She heard the guy in the back seat swear in another language. French? Italian? Not Spanish. She sort of knew Spanish.
She slammed onto the pavement and used her karate and tai chi skills to control her full-body roll even as she felt the pain tear through her.
Brakes screeched all around her.
She scrambled to her feet. A yellow cab came to a hard, crooked stop so close to her that she had to fall onto its hood to keep from ending up under it. Another car rear-ended it, and it was all she could do not to slide off the hood.
“You stupid, fucking bitch,” a man yelled out the window of another car.
She didn’t exactly blame him.
“Call the police,” Juliet told the cab driver, who was staring at her through the windshield, frozen behind the wheel. “Nine-one-one. Now. Tell them a federal officer’s been hurt. A U.S. marshal.”
The driver nodded, his hands shaking. “You shot?”
“No. Hurt.”
God, she couldn’t breathe.
Had she cracked a rib?
She felt a searing pain in her upper right thigh and glanced down as she eased off the hood of the cab.
Blood. Road rash. Nasty road rash.
A half-dozen other cars and cabs stopped. A young man identified himself as an E.R. nurse and asked if she needed help.
“Yes.” Juliet could feel him and another guy helping her off the hood. “Yes, I think I do. I’m a federal agent. The car I was in. Did you get its plate number?”
“No, ma’am. Please, try not to talk. Let’s have a look—”
“I’m okay. I need a car. I need to go after those assholes—”
“Ma’am. Please.”
They got her to the curb. She heard sirens. She saw a police officer. I’m fine…I’m fine. She didn’t know what she said aloud and what she only thought, but they all got the idea that she wasn’t going to let herself get strapped onto a gurney and stuck in any damn ambulance.
While she was still arguing, Joe Collins pulled up in his black G-man car. It was the first time he hadn’t looked amiable. “Get in the fucking ambulance,” he told her. “I’ll see you at the E.R.”
“You don’t give me orders—”
“I’m quoting your chief deputy. He’d said you’d be like this.”
He rolled up his window and drove off.
Juliet looked at the stunned E.R. nurse who’d helped her in the first moments after she’d leaped out of the car. “So. Okay. I guess I’ll get in the ambulance. But I’ll walk. No stretcher.”
Twenty-Seven
Sarah knocked on the side of the screen door to Ethan’s cottage. When there was no answer, she debated a half second, then stepped inside, knowing she was violating the basic trust between them. He wouldn’t sneak around in the house when her family wasn’t home. But she’d slept fitfully, dreaming of water moccasins, haunted by Rob’s warnings and Ethan’s own words that she was too trusting.
And she’d slept alone. Her own doing. When they’d arrived back at the house after visiting Conroy, her mind was racing, her body quivering from nerves and fatigue. Nate had touched her shoulder gently, even kindly, and suggested she take a hot bath and fall into bed.
They’d gone too fast. They both knew it.
As she moved into the kitchen area, she fought back a memory of Granny Dunnemore greeting her at the cottage, leaning on her cane, by then a tiny, old woman who’d wanted nothing more in her last years than her own independence. More than a decade after her death, the place still reminded Sarah of her father’s mother. Ethan kept it tidy and clean, but it had an unlived-in quality that she couldn’t pinpoint. It was if Ethan had only lit here temporarily, superficially, and never intended to dig roots.
His coffee mug was in the sink. Instant coffee. Somehow it seemed to fit.
She had no idea where he was. She’d noticed in her first days home that, like her, he was an early riser. He could be working on the fence or out in the fields, tinkering in the shed—the finicky riding lawn mower was often in need of repair.
She checked the small bedroom. The place was furnished, with all the necessary utensils and linens, but it looked as if Ethan hadn’t added anything of his own. She pulled open the bedroom closet and found only his work clothes and one pair of dress pants that looked unworn. That fit with his image of the West Texas good ol’ boy.
She did believe he was from Texas. His accent hadn’t sounded fake to her. The rest—she wasn’t sure. During her troubled night, she’d replayed their conversation at the fence in her head, remembering how cogent and well-spoken he’d been. How he’d warned her not to trust him so easily.
Maybe she shouldn’t.
She sat on the small sofa in the living room and opened the trunk that served as a coffee table, then almost let it drop shut on her hand.
Ammunition. Boxes of different caliber bullets. There were four boxes for a .38-caliber weapon, six for a 9 mm.
“Ethan…holy…” Granny’s presence kept Sarah’s language in check.
Under the boxes was a small photo album, the old-fashioned kind that set the pictures in little black triangles instead of between pieces of plastic. She lifted it out and opened to a picture of Ethan standing on a beach with a slender, dark-haired woman in a bathing suit.
Sarah flipped through the pictures slowly, all of them shots of the couple on the beach—a tropical beach. Florida, the Caribbean. Ethan looked younger, happy, strong and superfit—nothing like the polite, slow-talking gardener in overalls she’d come to know.
He looked more like a man who could slam Conroy Fontaine into a refrigerator and scare the hell out of him.
Conroy had called early. He was coming over for prune cake before lunch.
She glanced at the boxes of ammo. Presumably Ethan had guns to go with the bullets. Where? Did she even want to find them?
Time to get the marshal.
She’d slipped out while Nate was in the shower. She hadn’t pictured herself searching Ethan’s cottage, never mind finding boxes of bullets and a photo album that didn’t exactly show him in West Texas.
Taking a calming breath, Sarah noticed a crumpled computer printout on the end table next to the chair in front of the window overlooking the river. She rose and picked it up, then sat back on the couch and smoothed out the paper with her hands—a man’s face. Like a mug shot.
“Oh, my God.”
It was the silver-haired man who’d chatted with her mother at the Rijksmuseum.
Without a doubt.
There was no name under the photo, no caption, no indication of the Web site from which the photo had been lifted.
The front door opened, and Ethan shut it behind him as he walked into the small room. “I see you’re not above snooping,” he said casually.
Sarah didn’t bother trying to conceal what she was up to. She waved the picture of the silver-haired man at him. “Where—”
“I found that picture in Conroy Fontaine’s cabin. I have no idea who it is.”
“Why did you take it?”
“It interested him. Therefore, it interested me.”
She noticed Ethan wasn’t speaking as slowly, as deferentially—he hadn’t yet referred to her as Miss Sarah or called her ma’am. He still had the Texas accent, but this different tone fit better with the man in the beach pictures in the photo album. But it was the tone of a harder, more suspicious man.
Whether this was a new act or the real Ethan Brooker, the sweet-natured temperament and overreaching good ol’ boy act were gone.
Sarah debated grabbing one of the ammunition boxes in case he tried anything, but what would she do? Throw a couple of bullets at him? She walked over and shut the trunk. “And I see you’re not above lying. The woman in the pictures—who is she?”
He took another step closer to her. “My wife.”
There was something in his eyes. He glanced away.
Sarah’s heart twisted. “Ethan?”
“She was killed last fall.”
“She always wanted me to try my hand at songwriting.” He leaned back against the small dining table, where Granny used to sit and watch the cardinals in the pecan tree and the boats on the river. “Charlene thought I could do anything. I should have told you, but it’s not easy for me to talk about her. I wanted a fresh start. I didn’t want to answer a lot of questions.”
“The bullets?”
“Your parents told me they don’t like having guns on the premises. I had a nine-millimeter I liked. Legal, of course. I sold it, but I didn’t think to sell the ammo.”
“There are bullets for a thirty-eight, as well.”
“I got rid of that gun a while ago.”
Sarah decided not to ask to frisk him.
“With all that’s been going on around here,” he went on, “I wouldn’t mind having a weapon right now. Your brother getting shot, the feds showing up, reporters snooping around—it’s a lot. Legit reporters are one thing, but that Conroy Fontaine’s a weasel. You know he is.”
“Well, he’s a charming weasel.” Sarah didn’t know what to say—she wasn’t the one who’d hired Ethan. “My parents like giving people a second chance. Excons and recovering alcoholics and drug addicts who’re trying to pick up the pieces of their lives—some have worked out better than others. A bereaved husband is different.”
“Not so different.” His eyes seemed to bore right through her. “You’re in danger, aren’t you? Something happened to bring Deputy Winter down here besides falling for your pretty gray eyes. The feds yesterday. They went through your house. What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer.
“I live here, Dr. Dunnemore. I have a right to know.”
Dr. Dunnemore. No more Miss Sarah. “Did you go and pound Conroy last evening because you were concerned about me? Or did you have your own reasons?”
He ignored her. “I was in the army for a pretty good stretch. I can tell when someone’s hanging by their fingernails. That’s you, Sarah.”
Now it was Sarah. “Fair enough. I found a threatening anonymous note in my mail. It’s why the FBI and the marshals were here sweeping for bugs and taps. But you know that already, don’t you? You’ve been keeping pretty good tabs on what’s been going on around here.”
“That’s my job. Think the snake in the house was part of it?”
“Part of what?”
“This campaign to scare the hell out of you.”
“Me? There’s no evidence that I’m the focus.”
“You look at it the way you want to.” Ethan’s tone took on an extra edge. “Makes no difference to me.”
She stared again at the picture of the silver-haired man. She’d thought nothing of him or the man who’d approached her until she’d gone to Central Park, until she’d come across the threatening letter. “You’re sure you don’t know who this man is?”
“Ask your marshal friend. He’s standing at the back door.”
Sarah turned abruptly, even as she thought that Ethan might be trying to distract her, but Nate was there, rigid, alert. She couldn’t manage the slightest smile. “I see you’re done with your shower.”
He put out his hand. “Let’s see the picture.”
“Ethan said he got it from Conroy.”
“I heard.”
He gave it a quick glance and dropped it on the table. He shifted to Ethan. “What’s Mr. Fontaine’s interest in this man?”
“I told Sarah what I know. You heard.”
“Was it everything?”
But Ethan wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “Fontaine’s looking for a connection between the man in the picture and the president. Whether he’s a reporter or a political hack, he’s a total scumbag.” Ethan pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, grabbing an almost full pack of cigarettes and tapping one out. “You recognize the guy in the picture, don’t you?”
Sarah took a breath, then spoke. “I don’t know his name. He stopped to talk to my mother a few months ago at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.”
Nate tensed visibly. “His name’s Nicholas Janssen. He’s a wealthy businessman from northern Virginia who was supposed to stand trial on federal tax evasion charges last year but took off to Switzerland, instead. He’s a fugitive. Failure to appear.”
Ethan didn’t seem surprised.
Sarah’s throat was dry, tight. “My mother said he was someone she knew from college.”
Neither man responded.
“Tax evasion—it’s not a violent crime. It doesn’t mean he’s involved in the sniper attack.” She felt slightly nauseated. “I can’t be sure the man who spoke to me at the museum was with him or even was who I saw in Central Park.”
“Where are your parents now?” Ethan asked seriously.
“On a plane to New York, I hope.”
Nate shifted to him. “Show me some of your songs.”
Ethan tapped the side of his head. “They’re all up here.”
“Recite a few.”
“Can’t. That’d ruin them. It’d be like picking fruit before it’s ripe. But if you wait too long, it rots on the tree. I don’t want that to happen, either.” Ethan stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lifted a book of matches, tore off a single match and struck it. “I know, Sarah. No smoking in the house. Indulge me this one cigarette.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, just lit the cigarette. “Look, Deputy, you can lighten up. I’m just mowing lawns and picking bugs off the rosebushes.”
“What do you know about Conroy Fontaine?”
“Nothing. Scumbag looking for dirt on the president.”
“Stay where I can find you.” Nate turned to Sarah, his blue eyes as no-nonsense and incisive as she’d seen. “Let’s go.”
She started to protest his dictatorial tone, but he was in marshal mode and in no mood. She might as well have been a suspect he was marching off to jail, although she decided his manner was for Ethan’s benefit more than for hers.
When he fell in beside her on the way back to the house, he didn’t relax. He remained tight, rigid. Sarah picked up her pace. “I figured since you’re an official federal law enforcement officer, you’d need a warrant to search Ethan’s cottage. I had a feeling he was going to bolt.”
“You knocked on his door, you realized he was gone, you slipped inside and had a look.” He glanced at her. “You’re impulsive. You said so yourself.”
“You watched me from the bathroom window?”
“I got to the back door just as Brooker got to the front door. If he’d tried anything—”
“You were there. Thanks.” She smiled. “I think.”
“Sarah…”
She looked out at the lush spring grass, the azaleas and roses, the first vegetables poking up in the garden, the river glistening in the morning sun. She thought of her father and Granny sitting out on the front porch when she and Rob were kids. Her mother cutting flowers in the garden. “It’ll never be the same here.”
“Sarah, listen to me—”
But she ran inside, suddenly not wanting to hear what he had to tell her. She wished she could close up the house, shutter the windows, hide—stop time. Stop Nate from telling her anything else that she didn’t want to hear.
Only she’d never been one to run from the truth.
She waited for him in the front hall.
He entered the house slowly, and when she saw his expression, the air went out of her. “What? What’s happened?”
“Collins called while you were in the cottage. Juliet Longstreet was pulled into a car at gunpoint early this morning. She escaped by jumping out into traffic.”
“Is she okay?”
“Scrapes and bruises. She was almost roadkill.” He managed a half smile. “Leave it to Juliet to jump out of a moving vehicle.”
“If it was her only chance—”
“It was. She was unarmed, out for her morning run. The car got away. There were two attackers. One up front, one in back. The one up front had blond hair�
��that’s all she remembers.” He paused, his gaze connecting with hers. “The one in back was dark haired with a slight foreign accent.”
Sarah tightened her hands into fists and sank against the wall. “It can’t be—Nate, it just can’t be the man I saw in the park, the man I saw in Amsterdam—”
“Tell me what happened at the museum, Sarah. Everything. Start to finish.”
“Nothing ‘happened.’”
“You flew in from Scotland, Rob flew in from New York?”
She stared at an old framed map of Tennessee on the wall opposite her.
“Rob was there first?” Nate prodded her.
She nodded. “He got there a few days ahead of me. I came in for the weekend. I was finishing up my documentary and totally preoccupied, but we don’t get many opportunities to be together as a family. I felt I had to seize the moment. I arrived on Friday. Saturday morning, we did a canal tour like every other Amsterdam tourist. Saturday afternoon, we went to the museum. Rob and Dad don’t linger. My mother and I do. Especially my mother.”
“Where were you and Rob staying? With your parents?”
“Yes. They’ve rented an apartment on one of the canal streets.”
“They went on the canal tour with you?”
“That was the whole idea. We did everything together. It was a great few days. Amsterdam’s a beautiful city, especially in the spring.”
“Then lunch?”
He wasn’t in a mood for distractions. Sarah stood up from the wall. “We had Dutch pancakes at a restaurant near the museum.”
“Recognize anyone there? Did your parents talk to anyone?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. We walked over to the museum from the restaurant. It was fairly crowded—we just did the Dutch collections. We didn’t run into anyone or speak to anyone until we got to The Night Watch.”
Nate leaned against the wall, studying her. He bit off a sigh. “Sarah—Christ—”
“As I’ve told you, Rob and my father had already moved ahead to the antique Delftware.” She spoke briskly, stating the facts. “My mother can take forever with a painting. The crowds got to me, and I wandered into an adjoining collection. That’s when the man I thought I recognized in the park spoke to me.”
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