Falling Again (13 page)

Before Fiona could answer, Amanda said, “If my daughter was here, she’d tell you whiskering isn’t polite. Although, come to think of it, I guess we have established Nicky doesn’t whisker anymore.” She was standing behind them with a coffee pot.

“Sorry, Amanda. No more whispering. I promise,” Fiona said, not anxious to resurrect the subject of her skin and Nick’s beard.

Amanda offered the coffee. “Like some more?”

Nick put his hand over his cup. “No, thanks, I think we’re about to leave.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Amanda said with a smirk.

“Before you go, can I take a look at those shots Fiona talked about?” Sam asked.

“Sure. Let me go get them,” Nick said.

He was only gone a few minutes and came back empty handed. “Not sure what this says about the state of public safety in Portland,” he said, looking at his brother-in-law. “Someone broke into my rental car. My camera and all the gear I had with it is gone.”

• • •

After Sam called in the report of the car prowl, Nick and Fiona returned to St. Johns. They hadn’t been home more than fifteen minutes when the phone rang. Nick swore and suggested they ignore it, but the metallic voice on caller ID said it was his sister so she answered it anyway.

It wasn’t Amanda. It was Sam.

“We have another complication. Preston Garland was found dead in his parents’ garage.”

“Jesus. Dead?” She had to swallow hard to clear the knot in her throat before she could say anything else. “How? What happened?”

“It’s all conveniently arranged to look like a suicide, complete with a computer generated note saying he didn’t want to embarrass his family any further by standing trial.”

“Conveniently arranged? You don’t think it was a suicide?”

“M.E. says it’s not likely. The marks on his neck were likely made by something like a wire ligature, not the rope he was found hanging from. And he says there was no way Garland could have hanged himself from the light fixture—the chair set up to look like the one he used was in the wrong place for him to have kicked it away.”

“So you’ll be investigating it as a homicide?”

“We’re going to let the story ride as a suicide but, off the record, we’re investigating it as a homicide, yeah.”

“I understand. Thanks for letting me know, though. I might have some use for it one of these days when I get enough to write about.”

“I’m not telling you this as a journalist, but as a friend.”

“You want me to know these guys play for keeps.”

“I have to wonder about the timing of Garland’s death. It comes damn close to when he talked to you. And I don’t think the break-in of Nick’s car was random. So, let me repeat: watch where you’re poking sticks.”

“You’re serious? You think someone was specifically after Nick’s camera?”

“Is it possible someone saw you up there on the mountain?”

“I don’t think anyone saw us. Why?”

“Someone might want to get rid of any evidence you have.”

Fiona shivered. “We still have the evidence. Nick downloaded the images onto his computer before we went to your house.”

“Shit. Keep quiet about it. No one should know. Not your boss, not anyone.”

“We won’t tell anyone.”

When she hung up, Nick, who’d been eavesdropping, asked, “So, what aren’t we supposed to tell?”

If Sam was right, if Nick’s car had been broken into because he’d done a favor for her, it was time to tell Nick about what she was working on. At least, tell him enough so he could stay out of danger.

“Let’s go sit down in the living room. There are a couple of things you should know about this story I’ve been digging into.”

They settled on the couch and she started with, “I don’t normally talk about my stories before I have a handle on them but this one seems to have gotten more complicated than usual. And it involves you.”

“Is this the same story you told me a bit about when we were in D.C.?”

“Yes and no. One of the stories I was working on was about a bill introduced by one of our delegation. But more importantly, one or more of the local supporters of that legislation may be financing a new white supremacist group about to open up shop in Portland.”

“A white supremacist group in the People’s Republic of Portland? The Northwest bastion of progressives?”

“Most of Portland may be progressive now but it hasn’t always been, and Portland isn’t Oregon. The militia movement is active in more places than you’d guess and there are almost a dozen hate groups we know about.”

“This is why you knew what you were looking at in the cabin.”

“Exactly. The rumors about the White Power Knights of the West…”

“That’s their name? Could they have picked a dumber one?”

“Yeah, I agree but a dumb name doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. I’m sure there’s a connection between their sudden emergence and the election of the city’s first black mayor.”

“You think they’re responsible for the attempt on the mayor’s life, don’t you?”

“Yup. And for the death of the man arrested for the attempt. That’s what Sam’s call was about.”

“What the hell? Your interview the other day?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to look like a suicide but it’s being investigated—quietly and without saying so—as a murder.”

“Jesus, Fee, this puts a hell of a target on your back. That car coming out of nowhere the other night and almost hitting you—do you suppose…?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. And maybe the car prowl tonight wasn’t accidental. Sam thinks we were seen on the mountain and the break-in was to get your images of the cabin.”

“Luckily I have them on my computer.”

“Which gets us to what no one has to know. If anyone finds out you still have those images, you have a target on your back, too. Are you sure you want to be wandering around the mountains alone?”

Fiona had gotten nasty emails and tweets, even threatening letters, in response to her articles before but no one she’d ever interviewed had been murdered. And, if Nick was correct about the brush with the car on the Park Blocks, no one had ever tried to hurt her. Or stolen the belongings of someone she was involved with.

What the hell had she set in motion with her digging?

Nick stayed with her for a few nights, thank God, seeming to know she didn’t want to be alone. He ferried back and forth to his hotel room to pick up clean clothes and camera gear. Eventually, she more or less told him he could go back to the hotel room he was paying for but not using. She thought she saw disappointment in his eyes but when he immediately began packing his belongings, she decided it was just a trick of light.

They saw each other for dinner every few days. Now that she’d let him in on the details of her story, she shared with him what rocks she was turning over looking for information. He reported his progress with police reports and insurance company forms from the car prowl, showed off the new gear he’d bought to replace the stolen equipment and updated her on the schedule for his work with his buddy Travis whose arrival was getting closer.

Then one evening, as they were prepping dinner together in Fiona’s kitchen, he mentioned making plane reservations to leave Portland.

Startled by the depth of her disappointment at the news, Fiona said the first thing she could think of to cover. “So soon? Isn’t Amanda upset you’re leaving after such a short visit?”

“
Amanda
upset?” He smiled. “I think she’s okay with it. She’s pretty sure I’ll be back soon.”

She tried to recover. “Of course, I knew you’d be leaving when the assignment was over. I guess I just didn’t think in terms of when.”

“I’ve had the next two on my calendar for months. One’s a
National Geographic
photo week in New Mexico; the other’s an Alaska cruise. Both of them teaching classes on photography.”

Not wanting to continue the conversation about his leaving any further, she went back to something she thought she could handle. “When did you see Amanda?”

“This afternoon when I dropped by her studio.”

“Do you always spend time with her in her studio when you come to town?”

“No. I’ve been there, but this was the first I’ve spent any amount of time watching what she does.”

“I’d love to see how she works some day.”

“She’d be happy to have you. Today she was showing off her new series of pieces interpreting landscapes and it gave me an idea. I think we’re going to try to put together a body of work based on her interpretations of some of my photos. She thinks Liz Fairchild might be talked into having the exhibit at her gallery.”

“What a great idea. And if you got her talking about her work and your project for any amount of time, it must mean she didn’t have a chance to give you instructions on how to live your life.”

“Hell, no. Stopping her from fussing at me would take an act of Congress…no, an act of God.”

“What was it this time? She’s already covered being alone on the mountain, so was it taking an umbrella with you when it looks like rain? Wearing your seat belt?”

“It was you.”

“Me? She was warning you away from me?” She could tell by his face he was enjoying her surprised reaction.

“On the contrary. She asked me if I knew about your last relationship. Said she didn’t want to see you hurt again. Seems like you’ve also fallen under the protective wing of my sister, who fusses.”

Fiona wasn’t sure if having Amanda look out for her was a good or bad thing. More accurately, she wasn’t sure what Nick thought of it.

Without looking directly at him, Fiona asked, “So, what did you say?”

“I said you’d told me all about it. She was torn between lecturing some more and cross-examining me to find out if I knew any details she didn’t. She chose the lecturing option; no surprise.” He took his knife to the sink and then washed his hands. “I said she had nothing to worry about. I’d taken it as my job to restore your faith in men.” As he dried his hands, he came up beside her.

She laughed. “Big job, isn’t it, being responsible for your entire sex?”

“It would be if I meant it. I really only want you to have faith in me.” He took her hands. “I want to earn your trust because if I can’t, I’ll never be able to convince you to…well, to see if we can be more than two people having a vacation fling.”

Anxiety began to tense up her shoulders and cramp her hands around the pan she was holding. This conversation was getting into waters too deep for Fiona’s comfort. It was bad enough the work she loved seemed to be turning deadly, without having Nick begin to talk about trust and love and things even more dangerous than death threats.

“Nick, I’m not sure I can deal with this yet.”

He took the pan from her hands, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed the top of her head. “I get it. You’re skittish about a relationship.” He held her so she couldn’t back away. “But I thought from the way it’s been between us, maybe we could see if…”

“We haven’t exactly been looking at this…at us…with any sort of reason or common sense, have we?” The panic she had begun to feel when he first talked about earning her trust had now taken over her throat and she had to force out the words.

“Okay, let’s talk common sense—we’re good together. Right? We share interests. Even our careers mesh. You already know and like some of my family. They like you. Don’t you want to see what we can make of a pretty solid beginning? See where it could take us? I do.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Nick.” She had to get away while she could do it with dignity and not when she’d given in to the need to run, to flee this attempt to pin her down, just like Mark had done—before her ex walked away. But Nick wouldn’t let go of her.

“Why do you think I won’t keep my promise? Is it because you think all men are alike? We’re not. I’m not him, Fiona. I know you haven’t known me very long, but surely you know me well enough to realize I would never, ever hurt you like he did.”

“Stop, Nick. Please. I can’t do this.” The panic was getting worse. Now tears were threatening.

He looked at her, sighed, and pulled her close. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just wanted…just hoped…you might be interested in taking a chance on having something real with me.”

“It’s not you I’m afraid to take a chance on. It’s the uncertainty of things. Of what happens when people…” She stopped before she said anything more compromising and pulled herself away from him. This time, he let her go. She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door.

A few minutes later she heard a soft knock on the door. If she ignored it, maybe he’d go away. She should have known him well enough by now to know it wouldn’t work. He kept knocking. “Come in,” she finally said.

He sat on the bed next to her where she had curled up like an armadillo trying to protect herself.

“This isn’t what I had in mind for this evening,” he said. “I’m sorry. Would you rather be alone tonight? I can sleep in the guest room or go back to my hotel.”

The thought was tempting, but she couldn’t throw him out of her bed, not when her panic was the reason for this, not his behavior. “Why would I force you to fight Pulitzer for the bed in the guest room?”

“Maybe because I wasn’t very sensitive out there in the kitchen.”

“It’s not you, Nick, it’s me.”

“You’re sounding like a
Seinfeld
rerun.”

She didn’t laugh or even smile. He leaned down and kissed her, then went to the other side of the bed and lay down on top of the comforter. He gently rubbed her back. “Tell me what you need so you feel comfortable with the possibility there’s an ‘us’ worth talking about.”

“I just don’t know how there can be an ‘us.’ I still don’t even understand why you think you want to spend time with me.”

She heard him softly laugh. “Wow. I thought I was more convincing. Or at least interesting enough to warrant your attention.”

“You’re amazing. I’m the one who barely moves the needle past boring. You travel all over the world, meet interesting people. You can pack in five minutes for anyplace in the world and you probably speak six languages.”

“You’re describing what I do for a living, not who I am. I think fascinating is knowing more about the city you’ve lived in for nine years than most people know about a place they’ve lived all their lives.”