The Rapids

He gave a small laugh. “That’s a very American question.”

“I’m a very American diplomatic security agent. Come on, Mr. Raleigh. Who are you, really?”

His eyes, a pale grayish blue, focused on her a moment, emanating a warmth and affection—a familiarity—that made Maggie edge away from him.

“My father…”

She didn’t know if she’d spoken aloud.

“What about your father, Maggie?”

Her chest tightened, and she turned abruptly from him and stared up toward the pulpit. She had to stay focused, on task. She couldn’t lose control.

“Did you know him?” she asked.

“I can’t say I knew him well. We ran into each other in Prague a few weeks before his death. He told me about his DS agent daughter. He was so proud of you. He called you his Magster.” Raleigh’s tone was formal and very correct, almost without emotion, incongruent with his tattered appearance. “I believe it’s fate that our paths crossed.”

“Fate or bullshit.”

He didn’t respond.

“Thomas Kopac—”

“I had nothing to do with his death. It’s a terrible shame. I know he befriended you.”

Maggie noticed red veins in Raleigh’s eyes, bulging veins in his nose. A drinker. “That wouldn’t be hard for you to find out. It’s not as if we kept our friendship a secret.”

“No doubt.” Raleigh went very still next to Maggie, staring down at the bony hand on his thigh. “So many of the people I’ve met in my day were forgettable. Shallow, venal, selfish, arrogant—I don’t want to remember them in my retirement. Others weren’t. They were the best. They had honor and integrity. Not all of them went on to live to an old age the way I undoubtedly will, if only because I’m destined to be the one to remember what they were.” He didn’t raise his voice or ramble. “I’m often haunted by the good people I couldn’t save.”

Jesus.

“Who are you talking about? Why am I here?”

He inhaled through his nose. “I can feel the presence of the dead here, can’t you? Eighteen months. It doesn’t seem that long ago—”

“If you’re using my father’s death to try to manipulate me, it won’t work. If you were responsible in some way for what happened to him—”

“He wouldn’t have wanted me to put you in danger.”

“I have a job to do. I intend to do it to the best of my abilities. That’s not up to you.”

“It wasn’t up to him, either.” Raleigh’s tone lost its moroseness, became firmer, more serious. “He knew you were like him. You’re capable of breaking a few dishes, Maggie.”

“I’m a professional—”

“You’re a self-starter, an independent thinker. And, yes, a professional. You won’t cross the line. But you’ll put a toe over it.” His tone had lightened, but only momentarily. “You can’t tell anyone about me, Maggie. No one. That’s very important for your own safety. You have good instincts. Trust them.”

“I didn’t know Tom Kopac was about to be killed this morning.”

“I didn’t say you were clairvoyant.”

“If you have any information, I can take you to the American embassy and we can talk there.” Unless he was already familiar to everyone there—good old Bill Raleigh, yeah, that head case.

But he was very convincing. “That won’t be necessary.”

Maggie knew she’d lost him, that he was wrapping up, but she persisted. “I need more to go on.”

His movements unhurried, he carefully, deliberately, stood. She noticed he had a walking stick with him, the retractable kind that hikers use. He turned to her. “There’s an inn in Ravenkill, New York. The Old Stone Hollow. I don’t know if it’s of any significance. Perhaps it’s just a pretty country inn.”

“An inn? What—”

“It’s good to meet you in person, Agent Spencer,” Raleigh said, easing out of the pew. “Your marshal friend is here. He’s not one to underestimate, is he? I’ll be in touch if I have anything else for you.”

Maggie whipped around in the pew, but she didn’t see Rob.

A trick. Damn.

She jumped up, but Raleigh—or whoever he was—had darted into the outer aisle, moving faster than she’d thought him capable of. He kicked over a kneeler and it landed on her ankle, slowing her down as she went after him. Every fiber of her being told him that he was someone she could trust, but her common sense—her training and experience—warned her not to let herself get sucked into his story all the way.

She wouldn’t be the first law enforcement officer to get taken in by a delusional alcoholic.

“Mr. Raleigh,” she whispered, “please wait. Rob’s not here. You have to give me more. This inn—”

Ignoring her, he picked up his pace. Maggie didn’t know what she was supposed to do if she caught up with him. Tackle him and drag him to the Den Bosch police? Shove him in her Mini and drive him to the American embassy? She wasn’t armed. She had no arrest authority in the Netherlands.

She heard someone mumbling a prayer in a nearby chapel, then the far-off moan of a door, the echo of footsteps. Her hands were clammy, her fingers stiff as if they’d been in the cold.

“Raleigh!”

She let her voice go above a whisper.

A woman spun around in a pew and glared at her.

He wasn’t stopping.

If she tried to tackle him, Maggie figured he’d whack her with his walking stick. He’d make a scene. He’d play the crazy old drunk being attacked by a religious zealot. He’d scream for help, scaring the hell out of the few stragglers in the cathedral, and run.

Trust your instincts.

He disappeared, hiding in one of the thousand nooks and crannies of the massive cathedral, stealing out an exit.

Maybe he’d just gone up in smoke.

Maybe she’d imagined him.

Ravenkill, New York.

Maggie had never heard of it or the Old Stone Hollow Inn.