What if she talked and ended up getting someone killed because of it?
“Sarah? What’s going on?”
“I knew you’d have caller ID.” She gave a faltering laugh. “Paranoid cops. I’m home, safe and sound. I wanted to let you know.” She didn’t sound believable even to herself. “It’s early, I realize, but you strike me as the crack-of-dawn type.”
“You sound like you’re coming undone.”
“Do I?” She tried another laugh, but it only seemed to make her sound even nuttier.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Have a good day. Sorry if I woke you.”
She slammed down the phone and took it apart, then charged into the living room and took apart that phone, and finally ran upstairs and took apart that one.
She didn’t find anything that looked like a phone tap, not that she knew what she was looking for.
“You’re insane,” she said aloud. “Just drive to the police station and hand them the stupid letter.”
There. A plan.
What if she was followed?
What if Ethan Brooker had sent her the letter?
From New York?
Okay, so that didn’t make sense. But the point was—did she dare risk telling someone, anyone? Did she dare risk
not
telling someone?
At least her parents were safe in Amsterdam, and her brother had his armed guards in New York.
She put the phones back together and made more hot tea, calming down as she sipped it and stared at the note, as if it might make better sense to her now that she’d gotten over the initial shock of it.
If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.
Special Agent Collins would definitely want a look at this little missive. The FBI had profilers, handwriting analysts, fingerprinters, paper analysts and ink analysts. They’d figure out if it was for real or just some jerk getting off at her expense.
Feeling more in control of herself, Sarah opened the rest of the mail and discovered two obvious crank notes. One was from a woman who wanted a lock of Rob’s hair so she could make psychic contact with the sniper—obviously she was not a legitimate psychic. The other was from a man who claimed Rob and Nate had lived only because God was giving them a second chance to renounce their sinning ways.
In that context, the anonymous note from New York maybe
wasn’t
for real. The shooting had received maximum news coverage. It had brought out a few nuts, and the writer of the offending note could be just another one of them, someone who wanted to frighten and get everyone stirred up but who wouldn’t act on his threats.
Her phone rang, startling her. Her mind leaped in a dozen different directions, but she composed herself enough to answer in a reasonably calm voice on the third ring. “Dunnemores.”
“I’m on a midmorning flight to Nashville,” Nate said. “Stay put.”
He hung up before she could say a word.
Midmorning his time. A two-hour flight would put him in Nashville before noon her time, in Night’s Landing thirty to forty-five minutes later. He hadn’t asked her to pick him up at the airport. For all she knew, he’d get a ride from another marshal.
Rob would tell her she was on a need-to-know basis and should learn to live with it.
Blowing out a lungful of air, Sarah got a pair of dented aluminum tongs from a drawer and shoved the offending note and its envelope to the bottom of the pile of mail. When Nate arrived, she’d show it to him.
Problem solved. He was the law enforcement professional. He could help her figure out what to do.
He’d be on his way back to New York by tonight.
In the meantime, she’d make her prune cake.
Nate bought a map and rented a car at the Nashville airport and drove east until he came to Night’s Landing, basically a wide bend on the Cumberland River. It wasn’t even a town, really. He pulled into a gas station and started to call Sarah for directions to her house, but there was no cell service. Before using a pay phone, he asked inside.
“I thought Sarah was still in Scotland,” the skinny old man at the cash register said. “I’ve been telling the reporters that. She and Rob used to like to come in here and buy red licorice. I told them it’d rot their teeth.” He eyed Nate suspiciously. “Why should I tell you where they live?”
Nate was in no mood to screw around and showed the man his badge.
Directions involved a cornfield, a country church and a back road he wasn’t supposed to take and one he was.
The back road brought him down toward the deep, slow river, and he turned left, as the old man had instructed, onto a long driveway that led to a log house nestled among shade trees and gardens, its sprawling lawn ending at a dock on the riverfront. On one side of the property were more fields, on the other, thick woods that seemed to go on forever. Spring was further along in middle Tennessee than in New York, the leaves full and dark, a huge pink azalea growing close to the house, a tangle of white roses creeping up one side of the front porch.
Nate parked behind an old pickup with Tennessee plates and climbed out of his car. He could smell freshly mowed grass tinged with the sweetness of flowers and heard a small boat puttering on the river.
In the side yard, a ponytailed man in overalls stabbed a pitchfork into a pile of compost and dumped it onto a plowed vegetable garden. One end had sprouts growing—spinach, onions, loose-leaf lettuce. The man shooed a horsefly with one hand. “Can I help you, sir?” he called to Nate.
Nate walked down to the garden. “I’m looking for Sarah Dunnemore.”
“And you would be?”
“Deputy U.S. Marshal Nate Winter. I work with her brother.”
The man—presumably the property manager Sarah had mentioned—had a black bandanna tied around his forehead. Sweat dripped down his face nonetheless. “You’re the other marshal who was shot with him, aren’t you? Doing okay, sir?”
“Yes, thanks, and you’re—”
“Brooker, sir. Ethan Brooker.” He grinned amiably, not breathing that hard from his work. “Chief manure spreader. Composted or not, horse manure stinks, don’t it? I take care of the place.”
Nate noticed the tattoo on the man’s tanned, muscular right arm. He had on a dirty T-shirt under the overalls. By contrast, Nate had put on a suit for his travels south. His bandaged arm had given him some discomfort on the flight, but he’d taken a couple of Tylenol when he landed.
“Dr. Dunnemore’s in the house,” Brooker said. “Is she expecting you? She’s got company.”
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 pronounced 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 glasses, close-cropped sandy hair and regular features. He wore a polo shirt, khakis and penny loafers. Sarah was at the counter in a flour-covered pink apron.
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-stitched sampler about friendship 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 fishing 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 apron 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 fishing 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 hell 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 shifted 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.”