“How did Judge Peacham help you?”
“She kept Gus from hanging me by my thumbs, for starters. Mostly, she let me into her library and let me use her house as a refuge. I never went into the shed, though. I’d sit on the porch and read – just that break from the difficulties at home made a difference. My father didn’t need me underfoot when he was in such pain.”
“Tough times.”
“People have faced worse.”
Rook was silent a moment. “We’re not talking about what other people faced.”
Mackenzie decided to change the subject. She didn’t want Rook picturing her as a lonely, troubled eleven-year-old. “Anything new on Harris Mayer?”
“He hasn’t turned up yet.”
“Are you actively looking for him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She let Rook drive a couple miles without pressing him further, hoping he might take the initiative and elaborate. But he didn’t. Finally, she gave him a sideways look. “Talking to you is like getting blood out of a stone sometimes.”
“Only when you ask about matters that are outside your area of concern.”
“I should expect to get shut down. Got it, Rook. Nate Winter gave me the same lecture.”
“Smart man.”
When they arrived at her borrowed quarters, Rook didn’t ask if she needed help, he just climbed out of the car and opened the back door before she’d gotten her seat belt unhooked. He grabbed her backpack and walked to the porch, the heat apparently having no effect on him.
Mackenzie joined him, feeling drained. Before she’d left New Hampshire, she’d retraced her assailant’s path through the woods and up to the road above the lake, not so much looking for clues the search teams had missed but hoping for something – anything – that jogged her memory. She’d probably pushed herself a bit too far.
“Thanks for the ride,” she told Rook. “I mean it. It was decent of you, even if you had ulterior motives.”
But he didn’t make a move to head back to his car. He nodded toward the porch. “I want to make sure your place is secure before I leave.”
“It’s not secure. It’s a leaky haunted house. Who knows what I’ll find in there?”
He didn’t laugh. Mackenzie gave up and mounted the steps to the porch, fumbling in a pocket of her backpack for her keys. She unlocked the door and motioned him inside. “Help yourself.” She followed him in and switched on lights as he checked the windows and closets. “I’d give anything for Abe Lincoln to pop out from under a bed right now.”
“The Rooks are Virginians.”
“Bobby Lee, then.”
“Mac…”
They were in the small kitchen, and she fought an image of him getting up with her in the morning. He sighed through his teeth, his eyes dark, his body tensed as he visibly repressed all emotion. But he cupped her chin, catching her by surprise, and traced one finger along her jaw. She didn’t pull back, and he kissed her – not lightly, either. She responded, grabbing his arms and steadying herself as her mouth opened to his tongue, the heat of him.
But he was a man of supreme willpower, and he pulled back. “You make me crazy, you know that?”
She smiled, a little breathless. “It’s good for you.”
“Probably is,” he said, straightening. “If you didn’t have twenty-five stitches -”
“Only twenty.”
“Sleep well, Mac. If the ghosts bother you, give me a call.”
That’d be the day, she thought. She watched him head out, trotting down the steps as if he had all the energy in the world. When he was out of her driveway, she went into the living room, with its cozy, antique furnishings. Except for the loud ticking of an old grandfather clock, the house was quiet. No ghosts, no Andrew Rook, no deranged hiker with a knife.
Mackenzie’s eyes felt scratchy with fatigue. She hoped being back in Washington would help her remember where she’d seen her attacker before. She was convinced, still, that she hadn’t just conjured up a sense of familiarity because of fear and adrenaline.
But whoever he was, she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was in custody, unable to hurt anyone else.
She suspected it was one goal she and Rook shared.
As she headed to her bedroom, she touched a hand to her mouth where he’d kissed her. Damn.
The man made her crazy, too.
Sixteen
Mackenzie poured herself a cup of coffee and headed to her desk at the district U.S. Marshals office in Washington, D.C. After less than two months, she didn’t feel settled in yet, but it was her first duty assignment and she was committed to a three-year stay. She had managed to get up early and lift a few free weights and stretch, avoiding any doctor-forbidden moves that would pull on her stitches. Every day was an improvement, but that didn’t mean she was patient with her progress.