The Witness (47 page)

Brooks picked up a file, handed it to Roland. “We took those after Justin Blake and his idiot friends got done with the place.”

“Jesus,” Roland muttered, as he examined the photos.

“That kind of damage? That’s not careless or stupid or childish. It’s downright mean. That’s just what Justin Blake is.”

Brooks reached over to hand the file back. “And when the fucker managed to make bail, he comes out to the house of the woman I’m in love with, stoned, armed, in the middle of the night. He was stupid enough to take a jab at me with the knife he’d brought to slash my tires with. He upset my woman, and, Roland, that upsets me.

“You might see why she reacted the way she did when you came hiking on down to the house.”

“Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”

“Justin caused over a hundred thousand in damages to that suite, he punctured my tire, tried to puncture me, and scared my lady. And that’s over and above him being a pain in my ass since I took this job. He’s going down for what he’s done, Roland. I will make it my mission in life to see to it. He’s earned it, and if I gave a rat’s flea-bitten ass, I’d say he needs it. He’s got something twisted in him, the kind of thing we’ve both seen in others who end up dead or killing somebody.”

“I’d like to say something, off the record.”

“All right, then. Just between you and me.”

“I don’t like working for Blake. He’s a son of a bitch. There’s nothing about his son you just said I don’t agree with. I’ll take my lumps on this if I have to, but I hate taking them on behalf of those two dicks.”

“I can’t blame you a bit. So here’s the deal, before the lawyer gets here. Go away, Roland. I don’t just mean leave town—though as I said you come back to visit with your wife, we’ll be happy to see you. I mean go away from this. It’s upsetting my friends, it’s upsetting my lady. And you’re wasting your time, because Justin Blake isn’t going to slide his way out from this one. I don’t blame anybody for doing a job they’re hired to do—on the right side of the law, that is. But this can go pretty hard on you, and I can make it so your firm takes a hit. Maybe it’s not much, considering, but I don’t know why they’d want the bad publicity.”

“I have to turn in my reports.”

“You go right ahead on that. You didn’t find anything on me, on Abigail, on the Conroys, because there’s nothing to find. But if you keep poking at us, I’ll find out, and it’ll go different. You got far enough in this to know computers are Abigail’s playground.”

“There’s a threat buried in there.”

“I’m not burying a thing. I’m giving you the facts as I see them. I can let this go. You keep your clean record, you turn in your reports, and go home to your wife. Your lawyer’s not going to cook you up a better deal.”

“Why are you?”

“For the reasons I just gave you, and one more. I don’t much want to lock you up, Roland, that’s another fact. If I’d gotten a different sense of you, if I thought you were the kind who enjoys working for a man like Blake, who’d edge over more than crossing a property line or going into a locked room to take a look around, you’d be in a cell right now. I’d work to keep you there.”

“I’d like to call my boss, give him the status.”

“Go ahead.” Brooks pushed off the desk.

“I met your mother.”

Brooks leaned back again. “Did you?”

“I walked down—getting that sense, like you said. That house, it’s amazing.”

“We’re partial to it. Go ahead and make your call,” Brooks told him, and strolled out.

A
BIGAIL PUT EVERYTHING ELSE ASIDE AND FOCUSED ENTIRELY
on the creation of the virus. She’d made numerous attempts to piggyback it on the worm she’d already constructed, but the results weren’t satisfactory.

She could do considerable damage with the worm, but with the worm boring openings into the Volkov network, the virus that followed, spreading through those openings, would devastate.

To accomplish everything she needed, it had to be very fast, very complete, and trigger no alerts.

She’d always considered the project a kind of hobby, one she’d hoped would one day pay off.

Now it was a mission.

If she had time to build more equipment, or the luxury of hiring another skilled tech, or two … But she didn’t, so speculating proved useless. This was only for her.

In any case, over time she’d developed her own programming language—the better to thwart anyone who attempted to hack into her
files—and even if she could hire on, she’d have to teach someone her language and techniques.

Faster, more efficient, to do it herself.

She ran the next test, watched her codes fly by, and thought, No, no, no. It remained too unwieldy, too separate, took too long.

She sat back, her hair twisted up off her neck and secured with a pencil. As she studied the screen, she drank iced green tea for clarity of thinking.

The tea, the two yoga breaks she’d made herself take, the absolute quiet, didn’t appear to help.

When her alarm sounded, and Bert went on alert, she checked her monitor. She hadn’t expected Brooks so early, she thought, as she spotted his cruiser, then glanced at the time.

She’d worked straight through the morning and into the middle of the afternoon.

Six hours, she thought, with no appreciable progress.

Maybe it was beyond her after all.

She started to get up, to unlock the doors for him, then remembered she’d given him keys and the security codes. An uneasy step, she admitted, but the advantage right that moment was she didn’t have to stop to let him in.

Still, there would be someone in the house, in her space. How was she supposed to concentrate on something this complex, this delicate, unless she was alone?

Which tore apart her fantasy of a state-of-the-art computer lab and a team of highly skilled techs. But that was only fantasy, because she always worked alone, until—

“Hey.” Brooks walked in, set a bag on the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Not as well as I’d like. I need to try another sequence, test again.”

“How long have you been at it?”

“It doesn’t matter how long. It’s not done.”

“Okay. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I put this stuff away. I brought some of my things over, so I’ll deal with that upstairs. If you’re not done when I am, I’ll find something to do.”

“Mmm” was her only response. She tried not to tense up at the sound of the refrigerator, the cupboards opening and closing. When silence returned, she let out a cleansing breath and dived in again.

She forgot he was there. Over the next two hours, she lost herself in the codes and sequences. When the headache and eyestrain finally stopped her, she rose for medication, for fluids.

And remembered him.

She went upstairs. The quiet held so absolute she thought he must be napping, but she didn’t find him in the bedroom. Curious, she opened the closet.

There were his clothes, hanging with hers. Shirts, pants. A suit.

She’d never seen him in a suit. She trailed her fingers over the sleeve as she studied the shoes and boots on the floor of the closet.

They shared a closet, she thought. So much more intimate and vital somehow than sharing a bed. Crossing over, she opened drawers in the bureau. She’d meant to reorganize to give him space, but had forgotten in the work.

He’d seen to it himself. She’d need to alter some of his choices, but that was a small thing.

Closing drawers, she stepped back, took a turn around the room. Should she buy another dresser, a chest of drawers?

Would they need one?

Would he stay?

A movement out the window caught her eye, and stepping closer, she saw him, hoeing at weeds in her vegetable patch. He’d mounded up her potato plants, something else she’d meant to do that day.

Sweat dampened his shirt, gleamed wetly on his arms, and a ball cap shaded his face.

And, oh, the thrill of it. The unexpected and staggering thrill of it. His clothes hung in the closet with hers as she stood at the bedroom window and watched him work the garden under a sky like bleached denim.

She spun away from the window, hugging herself, then ran downstairs.

In the kitchen, she found the food he’d brought in the fridge and the dozen lemons she’d bought a few days earlier.

She made fresh lemonade, filled two tall glasses with cracked ice and poured. She put the pitcher and glasses on a tray and carried it all outside.

“It’s too hot to hoe,” she called out. “You’ll be dehydrated.”

“Nearly done.”

She walked out to him with the glasses as he finished the last row. “It’s fresh.”

While sweat tricked down his temples, he downed half the glass without pause. “Thanks.”

“You’ve done so much work.”

Leaning on the hoe, he studied the garden. “I’m hoping to sample those butter beans, come harvest. I’m fond of butter beans.”

“Those are lima beans.”

“You’re standing in the South, honey.” After a roll of his shoulders, he downed the rest of his lemonade. “I haven’t worked a garden since I headed down to Little Rock. Didn’t know I missed it.”

“Still, it’s hot and close.” She touched his hand to bring his gaze back to her. “I wasn’t very welcoming before.”

“Work’s allowed to get in the way now and again. Mine does, and will.”

“Mine, in this case, is frustrating. I thought I’d be closer.”

“Can’t help you on that. I don’t understand a damn thing you’re doing. But I can work a garden, and I can grill up those steaks I picked up, so you can have more time at it.” He cocked his head as he studied
her. “But I’d say it’s time for a break all around, and I sure as hell need a shower.”

“You’re very sweaty,” she agreed, and took the hoe from him to carry it to her little garden shed. “I can pick some of the lettuce, and a few other things, for a salad when you’re done.”

“I’m thinking ‘we.’”

“You’ve already done more than your share in the garden.”

“Not we in the garden.” He took her hand, pulling her along toward the house. “We in the shower.”

“I really should—”

“Get wet with me.” He paused to take off his dirty boots, sweaty socks. “Did I ever tell you about this swimming hole we used to frequent?”

“No.”

“It’s not that far from here, a little higher in the hills. Really more a bend in the river than a pool, but it worked fine.”

Taking her glass, he set them both down on the counter as he moved her through the kitchen.

“Water’s cool. The color of tobacco, I’d say, but clear. Russ and I and some others used to ride our mountain bikes up there on those long, schoolless days of summer, strip down and cool off. The first time I skinny-dipped with a girl was there, at what we locals call Fiddlehead Pool, because there’s fiddlehead ferns thick as thieves up there. I’ll take you sometime.”

“That sounds very interesting, but right now—”

He’d managed to get her into the bedroom, began to back her toward the bath. “You need to get naked and wet. Let me help you with that.”

“You appear to be very determined,” she commented, when he pulled her shirt over her head.

“Oh, I am. I am.” And flicked open the catch of her bra.

“Then I suppose there’s no point in arguing.”

“No point at all.” Reaching behind her, he turned the shower on, then flipped open the button of her fly.

“Then I should cooperate.”

“That’d be the sensible thing.”

“I prefer doing the sensible thing.” She drew his shirt off, let it drop.

“Hallelujah.” But he started to hold her back when she would have moved into him. “Let me rinse some of this sweat off first.”

“I don’t mind it. It’s basic and natural, and …” She pressed her lips to the side of his throat. “Salty.”

“You about kill me, Abigail. That’s God’s truth.”

She wanted to, wanted to make him want and yearn and quiver as he made her. She embraced the musky scent of him, the good sweat of physical labor as she stripped off his pants, as he stripped off hers.

And the water ran cool over her head, down her body.

“It feels good,” she murmured.

So good when his mouth took her mouth, when his hands took her body. When she tasted his hunger for her, felt his need for her.

She imagined them sinking into cool, tobacco-colored water in the bend of a river where fiddlehead ferns grew thick and green and moonlight shimmered in rays through a canopy of trees.

“I want to go to your swimming hole.”

“We will.”

“In the moonlight,” she said, as her head fell back, as his lips skimmed over the column of her throat. “I’ve never been romantic, not before you. But you make me want moonlight, and wildflowers and whispers in the dark.”

“I’ll give you all of it, and more.” He slicked her wet hair back, framed her face to lift it to his. “And more.”

“Promises and secrets, and all the things I never understood. I want them with you. I love you so much. I love you. That’s already more than I ever had.”

“More still.” He drew her into the kiss, long and slow and deep, as the water showered over them. He’d have given her the moon itself if he could, and an ocean of wildflowers.

Promises. He could give her those. A promise to love her, to help her find peace of mind, a safe haven.

And moments like this, alone, where they could tend to each other, pleasure each other. Shut the world and all its troubles, its pressures and its demands away.

She washed him, and he her—inch by inch. Arousing, lingering, prolonging. Now the scent of honey and almond rising up, the slick, slippery slide of hands, of bodies, the quick catch of breath, the long, low sigh.

So when he braced her, when he filled her, there was moonlight and wildflowers, there were whispers and promises. And more.

There was, she thought as she surrendered, everything.

T
HE SENSATION OF CONTENTMENT
stayed with her as she stood in the kitchen, contemplating doing something interesting with potatoes—Brooks liked potatoes—to go with the steak and salad. She glanced, a little guiltily, at her computer as she poured wine for both of them.

“I should try again, now that we’ve had our break.”