Abandon

by Carla Neggers

  Carine paled even more, but she seemed steadier. “Mackenzie isn’t all right, is she?”

  “She’ll be fine. Mac’s tough.”

  Unexpectedly, Carine smiled. “She lets you call her Mac?”

  “No, but I do.”

  “She’s told me about you.”

  Carine left it at that, and Rook could imagine what her friend had related about him. All of it true, no doubt.

  Incongruously, Carine’s baby grinned at him, showing two top teeth, two bottom teeth and a lot of drool. His dark eyelashes were clumped together with tears. Rook smiled back. “You’re safe now, fella.” He looked at his mother. “Boy, right?”

  “Harry.” She sniffled, adjusting him on her back. “That man. Do you know who he is?”

  “No.”

  “I heard something scrambling in the woods. I thought it might be an animal. I picked up a rock.” She reached behind her and touched her son’s foot, tucked into a red sock that was half-off. “I’ve had encounters with rough types before, but it’s different—” She took in another breath, obviously fighting to control a fresh wave of emotion. “It’s different when you have a baby to protect.”

  “I’m sure it is. You did fine, Carine. You’re safe now.”

  In measured words, as they continued down the dirt road, she related every detail of what she’d experienced, finishing just as they arrived back at Bernadette Peacham’s house. Rook knew he had to tell Carine about Mackenzie’s injury, but as he started to speak, Carine shot out ahead of him.

  “Mackenzie!”

  She was sitting on the gravel driveway, shivering as she leaned against the sedan Rook had rented at the airport. Carine hurried down to her, quickly lifting off the pack with her baby and setting it upright on the grass. He sucked on his little fist.

  “Harry’s getting big,” Mackenzie said, obviously biting back her pain.

  “You’re bleeding—”

  “It’s under control. My liver’s not going to fall out or anything.”

  Rook stood over her. “You’re white as a sheet, Mac. Is an ambulance on the way?”

  “I don’t need an ambulance.” She leaned her head against the car. Most of her red curls were matted to her skull, but a few sticking out, he noted. “I see you rented a black car. Very FBI of you.”

  “Mac—”

  “It’s just plain in-your-face cheekiness for you to turn up here, Rook. You’re in a suit. You’re armed to the teeth. You weren’t planning to climb Cold Ridge or join Carine and me toasting marshmallows, were you?”

  He didn’t answer her. Her eyes had a glassy, pain-racked look to them, and her lips were purple as she struggled to keep herself from shivering. “You’re freezing,” he said instead. Rook pulled off his sport coat and draped it over her. She made a face, but didn’t object. “I’ll take you to the damn E.R. myself if I have to.”

  “I told the dispatcher I’d been sliced. I know they’ll send an ambulance even if I don’t need one.” Pressing the bloody towel she held to her side, Mackenzie shifted position, then winced. “If I pass out, just leave me here in the dirt. I’ll come to in a few seconds.”

  Carine seemed relieved at her friend’s stab at humor. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’d love some dry clothes. My backpack’s in the kitchen. I’d rather not go to the hospital in a pink swimsuit and G-man sport coat.”

  “I don’t blame you. Back in a sec.” Carine scooped her half-asleep baby out of the pack and headed off to the house, eager to help her friend.

  Rook glanced down at Mackenzie. “I take it you don’t own a suit in marshal’s black.”

  “Black washes me out.”

  Her irrepressible humor had drawn him to her that night in Georgetown in the rain, even before her blue eyes, her quick smile, her intelligence. “Anything I can do?”

  “Find this guy.” Beads of sweat had formed on her upper lip, in spite of the breeze. “If he gets enough of a head start, he could be anywhere. There are a lot of hikers this time of year. He could head in any one of a dozen directions. If he decides to blend in, we’ll be lucky if anyone remembers seeing him.”

  “Just rest, Mac. The woods will be crawling with search teams soon enough.”

  “I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve seen him. Nothing’s coming.” Her head fell back against the car with a thud. “I shouldn’t have let him get away.”

  “You disarmed him and kept him from killing you. So you got a little scratched in the process—”

  “Bastard. You, I’m talking about. ‘A little scratched.’ Easy for you to say.”

  He smiled. “Brought some color back to your cheeks.”

  And she would have to admit the slash in her side was nothing compared to what could have happened—even if she did let her attacker get away. An ambulance and town police cruiser arrived within seconds of each other. Rook moved to go and meet them, but Mackenzie reached up and touched his hand. “You know Bernadette Peacham owns this place, right?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “If she’s in danger—”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Mackenzie studied him. “I’m guessing you’re not here because of me.”

  “Mac—”

  Her eyes cleared, and he could see the focus and intelligence that made her a good law enforcement officer. “Beanie’s turned up in one of your FBI investigations, hasn’t she?”

  “Never speculate.”

  “I’m not speculating,” Mackenzie said. “I’m asking a direct question.”

  “I don’t know anything about the man who attacked you,” Rook replied.

  She sighed. “I believe you, if only because you straight-arrow, G-men types make lousy liars.”

  Carine returned with a pair of yoga pants and a flannel shirt for her friend, and Rook took the opportunity to ease out of Mackenzie’s line of vision and identify himself to a local cop. More police cars descended on the scene, lining the dirt road.

  Mackenzie addressed all the cops and paramedics by their first name and tried to tell them what to do. “No stretcher,” she instructed two paramedics. “If you even try to put me on a stretcher, we’ll have words.”

  One of them, a red-faced, burly man about her age, rolled his eyes. “We’re putting you on a stretcher, Mackenzie, so just shut up about it.”

  “You never did like me, did you, Carl?”

  He grinned. “Are you kidding? I was a freshman in high school when you were a senior. We all had a crush on you. Those cute freckles of yours—”

  “Okay. Where’s my gun?”

  He laughed, and a moment later he and his partner had her on a stretcher.

  After the ambulance pulled out, Rook walked down to the lake. The shed door swayed in the breeze. Two local officers were already taping off the scene, carefully avoiding any contamination of forensics.

  He spotted blood that had seeped into the rocky, sandy soil and splattered the grass and nearby ferns.

  Mackenzie’s blood.

  She’d lost more than she wanted to admit, and every drop clearly annoyed her. Rook didn’t recognize the description of her attacker. It wasn’t Harris—and Harris, his missing informant, Rook reminded himself, was the reason he was in New Hampshire. He wasn’t there because of his relationship with Mackenzie. Maybe he should be, he thought. But he wasn’t.

  Rook averted his gaze from her blood. What if he’d just gone ahead and had dinner with her? Made love to her? Neither of them would be in New Hampshire right now.

  Across the lake, which was choppy in the stiff breeze, he spotted a small house, presumably where her parents lived. Carine had given him the rundown of who was who on the lake, in case anyone else might be in danger. He pictured Mackenzie out here as a child and wondered what forces had taken her into the Marshals Service.

  He was late learning about her background and her relationship with Judge Peacham.

  Three weeks late.

  The state troopers started to
arrive. With a federal judge’s property involved and a federal agent attacked, the FBI and the U.S. Marshals would be on the heels of the troopers, joining the investigation.

  Rook had his own job to do.

  Eight

  Bernadette Peacham hated that her ex-husband had caught her eating a frozen lasagna for dinner. She hadn’t even bothered to put it onto a plate or make a salad. She’d simply stuffed the single serving into the microwave, peeled off the film cover and dug in, and there was Cal, as handsome as ever, standing in her kitchen doorway.

  And it was her kitchen. Not his. Despite their divorce, she’d hung on to both her house here in Washington, just off stately Massachusetts Avenue, and her lake house in New Hampshire. Her first marriage had smartened her up about protecting her financial interests, if not about improving her taste in men.

  “I just heard about Mackenzie,” Cal said. “An FBI agent stopped in my office. I came straight here. Have you talked to anyone?”

  “The FBI just left.”

  He looked truly upset. “Bernadette—thank God you weren’t at the lake this weekend. The police say the man who attacked Mackenzie might have camped on your property.”

  She shoved the lasagna container into the trash. Cal had always been disdainful of her benevolence. “For the record, I didn’t let him.”

  “Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “No.”

  Cal ran a finger across the round, white-painted table, a habit of his when he was stressed and trying not to show it. He’d taken off the ten pounds he’d put on in the last six months of their marriage, and he looked good. His hair was a little thin on top, and what he had left was all gray now, with no hints of the dark blond it used to be. Bernadette had met him three years ago, and it was as if she’d waited her entire life for him. Now, she could hardly stand the sight of him.

  The feeling, she was quite sure, was mutual.

  He was getting ready to move into the condominium he’d bought in an expensive complex on the Potomac. In the meantime, she’d agreed to let him stay in a guest suite at the house they’d once shared. He was a successful corporate attorney who needed nothing from her, but he would never see it that way. Cal, Bernadette knew, was a man who always wanted more, more, more.

  It hadn’t always been like that, she recalled. When they’d first met, he had talked longingly of living out at the lake full-time. Fishing, kayaking, growing a garden. But their marriage had opened up new doors for him, and Bernadette had watched as his income, his stress level, his tolerance for risk, his love of action—the game—all skyrocketed. The lake had lost its appeal for him. For a brief time, he had viewed the lake house as quaint and charming. Now, he regarded her house and land on the lake a waste, when she could sell lots, make a fortune, tear down, rebuild. He had any number of plans for what she could do with the property that had been in her family for generations.

  She simply hadn’t seen him changing until it was too late and their marriage was beyond repair.

  “You and your three-legged puppies,” he said.

  “I told you that I didn’t let him camp—”

  “I was talking about Mackenzie.”

  Bernadette gasped, taken aback. “I can’t believe you just said that. What a callous prick you’ve become, Cal. Mackenzie barely escaped with her life today. At least let her heal before you start demeaning her.”

  “I’m not demeaning her. I’m just being truthful. Where would she be now without you?”

  “I imagine she’d be doing exactly what she’s doing.”

  “No, you don’t. You know what you did for her.”

  “What did I do? I hired her father to build a shed and damn near got him killed. That’s what I did.”

  Cal sniffed. “It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault. He was careless, upset because of his wild daughter—”

  “For God’s sake, Cal, Mackenzie was eleven. She wasn’t wild—she’d just wandered off. Later on, she got a little wild, but—please. Let’s not do this. I know you resent the help I’ve given to people along the way, but it’s just a part of who I am. I don’t think about it. I’m not looking for anything in return. So just let it go.”

  “I’m not as good as you are.” His tone held no plea for understanding, no regret, only condescension. “Living in your shadow has never been easy.”

  So much, Bernadette thought, for their mature, civilized divorce. It had gone the way of their mature, civilized marriage. She had finally come to realize that he believed she was lesser for her generosity. Weaker.

  She leaned back against the counter, feeling the cool granite through the thin fabric of her skirt. “Don’t blame me for your insecurities,” she said, hearing the exhaustion in her voice. She was just so damn tired of sparring with him.

  “I never asked you to be less than the good person you are,” Cal said. “I just got tired of being reminded every day that I don’t measure up—if not by you, then by your deeds, your friends, your colleagues. My own clients.”

  Bernadette checked her impatience. They were divorced; she didn’t have to wear herself out trying to pump him up. “Let’s not rehash our problems. What do you want, Cal? Are you hoping to benefit in some way from what happened today in New Hampshire?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  She sighed. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Are you happy as a federal judge?” Cal asked.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I don’t think about happiness anymore. I’m not sure I even know what it is. A good meal? A pretty sunset? The fleeting moments when life is good? I don’t think happiness even matters in our lives. It’s not something I strive for.”

  He looked away from her. “I’m a decent man, Bernadette. I’m not a perfect one. I hope you’ll remember that.”

  “I never asked or wanted perfection, Cal.”

  “Maybe not. I’m glad Mackenzie wasn’t hurt any worse today. I know how fond of her you are. I’m sorry I was insensitive. I didn’t mean to be. She’s done a lot with her life, more than anyone thought she would after what she had to face. She blames herself for her father, you know. It doesn’t matter how much time goes by. She blames herself.”

  Bernadette nodded. “I know.”

  “She’ll blame herself for not getting this guy today, too. At least she wasn’t hurt any worse.” He walked over to Bernadette and touched her hair. “You’re beat—you look as if you fended off a criminal with a knife yourself.” He pulled his hand away. “We had some good times together, Beanie Peacham.”

  “We did, indeed.”

  “Are you planning to date once I’m out of here? I know it’s none of my business, but if you’re not, you should. You’re still an attractive woman. You have a lot to offer a man.”

  She smiled coolly. “And what does a man have to offer me? I like my life right now. Don’t patronize me by suggesting I need a man to be happy.”

  “God forbid anyone suggest you need anything. Maybe if you’d needed me even a little bit—” He stopped without finishing his thought. “Never mind. They’ll catch whoever attacked Mackenzie. She’s indestructible. I’ll say that for her.”

  He retreated down the hall, and a moment later, Bernadette heard his footfall on the stairs. She flopped down at the kitchen table, picturing Mackenzie fighting off an attacker—and twenty years ago, at age eleven, angry, guilt-ridden, neglected and frightened. Her father’s recovery had been long and painful and uncertain, consuming all of them. He still had terrible scars from his gruesome injuries.

  And poor little Mackenzie had found him, mangled, near death, his blood splattered all over the shed.

  If ever a child had needed a role model and a friend in those difficult days, it had been curly-haired Mackenzie Stewart, so ebullient by nature, so filled with humor and fun, but traumatized by her father’s accident. Bernadette had never considered herself up to the task of helping Mackenzie. She was a workah
olic with one divorce behind her and zero interest in children.

  She wasn’t nearly as good as Cal believed.

  There was a knock on the side door. Everyone had been urging her to improve her security, both here and in New Hampshire, but she never had. She got up, her hip aching from fatigue and from years of sitting in a courtroom.

  She saw Nate Winter standing on the steps. Her first thought was that he was looking more and more like Gus, his uncle, whom she knew would see to Mackenzie just as he’d seen to his orphaned nieces and nephew more than thirty years ago.

  Nate would know that, too. He was one of the most respected federal agents in Washington and it was no secret he felt responsible for Mackenzie’s decision to go into the Marshals Service.

  Bernadette opened the door. “Nate, it’s good to see you.”

  He had on a dark suit and must have come straight from work. Life was good for him right now, with a new wife, a new home and a baby on the way. But Bernadette could see the tightness around his mouth, the only hint of any emotion.

  He stepped into the kitchen. “We need to talk.”

  Nine

  The police had released the shed as a crime scene, after finding no clear evidence that the man who’d attacked Mackenzie had been inside, although, given the open door, he must have either been inside or on his way in. She stood on the threshold, the cool evening air on her back. The wind had died down, and she could hear crickets chirping in the nearby brush. Her girls’ night out with Carine was postponed indefinitely, but it would have been a nice night for laughing and telling stories.

  Rook returned her hammer to its spot among Bernadette’s tools. The police hadn’t found any obvious clues to the identity of her attacker. “I had to explain you to my chief,” Mackenzie said. Inside the shed, the air was close, smelling of dust and grease. “I told him we saw each other a few times, and I don’t know why you’re in New Hampshire. He threatened to come up here. Not because of you. Because of the attack, although I suspect it and your reasons for being here are not unrelated.”

  “You talked him out of coming up?”