U. S. Marshall: Night's Landing Part 14

Nate didn't like the idea of her having company, not after her early-morning phone call. She'd tried to hide her stress and fear, but they were obvious. He nodded to Brooker. "Yes, she's expecting me."

He left Brooker to his manure spreading and took a half gravel, half stone path to the back steps. It seemed more like the main entrance than the one on the porch that faced the river. Through a screen door, he could hear Sarah talking to a man with a p.r.o.nounced southern accent.

They were discussing prune cake recipes.

"My granny always made a three-layer prune cake," the man said. "She insisted it was best the next day, after the flavors had time to settle and blend."

Sarah laughed, but Nate could hear a lingering strain in her voice. He wondered if the guy with her noticed. "I like prune cake anytime, anywhere, provided it's not hard as a rock."

Nate peered through the screen door. Sarah's visitor was sitting at a round table. He looked to be in his early thirties, with gla.s.ses, close-cropped sandy hair and regular features. He wore a polo s.h.i.+rt, khakis and penny loafers. Sarah was at the counter in a flour-covered pink ap.r.o.n.

She spotted him, her eyes connecting with his, widening, and Nate knew that whatever had prompted her to call him in a panic was still a factor. He wasn't going to have prune cake and coffee and turn around and head back to New York. Something was up.

The man at the table leaped to his feet. "Sarah?"

"It's okay," she said quickly, moving toward the screen door.

Nate pulled it open. "How are you, Sarah?"

"I didn't hear your car-" She smiled nervously. "Conroy and I have been busy talking prune cake recipes. Here, come in. Conroy, this is Nate Winter, one of Rob's colleagues from New York. Nate, Conroy Fontaine, a journalist and temporary neighbor."

Fontaine put out a hand, then pulled it back. "Sorry, sir. I forgot you were hit the other day. The arm, right?"

"It's fine. Why are you a temporary neighbor?"

The man seemed taken aback by Nate's directness, but he recovered and smiled. "I'm renting a cabin upriver a piece while I work on a book."

"He's working on an unauthorized biography of President Poe," Sarah said neutrally, then stepped from behind the counter. "Thanks for stopping by, Conroy. Come back anytime for your slice of prune cake."

He lifted a lightweight jacket off the back of a chair. "I'll see you later, Sarah. Deputy, very nice to meet you. I'm so sorry about what happened."

He slipped out the back door.

Nate glanced around the country kitchen and its squared-off log walls with thick layers of white caulking between them. The oak table and chairs were worn and cracked with age, the simple linoleum floor spotless, the cabinets and countertops timeless and functional. A cross-st.i.tched sampler about friends.h.i.+p hung above the table.

The window next to the table looked out on the side yard with its azaleas and vegetable garden. Ethan Brooker had abandoned his pile of horse manure.

The place was more isolated than Nate had expected.

"Whose truck?" he asked.

"The family's. Ethan uses it, too. Conroy walked down from the fis.h.i.+ng camp where he's staying." Sarah returned to her mixing bowl and cutting board of what presumably were chopped prunes. "You were expecting Tara, weren't you?"

"Well, not Daniel Boone."

"My parents have lived all over the world," she said, lifting handfuls of chopped prunes into her mixing bowl. "But this has always been home."

"I met your gardener. He almost stuck me with his pitchfork. Conroy's a buff guy, too." Nate settled on a stool across from her at the counter, noticed the slight tremble in her hands. "How come you don't have any scrawny old guys hanging around you?"

"Conroy runs to keep in shape-apparently he has a grueling deadline for his book. I met him last fall when he was still deciding if he wanted to take on the project. He wants to interview me, but I keep putting him off."

"By bringing up prune cake recipes?"

"Watch, he'll find some way to use it in his book." She picked up a wood-handled spatula and folded the prunes into the brownish batter. "And Ethan's the nicest guy. Anyway, a pitchfork's no match for whatever you're carrying."

Which Nate had no intention of discussing with her. She lifted her bowl and started spooning the thick batter into one of the square pans she had set out on the counter. She took a breath, setting down the bowl quickly, as if she'd been about to drop it. The tremble in her hands was noticeably worse.

She avoided his eye and spoke as she stared down at her cake batter. "You didn't have to come here. I should have stopped you. I'm sorry you've wasted your time." She picked up her bowl again, stubbornly folding batter into another pan. "I'm not in any danger here."

Nate didn't respond. She set down the bowl once more, batter spilling down its sides, then tore open the oven door and shoved the pans inside. She turned on the timer with more force than was necessary.

"I need air," she said, pulling off her ap.r.o.n and tossing it onto the counter.

She moved down a hall toward the front of the house, at a fast walk at first, then a run. Nate could hear her footsteps on the wood floor. He eased off the stool and followed her out to the porch, overfurnished with old rockers and chairs, even an iron daybed.

Sarah had made it down the steps and was well on her way to the river and the small, well-kept dock.

He wondered if she'd run right into the water and try to swim away from whatever was bothering her. It wasn't him. Or not just him. He was a reminder, tangible evidence that she wasn't just home on vacation. That was an illusion, a ruse that had helped get her through the morning.

She stopped at the very end of the dock.

Nate walked out to her. An ancient fis.h.i.+ng boat bobbed in the dark water. He didn't blame her. He felt an urge to grab her and jump in the boat, go wherever the river took them and forget about shootings and whatever had frightened her. In an image that felt real, that rocked him to the point his knees almost buckled, he saw them stopped at a quiet clearing, a blanket spread, the sun on them as they made love. It was as if her body were under him now, soft and yielding, their lovemaking tender, slow, as if they didn't have a care in the world.

Christ. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with him?

Sarah glanced back at him. She had on jeans and a lightweight zip-up top in a dusty blue-gray that matched her eyes. "How's your arm?"

The air seemed cooler, damper, on the river. His arm ached. His whole body ached. "Doctor rebandaged it this morning before I left. It's healing well. Doesn't bother me that much." He glanced at the undergrowth and the rocks along the riverbank, upriver, toward the Poe house. "You swim in the river?"

"All the time. The Corps of Engineer dams backed up the river so that it's wider and deeper here than it used to be. It's more like a lake nowadays, so the current's not bad."

He s.h.i.+fted back to her. "Snakes?"

"Oh, sure, but they leave us alone. Sometimes you can see a water moccasin sunning on the rocks. They're poisonous. You don't have them up north." She looked back at him, her words almost rote. "People often confuse them with water snakes that aren't poisonous."

Nate decided to let her talk about snakes and prune cake, until she was calm enough to tell him what was going on, why she'd called him at six her time-why she hadn't called him again and dissuaded him from coming down here. "You can tell the difference?"

She nodded. "Water moccasins are a kind of pit viper. They swim on top of the water with their heads above the surface-water snakes tend to swim under the water. They're not as fat as the cottonmouths-that's what people call water moccasins-and they're more likely to hang from trees and slither off when they're startled. A cottonmouth will stand its ground."

Like her, Nate thought. Like her brother. Even in the short time they'd worked together, Nate had done enough arrests with Rob to know he didn't like to back down. "Ever run into a cottonmouth?"

"All the time. Rob and I used to catch them when we were kids, but Granny Dunnemore told us to leave them alone. None of the snakes will bother you if you don't bother them. It's when they're startled or feel threatened that they bite."

He smiled. "I'll try not to startle or threaten any snakes."

She didn't smile back, seemed barely aware that he'd spoken. "Even most cottonmouth bites aren't fatal." She stared into the water, as if she were looking for snakes. "Thank you for coming down here. It was a decent thing to do. I know I must have sounded awful on the phone this morning. I'm sure I overreacted to something."

"Tell me about it."

She shook her head. "I have to show you."

But she didn't want to show him. Nate could see her reluctance in her body language. Tight, closed, afraid. Showing him meant that the "something" that had prompted her to call him was real.

She dropped her arms to her sides and pushed past him with sudden energy, almost knocking him into the river.

He followed her back to the house, into a country-style living room with quilts and afghans in odd colors piled onto overstuffed furniture and shelves bearing an eclectic collection of books, including scholarly works and what had to be every mystery Rex Stout and Agatha Christie had ever written.

"Wait here," she said, her tone more tired than commanding, and retreated back to the kitchen.

Nate debated going after her, but decided to do as she'd asked. He stood in front of the stone fireplace, noting a wedding picture on the mantel. The parents, Stuart and Betsy Dunnemore. He was handsome, she was beautiful-startlingly beautiful. And very obviously much younger.

Sarah returned with an envelope and a sheet of paper that she laid on the marble-topped coffee table. "Here. I've already touched them, so they have my fingerprints on them."

Nate took in the words in a single glance.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

"Jesus Christ," he said under his breath.

She seemed almost relieved at his reaction. "I didn't know what to do. It was in with a bunch of cards and letters, some of them kind of nutty." She sank onto a chair and took a breath. "It's amazing what some people will stoop to. I don't want to take any chances, but I don't want to send you all on a wild-goose chase, either."

"This was in your mail?"

"Ethan piled it on the kitchen table, unopened. It was here when I arrived. I opened it this morning." She leaned forward and stared at the paper, her cheeks pale, but she seemed calmer now that she'd told him about it. "After I called you, I checked all the phones for bugs. I don't even know what one looks like, and I imagine there are ways for someone to tap a phone line that I'd never find."

"Sarah."

"I couldn't make myself tell you on the phone. I was really spooked. I let my thinking run wild."

She was upset, uncertain, a capable, intelligent woman not used to being out of her element-not used to having to trust someone, count on someone, besides herself.

But Nate knew there was more. Something else.

She twisted her hands together, working one of her delicate rings up to her knuckle, then back down again. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

"None of us does."

"Rob, my parents. If something happens to them because of something I did or didn't do..." She trailed off, not finis.h.i.+ng.

"Your parents are still in Amsterdam."

She nodded, taking in a small breath. "I know. I called them, too. I didn't tell them about the note." She stopped abruptly and lifted her eyes to him. "I really don't like being afraid, you know."

Nate sat on the edge of the couch and folded his hands. His head ached now, too. But his thinking was clear, sharp. After he'd left her last night, he'd thought about finding her collapsing in Central Park-thought about her body language and how similar it was to when he'd caught her following him to Sister Maria's.

Sarah Dunnemore wasn't a bad liar. But she wasn't a good one, either.

"What happened in Central Park?" he asked her.

She almost slid off her chair. "What? Rob-" She took a breath. "You know what happened. You were there. It's where you and Rob were shot."

"To you. What happened to you in Central Park? Why did you almost pa.s.s out?" He settled back on the couch. "Don't tell me it was the *twin thing.' That won't wash twice."

"Nothing happened, at least, nothing that relates to the note."

"Sarah, you're a smart woman. I'm sure you're a h.e.l.l of an archaeologist, not that I'd be able to judge. It's not my area of expertise, like law enforcement isn't yours."

She was silent, still twisting one of her rings.

"You're feeling isolated," he said, "and you don't need to."

"I don't want to send you all off on some wild-goose chase. If I tell you what happened, which was nothing, you'll investigate." She shook her head. "No, it's crazy."

"Guess what, Dr. Dunnemore. You don't get to decide."

That brought her up short. "All right. Fair enough. I'll let that be your job."

He smiled, trying to take some of the edge off his demeanor. But his arm hurt, and he still had an image of the two of them on the blanket. "That is my job."

She didn't relax. "I saw a man I thought I recognized. He was up on the street, on Central Park South, looking down into the park."

"Recognized him from where?"

She hesitated. "Amsterdam."

h.e.l.l.

Nate didn't speak. He wanted her to do the talking.

"I'm sure it was just my mind playing tricks on me. He reminded me of a man I saw at the Rijksmuseum. We were all there-my parents, Rob, me." Sarah jumped up abruptly, turning away from him and gazing out a window onto the porch, down to the river. "I was on my own. Waiting for my mother, actually. Rob and my father were off looking at the Delftware. It's a huge museum-we limited ourselves to the Dutch collection."

"Where was your mother?"

"Viewing Rembrandt's The Night Watch. It's an incredible painting-it's in its own rotunda. I was in an adjoining gallery. I don't even remember what I was looking at. Earlier Dutch works, I believe. This man approached me, and we chatted for a minute or two about the paintings, the museum. He was friendly. French, I think. My parents know so many people, I a.s.sumed it was one of their friends or acquaintances."

"Did you ask them about him?"

"No. It didn't occur to me. It's not as if he said outright that he knew them."

"Describe him."

She didn't hesitate. "About five-ten, angular features, dark hair that's long in front. Nate, he can't be the same man as the one I saw at the park. It'd been a long, stressful day. I couldn't swear-"

"What was he wearing?"

"Black leather jacket and black turtleneck. So was the man at the park. That must be what made me think I recognized him."

"Rob didn't see the man who approached you at the museum?"