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,