Night's Landing Page 16

  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.

  Not that Sanchez wasn’t incapable of being used, bribed, set up and discarded. Just that he hadn’t shot anyone.

  Nate sighed. He shouldn’t have kissed Sarah earlier. He should have resisted. They both had too much on their minds.

  “Sarah…”

  “I held up on the plane to New York.” Her voice was quiet, steady, her accent hardly detectable. “I held up in the hospital. I held up more or less in Central Park when I recognized the man from the Rijksmuseum. Even when I got that note—I didn’t go completely to pieces.”

  “It’s okay to go to pieces.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I almost did last fall when my sisters got themselves into messes. It’s different when it’s people you care about who are hurting, when it’s not just the job.”

  She kicked her feet up out of the water and stared at her toes, painted a pretty lavender. “Is being here just ‘the job’ for you?”

  He felt awkward, out of his element, but she had a way of cutting to the heart of matters, a directness he seldom encountered in the women he dated. “No, actually, I’m probably the last person who should be here, seeing how I was with your brother when he was shot.”

  “You were shot, too.”

  “Barely.”

  “Barely counts.” She glanced up at him again, the fading light catching the shine of tears on her cheeks, in her eyes. “It was an awful day for you, too. More so than for me.”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  He kicked off his running shoes and pulled off his socks, hoping his damn feet didn’t stink. He rolled up his pant legs and sat next to her. “Water cold?”

  She managed a smile. “Not by New Hampshire standards.”

  Indeed, the coppery river was refreshing, not nearly as cold as a midsummer New Hampshire stream. “We’re lucky the water ever gets this warm at home.”

  “I’ve never been to the White Mountains.” Strands of hair had caught in her tears and matted to her cheeks, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I understand they’re beautiful. Or aren’t they beautiful to you because of your parents?”

  That natural directness again. Nate shook his head. “No, they’re still beautiful. And still dangerous. It can be hard to predict conditions these days. Thirty years ago—there was no way my parents could have known they’d fall and get stuck in freezing rain.”

  “So it wasn’t their fault—not that fault matters to a child.”

  “It was an accident. It was traumatic, but they weren’t murdered. They didn’t have any enemies.”

  “Is that why you became a marshal? Because you could make sense of going after fugitives?”

  He smiled at her. “I became a marshal because they gave me a job.”

  She took an audible breath. “I’m sorry. I’m being too intense—”

  “My parents led the lives they wanted to lead. They didn’t mean to leave my sisters and me orphans. It just happened. My uncle did a good job raising us. We had happy childhoods. We’ll always feel the loss and wonder what might have been, but it worked out okay.” He let his feet drop deeper into the murky water. Unlike Sarah, he thought about snakes. “A part of you must be ticked off at Rob for getting shot.”

  She jerked around at him. “How could you say such a thing? That’s absurd. It’s not as if he got shot just to upset me.”

  “But he has a dangerous profession. He wants the tough assignments. He’s known for it. That’s why he’s in New York.” Nate didn’t let her off the hook. “You’ve only been home for a week—”

  “I’m not angry with my brother for putting me in this position.”

  She jumped up, splashing him with water. She scooped up her shoes and stomped off the dock, leaving wet footprints behind her and walking barefoot through the grass.

  Nate lifted his feet out of the water. He should have had a second piece of prune cake and let her have her cry. He’d never been good at any kind of debriefing.

  She spun around at him. It was almost dark now, her slim figure a silhouette against the background of her home. “Anyway, you think Rob was shot because he’s a Dunnemore, not because he’s a marshal.”

  “Maybe both. And it doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “That’s right,” she snapped, “it doesn’t.”

  Her emotions were raw, and she was on edge. Don’t let things fester, Gus used to tell him and his sisters as kids. You need to cry, cry. You need to throw something, throw something. Just don’t hurt anyone.

  Nate had seldom cried, and he’d never thrown anything.

  He pulled his feet out of the water, stuffed his socks into his shoes and followed Sarah onto the cool grass. “When I was a kid,” h
e said, “I’d see my sisters crying for my parents, and I’d want to fix it. I held back my own grief and anger because I didn’t want to upset them.” He sighed, wincing at his lame words. “Christ, this is stupid. I’m sorry. I never could do a damn thing to make Antonia and Carine feel better, either.”

  “You don’t have to make me feel better.” There was no sting in her words. “Some things no one can fix. You just have to go through them. I’ll get through this mess. So will you.” Her sudden smile took him by surprise, lit up her eyes. “More prune cake?”

  “I won’t make myself sick?”

  “No one’s ever made themselves sick on Granny Dunnemore’s prune cake.”

  She practically ran up to the house.

  Nate watched her in amazement, then warned himself to be careful. To go slow, to remember his own raw state. But as he followed her in the house, all he could think of was the feel of her mouth on his, her soft skin under his hands, her body pressed up against him.

  Fortunately, Conroy Fontaine was at the back door.

  Twenty

  Sarah went straight to the sink, turned on the faucet and got out the dented aluminum dishpan, squirting in detergent as she tried to pull herself together. “Come on in,” she called to Conroy. “The door’s open.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m just doing dishes. My parents have never seen fit to invest in a dishwasher.” She manufactured a smile. “But Dad has a state-of-the-art computer upstairs. He loves computers.”

  She wondered if her cheerfulness sounded phony, if Conroy would excuse or even notice that she’d been crying. She had no idea how she’d get through the night alone with Nate in the house. She was convinced he was half the reason she’d lost it. Being around him had a way of bringing her emotions to the surface—even ones she wanted to hold at bay. She was usually more reserved around men, always believing she was destined for quiet, civilized relationships.

  “I suppose our not having a dishwasher is a tidbit you can use in your book,” she added as Conroy stepped inside.

  He stayed close to the back door, not sitting down. Sarah detected a strain in his normally easy manner. “Where’s your deputy?” he asked.

  “He was just down on the dock. I imagine he’s right behind me.”

  “Sarah—” Conroy narrowed his gaze on her, wincing. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve come at a bad time. Is it Rob? He hasn’t take a turn for the worse, has he?”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. He’s okay. Doing much better, in fact.” She dumped dishes into the hot, soapy water. She had to look like a wreck. “And I’m okay. The stress of the past few days just got to me, that’s all.”

  “I understand.” He seemed awkward, shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose-fitting khakis. He wore a button-down blue oxford cloth shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a sports watch on his wrist. He looked as if he’d been at his book all day. “Look, I know my timing couldn’t be worse, but I need to talk to you about your property manager.”

  “Ethan? Why, what’s up?” She decided to let the dishes soak and grabbed a knife out of a drawer. “Here, sit down. I’ll cut you a piece of prune cake.”

  “I can’t stay.” He smiled nervously. “But I’ll take a piece with me.”

  Nate materialized in the hall doorway, leaning against it.

  “Evening, Deputy,” Conroy said.

  “Mr. Fontaine.”

  “Oh, just Conroy will be fine. I’m going to sample a piece of Sarah’s prune cake.”

  “It came out okay.” She cut the cake, easing the fat slice onto a plate. “So, what’s the story with Ethan?”

  “Having the authorities here today must have unnerved him. I don’t want to pry—”

  “It’s all right.” Sarah found a square of tinfoil in another drawer and laid the cake slice on it. “My brother’s situation is receiving a lot of media attention. Consequently, I had mail here when I arrived. Some of it was kind of bizarre, and the FBI wanted to take a look.”

  “I see. No Secret Service?”

  She sensed, more than saw Nate stiffening, but she reminded herself that Conroy was a journalist—and possibly not a very reputable one. She didn’t want him selling the story of her anonymous letter to the tabloids. “I have no idea, there were so many. I know this situation must be upsetting for everyone around here. It certainly is for me.”

  “Some of the old-timers around here are saying President Poe would drop everything on your say-so and fly down—”

  “I doubt that, Conroy. And I have parents. They’re heading to New York tomorrow.”

  He smiled. “The point is, the president is that fond of you.”

  “No. That’s what people are telling you. You don’t know it for a fact.”

  “Ah, the Ph.D. at work.”

  She handed the wrapped cake to him. “President Poe has been like a second father to me. I’m very, very lucky in that regard.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Conroy said softly.

  Sarah climbed onto a stool at the counter. He was just two feet in front of her, one hand on the screen door. It was dark out now, a cricket chirping loudly nearby. “Are you going to tell me about Ethan?” she asked.

  “I will. Look—” He shifted, sighing uncomfortably. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but the guy’s out of control.”

  “Ethan?” Sarah couldn’t conceal her surprise. “What did he do?”

  “He barged into my cabin earlier and interrogated me about who I am and what I’m doing here. I think he was just being protective of you, but it was unsettling. I was going to call the police.” He shrugged. “I decided you don’t need that.”

  Nate stepped into the kitchen and went over to the sink, lifting a sopping dishrag out of the suds. That seemed to bring Conroy up short. She had an armed federal agent on the premises. But Nate said nothing, and Sarah took a breath and eased off the stool. “What exactly happened?”

  Conroy hesitated, then continued. “He kicked in my front door while I was working and asked questions. I was shocked. I’m just doing this simple pop biography of the president.” He gave a ragged smile. “Which is what I told Mr. Brooker.”

  “Ethan seems so mild mannered.”

  “He wasn’t mild mannered when he slammed me against the refrigerator.”

  Nate silently washed dishes, no visible indication he was even listening to her conversation with Conroy. But Sarah knew better. “I apologize. I imagine he’s just rattled by what’s been going on. He was here when I got the call from Rob in Central Park. It was very upsetting, and perhaps he overreacted.” She stopped herself there, because she didn’t really know Ethan Brooker and couldn’t vouch for him. “I’ll speak to him.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t bring my name up with him. He makes me nervous. If you could just reassure him that he’s supposed to take care of the property, not you.” Conroy broke off with a shrug. “It might help.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He held up the foil-wrapped prune cake. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it compares to my granny’s recipe.”

  After he left, Sarah didn’t say a word to Nate and marched up the front hall, fully intending to head to Ethan’s cottage and confront him about his behavior.

  He was already on the porch.

  And Nate was right behind her, drying his hands with a dish towel.

  She pulled open the door. “Ethan, Conroy Fontaine was just here—”

  “I know, ma’am. I saw him. I’m sorry, ma’am.” He spoke directly to her, ignoring Nate. “I lost my head. Mr. Fontaine has been sneaking around the area, asking everybody questions, and with your brother getting shot and everything, I went over to check him out. He wasn’t very nice.” Ethan shrugged his big shoulders. “Usually it takes more than that for me to lose my temper.”

  “We’ve all been under a lot of stress,” Sarah said.

  “I’ll apologize to him.”


  “I’d stay away from him,” Nate said. “Let him cool off before you end up in a holding cell at the local jail.”

  Sarah nodded. “We all need a few days to calm down.”

  “All right, Miss Sarah. If you say so.”

  He said good-night and shambled back down the porch steps.

  Nate stiffly shut the front door, his eyes as intense as she’d seen them yet. But he smiled suddenly, surprising her. “Now, aren’t you glad I’m here?”

  “In their own ways, they’re both looking out for me.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Such a cynic. What are you going to do?”

  “Finish the dishes. Unpack.” He looked at her, then touched a finger just under her eye, where it was still moist from her crying jag. “You okay?”

  She nodded. Just that slight touch had her reeling, but she tried not to let it show. “You know, I think—” She smiled, starting back to the kitchen. “I’m going to make fried pies.”

  There had to be dried apricots in the pantry. Fried apricot pies were one of her father’s favorites. Even her mother, who was no cook, had learned the tricky art of making them.

  Nate didn’t say a word, just followed Sarah back to the kitchen. She rummaged around the pantry’s open shelves.

  There. Dried apricots, unopened.

  She reached behind bags of dried beans and pulled out the box of apricots, then returned to the counter. Nate had rolled up his sleeves and was up to his forearms in dishwater.

  “Let me do those,” she said. “Your arm—you were shot, you know.”

  “I can handle doing dishes.”

  The telephone rang, and Sarah froze. She didn’t know why. Did she think it was the bastard who’d sent her the note, calling to tell her he knew she’d blabbed to the feds? She had no idea what she was thinking. Rob. Had something happened to him?