Night's Landing Page 9

  “He’s doing all right? You’ve seen him?”

  “He’s in good shape. The other marshal—”

  “Rob Dunnemore is a family friend.”

  Wes didn’t mince words. The story had just broken. It was all over the news now, but from his blank reaction, either Callahan hadn’t heard of Wes’s relationship with the wounded deputy or was pretending he hadn’t. “I didn’t realize he was a friend. I’m sorry.”

  Wes had just issued a statement through his press secretary. It was a balancing act. He didn’t want to give the impression, no matter how unintentionally, that anyone in his administration—anyone in law enforcement—believed that the shooting in Central Park yesterday was in any way connected to him.

  “I understand Rob’s had a rough time of it,” Wes said. “We came close to losing him yesterday.”

  “Antonia—my wife—says his chances for a full recovery grow with every hour he goes without complications, especially from blood loss.”

  “Did you see him? Rob—how did he look? Under the circumstances, it’s difficult for me to go up there myself. There’s nothing political here, by the way. This is an entirely personal conversation.”

  But their surroundings begged the question—was anything personal, was anything private, when one was president?

  Callahan stayed unreadable. “Of course, Mr. President. No, I didn’t see Deputy Dunnemore myself.”

  Wes nodded, wondering why he’d bothered to invite Callahan over to the White House. To assuage his own guilt at having neglected Rob in recent years? Wes hadn’t approved of him becoming a marshal. Rob’s own father hadn’t approved, although Stuart Dunnemore’s reasons were different and he’d have been more subtle about his objections. The kid was smart, well connected, personable. He could do anything with his life. Why spend it in the gutter catching criminals? Now that he was in the Oval Office, Wes thought, he had a different view. The work the USMS did was vital, and it needed good people like Rob Dunnemore.

  And that was what scared Rob’s father, Wes knew. He wasn’t worried so much that Rob could do better—he was worried his only son was a throwback to the wild Dunnemores of the past, a mix of loggers and riverboat workers who lived hard and died young. To his own brother, who’d died a hero on Omaha Beach.

  “You and your wife are expecting a child?” Wes asked casually.

  His question seemed to catch Callahan off guard. “Just a few more weeks to go.”

  “That’s wonderful. Nervous?”

  The young senator didn’t answer at once, but he obviously understood the subtext. In light of the tragedy of losing his firstborn, was he nervous about this baby? Wes’s own wife had lost all four of their babies. They’d almost saved the last one, a baby girl. People told him, or at least implied, it wasn’t like losing a three-year-old, as Callahan had. Wes knew it was probably true. But miscarriage and stillbirth were their own special pain, their own special hell.

  And the effect it’d had on Ev. She’d tell him he hadn’t done anything wrong—it was her, all her. She’d let go some of the self-blame and self-pity since he’d entered public service and she’d taken on her own issues, devoting herself to children’s health, poverty and underachievement.

  They both considered the Dunnemore twins as close as they would come to having children of their own. They’d watched them grow up, attended their birthday parties and graduations, took them out on the river—and they’d gone to funerals together. Granny Dunnemore’s. Leola’s, Violet’s. Thank God he and Ev hadn’t had to face Rob’s funeral.

  Callahan managed a brief smile. “I guess a little nervousness is to be expected, Mr. President.”

  “Good luck to you. Let me know, will you?”

  “I’d be glad to. Mr. President—”

  “I don’t know anything more about yesterday’s shooting than you do,” Wes said, anticipating the senator’s question. “Did you happen to see Sarah Dunnemore, Rob’s sister?”

  Callahan shook his head. “As soon as we realized Nate was all right, we got out of his way.”

  “She’s an historical archaeologist. She doesn’t have a background in law enforcement, the military, politics. She’s just back from a research trip in Scotland. She’s spent years researching the house where I grew up and the family that raised me.” He sighed, picturing her hearing the news about her brother. “But she’s tough. I keep telling myself that.”

  Callahan maintained his correct bearing. “I’m sure it’s a difficult time for all of Deputy Dunnemore’s friends and family.”

  Wes nodded, sighing heavily. “It’s strange how we go through these times in our lives when it’s as if we’re under siege. I can’t imagine how you all must have felt when you found out your brother-in-law had been shot, even if he was only slightly wounded. After what you went through last fall—”

  “It hasn’t been easy, but we’re relieved he’s okay.”

  “Deputy Winter—he’s solid?”

  “Rock solid, Mr. President.”

  “We don’t know yet if he was the target, or if Rob was—or if they both were. Well, the FBI and the marshals won’t leave a stone unturned in searching for whoever did the shooting. That much we know for sure.”

  Wes pictured Granny Dunnemore, as everyone called her, at her stove in the beautiful log house on the Cumberland River that her late husband had built just to attract a woman. They’d owned a sawmill that went out of business in the Depression. Not long after, Web Dunnemore died in a logging accident. Pearl Dunnemore always preferred her simple ways and said she never missed the mill. She remained a widow, without self-pity, for over fifty years. She made the best white beans in middle Tennessee. Even now, Wes could smell them simmering on her stove.

  She was Leola and Violet’s contemporary, just a few years younger than they were. But they were all gone now. Some days, it was hard to believe. They were strong women, survivors determined to do what they believed was right. Granny Dunnemore had lost her husband young, then her firstborn son in the war, and she meant her second son to live a long and happy life. She encouraged Stuart to study hard and got the application to Vanderbilt herself, then cheered him when he went off to Washington, D.C., to begin his long, illustrious career as a diplomat and an advisor, a brilliant thinker. It was a life that, to Wes as a boy, seemed so far away, so beyond his grasp.

  Reach for the stars and you might hook the moon, Pearl Dunnemore would tell him. You could be president one day.

  Yet he knew Stuart’s departure from Night’s Landing had been another kind of a loss for his mother. Wes had seen her sitting out on her porch, crying after her son’s visits and she was alone again. When he moved back with his first wife, Pearl couldn’t hide her joy at having him home, despite the tragic circumstances.

  And when Stuart remarried and the twins were born, Granny was the happiest woman in Tennessee. Even when Stuart took up traveling again, she understood that Night’s Landing was in his blood, that it was his home, his anchor.

  Leola and Violet didn’t have it in them to encourage Wes to stretch his wings. They’d loved him without condition, and he them, but they’d feared the outside world. Become a schoolteacher in town, they’d say. Get a job at the local bank. Don’t walk away from your home, your roots.

  But what home did he have, what roots?

  Hank Callahan cleared his throat in the awkward silence. “If anything,” he said, “Nate might step on toes to get answers. I imagine Rob Dunnemore would, too, once he’s on his feet. They’re not going to sit back.” He tried to smile. “Well, they’re not going to like sitting back.”

  “Rob’s twin sister has the makings of a loose cannon, especially where her brother is concerned.” But people never guessed it—they’d look at her and see the pretty face, the gray eyes, the sweep of blond hair and think good girl, not realize that she came from a family tree filled with scoundrels and adventurers. Wes smiled. “I hope the marshals are keeping an eye on her.”

  Callahan angled a look
at him, respectful but at the same time curious, even suspicious. “Mr. President, the attack yesterday—are you certain it had nothing to do with you?”

  “There’s no evidence of that whatsoever.”

  The young senator seemed satisfied, and in another minute, they bid each other good-night. After Callahan left Wes sank back down on the sofa. He’d spoken with such assurance, but did he know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that yesterday’s shooting had nothing to do with him? No one had given him that assurance.

  But it couldn’t.

  He’d never be able to live with himself if something happened to Rob or to Sarah because of him, because of his position. Neither would Ev. She’d lost too much already.

  He glanced at his watch. Just nine o’clock. He’d work for a couple more hours, make sure Ev was asleep and unable to ask questions, unable to articulate her fears, before he ventured to bed.

  Ten

  Sarah awoke to the gurgle of fish tanks and the spiked end of a spider plant tickling her nose. She’d acquiesced to another night on the futon in Juliet’s front room and slept better, but not much better, than she had the night before. When Juliet suggested they get breakfast somewhere, Sarah jumped at the chance.

  They walked to a diner and tucked themselves into a small booth with cracked red vinyl seats. Sarah ordered a cheese omelette and iced tea. She didn’t feel as trapped, as hemmed in and claustrophobic, as she had yesterday and realized it had been her own fears at work, not anything her brother’s colleagues had done to her.

  At least she’d had the good sense not to mention the man at the park to Juliet or especially to Nate Winter. Thinking she’d recognized him from Amsterdam seemed even more ridiculous this morning. It was simply her nerves playing on her, ratcheting up the stakes and the tension. Her Dunnemore genes kicking in.

  The omelette was hot and perfectly cooked, and Sarah ate every bite, determined not to let low blood sugar affect her thinking—she’d had a shock. Even if Rob’s situation was far worse than her own, she had to give herself time to adjust to what had happened.

  Juliet had a bagel and three cups of black coffee.

  “Did you sleep okay?” she asked Sarah.

  Sarah nodded. “The aquariums and the street traffic are like white noise after a while, aren’t they? I haven’t lived in a city in so long.” She drank more of her tea. “Where are you from originally?”

  “The boonies of Vermont.” But Juliet was obviously uncomfortable talking about herself and picked up the bill, heading for the cash register. “Come on. We’ll take a cab to the hospital. I’ll figure out a way to bypass the media if they look like they’re going to pounce.”

  They’d watched the news last night and heard Wes Poe’s statement about his friendship with the Dunnemores. It was no secret—it’d been covered in his campaign. Just no one had thought the deputy shot in Central Park was a member of that Dunnemore family.

  Wes hadn’t called, but Sarah told herself that she couldn’t expect him to.

  When they arrived at the hospital, over a dozen reporters had gathered at the ambulance entrance not far from the main door. Video cameras were rolling, photographers snapping pictures, reporters asking questions. Sarah got out of the cab, then noticed Nate Winter in the middle of the throng.

  “Ouch,” Juliet said, coming up next to her. “He doesn’t look very happy, does he? Hell. They’ve got him surrounded. He should pull a faint or something and get out of there.”

  A young female reporter thrust a microphone in his face.

  “Deputy Winter, Hector Sanchez was a known informant. Did you or Deputy Dunnemore tell him that you would be at the news conference?”

  Then more questions, coming all at once.

  “Do you believe he was the shooter?”

  “Sources say he died of a drug overdose—do you think he was celebrating the Central Park attack?”

  “Can you confirm that the rifle allegedly used in the shooting was found at his side?”

  “What about the president? Has he talked to Rob Dunnemore?”

  Nate held up a hand. “Sorry. No comment. If you’ll excuse me.”

  That was it. He was done.

  Juliet huddled close to Sarah and maneuvered her toward the main entrance. “Let’s get you out of here before they recognize you.”

  “What about Nate?”

  “He can take care of himself.”

  Once past security and into the hospital lobby, Sarah shuddered as if she’d shaken off a swarm of bees. She turned to Juliet. “What was that all about? Does the FBI have the sniper? It sounds as if he’s dead—”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Who’s Hector Sanchez? Did you realize he was a suspect?” She took a breath, but Juliet didn’t respond, simply banged the up button for the elevator. Sarah felt a stab of dread. “It sounds as if the media think someone screwed up—”

  “It’s the FBI’s investigation,” Juliet said tightly. “Let’s go—”

  Sarah shook her head. “I’m fine on my own today. Really. Tell your bosses I appreciate the moral support.”

  “Sarah—”

  “I’m used to being on my own, and I’m not in any danger.”

  Juliet sighed. “I’ll see you upstairs in ten minutes.”

  She headed back through the lobby toward the main entrance and the reporters, presumably, Sarah thought, to find out what was going on.

  The elevators churned and groaned inside the empty shafts. She didn’t feel nearly as raw and exhausted as yesterday. She’d showered, put on fresh clothes—black pants, a blue silk sweater, shoes that could handle New York walking. Her quick, early-morning call to Rob’s nurse had left her feeling optimistic. He’d had a good night and was more alert today. They’d be getting him up and moving.

  A trio of medical students floated toward the elevators in an intense discussion.

  Nate Winter walked past them at a fast, deliberate pace.

  There was no sign of Juliet behind him.

  Where was he off to?

  The elevator dinged. Sarah watched its doors open, then bolted down the corridor, going after Nate at a half run.

  He had a decent head start on her—she almost missed him retreating through a side door. It was an “exit only,” not an entrance, and she went through it without hesitation.

  When she reached the street, Nate was climbing into the driver’s side of a black sedan parked about fifty yards up from the ambulance entrance and the throng of reporters.

  With an outward calm, Sarah stepped off the curb and stuck her hand up in the air, flagging a cab before she had seriously considered her options. She opened the rear door and climbed in. “Can you follow that black car just in front of us? He left his wallet.”

  “I can flash my lights—”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll just give it to him wherever he stops.”

  She knew what she was doing was wrong. Impulsive, insane. Even dumb. She was following a deputy U.S. marshal who’d just been shot and undoubtedly was in no mood to find her on his tail. Nate didn’t seem to have a lot of patience on a good day. And, given the journalistic onslaught he’d just faced and the possibility that a USMS informant was the shooter, this couldn’t be starting off as a good day.

  Not that he’d looked upset or irritated. He’d looked focused, as if he were on a mission.

  Possibly doing something he shouldn’t be doing?

  She’d sensed his bridled energy last night. As exhausted as he was, he was a man of action. He didn’t take to being on the sidelines.

  Wounded, still experiencing the shock of what had happened to him, he could easily go off half-cocked.

  Maybe today was his day to fall apart, to feel trapped and hemmed in by events, and if she could keep him from doing something he’d later regret, why not?

  It was her version of catching him before he fell flat on his face.

  Payback for saving her brother’s life.

  She stared o
ut the window, her cab speeding north. She knew she was rationalizing her behavior.

  But she didn’t tell her driver to turn around, and tailing Nate proved easier than she expected.

  They ended up in a run-down section of the city on a mixed bag of a street, some buildings neat and clean, even boasting window boxes, others complete wrecks with nasty graffiti, broken windows, people loitering on the steps. Fortunately, Nate’s car stopped in front of one of the neat, clean buildings.

  He mounted the front steps at a trot and disappeared inside. No one had buzzed him in, and he hadn’t used a key—which meant there was no lock on the main door.

  Sarah paid her cab driver. “I’ll only be a minute. Can you wait for me?”

  He didn’t answer, but the moment she shut her door, he was hurling up the street, leaving her on the curb.

  Okay, so she’d have to find another cab back.

  Or ask Nate for a ride.

  She winced at the thought. Preferably, she wouldn’t even have to see him. She just wanted to make sure he hadn’t gone off the deep end.

  Who was she kidding? She was the one who’d gone off the deep end in following him.

  A stout, elderly woman wearing a wild hat mounted the steps to an adjoining building, more run-down than the one Nate had entered, and two young women in white uniforms rushed along the sidewalk, talking in Spanish—Sarah made out something about an exercise class they were taking. Their casual attitude helped her feel safer, although she had no idea where she was.

  The front door was, indeed, unlocked, creaking loudly when Sarah pushed it open.

  The entry smelled of a strong cleaning solution. She could hear music playing somewhere above her. The ordinariness of the scene helped her to relax slightly. Nate had followed her to Central Park yesterday. Even if her motives weren’t entirely pure, why shouldn’t she follow him?

  Because he’s a federal law enforcement officer.

  But she was an historical archaeologist, and that took a certain amount of curiosity, guts and drive—a willingness to take risks.