence.

  Ethan knew he had to be merciless. “If you think you could have sent her into danger, she needs everything you have. I need it if you expect me to help her.”

  Raleigh shook his head, as if to counter something he was telling himself. “Agent Spencer’s prepared to handle difficult and dangerous situations. I have nothing that would help her.” He glanced at Ethan. “Or you.”

  “You’re so used to manipulating people you don’t even know anymore when you’re doing it. You’re using her—me—to clear your name. Was Kopac on to Philip Spencer’s real killer? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. For all I know, Mr. Kopac had that printout because he was planning his next vacation. Yes, he gave me an excuse to make contact with Maggie.” He gave Ethan a stubborn look. “I have my reasons for wanting to meet her.”

  “She’s in the dark—”

  “I don’t have all the answers, Major Brooker. I have more questions than anything else.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  But Raleigh would know it wasn’t. “Philip Spencer had an uncanny ability to make things happen. His instincts were flawless. His energy. His timing.” Raleigh turned to Ethan, as if it would help convince the younger man of his certainty, his righteousness. But tears rose to his red-veined eyes. “I believe his daughter is the same way.”

  “Let’s hope she’s better at staying alive.”

  Rob walked with Maggie to her car-rental agency at JFK, the airport bustling on a hot Sunday afternoon. “It’s an expensive cab ride to Brooklyn,” he said. “So why don’t you drop me off on your way to wherever it is you’re going?”

  Maggie got into line. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You’re trying to talk me into giving you a ride.”

  It wasn’t working very well. A seven-hour flight was enough to make him antsy by itself; seven hours on a plane, anchored across from Maggie, had about done him in. There were times he thought the flight attendants would read his mind and make him change seats.

  He should have just told them he kept fantasizing about whisking the passenger across from him off to a quiet beach somewhere and watched how fast they moved his butt to another part of the plane.

  Something about Maggie had gotten to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was, since it would probably only mean trouble. She was a federal agent on a questionable mission. He was determined to find out what that mission was. That didn’t leave much room for quiet beaches.

  “I’ll drive to Brooklyn,” he said. “Then you can go on your way from there.”

  She angled him a not unfriendly look. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

  “Not until I see you lock your doors and drive off—”

  “Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “I’ll give you a ride back to your place. Then you’ll leave me alone, right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She glared at him. “Right?”

  He shrugged. “If you want me to.”

&nb
sp; Twenty minutes later, she was swearing at the Long Island Expressway traffic in her little rented car. “I’m not used to SUVs and great big trucks,” she muttered. “You’d be surprised how unused to them you can get in three weeks.”

  “I offered to drive. Sure you don’t have the jitters? I noticed you ate a stroopwafel on the plane.”

  Mention of the syrup-filled Dutch cookies made her smile. “No jitters. I’d have offered you a bite—”

  “Except you were pretending I wasn’t there.”

  “Fat lot of good it did me. A break from Dutch goodies will do my waistline good.” But she pulled her top lip under her teeth, holding back a sudden sigh of regret. “Tom teased me at the bakery the other day. Damn. I wish he’d heard me yesterday. I wish I’d at least seen something.”

  “You did what you could.”

  “It wasn’t enough.”

  “There was no reason to suspect someone was about to kill him.”

  She’d let the speedometer creep up and eased off the gas, calming down. “I still have no idea why Tom was killed. Why he was there. Why he was targeted—if he was targeted.”

  Rob had done enough obsessive speculating of his own on the long flight. Maybe Kopac had provided the tip about Janssen, and Janssen had found out and had him killed. Maybe Kopac had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong in some naive effort to impress Maggie Spencer and ended up in the path of one of Janssen’s cohorts, and it got him killed.

  Maybe he’d hooked up with Maggie’s guy in the cathedral, and it got him killed.

  Maybe he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time in a quiet Dutch city that had a random killer on the loose.

  Given Tom Kopac’s solitary life and dedication to his embassy work, none of the scenarios felt right. He wasn’t, as far as Rob knew, an intelligence, military or law enforcement officer. He was one of the countless career foreign service workers who kept U.S. embassies running all around the world.

  “What will you tell your bosses about why you’re back so soon?” Maggie asked.