Thirteen

On his way to the airport in his rented car, Rook took a detour to the small private college where Mackenzie had taught before she’d headed to FLETC, the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia. Its secluded campus was typical New England, with ivy-covered brick buildings and lush lawns that were relatively quiet in these weeks before the start of classes. A huge handmade sign welcomed incoming freshmen for orientation.

Of all the people in Cold Ridge, New Hampshire, who could have followed Nate Winter into federal law enforcement, Rook suspected Mackenzie Stewart hadn’t been on anyone’s short list of candidates.

He lingered in the shade of a giant oak. Why give up this life? What had compelled her? He pictured her on one of the pretty walkways, rushing to class, smiling at students who weren’t that much younger than she was.

“You’re crazy,” Rook muttered to himself. “Go home.”

Less than four hours later, Rook was back in Washington. T.J. met him at the airport, and Rook filled him in. But T.J. already knew all about the events in New Hampshire.

“Other than walking into the middle of a knife attack on a federal agent, how was it up in the woods?” T.J. asked. “Any sign of our missing informant?”

“Harris can’t even qualify as an informant. He’s been playing games for three weeks. I’ve got nothing.” Rook stared out the window. Even from the air-conditioned car, he could tell the Washington heat wave hadn’t let up. The city looked hot and steamy. “New Hampshire’s one of the safest states in the country, and a knife-wielding lunatic just happens to turn up at Bernadette Peacham’s lake house the day I show up looking for Harris. Never mind Mac and why she was there.”

“It’s a curious world,” T.J. said.

Rook laughed in spite of himself. Nothing ruffled T. J. Kowalski. When he pulled into Rook’s driveway, T.J. shook his head. “Another thirty grand, and this place will look like a hard-ass FBI agent lives here instead of a sweet little old grandmother.”

“Shut up, Kowalski.”

“Used to stop here for homemade cookies after school, didn’t you?”

“I’m armed.”

But what T.J. said was true. Rook had grown up within walking distance of his grandmother’s house, and as a kid he’d stop by for cookies, to help her with chores, to tell her his tales from school. When he joined the FBI, he’d never expected to end up back in Washington, living in his old neighborhood – the Rook neighborhood. His seven years in Florida had given him distance from his tight-knit family, provided a perspective he’d never have if he’d stayed. When his grandmother died, he’d intended to fix up the house and sell it, but once he’d started working on it, he’d found himself staying. He added skylights on the stairs and in the kitchen, stripped the carpet to reveal hardwood floors. It was looking less grandmotherly, but the dogwoods and bird feeders in the garden still reminded him of her.

She knew he’d go into law enforcement. It was the Rook destiny. He couldn’t see himself switching careers the way Mackenzie had, after all she’d invested toward earning her doctorate.

He noticed his nephew’s car in the driveway. The kid was a casualty – with any luck a temporary one – in the ongoing battle between Scott Rook and his wife. To please one, he had to disappoint the other. To please them both was impossible – and not, they knew at some level, Brian’s responsibility. They loved their oldest son more than life itself, but every day, they woke up thinking about how they could motivate him, focus him.

“I saw the sketch of this guy with the knife,” T.J. said. “He could be anybody. If the police up in New Hampshire think he’s a deranged hiker who slashes women for kicks, who am I to argue?”

“I don’t like coincidences.”

“Life is full of them. I asked around about Deputy Stewart. Word is she’s cute as a button, smart as a whip and could kick your ass – provided she got half a chance. She’s hard on herself. Her fellow marshals are protective of her, which she hates, and word’s getting around that some FBI asshole broke her heart.” T.J. looked over at Rook. “That would be you. I could get good money for turning over your name.”

“I didn’t break her heart. We only went out a few times.”

“One of them was dinner here.”

“Almost. That’s the date I canceled.”

“There’s discipline for you. If it’d been me, I’d have had dinner first, then dumped her.”

“I’m not talking to you about Mackenzie anymore. It’s Harris I’m after.” Rook shoved open the car door and got his bag from in back. “Harris is a bitter, entitled old man who drinks too much, T.J., and I don’t know if he’s on the level or spinning bullshit. If he’s on to something -”

“Then he needs to start talking and stop with the bullshit. He’s a smart man. If he’s serious, he’ll know telling us what’s going on is his only option. Ten to one he got cold feet and bailed on us.”

“I hope so.”

Rook shut the door and headed inside, straight upstairs to the computer room. His nephew barely looked up from the flat screen. “I’ll be off in a sec.”

“You have to work tomorrow?”

“I gave my notice, and my boss said not to bother to come in.”

“You gave your notice? Why?”

“I don’t like to work weekends.”

Rook kept his irritation to himself. It was the second job of the summer Brian had quit – a retail job with irregular hours. His mother had wanted him to study abroad over the summer. His father had wanted him to get a job and at least pay for his car insurance. But Brian had flunked out of college instead.

“Put in any applications?”

“Nah.” Brian tapped on the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m going to work anymore this summer.”

“That must mean you’ve decided to go to college this fall, after all.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”

“You’ll need to get applications in.” When his nephew didn’t respond, Rook sighed. “Brian…”

The kid looked up at him. His features were so like his father’s, but he didn’t have Scott Rook’s self-discipline and hard edge. “If I take the year off to work, I can afford not to work for a few weeks now.”

The logic in that statement was typical Brian. “We can talk about it tomorrow,” Rook muttered.

“Yeah. Okay. How was New Hampshire?”

“You’d have hated it. No computers, no cell phone service – I didn’t even bring an iPod with me.”

The kid grinned awkwardly. “What’d you do, listen to the mosquitoes buzz in your ear?”

“Loons,” Rook said.

His nephew gave a mock shudder. “Even worse.”

Fourteen

Jesse loved to fly, especially alone. All his problems fell away. He felt free in the air, unencumbered by his obsessions. He was apart from the world. There was no past or future, only now. As he looked down at the sprawl of greater Baltimore and Washington, D.C., he welcomed the sense of superiority and peace that overcame him.

He’d gotten out of New Hampshire without so much as a second glance from the couple at the bed-and-breakfast, the other guests, the people at the airport.

The police had no idea where their perpetrator was, who he was. Nothing. Their sketch didn’t look anything like the upscale hiker he’d become after the organic farmer had dropped him off.

Jesse had spent Saturday and Sunday roaming the famous Presidential Range, its peaks named after U.S. presidents – Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Adams, Monroe. At night, he’d regaled his hosts with stories of his mishaps, his fascination and appreciation of the White Mountains. There was no way – none – that they’d think he was the fugitive slasher.

Today – Monday – he had slept late, focusing on the work that lay ahead. It was midday now. His time in the mountains had helped center him. He’d thought about Mackenzie Stewart a lot. And Cal. That corrupt bastard must be beside himself at this point, wondering where Jesse was, debating whether he’d call from Mexico in surrender, turn up in Washington again or just disappear.