a mess. Bernadette could always see through her. She would be able to tell—no matter how Mackenzie tried to hide it—that the one-time-hellion kid she’d saved had fallen fast and hard for an FBI agent.
Mackenzie locked the porch door and turned up the air-conditioning another notch. She hadn’t let firearms training and defense tactics and learning to drive a car like a bat out of hell derail her. She wouldn’t let Andrew Rook. She would get control of her emotions, just as she had during training when she’d faced fresh challenges, new fears.
She went into her little sitting room with its worn wood floors and simple, tasteful furnishings. Sarah Dunnemore Winter’s touch.
Aware of the silence of the historic house, Mackenzie sat on a cozy love seat and studied a pair of old prints hung side by side on the wall opposite her. One depicted Abraham Lincoln giving the Gettysburg Address months after that bloody battle. The other was of Robert E. Lee on his horse—she didn’t recognize when or where. She didn’t know the story of how the two well-known nineteenth-century Americans supposedly had ended up haunting the house. It was in the brochures Sarah had so meticulously researched and written for prospective tourists.
Mackenzie promised herself she’d read one.
“In the meantime,” she said aloud, sighing at the two adversaries, “if you boys are around, now would be the time to show yourselves.”
But there was no answer, only the creak of old floorboards, and she gave a mock shudder of relief at the silence. Thank heaven, she thought, jumping to her feet. Bad enough if she ever had to explain Rook to her marshal colleagues. If ghosts started talking to her, she’d be kicked back to her campus ivory tower in New Hampshire, and be writing her dissertation in no time flat.
Three
Harris staggered out of the hole-in-the-wall Georgetown bar, an old favorite where he could place a gentleman’s bet and not have to worry about anyone sniffing in disapproval. He was tired and he’d had too much to drink. After twenty-four hours, he could no longer drum up any energy for steering clear of friends or enemies. He had no attention span for going into hiding.
It was late on a dark, hot summer night. Who the hell would bother hunting him down now?
When he reached M Street, he recognized a Washington Post columnist and a prominent U.S. senator getting into a private car, and gave them a surreptitious middle finger, hating them for the life he’d squandered. Once, he’d had his own driver. Now he was reduced to cabs, buses and an ancient Honda that was a bother to keep on the road. It wasn’t a question of finance as much as of prestige.
People who had nowhere to go didn’t need drivers or fancy cars.
He smelled of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and alcohol. He walked past nice bars, nice restaurants, heard music and laughter and saw people who looked good, were good. He’d been like them once, filled with hope, ambition—and hubris. He’d known he was smarter than most people. He could not fail.
Now he had the FBI hunting him.
And worse.
The heat and stifling humidity started him sweating again. His shirt stuck to his back. His eyes stung. He wanted to vomit, but not on M Street. Not in front of people who used to respect him.
Then again, why the hell not? Who did they think they were? They had their own secrets and compulsions. Everyone did.
“Harris, for God’s sake.”
For a moment, Harris didn’t realize who was speaking to him, but he looked up and saw Cal Benton, as if he’d materialized out of nowhere. “Cal?”
Cal hooked a hand around Harris’s forearm just beneath the elbow. “You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy. I have higher standards for drunk.”
Cal smelled of antiperspirant, as if he’d given himself a fresh swipe before getting out of his car. He was sweating, too, but he’d have to be inhuman not to sweat on such a night. “In here,” he said, tugging Harris toward a nearly empty coffee shop.
“If we’re seen—”
“We won’t be.” Cal opened the glass door, pausing to glare at Harris. “Unless your new friend Special Agent Rook is on his way.”
Harris licked his lips. Even after three beers, he felt dehydrated, parched. “Who?”
“You slimy, corrupt son of a bitch, Harris.”
Cal’s reaction was a sign of panic. Incipient fear. “Here’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”
“Damn you to hell.”
Harris didn’t respond. What was the point? Over the past five years, he’d grown accustomed to people damning him to hell. Cal shoved him onto a rickety chair and briskly went to the counter, soon returning with two coffees.
“Those paper cups burn my fingers,” Harris said, hearing the whininess in his own voice. He’d always hated whiners. “Don’t they have any of those little cardboard holders?”
“No. Start drinking. You need to sober up.”
“I am sober.” Harris leaned over slightly, so that he could inhale the steam from his coffee. “Too sober.”
“Damn it, Harris,” Cal said with a hiss. “I’ve been looking for you since last night. I saw you at the hotel with your FBI agent. What the hell were you doing? Anyone could have seen you.”
“Special Agent Rook and I were just having a quiet drink. I know a lot of FBI agents.”
“I checked him out. Rook’s a tough customer. He’s not talking to you out of the goodness of his heart.” Cal placed his elbows on the small table and clenched and unclenched his fists, staring at them. Finally, he regarded Harris not so much with hostility as disdain. “He’ll throw you under the bus, you stupid bastard.”
“I haven’t told him anything about you, Cal. I wouldn’t. You’re not the one—”
“Rook doesn’t care about you.” Cal didn’t raise his voice. “He cares about what information you can give him to help him advance his career. That’s it.”
“He’s ambitious, but he’s not dishonorable.”
“Dishonorable?” Cal snorted in disbelief. “Only you, Harris. People don’t care about honor anymore. They care about results.”
Harris wished he could think clearly, but thoughts floated by him, just out of his grasp. Nothing felt nailed down. It was as if he was on a current of air that was taking him wherever it wanted, and he had no control.
He leaned over his coffee, the steam rising into his eyes. “Rook can save Bernadette.”
“From what?”
“From you, Cal.” Harris raised his gaze to the man across from him. “And from Jesse.”
There. He’d said the name. Jesse Lambert. The devil.
Harris had known Cal even before
