Vanish in Plain Sight (11 page)

“That’s beautiful.” The illustration was so much like its creator.

“Thanks.” She ducked her head slightly on the word, as if embarrassed by the praise. “Do you want to join me? I only have the one chair.”

“I’ll make do with the ground.” He lowered himself, leaning against a handy tree, but couldn’t help wincing when he hit the ground.

She saw, of course. “I know you don’t want me to comment,” she said carefully. “But I can’t help thinking you’re overdoing it.”

“I’ll try not to bite your head off for noticing.” Come to think of it, he’d probably been a bit irritable on that subject.

She smiled, but her eyes held concern. “You’ve been working pretty hard on the house. And—” her hand sketched a circle in the air “—everything else.”

“Trey keeps after me to hire someone to do some of the renovating.”

“Why don’t you?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Somehow he couldn’t turn Marisa off with the easy half-truths he used on other people. She was different. She got under his protective screen for a reason he didn’t really understand. He just knew he had to be honest with her.

“When I got out of the hospital I needed something to focus on. This project with the renovation—well, it gave me a goal. And I figured the work was just what I needed to get my strength back, and more interesting than going to the gym to work out on a machine.”

“I can see that,” she said. “But if you push too hard, won’t it send you in the opposite direction?”

He shrugged. “You’re more tactful about it than my brother, but you’re saying the same thing. Maybe you’re both right. No need to do every single piece of the work myself. If I’m going to have the job done by Christmas, I’ll have to get some help in.”

“Why Christmas?” She studied him as if assessing whether or not he was telling her the truth.

“Trey and Jessica are getting married then, so I have to stay here that long anyway. I’d like to get the house finished, sell it and move on. A buddy of mine is keeping a job open for me in California.”

“California’s a long way.”

He shrugged. “That’s where the job is.”

“Do you know anyone there, besides your friend?”

“No.” The word sounded rude, all by itself. “That can be an advantage when you want to make a new start. There’s no one to notice how much the army changed me.”

Her lashes came down, veiling her eyes. “I only know what your mother told me, but I can understand that you’d want to forget what happened there.”

He was still for a moment, arms linked around his knees, staring at the sunlight filtering through the trees. In her illustration, Marisa had captured the golden glow that autumn sunlight brought to the woods.

But he wasn’t seeing the quiet woodland. He was seeing sun-dried brick and sand and light so fierce it nearly blinded you.

“Did she tell you about my team?” The question came out harshly.

“No, she didn’t. She said you were injured when someone blew up the school you were rebuilding.”

His jaw clenched almost too tightly for speech, but he managed to get the words out. “They wanted to destroy the school. That was part of terrorizing the villagers to keep them in line.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “There were six of us working on it that day. Four were killed. One lost a leg. I’m the lucky one.”

“Are you?” Tears trembled on her lashes. “You don’t sound as if you feel very lucky.”

He clenched his fists and then released them. Clench and release. Clench and release.

“We were trapped in the rubble for hours. The villagers couldn’t get us out until dark because of the gunmen watching. Celebrating.”

“I’m sorry.” Marisa’s voice was choked with tears. He hadn’t even noticed her move, but she knelt beside him, touching his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

He said the thing he didn’t want to say. “I was in charge. They counted on me.” His lips twisted. “Should’ve known that was a mistake.”

“Don’t, Link.” One hand clasped his, and she touched his cheek with the other. “Don’t blame yourself this way. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” He snatched at anger, because if he didn’t, he was going to turn to her for comfort, and that would be a mistake.

“I know that the people who planted the bombs are the guilty ones, not you.” Her palm brushed against his cheek in a gesture of comfort.

He couldn’t help it. He turned his head, bringing his lips to her palm, pressing a kiss there.

He heard the quick intake of her breath, felt the skin warm under his lips. And then he drew her close and kissed her. She was soft and sweet, and as long as he held her he could keep the guilt at bay.

Her arms went around him, hands touching his back gently, as if to soothe away the pain. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her. Wanting more.

But that wasn’t fair. He should—

A shot cracked the air, loud as a clap of thunder. For an instant he froze, disbelieving, thinking he was flashing back to the past. Then another shot, and he heard the thunk as the bullet hit a tree not six feet from them.

He reacted, rolling Marisa under him, behind the scant shelter offered by the tree he’d been leaning against, his arms over her head, his mind racing.

Not Afghanistan, where people shot at you because of the uniform you wore. This was home, his own woods, the safest place possible. Except now it wasn’t.

“…shooting at us,” Marisa murmured.

“Maybe not,” he said, as much to reassure her as because he believed it. “Some idiot hunting out of season, not realizing we’re here.”

Their land was posted, but that didn’t necessarily deter people. And he’d rather think it was that than figure somebody was trying to kill them.

He pushed Marisa down, flat into the dry leaves where the ground dipped slightly. Not great protection, but he’d learned the hard way that any safe guard was better than none. Survival could depend on that.

“Stay there,” he ordered. He stood, careful to stay behind the tree.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice ringing through the trees and echoing back faintly. “Stop the shooting!”

Nothing. No sound at all. Even the birds were still.

“You hear me?”

Nothing. Still, if it was someone hunting out of season, or some kid cutting school and out with his gun, they wouldn’t want to identify themselves.

Belatedly he realized he had his cell phone in his pocket, and he pulled it out. “I’m calling the police,” he shouted.

Silence again. Then the sound of the call going through. He heard Adam’s voice, and his legs seemed suddenly boneless. He slid down the tree trunk to sit on the ground while he explained.

“I’ll be right there,” Adam snapped. “Stay on the line.”

“Right.” But he let the phone drop in his lap as he
eased Marisa to a sitting position behind the shelter of the tree. “You okay?”

She nodded, eyes wide. “Was it…? Were they aiming at us?”

“I doubt it,” he said quickly, trying to wipe the fear from her face. “Probably somebody trying out a new gun and not realizing how far it carries.”

He pulled her close beside him, not moving until he heard the wail of the police siren in the field below.

M
ARISA WRAPPED HER
hands around the mug of hot tea Geneva had pressed on her. Geneva had also insisted on sugar, and on Marisa eating one of the oatmeal cookies she put on the kitchen table, for all the world as if this were a tea party.

“Sugar is good for shock,” Geneva said, seeming to read her mind.

At the end of the table, Adam put down his mug. It made a soft thump on the wooden tabletop. The long table looked as if it had seen worse—probably generations of family breakfasts and lunches, countless pies and cakes made on its surface.

“It may be nothing more than an accident,” Adam said.

“Still a shock,” Geneva countered briskly.

“Right.” For an instant Adam looked like an overgrown kid being corrected by an adult. “Just take it easy, Marisa. I don’t have to ask you anything else right now.”

She nodded and then took a gulp of the tea. Hot and sweet, it seemed to move through her, warming her.

Link sat with his elbows on the table, hands
clasped around the cup into which he stared. She found herself watching his hands…strong, a little scarred from the work he did. Hands that had pulled her to safety. Link had shielded her with his own body when the shots came. She’d never forget that as long as she lived.

Any more than she would easily forget that kiss. At the moment, Link’s face might be carved in stone for all the expression it showed, but she had a vivid image in her mind of how he’d looked in that moment before he kissed her…alight with caring and passion.

“You really buy the theory that it was an out-of-season hunter?” Link glared at Adam.

Adam shrugged. “Could be. I’d definitely write it off as that if not for the…the current situation.”

“Nice way of putting it.” Link’s hands tightened, the muscles standing out. “Marisa told you about Ezra Weis, didn’t she?”

“She did.” Adam’s tone was mild. “But I find it hard to believe Ezra was out in the woods taking potshots at you today. Why would he?”

“Ezra wouldn’t—” Geneva began, but Link spoke over her.

“Why would anyone? But it happened.”

“Well, if it was deliberate, let’s consider that.” Adam sounded as if his patience was fraying. “Even if we assume a worst-case scenario that Marisa’s mother was killed and her suitcase hidden in the wall,
why would the killer have you in his sights twenty-five years later?”

“Me?” Link’s eyebrows lifted.

“Or Marisa,” Adam added. “But if it was deliberate, the shooter could have been aiming at you.”

Link frowned. “Not unless he was a lousy shot. I was sitting on the ground, while she had been in a chair. The bullet hit a tree at about the three-to four-foot mark.”

“Either way. What would be the point?” Adam looked from Link to Marisa. “Unless one of you knows something that would incriminate him that you haven’t told to the police.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Geneva said sharply. She put her hand on Marisa’s shoulder.

“This is all supposition,” Adam said, sounding a bit dogged. “My point is that while Ezra Weis might be curious enough about Barbara’s daughter to do a little trespassing, no one, even our hypothetical killer, has a reason to stage an attack. Unless, like I said, you know something to point the finger at him.”

“I don’t know anything. Neither does Marisa. But somebody must think one of us does, because that gunfire wasn’t hypothetical.” Link’s fingers clenched so hard it was a wonder the mug didn’t break. “Even after twenty-five years, murder is still murder. And if the person who fired those shots did kill Marisa’s mother, he’d have to be someone who’s still around after all these years.”

Marisa could feel his tension from across the table.
It was as if she’d become ultrasensitive to his every movement, every breath.

Adam was saying something soothing, but she stopped listening. Instead, her mind replayed the story Link had told her…the school, his team, the explosion.

His reactions of grief and guilt were all too clear. Survivor’s guilt, that was what it was. He felt responsible, and he was dealing with that by rejecting any chance of taking responsibility for other people.

That was why he was going to California. Not for a job. He was running away from home and family, afraid that if he stayed, he might let them down. Her heart twisted in pain for him.

“All I can say is that we’ll investigate,” Adam was saying. “I’ll check on Ezra’s whereabouts this after noon, as well.” He glanced at Geneva. “Sitting around your kitchen table talking about crime is getting to be a habit. Seems like the Morgan men have been attracting trouble lately.”

Marisa blinked. “What…?”

“You wouldn’t know about that, dear,” Geneva said. “Link’s heard, but he wasn’t here at the time. We had some trouble back in June, when Jessica came to represent a local boy accused of a crime.”

“I guess I did hear something about that. Is that when she and Trey got together?”

Geneva smiled, nodding. “I knew they were meant for each other the moment I saw them together.” Her
smile slipped away. “But we went through some bad times before it was over.”

“It’s over now, Mom.” Link reached out to pat his mother’s arm.

Geneva nodded, but regret touched her face. “I wonder if it will ever really be over. Those weeks in jail were terrible for Thomas. He still goes around looking as if he’s afraid of his own shadow. And people still talk. About him. About us, too, but we can handle it better.”

Obviously there was more involved than Marisa had heard. But it wasn’t her business. She wasn’t part of the Morgan family.

Adam rose, pocketing his notebook. “I’ll be going. On the off chance this was a deliberate act, I’d suggest you take some reasonable precautions about your own safety.” He looked at Marisa. “Like not going in the woods alone. Or chasing after prowlers in the dark.”

“I’ll be careful,” she said, knowing her cheeks were probably red.

“I think Marisa should go back to Baltimore,” Link said abruptly. “She can’t do anything useful here, and if she is a target, she—”

“I can decide for myself what I’m going to do,” she said, cutting him off before he could hit his stride. “If you want to tell me to go, at least don’t talk about me in the third person as if I weren’t even here.”

Now it was Link’s turn to flush. “I didn’t mean—”

“Think I’ll let you two argue that one,” Adam said. He nodded to Geneva and went out the back door.

Geneva, murmuring something about the garden, followed him outside.

Link stood, frowning at Marisa. “Look, are you deliberately trying to put yourself in danger?”

She returned his look steadily. “Are you sure that’s what this is about?”

He just stared at her, his face a mask. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

Marisa put her face in her hands. She knew exactly what was going on with him. He’d confided in her, and he’d opened himself up to the attraction between them. And then the gunfire started. She’d been in danger. He’d protected her.

But he didn’t want to be responsible, and his reaction was to backpedal as fast as he could away from her.

I
F
L
INK COULD HAVE
found any possible way of getting out of going to the Amish auction with his mother and Marisa, he’d have done it. But he couldn’t, so here he was, committed to spending the better part of the day in Marisa’s company.

He slowed, getting into the line of cars, pickups and buggies that moved into the field next to the township fire hall. Marisa saw too much. Understood too much. He never should have told her about the bombing.

And he certainly never should have kissed her. In
most circumstances, a kiss was…well, just a kiss. But neither he nor Marisa was in what anybody would call a normal emotional state right now. A sensible man didn’t throw gasoline on a fire.

“They have this auction twice a year,” Mom explained. “Spring and fall. It’s the major fundraiser for the three Amish schools in the area, so everyone turns out to support it. After all, the Amish have to pay school taxes just like everybody else and then pay for their own schools, as well.”

“I didn’t realize that,” Marisa said. “I guess I should buy something, then, even if I don’t need it.”

“If you’re like my mother, you’ll probably come home with far more than you intended,” he said.

“I’m just terrible about bidding on things.” Mom’s laugh gurgled. “Blake used to sit beside me at auctions and hold my hands to keep me from bidding on stuff I didn’t even want. And still, I came home with a quilt frame that was so big we couldn’t fit it through the front door.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” Marisa smiled, but she was looking at the buggies—row after row of them pulled up in the shade at the edge of the field. Amish boys darted along the line, their task to handle the horses and buggies, while a high-school-age English kid directed the cars to parking spaces.

“The bidding goes pretty fast,” he said, pulling into the space the boy indicated. “If you don’t want
to own a butter churn or a snow shovel, don’t wave to your friends.”

“Since I don’t know very many people here, that shouldn’t be an issue.” She slid out, joining his mother. “Except you and the Millers and Bishop Amos, of course. He stopped by to see me yesterday.”

“You didn’t tell me that.” The words sounded as if he expected her to confide in him, and he could have bitten his tongue.

“I haven’t seen much of you,” Marisa said.

True enough. He’d managed to find a reason not to be at the house yesterday morning when she’d continued the search in the book room. Given what happened when they were alone, that seemed safer.

“Was Bishop Amos able to help?” Mom touched Marisa’s arm lightly.

“He said he’d introduce me to a few people today who might remember my mother. Unfortunately, my mother’s cousin, William Zook, doesn’t want to meet me.”

He thought she was trying not to sound bitter and not entirely succeeding. He’d say something encouraging, but he couldn’t come up with anything.

“You must be disappointed.” Mom’s voice was warm with sympathy. “I’m afraid they were hurt when she left that way. They’d have felt responsible, too, since she was their guest.”

“I’d think they could have gotten over that by now.” Marisa slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
He spotted the ever-present sketch pad peeping out of it.

“Family disagreements can be the most painful and long-lasting.” His mother seemed to be gazing into the past. “I suppose William might feel it better not to open it up again.”

“I suppose.” Marisa didn’t look especially satisfied with that, but she didn’t say anything more as they joined the crowd moving toward the fire hall and the tents and stands that were set up around it.

His mother slipped her arm through his as they crossed the rough ground at the edge of the field, and he wondered if he was supposed to be helping her or the other way around. Nothing would convince Mom that he didn’t need babying.

“Oh, Link, did you tell Marisa about meeting with Tom Sylvester tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sylvester?” Marisa echoed the name.

“The person in charge of the construction project on Allen’s house when your mother…” Mom let that trail off.

“Not yet.” Actually, he’d been wondering if he could avoid telling her so he could talk to the man alone.

Judging by Marisa’s expression, she knew exactly what was in his mind. “That’s good. I’ve been hoping we’d be able to talk to him soon.” There was a faint underline on the word
we.

“I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to tell us, but
he says he has some old job notes in a file at home. He promised to look through them before then.”

“Good.” She clamped her lips shut, as if to hold back something she’d rather have said. She glanced up, and he saw her face turn pale.

“Preston Connelly.” Mom didn’t sound especially welcoming at the sight of the district attorney. She’d had a grudge against the man since he’d prosecuted Thomas Esch.

“Geneva, how nice to see you.” Connelly, florid and hearty, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the lack of welcome in her face. “And Link.” He shook hands. “Glad to see you back safe and sound.”

Link muttered something noncommittal. Marisa’s tension was strong enough to feel even though they weren’t touching.

“And Ms. Angelo.” Was it Link’s imagination, or did Connelly’s gaze sharpen when it rested on Marisa? “I take it you haven’t heard anything from your father yet?”

“No.” Marisa’s lips moved just enough to let out the one word.

So that was Connelly’s interest in her. She didn’t like it, obviously, but it was only natural, wasn’t it? Why hadn’t her father been in touch yet? For Marisa’s sake, he had to hope there was some logical explanation.

“Too bad.” Connelly’s words sounded speculative. The way his gaze lingered on her face seemed an invitation to her to say more.

But she didn’t. She just stood, a meaningless smile on her face, like a rabbit freezing into immobility at the sight of a hawk’s shadow.

“It was nice to see you, Preston.” His mother’s social sense came to the rescue. “We must get on to the auction, or the pieces I’m interested in will be gone.”

“Yes, of course.” Connelly nodded politely and walked away, greeting another one of his constituents with a practiced air.

“Jessica says he was only doing his job.” His mother sounded disbelieving. “But I still haven’t forgiven him for the things he said about Thomas.”

“He’s up for reelection in November,” he reminded her. “He can’t afford to offend the electorate.”

“That doesn’t give him an excuse…” Mom’s voice trailed off as she spotted one of her friends. “There’s Edna Pollard. I really have to talk to her about helping with the fall rummage sale at the church.”

His mother scurried off before her victim could escape, and he caught Marisa’s arm before she could follow.

“Don’t let Connelly upset you.”

“I’m not upset about him.” Her level gaze met his. “Let’s talk about the construction boss.”

He might have known she’d seize on that. “Look, I intended to tell you about talking with Tom.”

“You mean you intended to do so after the fact.”