Night's Landing

by Carla Neggers

  Ethan shrugged. “If I were your granny and had to fetch a snake out of the house, I don’t know as I’d tell a little kid it was poisonous.”

  Sarah expelled a breath. “I’m sorry. I have no business accusing you of anything. I’m sure it was an accident.” She tried to smile. “At least I know how to catch a snake. I wonder if that poor snake knows I saved its life.”

  Nate shook his head. “I’m with Brooker. Easier just to shoot it.”

  “You’d clean up the mess?”

  Ethan gave an exaggerated shudder, his eyes sparking with unexpected humor. “You know, Miss Sarah, I could have gone all day without that picture in my head.”

  “Sorry. But the snake didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like it wanted to be in the house—it just found itself there.”

  “Next time you find a snake in the house,” Ethan said, “you call me, okay? That’s what I’m here for.”

  “You won’t shoot it?”

  “No, ma’am, how could I shoot it? I don’t carry a gun.”

  He ambled off the dock and back toward the fence. Nate stared out at the water. The sun broke through the clouds and played on the ripples of coppery water. A bright red male cardinal flew into the low brush along the river, and Sarah could hear a mourning dove with its intermittent, almost plaintive song.

  So quiet, so peaceful.

  But her heart was thumping, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the snake and how it had gotten into the house.

  “About last night,” Nate said. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  She nodded.

  “Your brother’s trusting me to look after you—”

  “I can look after myself.”

  He half smiled. “You did all right with that snake.”

  She glanced up at him and forced herself to smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “You’re pals with the president. For all we know, a dozen Secret Service agents are camped out here.”

  “And saw us last night? I don’t think so. Nobody saw anything.”

  His eyes sparked. “There was plenty to see.”

  She thought of diving into the river. The snake was probably halfway to Nashville by now. Nate’s words had brought back all of last night. She could feel her body quaking with him inside her, remembered how she’d resisted screaming out—how uninhibited she’d been with him. He was not an inexperienced lover. She warned herself not to expect anything more.

  She ran her hands through her hair. “I think we should check the house for more snakes, don’t you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  But when they reached the house, he stopped in the front hall and curved an arm around her middle, kissing her softly. “Last night wasn’t just opportunistic,” he whispered. “When this thing gets settled—” But he didn’t finish, just stood back and sighed. “We’ll see.”

  He didn’t trust himself right now on any level—she guessed that was what he was trying to say. Which made sense to her, because she didn’t trust herself, either.

  Twenty-Three

  Betsy Dunnemore looked even more drawn and stressed-out than she had the other day when Nicholas had intercepted her at the café. She stood in the elegant living room of his hotel suite as if she were his captive. In a way, she was. His orders to his men had been precise—bring her to him without fail, but voluntarily. Persuade her. Create a sense of urgency that she couldn’t ignore.

  Anything could happen in New York. Anything at all.

  He needed to speak with her before she got there. He wanted her on his side. He wanted her at least to understand his position.

  And if he could get it, he wanted information from her. What did she know about the sniper investigation? Did anyone realize he’d contacted her? Were the feds trying to pin the Central Park attack on him? Rousseau was drawing blanks in New York. He was useless.

  “Who were those men?” Betsy tossed her head in an obvious effort to look outraged, but she was too upset, too frightened, to pull it off. “Your hired thugs?”

  “Bodyguards. In my position—”

  “As a fugitive,” she cut in coldly.

  “As a wealthy man who not only my enemies but my own government want to bring down.”

  She snorted. “Spare me your self-pity. What do you want?” Her tone was slicing. “Your ‘bodyguards’ made it clear they’d drag me here if I didn’t come on my own.”

  “I’m sure you’re reading into their manner. I apologize for any—”

  “Just tell me what you want. My husband and I are flying to New York later this afternoon.” She had on her travel clothes, a smart black suit with her fashionable but comfortable shoes. “A car is picking us up in half an hour. I have to be back.”

  Nicholas sipped a glass of a Belgian beer he was fond of. “You’ll be back in plenty of time. Won’t you sit down?”

  “No.”

  She was strong willed, a beautiful woman in her prime. According to Janssen’s sources, Stuart Dunnemore was still a vital, interesting man, but at almost eighty, he wasn’t the man she’d married. He was increasingly dependent on her. But Betsy would never let people think she had any regrets about having married a man so much older than she.

  “Can I offer you some lunch?” Nicholas asked mildly.

  She shook her head, her hands clasped firmly on her handbag. The way she was dressed, the way she carried herself, her hair, her grooming—she looked as if she belonged in the tasteful surroundings. Janssen had to work at looking the part, although his wealth far, far exceeded that of the Dunnemores. But inside, Janssen felt like a phony. A thug, a common criminal.

  That, he thought, would change.

  “You’re free to leave. It’s not as if you’re my prisoner.” He spoke with wry amusement, but Betsy didn’t relax even slightly. He set his beer glass down on a small, antique table. “I have contacts in New York who tell me that the FBI’s spinning its wheels in its investigation into the shooting. They haven’t made any headway since they found that drug addict dead—”

  “What contacts?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your husband are walking into a very tense situation. My contacts also tell me that the FBI and the Marshals Service are bracing for another attack.”

  “I want to see my son,” she said tightly. “That’s all.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  She leveled her unflinching gaze on him. “I’m going to tell Rob—and the investigators—that you’ve approached me several times since last fall. As soon as I learned of your legal status I’ve asked you not to contact me.”

  It was the truth, as far as it went, but she wasn’t saying how she’d learned he was a fugitive. Charlene Brooker. Either Betsy was deliberately not mentioning her meeting with the young army captain or didn’t think it was important. But the FBI would want to know how Betsy Dunnemore had found out her old college classmate was a fugitive—they’d want to know everything murdered army captain Charlene Brooker had told her. Janssen knew now he should have acted sooner, before Char Brooker had contacted Betsy.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Betsy said. “What you’re up to—”

  “I’m not up to anything. I’m just a man in legal limbo who ran into an old friend—” He smiled, remembering her previous stinging words on that subject. “An old acquaintance.”

  Her gray eyes narrowed slightly. “My son’s situation and yours had better be coincidence and nothing more.”

  Or what? Nicholas almost asked her, almost called her bluff—fought an urge to threaten her and demonstrate just how dangerous he was. “I’m sure they will. In the meantime, they could cause us both problems. You’re not only the mother of a wounded marshal, you’re a friend of the president.”

  “Don’t bring Wes into this.”

  Janssen shrugged, rising so that he was a few inches above eye level with her. “Betsy, I’m an innocent man. I want to put my legal problems behind me and do good in the world. You can h
elp me.”

  She gave a small gasp that she must have wished she could have held back. “I have no intention of helping you!”

  He smiled gently. “You already have. Just seeing you has made a difference to me.”

  She took a breath. “Nick, please. Stay out of my life.”

  “I had nothing to do with the attack on your son. It’s insane to think I did. But if you tell the authorities about me—”

  “Are you suggesting I don’t? What, are you going to threaten me?”

  But she regained her self-control and tilted her head back, studying him a moment through those half-closed eyes. They were beautiful eyes. Stormy and vivid, with just enough mystery.

  “Why did you seek me out in the first place? The FBI’s going to want to know, if they don’t already.”

  “Betsy, remember. I knew Wes Poe in college, too. He was my friend, too.”

  She inhaled through her nose. “Don’t you even think—”

  “Why, because he complicates everything for you? Or because you know you should have married him?”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving. I don’t ever want to see you again. If your men come near me, I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m a decent man, Betsy.” He ached to reach her, to convince her. “If I made a mistake in fleeing my country, it was because I wasn’t thinking. I want to go home. I want to see my mother’s grave.”

  She stared at him, and he wondered if she was seeing him at eighteen, a misfit intellectually, socially and culturally. She’d tried to help him make more friends. She’d felt sorry for him then—she’d had sympathy for him.

  But all that was gone.

  He couldn’t count on convincing her to want to step in on his behalf with the president by being nice. He saw that now.

  “A presidential pardon would clear my name.” He spoke softly and met her eyes, saw the shock in them. “You could make it happen.”

  “Bastard,” she said through her teeth and ran for the door, pushing past a bodyguard who could have snapped her neck without breaking a sweat. Janssen motioned for him to let her go. She gave him one last, scathing look and started for the steep, curving stairs. “Don’t you ever try to contact me again.”

  “Betsy. Don’t leave. Not just yet.” He lifted an envelope from a small side table. “There’s a picture of a woman in here.”

  “I’m leaving.” But her voice faltered, and she didn’t move.

  Janssen withdrew the photograph Charlene Brooker he’d cut out of an Amsterdam newspaper. “You recognize this woman, don’t you? She’s an army captain. You two met last fall.”

  Betsy gasped. “What—Nick, what’s going on? Why was her picture in the paper?”

  “She was found dead two days after you met with her. Shot in the chest. Point-blank range. Hookers found her in the red-light district.” Janssen set the picture faceup on the table. “Amsterdam’s a safe city, but—” He didn’t finish. “It’s a very sad story.”

  “She’s dead? Murdered? My God, I had no idea. Stuart and I left for home a day or two after I saw her. She told me about your fugitive status.” Betsy spoke in a tight, rapid voice. “I didn’t mention her because I didn’t think it was any of your business. I never heard from her again.”

  “Perhaps because she was dead.” Janssen eased back onto his chair, aware of how brittle with tension she was. He had to play this moment very carefully. “Another coincidence.”

  Her eyebrows arched. He could see her fear now. “How do you know I met with her?”

  “It’s not important. But if I know, Betsy, other people know. The FBI will want to know. The Dutch police.”

  “I’ll tell them everything, of course, but I don’t even remember the poor woman’s name.”

  Nicholas decided not to tell her. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

  In the silence, she bit her lower lip and grasped her stomach, as if she might vomit. “Do you believe her killer is also responsible for Rob—for shooting my son and the deputy who was with him? Nick, please. Tell me what you know.”

  “Your captain was in army intelligence. Just because she told you about my situation doesn’t mean she was investigating me.” But, of course, that wasn’t true. “Betsy, I don’t need to remind you that your husband is an important man. He has important enemies inside and outside the government.”

  “But not violent enemies.”

  “Everyone’s violent these days, one way or another. People listen to your husband. The president listens. That makes him powerful.”

  “I’m leaving. You’re deliberately trying to scare me.”

  “This can all spin out of control, Betsy, if you aren’t careful. I know you want to protect your family. Let me help you.” He let his gaze connect with hers. “Then you can help me.”

  But she fled, taking the steep, curving stairs as fast as she possibly could.

  Janssen flopped back against his chair and stifled a moan of pain and despair. His head throbbed. He was so tired. But while their meeting could have gone better, it had gone about as well as he’d expected. He’d planted the seed. Soon she would realize that the only way to get him out of her life and to save her family was to use her influence with President John Wesley Poe and persuade him to pardon an old college classmate.

  Before his other activities came to light.

  When he returned to his beer, there was a call for him. “Is the money ready?” the voice on the other end asked. “You’ll have your presidential pardon within twenty-four hours.”

  “What? Who are you? Stay the hell out of my affairs!”

  “The clock is ticking.”

  “Wait—”

  But the caller had already disconnected.

  Twenty-Four

  Rob was sitting up in bed, picking at a plate of hospital food, when Juliet arrived. She was relieved to see him in a private room. She didn’t like being around sick people. The doctors and nurses had him up walking as much as possible, but he was still weak—and he still had his marshal guards. They weren’t going anywhere, not with the investigation still ongoing, his sister receiving threatening letters and Rob unable to pick up a gun much less fire one.

  That he couldn’t defend himself didn’t sit well with him. “I can’t wait to get out of here. What’s going on that nobody else will tell me?”

  “Nothing,” Juliet said. “You’re a hundred percent in the loop.”

  He snorted. “Right. Liar.”

  “Joe Collins is covering all the angles, even the cranks.” His unsettling visit to her apartment last night was still fresh in her mind. “I think deep down he believes Hector’s our guy. Even if he had a handicap, he could have pulled off those two shots. People saw him—”

  “Is that what you believe? That Hector Sanchez was the shooter and he overdosed celebrating his handiwork?”

  Juliet sighed. One of Rob’s doctors had cornered her in the hall and warned her not to discuss the shooting with him. But, if she was the one bandaged up and stuck in the hospital, she’d want every damn detail she could get. She’d do all she could to get out of there so she could go catch the shooter herself. Rob was laid-back, but he wasn’t that laid-back.

  “I suppose someone could have set him up, made sure people saw him to draw attention away from the real shooter, then paid him off with a drug overdose. Collins isn’t saying—”

  Rob tried to give her the high sign, but it was too late. “Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” the FBI agent asked behind her.

  Juliet spun around. “Rob was just asking a normal question. Damn.” She grinned at him. “You FBI types are sneaky.”

  “We prefer ‘stealthy.’”

  He had a good-natured manner, but Juliet sensed his underlying seriousness.

  “How’re you doing today, Deputy?” he asked Rob.

  “Not bad. They’ve got me eating regular food. I’m starving.”

  “That’s got to be a good sign. Your doctors tell me you’re making an amazing r
ecovery. All that triathlon training must be helping.” He shook his head and patted his gut. “Me, I wouldn’t have made it out of the park.”

  “I almost didn’t,” Rob said softly.

  “Don’t be thinking like that. Deputy Longstreet? A word?”

  Rob immediately looked suspicious and Juliet didn’t blame him. She ran one hand through her hair. “Here or—”

  “Out in the hall, if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s up?” Rob asked.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” the FBI agent said. “I’ll be back in a minute to talk to you.”

  It was clear Rob objected, but there was nothing he could do.

  Collins led Juliet into the unoccupied waiting room and shut the door. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, rattling loose change, a gravity overcoming him that she hadn’t seen in him before, even in the first hours after the shooting. “The Dunnemores didn’t make it onto their plane in Amsterdam.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t make it? Did something happen to them or did they just miss their flight?”

  “We don’t know. They refused an escort. They’re a stubborn lot, the whole damn family.” He sighed through his teeth. “I’m putting someone on them. I don’t give a good goddamn if they don’t like it—” He broke off with another angry, frustrated sigh. “As soon as we find them.”

  “Are you going to tell Rob?”

  “No. He’s the reason I just put you in the loop on this one.”

  Juliet saw his awkwardness and realized what he was getting at. “Oh, great,” she said without enthusiasm. “I get to tell him. Are you shoving it off onto Nate to tell the sister?”

  Collins nodded with at least a small measure of guilt.

  “Can we give it some time?” Juliet asked. “Wait and see if the parents show up?”

  He poured himself a cup of stale coffee. “If you were in Rob Dunnemore’s position, would you want us dancing around the truth, or would you want to know straight out what was going on with your folks?”

  She knew she didn’t need to answer.

  Joe Collins stared at his grayish coffee. Juliet wondered what else he knew. What he wasn’t telling her. Today he had the look of a man preoccupied with unraveling what was increasingly not looking like a simple case of a drugged-out snitch going bad. Whatever was going on was more complicated—and possibly even more dangerous.