The Witness (46 page)

“Abigail.”

“No,” she said again, quietly, fiercely, to Brooks. “You need to do the right thing, and you need to protect me. You can do both. I’m trusting you to do both. You have to trust me. I’ll be Elizabeth again, for this, and then she’s gone. She’ll disappear, and Abigail can live her life. I know how to bring down the Volkovs, and in a way I believe they’ll never fully recover from. It’s not about guns and knives and blood. It’s about keystrokes.”

“You’re going to take them down with a computer?” Anson demanded.

Her eyes, calm and green, met his. “That’s exactly right. If I can do what I’ve theorized, and the authorities listen and act, this will be over. I’m putting my life in your hands, Captain Anson, because Brooks trusts and respects you without qualification.”

“Let’s go in, have some coffee,” Anson said after a moment, “and talk this through.”

S
HE INSISTED ON DRIVING BACK
. Brooks had barely slept in thirty-six hours, and would be on duty within another six. So he kicked back the seat and caught a little sleep on the drive.

And gave her time to go over everything, again.

Joseph Anson would go to Chicago, make contact. He would not use or reveal the name Abigail Lowery but tell Agent Garrison that Elizabeth Fitch had come to him, told him the story, given him the
agent’s name. He’d relate information Abigail had previously funneled to Garrison.

If Garrison followed her previous pattern, she would report only to her direct superior. Then the process would begin.

So many things could go wrong.

But if they went right …

She could belong to the man sleeping beside her. She could learn what to do at backyard barbecues. She could become Abigail so that everything that happened from that point on would be real.

She would finally look out from the witness chair in the courtroom, stare into the eyes of Korotkii, Ilya, Sergei Volkov, and speak the truth. As Elizabeth.

No, as Liz, she thought. At least in her mind, she’d speak as Liz for Julie, John and Terry.

And she’d use everything she’d learned in the past twelve years to strip the bones of the Volkov organization clean.

H
E STIRRED AS SHE TURNED
toward her cabin.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Some of both.” He brought the seat back up, scrubbed at his face with his hands. “So I was thinking you should ask me to move in with you. I’m practically living here now,” he added, when she said nothing. “But maybe you could make it official.”

“Do you want to live here so you can protect me?”

“That would be a side benefit. Other side benefits include having my stuff handy, some closet and drawer space, and easy access to sex. All of those are pluses, but the main reason I want to live here is because I love you and I want to be with you.”

She sat for a moment, looking at her cabin. Hers, she thought. The
house, the gardens, the greenhouse, the little creek, the woods. She’d come to think of them as hers, to feel that belonging. For the first time, she’d come to think of a place as home.

Hers.

“If you moved in, you’d need security codes and keys.”

“They’d sure be handy.”

“I’d like to think about it, if that’s all right.”

“Sure.”

The single word, so easy as he got out of the car, opened the back for the dog to jump out, told her he was confident he’d overcome any objections she might voice, and have his way.

It should have irritated her, she thought. It should even insult her. And yet it did neither. It simply reminded her who he was.

Theirs. She tried out the word, let herself wonder over it while they waited for Bert to relieve himself after the drive.

Theirs in the pretty, star-dazzled night, with the flowers glowing, the creek murmuring and the soft breeze urging the leaves to whisper an answer.

Their house, their gardens, their greenhouse and creek and woods.

Hers was safer. Quieter.

Theirs. Full of compromise and questions.

And promise.

She unlocked the front door, reset the alarm. “Would you like to move in with me?”

“Well, that’s a big step. I’m going to have to think about it.”

“You just said …” She turned into his grin, felt her lips curve in response as she locked up. “You’re teasing.”

“Caught me.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him again. “But it is a big step for you, I know.”

“It’s a more natural progression for you. You were raised in a traditional two-parent home.”

“Boy, my mother’d be pissed to be labeled traditional.” He put an arm around her shoulders to lead her upstairs. “We’ll keep that between you and me.”

“I never considered sharing a home with anyone. And I’ve only begun to believe it’s possible for me to stay here, to have a home here.”

“Believe it, and keep believing it. No point sending negative thoughts out into the universe.”

“Optimistic or pessimistic thoughts don’t influence events.”

“How do you know?” Playfully, he gave her hair a quick tug. “You can’t know what other people are thinking or wishing or believing unless they tell you. And what about the whole faith can move mountains deal?”

“I’ve never seen a mountain move, much less through faith.”

“Literal brain.” He tapped her forehead. “What about volcanoes? A volcano moves the hell out of a mountain.”

“It’s ludicrous to posit that a rupture in the earth’s crust, the diverging and converging of tectonic plates, the release of lava, gases and ash through those ruptures can be caused by faith—or the lack of it.”

“Did I posit? I don’t know what got into me.” He saw her roll her eyes as she walked toward the bathroom. “I made a volcano for a science project in sixth grade. It was very cool.”

For the first time she didn’t shut the door, but continued to talk to him as she prepared for bed. “It’s a very good project for a young student.”

“Plus cool.” He walked in, picked up his toothbrush as she washed her face. “I wanted to name it The Devil’s Fart, but my father convinced me my grade could be adversely affected.”

“Wise.”

“I called it that in my head, though, so it made the whole baking soda, food coloring and vinegar lava spewing out of the flour paste over soda bottle cone more memorable. I bet you killed in science projects.”

“I did well.” It felt odd, but in an interesting way, to share the bathroom
sink with him. “I built an underwater volcano on converging tectonic plates to demonstrate how islands are formed.”

He lowered his toothbrush, narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “Underwater volcano.”

“Yes. Hot water always rises to the surface of cold, and floats. With the baked clay model—”

“Baked clay.”

“Yes, and the remote controlled plates, I was able to create a very satisfying eruption.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“Show-off.”

“I did enjoy doing well in school. You’re talking about science projects so I’ll relax and sleep better.”

“It’s working for me.”

She found when she lay beside him in the dark, her mind drifting, it worked for her as well.

B
ROOKS ARRESTED
R
OLAND
B
ABBETT
as his first official duty of the morning. He felt pretty damn good about knocking on Babbett’s door at seven a.m. Better yet when the heavy-eyed, bed-headed Babbett opened the door.

“Roland Babbett?”

“Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“There is for you. I’m Chief Gleason of the Bickford town police, and this is my deputy Boyd Fitzwater. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Huh?”

“And another to search your room, belongings and vehicle. You’re going to need to get dressed and come with us.”

“What’s this about? Under arrest? That’s crazy.”

“Not considering you’re in possession of burglary tools, and used
same at two-fifteen this morning to illegally enter the Ozarks Suite. Which is both locked and posted.”

Roland’s eyes, not so heavy now, took a long study of Brooks’s face. “I want to make a phone call.”

“No problem. You can have your phone call once we’re at the station. I’m going to give you a chance to get dressed, or we can take you in while you’re in the hotel robe. It’s a nice robe.”

“I’d like to get dressed.”

“Okay, then. Boyd, why don’t you read Mr. Babbett his rights while he puts some pants on.” Brooks held up the search warrant before he started wandering the room. “Nice view. Mr. Conroy does it up right. You try the restaurant for dinner?”

“Room service.” Roland dragged on a pair of pants, pulled out a T-shirt. “I had the steak.”

“How was it?”

“Bloody and good.”

“Yeah, they do it right.” He opened the navy backpack, poked through, then put the lock-pick set in an evidence bag. “You visiting?”

Despite the circumstance, Roland snorted out a laugh. “Everybody asks. You know by now I’m here on business.”

“Stuben-Pryce out of Little Rock.” As he sealed a mini tape recorder into a bag, Brooks’s voice stayed smooth and easy as warm cream. “I was on the job down there. You probably know that by now, too. That’s a fancy firm, with fancy prices, Mr. Babbett.”

“We do good work.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He shot Roland a friendly smile. “Too bad you don’t have better taste in clients.”

“Not my call. Do you mind if I brush my teeth, empty my bladder?”

“I’d mind if you didn’t.”

Brooks continued to search the room while Boyd stood in the open bathroom doorway. “We’re a quiet town,” Brooks said conversationally. “Oh, it can heat up some now and then, especially this time of year and
on through the summer. A lot of tourists, a lot of conflicting personalities, you could say, stewing in all that heat. But we don’t often run into PIs from fancy city firms doing some B-and-E right in our landmark hotel.”

“I’m going to get my ass kicked over this.” In a gesture that mirrored his attitude, Roland spat toothpaste in the sink. “Lose my bonus. I was hoping to bring my wife down for a kid-free break after she has the baby.”

“When’s she due?”

“August fifteenth.”

“October’s a pretty time in the Ozarks,” Brooks commented, as Roland came out. “We’d be happy to have you, when you’re visiting. Boyd, you can finish up with the search. I’ll take Mr. Babbett in.”

“You’re not going to cuff me?”

Brooks offered that friendly smile again. “You want me to?”

“No. I appreciate it.”

“I don’t figure you’re going to run, and if you did? Where’re you gonna go?”

He didn’t run. Even if he’d had somewhere to run, he was made, his cover blown, the job in pieces.

At the station, Brooks gave him a cup of decent enough coffee, a phone and a few minutes of privacy—at a desk rather than in a cell.

After he made the call, Roland sat brooding.

“You finished up there?” Brooks asked him.

“Yeah. Finished.”

“Why don’t we talk in my office? Jeff?” Brooks said to his part-timer. “Don’t go poking in or sending in any calls, all right? Not unless it’s important.”

“Yes, sir, Chief.”

“Have a seat.” Brooks closed his office door, walked over to lean a hip on his desk. “Well, I’m going to tell you straight. You’re in some trouble here, Roland.”

“I got a lawyer coming down.”

“Fancy lawyer from the fancy firm, I expect. Still, we got you pretty cold on the B-and-E. Camera caught you in the hall, at the door, then the other cameras caught you poking around inside the suite. Got your lock picks.” As if sympathetic, Brooks let out a breath, shook his head. “Even a fancy lawyer’s going to have a time getting around that, don’t you figure? Could mean a little jail time and put a hurt on your license. And a baby coming. I’d hate for your wife to visit you in jail in her condition.”

“Jail’s doubtful, but the hurt on my license … Hell.” Roland pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Might be okay there. It’s the first ding on my record.”

Brooks lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “Might be.”

“I’m not usually sloppy. I figured the look-around for a breeze. I didn’t spot the cameras.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. They weren’t there until after you stopped by Abigail’s.”

“Uh-huh.” Now, Roland’s eyes met Brooks’s in perfect understanding. “She, her dog and her Glock scared the hell out of me.”

“You scared her. She’s a city girl still,” Brooks lied cheerfully. “Alone out there, no close neighbors. Add to that how she makes her living. I’m sure you know that already. Working security, always looking for how people get around it and do what they do? She’s a bit jumpy.”

“You’d have to be to have security cameras in the woods.”

“Oh, she’s always experimenting, running programs and what she calls scenarios. It happens you walked into one. Shook her up enough to have her lock herself in the house till I got home. You know, in case you were some ax murderer instead of a lost photographer.”

“She didn’t look shook up,” Roland muttered.

“Well, Abigail, she puts on a good front, and the dog helps her confidence. She told me about you, and I had to wonder. You gave her your real name.”

“ID was in my pack. She had the gun. I didn’t want to annoy her with a lie if she checked my pack. But I didn’t consider she, or you, would run me.”

“Cops. We’re just naturally cynical and suspicious. So, Roland, here’s the thing. I know who’d hire a PI from a fancy firm to poke around at Abigail, at me, at the Conroys and the hotel.”

“I can’t confirm or deny without my legal counsel.”

“I’m not asking you to, I’m telling you. Lincoln Blake would do close to anything to get that asshole son of his off, including hiring out for somebody to plant false evidence, make false statements.”

Where he’d been slouched and sulky in his seat, Roland now straightened. “Listen. I don’t go there, not for any client, not for any fee. Neither does the firm. We wouldn’t have the reputation we do otherwise.”

“Off the record, I’ll say I believe that. But on it?” Brooks gave a careless shrug.

“Is there a deal coming along?”

“Might be. Russ Conroy’s my oldest and closest friend. His parents are family to me, and his mama broke down and cried after she saw what that fucker and his friends did to that suite. It’s considerably better now, but …”