Abandon

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.