Night's Landing (19 page)

“You think this letter’s for real?” Juliet asked.

“Lab guys are checking it out. It was postmarked New York.”

“What, you think one of us sent it? Rob, Nate, me? The chief deputy?”

Collins didn’t answer.

Juliet groaned. Her and her mouth. “Any more questions?”

“Nah.” He got heavily to his feet. “Thanks for your time, Deputy.”

After he left, she banged her head on the door a couple of times just to see if she could knock some sense into herself.
Jesus
. How not to handle an FBI interrogation.

That was what it was, too. Collins had asked her if he could talk to her. She’d said yes.

It wasn’t a courtesy visit. He was an FBI agent in charge of a high-profile investigation. The man was just doing his job.

And he’d been very deliberate about it. No slipups. He’d told her only what he’d wanted her to know—what he wanted to see her reaction to.

He’d played her beautifully.

But who cared? She had nothing to hide. He had to work all the angles of the investigation at once. Crazy ones, even. Like maybe Rob or Nate had screwed up and done something that’d gotten them shot. Like maybe she had a vendetta against Rob and had hired someone to take him out.

Except he hadn’t died, and neither had Nate.

Maybe dead wasn’t the point. Maybe dead
or
wounded was the point.

Why?

The letter Sarah had received…what was
that
all about?

“Not your problem.”

Juliet flipped all the locks on the door and picked up an ivy plant with crispy leaves. She must have missed that one her last go-round with the spray faucet. But it still showed signs of life. Her brothers would tell her she was losing her touch—she’d always had a green thumb.

She noticed a little goldfish belly-up in one of the tanks.
Damn
. She set the ivy on the sink and found a slotted spoon, scooped out the dead fish and flushed it down the toilet, then flipped the lid and sat down.

“Oh, shit.”

But she couldn’t stop the tears. For the first time since she’d heard the news about the shooting, she sat and cried. She’d loved Rob. Totally. And it hadn’t worked out, just like all her other relationships. Then he’d almost died. He was still in rotten shape. Miserable, in pain. He had to be scared out of his mind for his sister.

Would he turn to
her
for help?

Hell, no.

She looked out the window at the brick wall and listened to the gurgle of her aquariums. This was it. She was going to spend the rest of her life with a bunch of plants and fish for company.

And her work. God knows she’d have her work.

Ethan lit his first cigarette in eight months. Charlene used to harp on him for smoking, but he’d always believed something would get him before smoking did.

Something got her, instead.

Someone.

It was dusk, the sky muted and purplish against the darkening landscape of trees as he walked up the path from the river and across the overgrown lawn of the Poe house. The mosquitoes were out. One buzzed around his head. He heard crickets chirping in the tall grass, boats puttering down on the river. He had his Smith & Wesson strapped to his right ankle and one of his Brownings tucked in a belt holster under his Titans shirt. No damn overalls tonight.

He didn’t plan on killing anyone, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared.

There were rumors on the river that the Poe House Trust was considering selling off some of the acreage lots to country-western music stars, to raise money for a visitors’ center. But even understated development would change the isolated, rural character of Night’s Landing, make it harder to visualize the kind of lives the Poes had led there since the Civil War. The rumors weren’t true, but if they were, Ethan figured Sarah Dunnemore would have a fit. Yet locals also said she couldn’t stay steeped in the Poe house the way she had been for some years. She had to leave its future to other people, people who were more objective, who didn’t have such a personal involvement.

Leola and Violet Poe had died within two years of each other more than a decade ago. They’d lived to see the boy they’d raised move into the Tennessee governor’s mansion, but not the White House. People said they’d had mixed feelings about John Wesley—that was what the sisters had always called him—entering politics, even leaving Night’s Landing.

Ethan ducked past twin dogwoods in the front yard and headed up the back road that led to a down-on-its-luck fishing camp. After a hundred feet the pavement turned to gravel. He could hear his running shoes crunching, but stealth wasn’t an issue, not tonight. He didn’t care who the hell saw him, who heard him.

It was an old-fashioned camp with a row of a half-dozen, one-room cabins with shed roofs and no frills. Conroy Fontaine struck Ethan as a frills type. But maybe he was saving himself for when he hit it big with his book. Maybe he’d do damn near anything, including sleep on a moldy horsehair mattress, to get what dirt he could on President Poe.

Poe hadn’t lived in Night’s Landing in years. He and his wife had a place in Nashville. Nothing huge. A Victorian they’d fixed up. The Poe House wouldn’t be open to the public for another couple years, at least. By then, maybe someone would have torched the fishing camp up the road. Each cabin had its own rusted lawn chair and ancient charcoal grill. The smell of smoke and trout hung in the air, fishy, not anything Ethan would want to eat.

He stopped at the main office and asked a very overweight woman with a long, greasy gray braid which cabin Conroy Fontaine had rented. She didn’t hesitate. “Last one on the left.”

Ethan passed three empty cabins before he reached the last one on the left. A light was on. The front door was open. He could see Fontaine sitting at a table in the front window. Ethan threw down his cigarette, stamped it out and kicked in the screen door.

He grabbed a stunned Fontaine up off his chair, twisted his right arm around to the small of his back and shoved him face first into the refrigerator. “Who the fuck are you?”

“All right. Calm down.” Fontaine’s voice squeaked, but he still had the southern accent, which meant it was probably for real. “We can talk.”

Ethan patted him down. No weapons, but the guy was fit as hell. “Sit. Move any way I don’t like, you lose teeth. Come at me, you’re in the hospital. Try to hurt me, you’re dead.”

“Heavens, man. You’re some gardener.”

Bravado. Fontaine gave himself a little shake, as if to loosen himself up, and sat back at the table. It was rickety, covered with a cigarette-burned yellow vinyl cloth.

Ethan reached over to a stack of papers on the table and lifted out a picture of a silver-haired man. A mug shot, pulled off the Internet.

Nicholas Janssen.

Ethan shoved the picture at Fontaine. “Who’s this?”

“You know already, don’t you?”

Janssen was an international fugitive, a rich idiot who was supposed to be in prison for tax evasion by now. Three weeks after Charlene’s murder, Ethan had followed Betsy Dunnemore to an Amsterdam café where she’d run into Nicholas Janssen. Accidentally, on purpose—Ethan didn’t know which. She and Janssen had coffee. Talked. Heatedly. Then went in separate directions. Before her death, Charlene had met with Betsy Dunnemore. It was one of the pieces Ethan had. He knew it fit into his puzzle—he just wasn’t sure where.

“I ask the questions,” he told Fontaine.

“When we’re done here, I’m calling the police.”

“Fine with me. Your interest in this guy?”

“Journalistic. I think there’s a connection between him and President Poe.”

Ethan sneered at the guy in disgust. “You really are a bottom feeder.”

Fontaine rubbed the elbow that Ethan had jerked. “Why are you picking on me? I’ve done nothing. Are you upset over the feds who were crawling through the Dunnemore house today? I was going to stop by and talk Sarah into sharing her prune cake, but when I saw them, I thought better of it.” He made a face. “I’m not proud of myself, I have to say. A better friend would have made sure she was all right.”

Ethan had made himself scarce when the feds were at the house, but only after he’d figured out what was wrong—Sarah had received a threatening note. He could picture it, the letter with the New York postmark. He’d pulled it out of the mailbox himself and set it on the table.

He should have opened it.

Sarah hadn’t come to him for help—why should she? He was the mild-mannered, songwriting good ol‘ boy.

The feds hadn’t talked to him. They hadn’t talked to Fontaine.

Not yet, anyway.

Ethan glanced at Janssen’s handsome face. “Does Sarah Dunnemore know this guy?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, but it’s—” He paused, choosing his words. “It’s a sensitive subject. He and her mother…” He drifted off.

“You think they’re having an affair? You really are scum.”

“He’s a lonely man. Janssen lives in Switzerland surrounded by bodyguards—he’s afraid federal agents will drop out of nowhere and kidnap him back to the U.S. to stand trial. His mother died over the winter. He couldn’t come back for her funeral.” Fontaine stretched out his legs, folded his hands on his stomach as if he had nothing to fear. “I don’t believe Mr. Janssen thinks things through, do you? He’d fit in around here.”

“You’ve been sniffing around Janssen and the Dunnemores for this book of yours?”

“I made a whirlwind trip to Europe in April. A tax-deductible research trip. Rob Dunnemore was in Amsterdam visiting his parents. He snubbed me. Sarah hadn’t arrived yet.” Fontaine spoke matter-of-factly, as if this sort of thing was par for the course in his line of work. “I decided to try my luck again here in Night’s Landing. I was here briefly last fall, trying to decide whether or not I even wanted to take on this project. Now, Mr. Brooker, I believe I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to. Whatever angles I’m pursuing are my business. I’m a legitimate journalist.”

“Bullshit. What are you, a political hack looking for dirt on the president?” Ethan didn’t wait for an answer. “A bounty hunter? Is there a reward for reeling in Nicholas Janssen?”

Fontaine glanced up at him. “What’s your interest in Mr. Janssen?”

“None. I read the papers.”

“I’ve told you what I know. You have no reason to behave this way, barge in here, threaten me—”

“I haven’t threatened you. I’ve just scared the hell out of you.” Ethan gave him a cold grin. “There’s a difference, you know.”

“Please, leave, Mr. Brooker. Don’t make me call the police.”

Ethan was tempted to toss the place, but he doubted he’d find anything that would lead him anywhere but down more blind alleys and to more dead ends. Whether Conroy Fontaine was a legitimate journalist, a bottom-feeding journalist or something else entirely, he had his own agenda in Night’s Landing. He wanted Ethan to find the picture. Fontaine expected one of them to confront him at some point. Sarah Dunnemore. Nate Winter. He was prepared. Stir the pot a little by having Fontaine’s pictures at the ready. See how people reacted. It was a tactic Ethan understood.

Fontaine fingered one of the cigarette burns on the tablecloth. “I won’t call the police this time. I understand you’re protective of our fair-haired Dr. Dunnemore. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve been trying to soften her up so she’ll talk to me, but I have to say, I’ve come under her spell myself.” His affection for Sarah seemed genuine. “She’s a lovely woman, inside and out.”

“She’s got a marshal with her. I’d mind my p’s and q’s if I were you.”

Ethan took the picture of Janssen with him and almost ripped the damn door off its hinges on his way out.

Sometimes he wasn’t direct. This time, he was.

Fat lot of good it did him.

On his way out of the camp, he threw his pack of cigarettes to a wiry old guy with a lit cigarette hanging off his lower lip. “Quitting?” The old man coughed. “Good luck to you, fella. I’ve quit every New Year’s for the past thirty years.”

Ethan kept walking, getting himself back under control, one muscle—one cell—at a time.

Charlene…

Conroy Fontaine could be a reporter unraveling the same story Ethan was, finding the pieces and shreds that kept eluding him. He just had to be patient, to think things through. As evidenced by his behavior tonight, he thought, neither was his style.

He could almost see his wife smile in agreement.

Dinner was a chicken-and-vegetable casserole Sarah dug out of the freezer and prune cake, which reminded Nate of Gus’s applesauce spice cake, for dessert. But Sarah didn’t eat a bite, just stared at her plate, then bolted from the table and ran down the hall and out the front door.

Post-trauma stress. The past few days had just gut-punched her.

Nate knew the feeling. His mind would drift off, and he’d see Rob jerk up with the impact of the bullet. He’d feel a pain in his arm and his heart would race. His training helped, his experience and knowledge of the mind and body’s normal reactions to a trauma.

He gave Sarah a minute, then followed her down to the dock.

The evening air was cool and the breeze smelled, tasted, of the river. Sarah was sitting at the end of the dock, her shoes at her side, her feet dangling in the water.

The last red rays of the dying sunset hit her hair, making it look golden, almost fiery.

Nate walked onto the old wood dock. She splashed water with her feet. “Not worried about snakes biting your toes?” he asked.

She shook her head, not looking around at him.

He’d never done WITSEC work. He didn’t think he could stand the emotions of witnesses who had to take on new identities because of what they knew. Some of the witnesses were unsavory characters themselves. But they were human beings. Their families, who also had to give up the lives they knew, were human beings. It was what Nate always tried to remember as a professional law enforcement officer—that regardless of what they’d done, what punishment they were due for their actions, the people he dealt with were human beings. He’d had that conversation with Sister Maria a dozen times. He’d have had it again yesterday about Hector Sanchez if Sarah hadn’t followed him. Sister Maria would have served him strong coffee and had him sit for a while, talk to him about the young man who was now dead, whom she believed with all her heart and soul—which was saying something—hadn’t shot anyone in Central Park.