Night's Landing

by Carla Neggers

  When he got home, she’d take him out on the river in the boat. They’d read books on the porch and drink gin and tonics and catch up with each other. It’d been ages since they’d had a good stretch of time together. She was between projects. She didn’t know what to do with herself—she could easily stay in Night’s Landing until Rob was back on his feet.

  But she’d made it clear to her brother that she was returning to Night’s Landing to put his mind at ease, and for no other reason.

  He’d been amused. “I can just see you going toe-to-toe with Nate, but I’d put money on Nate. You still care what people think. He doesn’t. He’s a good guy, but you’re not going to win with him.”

  She didn’t want to win. She just wanted her brother safe and well, and if going home helped him in his recovery, even in a small way, then she’d go home.

  Nate negotiated the city traffic with no indication that his injured arm bothered him in the least. “Mad?” he asked, unconcerned.

  “Resigned to my fate.”

  His laugh surprised her. “Is that a touch of the infamous Dunnemore drama?”

  Sarah glanced over at him and saw that his color was off slightly. He had to be in at least some pain. “You’ve been researching my family?”

  “Ten minutes on the Web last night. If all those reporters can do it, so can I. I found some paper you wrote on southern historical archaeology sites.”

  “Did you read it?”

  He gave her a quick, wry smile. “I only had ten minutes.” He made a turn into LaGuardia Airport, impervious to the crush of traffic. “Anyone else in Night’s Landing?”

  “The property manager. Neighbors, friends. I won’t be alone.”

  “This property manager lives in your house?”

  “In a separate cottage.”

  “Fancy.”

  She smiled. “My grandmother used to live there. The place is lovely, and it’s very special to my family, but I wouldn’t say it’s fancy.”

  “My uncle’s redecorating the house I grew up in. He did up the half bath like it’s a tropical paradise. It’s god-awful.”

  Sarah laughed in spite of her determination to stay irritated. She didn’t want to let him off the hook for pressuring her, threatening her with arrest. “Why don’t you go up there to recuperate?”

  He turned to her without warning, his eyes almost a navy blue in the afternoon light, then shifted his gaze back to the congested traffic ahead of him. “I wasn’t seriously injured.”

  “But the trauma of being shot—”

  “I’ve been shot at before.”

  She didn’t push her point further. “The distinction being that the bullet didn’t actually hit you.”

  “I don’t need to recuperate.”

  “You want to find the real sniper before he tries again,” she said quietly, without any hint of accusation.

  “Everyone does.”

  “But you’re one of the victims. The FBI and your bosses can’t want you intruding—any more than you wanted me following you this morning.”

  He kept his eyes pinned on the road. “I’m not worried about getting into trouble with the FBI or anyone else.”

  “In a way, we’re in the same position.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  She decided to abandon that approach. “Does Special Agent Collins believe Hector Sanchez is their man?”

  Nate didn’t answer. She started to point out the signs directing them to her gate, but he’d already made the turn.

  “I see. Wrong question. You’re not going to or you can’t tell me. If the shooter, whoever it is, actually targeted you and Rob, he had to know you were going to be at that news conference. You can’t just pull off a sniper attack in Central Park without advance planning. Was Hector Sanchez capable of that kind of detailed planning?”

  More silence.

  “Then the real shooter—the guy who set up Mr. Sanchez—must have known he was one of Rob’s informants, manipulated him somehow because of it, and then killed him when he no longer needed him.” Sarah thought a moment. “No one’s going to think Rob slipped up, will they? Blame him because the real shooter found out about Sanchez?”

  “Sarah, I’m not discussing the investigation with you.”

  “Why not? I’m about to fly to Tennessee and spend the next few days baking prune cakes and fluffing pillows in anticipation of my brother’s arrival. I’m not going to meddle in the FBI’s and the Marshals Service’s business. Even if I wanted to, how could I?”

  Nate glanced at her. “Time to change the subject.”

  She wasn’t getting anything out of him. “How far did I really get before you were onto me this afternoon?”

  “Not an inch. I saw you get into your cab.”

  Sarah believed him. She told herself she wasn’t surprised and had no reason to be embarrassed, but felt a jolt of heat that, after he parked, prompted her to try to talk him out of escorting her to the gate. “I’ve got an hour. There’s no chance I’m not going to make my flight.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “There isn’t.”

  “You know, I’m not a prisoner you’re transporting.”

  “It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you were,” he said, getting out of the car.

  Sarah decided not to pursue that one.

  In spite of the bullet wound in his arm, he insisted on carrying her bag, and bought her a bottle of water for her flight. He was a federal officer, and thus allowed to escort her all the way to her gate.

  When her flight started to board, she felt a prick of panic at the idea of leaving. “If there’s any change in Rob’s condition—”

  “I’ll let you know myself. I promise.”

  She had the feeling Nate was a man who didn’t make many promises. “I’ll be on the first flight back to New York.”

  “Understood.”

  “All right. Fair enough.” She straightened, sighing, awkward. “Well. I guess that’s it. Take care of yourself, okay, Deputy Winter?”

  He gave her that toe-curling smile. “Just get on that damn plane.”

  She blew him a kiss, hoping to throw him off his hard-ass game and assert some control over her situation, but he grinned and winked at her, sending hot sparks right through her.

  Just as well she was getting out of town. Another day with him, and they’d be in bed.

  The thought propelled her down the jetway.

  When she took her seat on the plane, the realization that she was alone hit her. Her throat tightened.

  But wasn’t this what she was used to? Never mind that she’d been all but run out of town on a rail, she was on her own with no one to answer to, no one to rein in her impulses—and no one beside her, she thought with an unexpected rush of emotion. When she got to Night’s Landing, she could do as she pleased. Wasn’t it the way she liked it?

  Whether she liked it or not, it was the way it was.

  Twelve

  Nicholas Janssen waited until after midnight Amsterdam time for the call from Claude Rousseau, who should have arrived in New York yesterday afternoon. Janssen was still in the Dutch city, isolated in a suite of rooms in a seventeenth-century gabled house that had been converted into a very small, very private hotel along picturesque Herengracht, one of the finest canals in Amsterdam.

  He was surrounded by men he paid well to protect him. He had no other relationship with them. Nicholas didn’t delude himself. They weren’t family, they weren’t friends.

  Even at his chalet in Switzerland, he was isolated, his fugitive status in the United States hanging over him. His international jet-setter neighbors distrusted him. Swiss natives wanted nothing to do with him. He knew about the dubious origins of the fortunes of some of the people who snubbed him. Tax evasion was the least of what their fathers and grandfathers had done.

  But it was the least of what he’d done, too.

  Finally the call came. “Rob Dunnemore is improving and should make a full recovery,” Rousseau said. “His sister is on
her way back to Tennessee.”

  “The second marshal? Winter?”

  There was the slightest hesitation. “He could become a problem.”

  “But the FBI have their shooter, don’t they?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Janssen sat forward in his leather chair next to an open window. The low ceilings in the old building made him claustrophobic. The call was secure—the owner of the hotel, who understood his clientele, had the best technical people in Europe regularly sweep for bugs, check with their sources for any attempt to tap the phone lines, legally or otherwise. But, still, Janssen was careful with what he said. “You’ll do what needs to be done, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Rousseau had arrived in New York only yesterday but exhibited no sign of jet lag. “I’m in touch with your man here. We’re working together on the problem.”

  “No ties back to me. None.” Janssen didn’t need to remind Rousseau that he had access to Rousseau’s family—his mother, his ex-wife, his two teenage daughters. “Is that clear?”

  “Very,” Rousseau said calmly.

  “Keep me apprised.”

  After he hung up, Janssen lit his pipe and lifted his feet onto a leather ottoman. His dogs, two Rhodesian ridgebacks who always traveled with him, lay atop a thick Persian carpet. They were his best, most trusted companions. Like him, they had learned discipline, patience.

  But they were of a kind, and they had each other. He had no one.

  The wealth he could reveal openly wasn’t particularly impressive—it was the wealth he concealed that one day he would blend with his legal fortune, that would widen eyes and open doors. Then he could lead the life he’d always imagined for himself. He’d have the woman he wanted, the position, the power, the respect.

  By then, perhaps Stuart Dunnemore would have died in his sleep, and Betsy would be free.

  She’d need time to mourn, of course, but not that much. She had to know she’d outlive Stuart—she’d had to be preparing herself, even now, for going on without him.

  But first, Janssen knew he had to get her to help him deal with the fact that he couldn’t return to his own country without facing prosecution and the certainty of a prison sentence. Betsy would eventually see that it was unfair. That he’d paid for whatever mistakes he’d made and could offer the world more as a free man.

  No, his legal status wasn’t first. He tightened his grip on his pipe and controlled a wave of irritation.

  Dealing with the situation in New York was first.

  He prayed that the Dunnemore twins hadn’t seen him in Amsterdam—that the shooting in Central Park in no way involved him and any of his people.

  But if they had, if it did, Nicholas was prepared to act. Too much was at stake for him not to.

  Thirteen

  It was after dark when two deputy marshals dropped Sarah off at Night’s Landing. Ethan waited until she’d reassured them she was fine there on her own and their car had pulled out of the long, curving driveway. Then he knocked on her kitchen door.

  Sarah opened it, looking drawn and tired, but she attempted a smile. “Hey, Ethan.”

  He adopted his stereotypical good ol’ boy demeanor. “I didn’t expect you home so soon, Miss Sarah.”

  “Rob and his marshal buddies basically kicked me out. A classic case of projection. Really they’re worried about themselves and their own safety, but instead they say they’re worried about me.”

  Ethan doubted it was projection—the marshals probably had damn good reason to worry about her. She was an attractive academic with no experience in law enforcement and sniper attacks. In their position, he wouldn’t want her underfoot, either.

  “Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed. Thanks. Tomorrow—I don’t know.” Her eyes brightened for all of half a second. “I might just go fishing.”

  “I didn’t know you liked to fish, Miss Sarah.”

  “I don’t particularly, but it’s better than sitting around here worrying about Rob and feeling sorry for myself.”

  Ethan smiled and managed to shuffle his feet. “I know it’s a hard time for you. The neighbors stopped by to give their regards. Mr. Fontaine, Miss Prichard, Mr. and Mrs. Kidd. They wanted to bring casseroles and flowers, but I told them I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

  “That’s sweet of them.” She seemed to take pleasure in the concern of her neighbors. “I’d love to have a few more casseroles in the freezer for when Rob gets here. He’s coming down to recuperate as soon as his doctors allow him to travel. What about reporters?”

  “A few. I let them pound on the door, then came out and looked scary when they started peeking in the windows.”

  That brought on a genuine smile. “Good thinking.”

  He left her in the big empty house, the ground soft under his feet as he walked back to his cottage. He could smell the wetness of the river, hear it lapping the limestone along its banks. The stars and half-moon created enough light for the trees to cast dark, wavering shadows. He hadn’t grown up near water and trees.

  He opened up all the cottage windows. The curtains fluttered in a cool breeze. Quickly, routinely, he checked his weapons. He had two Browning single-action 9 mm semiautomatics, as well as the Smith & Wesson .38 semiautomatic he used as an ankle gun.

  The two wounded deputy marshals in New York. The archaeologist sister. The elderly statesman and his younger wife in Amsterdam.

  The president of the United States.

  Charlene Brooker, murdered army captain.

  Ethan couldn’t see how they fit together. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe only some did. But he’d never been a big plotter, one to agonize over every why and wherefore. Establish the mission, then accomplish it. He figured if he got in these people’s faces, something would start clicking.

  In the meantime, he had nothing solid to take to the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service, the Secret Service, army investigators, the Dutch police or anyone else.

  Not that he would go to any of them when he did.

  He wanted Charlene’s killer all to himself.

  Fourteen

  A fine mist rose off the river, sparkling in the early-morning sun that would burn it off within the hour. Sarah had walked down to the dock and up along the riverbank to the edge of the fields, aware of the tightness in her muscles after so many hours of worry, fear and tension. But she felt less conflicted about being back in Night’s Landing, less guilty for having left her brother. It was what he wanted. He had friends, colleagues—armed guards—who’d look after him.

  And she was home, away from the guns, the investigation, the angry and concerned federal agents.

  When she returned to the house, she put on water for hot tea and settled at the round oak kitchen table, piled with mail Ethan must have brought in while she was in New York. She flipped through it, hoping for a good catalogue to occupy her while she drank her tea. There were cards and notes from well-wishers—most were people she knew, but some were strangers who’d heard that her brother had been shot and wanted his family to know they were thinking of him.

  She made her tea and read the cards and letters one by one, appreciating the good thoughts from friend and stranger alike. I know I haven’t seen you in several years, but I had to write…

  “Nice,” she said aloud, lifting a larger envelope off the pile.

  No return address. New York postmark. One of Rob’s associates?

  She opened it and unfolded the single white eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper inside. Several lines were centered on the page in large, bold, computer-printed italics.

  A poem, she thought.

  No.

  The first words registered.

  If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

  Unable to breathe, Sarah shoved her chair back, its legs screeching on the wood floor. She lurched to her feet.

  The paper fluttered in a breeze from the open window, the words plai
nly visible in at least twenty-eight-point italic type, glaring up at her.

  If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

  Do nothing. Tell no one.

  The marshals, the FBI, your local sheriff.

  Your parents in Amsterdam.

  I’ll know if you talk.

  Wait.

  She was aware of herself gulping in air without expelling any. Aware of her tea mug teetering on the edge of the table, of her hand holding tightly onto the back of the old oak chair. It was as if she was looking down at herself. She couldn’t make herself stop.

  What was going on? Was someone trying to take advantage of her situation for their own jollies, to terrify her, to get attention—to what?

  Was it a serious, credible threat?

  From the shooter?

  From someone else?

  She didn’t dare touch the offending letter again for fear of further contaminating any forensic evidence it might contain. The envelope was front-down on the table. Was the address printed, or handwritten? She couldn’t remember.

  But what difference did it make? She wasn’t an investigator, a handwriting analyst.

  She picked up her mug, careful not to spill tea all over the letter, and staggered to the kitchen counter with it and set it down. She grabbed the old telephone, immediately dialing her parents’ number in Amsterdam. She had it memorized, just as well because she doubted she’d have been able to look it up. Her hands were shaking, her head spinning—she remembered Nate ordering her to hold her breath in the park. She’d been hyperventilating. That was what she was doing now.

  She didn’t want to pass out.

  She held her breath, but somehow, it made her want to cry.

  Her mother answered.

  “Hi—it’s me.” Sarah winced at the sound of her own voice. She felt as if she were back in school, calling and pretending all was well when she was homesick, exhausted, anxious, miserable. “I just wanted to check in. I made it back to Night’s Landing okay. I haven’t talked to Rob yet this morning. It’s still early. How’re you and Dad?”