The Rapids

But her father had always been a fairly remote figure to her. Even when she was growing up, he was never around. Her mother finally couldn’t take his long absences anymore, and they’d divorced when Maggie was in high school. He hadn’t changed his ways. He couldn’t. She understood that part. She had that same sense of wanderlust.

“Well, Pop,” she said, dipping her wooden spoon into her pan of spicy vegetables and rice, “we got the bad guy today.”

She didn’t know if he’d ever really approved of her career in diplomatic security. He’d seemed okay with her political science degree in college, then her first job at the State Department. She’d hoped her decision to become a DS officer and the prospect of a foreign service career might have intrigued him, but he’d remained outside her life, not disinterested but not a part of it.

The DS special agent in charge of her field office had given her the news of her father’s death himself.

Philip Spencer had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Except Maggie hadn’t believed it. Still didn’t. Czech authorities, U.S. authorities—she wasn’t getting the whole story. She’d pushed and bucked and bitten off heads, and everywhere, from everyone, she got the same line.

Shot by bank robbers who then got away.

Bullshit.

There were no witnesses. Newspapers, even in Prague, barely covered the story. And the reaction she got from investigators—American and Czech—amounted to stonewalling. But she’d finally backed off. What was the point in sticking her neck out for a man she’d seen maybe a half-dozen times in the five years before his death?

Maggie dumped out the rest of her fried rice and ran cold water into the pan, leaving it until morning.

No one—not the Dutch authorities, not anyone at the American embassy—was celebrating Nick Janssen’s arrest. As pleased as they were with having him in custody, they all knew his tentacles were far-reaching. There was a lot of work yet to be done.

The media were all over the story. The embassy’s public affairs officers as well as the FBI and USMS people back in Washington were fielding questions. Janssen’s attorneys had descended, screaming and hollering. News of Maggie’s anonymous tip was out.

On her way to bed, she noticed that her solitary plant, an orchid she’d bought in deference to the collective Dutch green thumb, looked dead. It was supposed to be a hardy variety that she’d have a difficult time killing, but she’d killed it in less than three weeks.

She took it to the sink, doused it with water and left it next to her soaking leftovers pan. Maybe it’d revive by morning.

She rolled her eyes. Who was she kidding? The thing was dead. To hope otherwise wasn’t optimism—it was refusing to face reality.

And if nothing else, Maggie thought, she was a woman determined to face reality.

Libby Smith left her window open in her room at her small hotel around the corner from where Dutch police had picked up Nick Janssen. It was brazen of her. A risk. But there was no reason for authorities to investigate hotel guests. Even if they did, they’d never suspect her of being anything but what she was: an American antiques dealer, a woman looking for off-the-beaten-track bargains.

What if they had him under surveillance and saw you on the bench with him?

If they caught up with her and asked about it, she’d say she’d stopped to rest her feet and they’d chatted for a few minutes about the sights.

She couldn’t seem to get cool.

She lay naked atop the cotton duvet and noticed the sheen of her sweat in the light from the street. She could hear the traffic, the sound of music playing somewhere not too far off, the voices of people under her window, out enjoying the warm summer night.

The hundred-thousand deposit had been wired into her account. Janssen must have prearranged the transfer.

Libby had never made such money.

And it was just the beginning.

She’d memorized Janssen’s list of targets and burned it, flushing the ashes down her toilet.

Knowing his enemies—and eliminating them—would help her to understand his network and, in time, replace him.

His arrest was inevitable, just a bit earlier than she’d hoped for. Some Dutch Goody Two-shoes must have recognized him and called the police.

The balding man—who was he? Closing her eyes, Libby breathed deeply and tried not to feel as if she were suffocating, told herself the balding man didn’t matter. Only her plan did, her next target. The thrill of her work had satisfied her in the beginning. Now she wanted more.

Money.

Power.

She smiled to herself, relaxing, feeling in control at last.

Three

Nate Winter came home to find secret service agents crawling all over his house, a reminder of just how much his life had changed in the past four months.

His fiancée, Sarah Dunnemore, was on the back porch having peach cobbler with President John Wesley Poe, who regarded her as the daughter he’d never had. Being together brought out their Southern accents.

Nate had a feeling he knew why Poe was there.

Nick Janssen.

The rich, murdering bastard was finally in custody.

It was hot even on the shaded porch, but the two Tennesseans didn’t seem to mind. While looking for a home of their own in northern Virginia, Nate and Sarah were living in a corner of an 1850s historic house she was researching and getting ready to open to the public. Supposedly it was haunted by both Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee. Poe liked to joke that he wished he could ask both men for advice. But Sarah, a historical archaeologist, was serious about her ghosts.

Before they’d met, Nate had been a senior deputy U.S. Marshal dedicated to catching fugitives and not much else.

He was still a marshal, he was still dedicated to his work—but now he could come home to Sarah, ghosts, peach cobbler and the occasional presidential visit.

“Mr. President,” Nate said, “it’s good to see you.”

Poe, already on his feet, put out his hand, and the two men shook. “It’s good to see you, too, Nate. Sarah’s ruining my diet with her peach cobbler.”

Nate had helped her pick the peaches from one of the trees in the old house’s sprawling yard, knowing she expected to make jam one evening. The cobbler meant she was upset, because otherwise she’d still be up to her elbows in the hundred-year-old dump she’d found out back and was in the process of excavating. When she was upset, she dug out family recipes, usually ones involving a lot of butter.

Her gray eyes connected with Nate’s for a split second, enough to tell him that Poe’s visit hadn’t been her idea. She had on cropped jeans and a tank top, barefoot even for peach cobbler with the president.

As welcome as it was, Janssen’s arrest had brought back the trauma of her ordeal last spring. Her twin brother badly injured in a sniper-style attack in Central Park, a killer on the loose in Night’s Landing, the Dunnemore family’s Tennessee home, their refuge. John Wesley Poe happened to have grown up next door.

Sarah was fair-haired and beautiful, and Nate—tall, lean, impatient—hated for those dark days to prey on her again. But he’d learned that Sarah Dunnemore wasn’t an ivory tower intellectual who wanted to remain aloof from life. She dove in, sometimes without looking.

“I stopped by to see how Sarah had taken the news of the Janssen arrest,” Poe said. “And Rob. I wondered how he was doing.”

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” Sarah said. “I called my parents a little while ago—they’re fine.”

“I tried to reach Rob on his cell phone earlier,” Nate said. “He didn’t answer. I left a message.”

“How is he recuperating from his injuries?” Poe asked.