LITMIR.BIZ

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went through with it anyway?” Jimmy’s voice was taut. Jimmy was the worrier of the team. Jimmy worried, Arlan teased, so that the others didn’t have to. “That’s not protocol. You should have aborted.”

      “You get the kids?” Arlan asked. He was in a dark mood. Had been since his encounter with the dogs and Romano. Tonight he had almost lost control, almost given in to the animal inside him, and he didn’t like it. It scared him. After all these years he thought he had learned temperance. He thought he had become a better person. More human. Had he been kidding himself? He glanced at Jimmy. “Did we get them?” he repeated. “The kids?”

      “Yeah, we got them. Both were still alive, seemed to be scared but…unharmed,” Jimmy said delicately.

      Unmolested was what he meant. Jimmy was a tenderhearted man. Emotional. Always had been, even after the fall from grace that had hardened many of the Kahills.

      “And I got Romano, so all’s well that ends well.”

      “We saw that play. Shakespeare.” Sean pointed at Arlan. “Like 1740 in London. Goodman’s Fields…or was it Drury Lane? You remember? The orange girls—”

      Jimmy dropped his empty glass on the table. “Sean.”

      “Sorry.” Sean reached for the carafe of wine and poured the last of it into his glass. He lifted the carafe to a waiter who was serving a table of tourists.

      Jimmy looked back at Arlan. “You’re missing the point. Again. You don’t go it alone. You’re supposed to follow protocol. It’s what keeps you safe,” Jimmy said.

      “What was I supposed to do?” Arlan turned his dark gaze on Jimmy. “Let that pervert, that murderer, walk?”

      “Protocol is what keeps us all safe,” Jimmy insisted firmly. “This isn’t just about you. Or even us.” He drew his glass in a circle, indicating their tight knit group.

      Arlan set his glass down and ran his fingers through his dark hair, still not making eye contact. “All right,” he said quietly. “You’re right. Next time, I follow protocol.”

      “Sure you will.” Sean chuckled under his breath.

      The men were silent as the waiter approached, bringing another carafe of wine. He took the empty one with him.

      “So what do we do about Regan? He call in?” Jimmy asked when the waiter had gone.

      Arlan plucked his cell phone from the pocket of his leather jacket and checked the screen. “He never called.”

      Sean poured more wine for everyone. “We know where he is?”

      Arlan shook his head. “Haven’t heard from him since the meeting in the airport two nights ago.” He shrugged. “Of course, I didn’t expect to see him until tonight unless there was a problem.”

      “Well, we’ve got to find him.” Jimmy wrapped his fingers around his glass. “He could be in trouble.”

      “Oh, I’m sure he is.” Sean plucked an olive from a tray on the table and sucked on it noisily.

      “I’m serious.” Jimmy looked to Sean, then back at Arlan. “We have to find him.”

      Arlan didn’t pick up his glass. Suddenly he no longer wanted wine. Or the company of his friends. The situation with Regan had been out of hand for some time. What if Regan really was in trouble this time and not just off binge drinking, whoring, and gambling—simply losing track of time, which was usually his excuse? It would be Arlan’s fault if something happened to Regan. Arlan was the one who had insisted that the rest of the team keep Regan’s nefarious activities to themselves.

      “How you think we’re going to find him, Jimmy? We’re in a city of what, three million? Four?” He lifted his hand and let it fall. “Besides, protocol requires that we return to Clare Point. Immediately.”

      Jimmy was quiet for a minute. Sean spat his olive pit into his hand and dropped it on a plate in front of him.

      “You’re right,” Jimmy conceded. “It’s best if we go home. Regan will find his way. He always does.”

      Arlan rose, tossing some euros on the table. “See you back at the ranch, partners.” He walked down the sidewalk, away from the lights of the restaurant, into the dark, feeling very alone.

      Macy woke hot and sweaty, overwhelmed by a heavy sense of dread. As she showered and went through her morning ablutions, she tried not to think about the meaning of it, or the IM’s last night. How many times had she been through this? There was nothing she could do. Nothing last night. Nothing this morning. Except maybe make that dreaded call.

      The call would make it real.

      She dressed and poured a cup of black coffee in a travel mug. Her appointment today was just a pre-meet, but the assignment was a big one; five full-color pages of the exterior of a house and its garden, northeast of Richmond. She collected her laptop, some files and photographs from her desk, and the canvas backpack she always kept packed in her closet. She did not lock the door when she left.

      Late morning, Macy met the homeowners, walked through their garden and made suggestions as to what could be done to improve the property aesthetically before it was photographed. Often, she took her own photos, but for this assignment, the magazine would be using their own photographer. Then, while waiting on the photographer assigned to her, Macy excused herself to check phone messages.

      Instead of checking her voice mail, which was a pretty involved process, she made the call, punching in the extension she knew from memory.

      “Special Agent Kahill.”

      Macy hesitated. She always did at this point. Why did she torture herself this way? The FBI was no closer to finding him than they had been fourteen years ago. Why did she make the calls?

      Because she had to.

      Because it was her penance.

      “Special Agent Kahill,” the female voice repeated.

      “Fia, it’s me. Maggie.” Macy had picked the name. No last name, just Maggie for Magnolia. For her mother.

      There was a pause. “How are you, Maggie?”

      “Anything more on the McNaughton case?” Macy said softly. The McNaughton family had been the last to die.

      A blue Toyota pulled into the driveway. The photographer. Macy would have to go.

      “Not really, Maggie. I check on it from time to time. The agents are keeping the investigation active, but no significant changes.”

      Macy ran her fingers through her fine, long blond hair. It was hot. She needed a band to pull it back into a ponytail.

      “What can I do for you, Maggie?”

      Macy exhaled. “He…” Her throat constricted. She stopped and started again. “You need to check the morning reports. Today. The next couple of days.”

      She didn’t have to say any more. She and Special Agent Fia Kahill had an interesting relationship. The agent accepted Macy for what she could offer, what she would offer and what she would not. Other law enforcement agents might have pushed her until Macy completely disengaged and stopped calling. But Fia seemed to understand how brittle her informant was.

      “Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” the FBI agent whispered. “So soon after the last? This is unexpected.”

      “Maybe I’m wrong,” Macy murmured. But the silence between them that followed made it evident that neither thought so. Not in their bones. Fia understood knowing something in your bones.

      The photographer had climbed out of her car. She had her hatchback up and was pulling bags from the trunk.

      Macy turned her back to the car. “I…I’m at work so I can’t really talk. I don’t know anything, Fia, except that Teddy’s out there. He’s on the move. He’s going to do it again…if

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