The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  It meant nothing.

  He looked around his workshop and nearly wept with despair. None of it meant anything. He’d lost what mattered, and she’d lost nothing.

  Now he was reduced to leaving dead animals on her doorstep.

  He should’ve killed the crazy old woman and her dog, he decided. Coulda, shoulda. That would’ve made a statement.

  He took out one of the little black pills, studied it. Just one, he thought. Just one to give him back some juice.

  Because it was time to make a statement. Time to stop screwing around and kick it all up a notch.

  Johnson hadn’t put a hitch in her step. Something else—or somebody else—would.

  “Twenty-two caliber.” The criminalist, a skinny guy named Ottis, held the slug up with gloved fingers. “You gonna kill da wabbit, this is plenty hot enough.”

  “Single shot?”

  “Yeah.” Ottis frowned at Phoebe. “Do you want me to run it through ballistics? Ah, do any trace on the…vic?”

  “Actually, I would. If someone’s playing a prank, I’m not laughing. And I think it’s more than that. So anything you can tell me about the bunny or the bullet would be helpful.”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll get back to you.”

  She went back to her office and wrote up an official incident report. Then she took a copy out to Sykes’s desk, filled him in.

  “Do you want me to go have a conversation with Arnie?”

  “No, at least not yet. I’d like you to pull a few lines, if you can. Find out how he’s handling the security job, get a sense of his routine. See if you can find out if he’s been spending any time in my neighborhood. He’s got a mouth,” Phoebe added. “If he’s messing with me, he’s probably bragged about it to someone. Someone he drinks with or works with.”

  “I’ll poke around.”

  “Thanks. Thank you, Bull.”

  Best she could do, Phoebe decided. But not all she could do.

  Back in her office, she wrote up a log, listing the times and dates, the incidents she believed were connected. To these she added her own speculations.

  Rat—symbol—snitch, turncoat, deserting sinking ship.

  Snake—symbol—evil, sneaky, bringer of ruin to Paradise.

  Rabbit—symbol—cowardly, running away.

  Might be taking it all too far, psychologically, she mused, but it was better to err on the side of caution than to just err.

  Whistling keeps the voice disguised, anonymous. What does the song mean? Do not forsake me. Who was forsaken? Who did or might do the forsaking?

  High Noon.One man standing up against corruption and cowardice (rabbit as cowardice?). Rat as desertion of townspeople. Snake as corruption. Cooper as sheriff (wasn’t he? Rent the damn movie), standing alone in the final showdown.

  Was it about the movie or just the song? she wondered. She did a search, found the lyrics and printed them out for the file she would make.

  High noon was a kind of deadline, wasn’t it? Do this by this time or pay the price.

  She sat back. And if it was Arnie Meeks harassing her, he wouldn’t be thinking about symbols and hidden meanings. It just wasn’t his style.

  Still, she’d make up the file. And on the way home, she’d hunt up a copy ofHigh Noon.

  TERMINATION PHASE

  I do not know what fate awaits me.

  —“HIGH NOON”

  21

  Screaming kids and the lightning-flash mood swings of little girls didn’t appear to ruffle Duncan’s feathers. In fact, his easy slide through kid world had Phoebe wondering if the man had any feathers to ruffle.

  What he did, she noted, was play like a maniac. Whatever it was—video arcade, miniature golf, whack-a-mole, he wasinto it. She liked games as much as the next person, and God knew she’d done her stints at fun centers. But she’d never come out of one, in her memory, without a vague headache, a stomach uneasy from strange combinations of food, and feet that ached like a tooth headed for a root canal.

  She had a touch of all three results, and sat herself down on a bench while Duncan took on all challengers in what he called the Champion Round of mini-golf.

  Carly was having the time of her life, and the other kids who’d packed along were flocked around him like he was the Pied Piper. And how, Phoebe wondered, did spending hours racing virtual cars or hitting a red ball through the rotating fans of a plastic windmill equal researching an investment possibility?

  Loo dropped down beside her. “I should’ve gotten a manicure. These places wear me out and Iknew that man would talk me into coming.”

  “Phin’s looking a little worn himself.”

  “Not Phin.” Loo sucked diet soda through a straw. “I know all his tricks by now. Duncan. I know all his, too, but damn that man always gets around me.”

  From her vantage point, Phoebe studied him. He’d sat through an elementary school production ofCinderella with every appearance of being thoroughly entertained. And had capped that off by insisting on buying the redheaded stepsister an ice cream cone.

  Naturally, Carly was crazy about him.

  And now he was giving every appearance of being thoroughly entertained by playing mini-golf with a platoon of overexcited children.

  “Duncan doesn’t look worn at all,” Phoebe observed.

  “Probably live here if he could.” Loo slipped her own aching feet out of her sandals. “Look at him, crouched down on that old green carpet eyeballing the hole like he’s Tiger Woods in the Playland Open. Kids eating it right up like ice cream sundaes, which I warn you, he’ll insist on after this is over.”

  Phoebe pressed a hand to her stomach. “Oh God.”

  “Won’t play real golf. Phin’s dragged him out several times, and tells me Duncan says stuff like: ‘Where’s the windmill?’ or ‘When do we get to the troll bridge?’” She let out her big laugh. “Bruises our Phin’s dignity, which is exactly Dunc’s purpose.”

  Because she could hear Duncan say it, Phoebe smiled. “So he just wanted to come out and play. This investment business is a ruse.”

  “Oh no, he’s given it serious thought. He’ll be working out the pros and cons now.”

  Lips pursed, Phoebe studied Duncan as he argued the count of strokes on a hole with Phin. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “I mean it.” Loo gave Phoebe a poke. “He’s going to have a good ballpark idea how many kids and adults came through the turnstiles today, which areas got the most play, which didn’t. You can bet he’s asked the kids we brought, and those of complete strangers, what they like. He’ll have himself a baseline before we’re sick off ice cream sundaes, then he’ll go—or won’t go—from there.”

  “I can’t quite fit him into the businessman mold.”

  Loo’s smile was lit with affection. “He’s his own mold.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Got a nice ass on him, too.”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “He’s got what my mother calls the calf’s eyes for you.”

  “Does he? It’s hard for me to see clearly with all these hearts circling in front of mine. I just wanted a hot affair.” She shifted toward Loo, kept her voice low. “I figured, hell, I deserve one.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Loo shifted in turn. “How about some salient details?”

  “Maybe some other time. The thing is, I don’t know if I can manage what’s going on in here.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I don’t know if I have the tools or the room or—”

  “Why? You’re—”

  “Wait.” Phoebe turned her hand palm out now. “You’re married, and happily by every sign. You have a pretty little girl and an ugly dog. You have a big family, dual careers that complement each other and exceptional taste in shoes.”

  “I do.” Loo pursed her lips at the stacked-heel, copper-toned sandals. “The shoes are the kicker.”

  “I’m divorced with a career that pulls me in conflicting directions constantly, and a family I love, but that does the same. My fo
undation is shaky at best, and what I’ve built on it takes a lot of time and effort to tend. It’s never been just me for a lot of reasons. It can never be just me.”

  “You’re thinking Duncan can’t handle the complications of your life?”

  “I’m not sure he’d want to, or why he would. Right now, he’s infatuated and intrigued. And the sex, like the shoes, is quite the kicker. But I’m a lot to deal with on a daily basis. And there are things I can’t change or adjust. I’m just not in a position to.”

  Loo sucked through her straw, considered. “Do you always analyze everything into tiny pieces, and pick out the harder points?”

  “Yes. Occupational hazard, I guess. Tough fit, I’d think, for a man who appears to take in the big picture quickly and find the shiny nuggets. I keep trying to…I’d say talk myself down from all this. Step back from the ledge, Phoebe. Your life’s good enough, full enough as it is, so accept that. Take that last step, there’s no coming back from it, not without a world of hurt.”

  “Love as suicide?”

  “Maybe it is. Or it’s walking out with your hands up in surrender, to take the consequences.”

  “Or it’s coming out free, instead of staying a hostage.”

  “That’s a point. I know what I’m doing, have to know what I’m doing just about all the time. It’s annoying, and damn disconcerting, not to know what I’m doing with him.”

  “Can’t tell you. But I think it’d be fun finding out.”

  Fun was exhausting. Carly gave in to it and sprawled sleeping in the back of Duncan’s car on the way home.

  “In case she’s too zonked to thank you, I can tell you she had a big, bright, red-letter day.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I noticed. Boys and toys. She’s got a whopping crush on you.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  “I noticed that, too. Duncan, I have one favor to ask, and I hope you’ll understand why I need to.”

  “Sure. You had too many hot dogs and want me to stop for Pepto.”

  “I hadone hot dog, and I have Tums at home. Duncan, seriously. I’m saying—asking, really—that if things between us take a slide, or we get pissed off and each decide the other is the spawn of Satan, if you’ll ease away from Carly. Give her time to adjust. This is a crappy thing to bring up after you’ve given us such a good day, but—”

  “You’ve got—what’s his name?—Ralph stuck in your head.”

  “Roy,” she corrected. “And, yes, that’s part of it. I can’t think of anyone less like him than you are.”

  “If that’s true, you should already know it’s a favor you don’t have to ask. I know what it’s like to be shut out and shut down.”

  “You do.” She touched a hand to his arm. “I’m a worrying, overprotective mother.”

  “She’s lucky to have one.” He aimed a look at her. “Even if you turn out to be the spawn of Satan.”

  She wiggled her tired toes as he turned toward the house. “How about coming in, having a cool glass of wine in the courtyard?”

  “Exactly what I had in mind.”

  A week later, Phoebe sat in Duncan’s garden. Carly was having a sleepover at her new second best friend Livvy’s house, which meant her mama could have the adult version of a sleepover.

  They’d had a swim, and made love. They’d had dinner, and made love. Now it was nearly midnight—and it didn’t matter!—with her sitting out in a lush garden smelling night-blooming jasmine, a glass of wine in her hand. She wore a flimsy excuse for a robe she’d paid entirely too much money for.

  But if a woman couldn’t splurge for such an occasion, when could she?

  The night hummed, the breeze just balmy enough to cut back the heat while a fat old moon sailed over a sky dashed with stars and smeared with filmy clouds. He’d turned music on so that Bonnie Raitt’s Delta-rich voice oozed out of the garden speakers.

  Phoebe sipped wine and gave some lazy thought to making love again.

  “I feel like I’m on vacation,” she told Duncan.

  “I should’ve put little umbrellas in the drinks.” His voice was as lazy as she felt. “Something with steel drums on the stereo. Except I don’t have little umbrellas or any steel-drum CD. No, Jimmy Buffett. It should’ve been Jimmy Buffett and margaritas.”

  “This is fine. This is perfect. I may never move from this exact spot.” She turned her head to smile at him. “You’ll have to start charging me rent.”

  “I’ll take it out in trade.”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t want to go anywhere tonight. Clubs, bars, movies. It’s so nice to just be.”

  “Clubs, bars, movies, they’re not going anywhere. It’s nice to just kick back.”

  “You had a busy week.”

  “Ava’s a slave driver. Beneath that pretty face is the heart of Simon Legree. I think I looked at every tree and shrub for sale in greater Savannah yesterday. And all those drawings and layouts. Sod. Fountains. Statuary. Birdbaths, feeders, houses. What-all. She doesn’t care for the concept of ‘do whatever you like.’”

  “She mentioned you took her by an old warehouse the other day. That you’re converting it into apartments and shops.”

  “Yeah. Thought she’d get some ideas going on that and be too busy to drag me to another nursery. How about we take a sail in the morning? In fact, we can sail over to Savannah.”

  “That sounds perfect. Everything’s just about perfect.”

  “Give me a couple minutes.” He shifted toward her on the wide chaise, then slid a finger down to open the thin robe. “And I’ll make it absolutely perfect.”

  She didn’t have a doubt in the world, not when his mouth found hers, when his hands began to cruise. She reached out blindly until her glass clinked against the table. With her hands free, she tangled her fingers in his hair.

  The breeze played along her skin; the music thrummed just under it. When her head fell back so he could run his lips down her throat, there was the white ball of moon overhead.

  She moved under him, opened for him so when their mouths met again he slipped inside her. Slow and easy now, loose and lazy. Her eyes stayed open so that she could see herself in his. She felt herself rising and falling, rising and falling, in long, liquid waves of arousal and pleasure. When she spilled over the crest, she was still there, trapped in the blue of his eyes.

  Why, she wondered, would she want to be anywhere else?

  “One more.” He murmured it, then captured her mouth again, sumptuously. Her heartbeat thickened, her bones softened.

  I love you.The words rose in her throat, ached to be said.

  They were good words, Phoebe told herself. Good, strong words that deserved to be said. But perhaps saying them for the first time when still coupled with the man on his garden chaise wasn’t the best choice of time and place.

  Instead, she framed his face with her hands. “You were right. You made it perfect.”

  “Being with you…” He turned his head so his mouth pressed to her palm.

  The gesture had her heart taking another stumble. Something fluttered inside her belly. “Being with me?”

  His gaze leveled on hers. “Phoebe—”

  Her cell phone rang.

  “I jinxed it!” She struggled up. “I shouldnever have said perfect.” She thought of Carly, her mother, her brother. Snatched up the phone. “Phoebe Mac Namara.” The sound of Dave’s voice didn’t loosen the knots in her gut until she was certain it wasn’t her family.

  “Bonaventure? Where?” Without pen, paper or much of anything else, Phoebe took mental notes. “Yes. For me, specifically? I’m on Whitfield Island, at a friend’s. I’ll be there as soon as I can. All right. Yes, all right. I’ll be headed out in five minutes.”

  In fact she was already up and hurrying toward the house as she spoke. “Tell him I’m en route. No, no, don’t.” She glanced at Duncan as he pushed the door open for her. “I have access to a very fast car, but I’ll need a kit. I’ll call you back when I’m on the road.�
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  She clicked off.

  “I need to borrow your Porsche.”

  “No problem, but it comes with me at the wheel.”

  “I can’t take you where I’m going.”

  “Yes, you can,” he corrected as they ran up the stairs.

  “Duncan.” She tossed off her robe as she rushed into his bedroom. “There’s a man chained to a grave at Bonaventure Cemetery.” She grabbed clothes. “All he’s wearing, apparently, is a vest of explosives.”

  “If he’s going to blow himself up, I hope he’s already got a reservation. Bonaventure’s pretty full up.”

  “He’s the hostage,” she snapped back as she pulled on clothes. “He’s claiming to be, and he claims whoever strapped the bomb on him ordered him to call nine-one-one at a specific time, and ask for me by name. If I’m not there by one, whoever’s holding the trigger pushes it, and he goes up.”

  “Only another reason I’ll be driving. You don’t know the car, I do—and I know the roads better. I’ll get you where you need to be. When’s the last time you drove a six-speed?” he demanded when he saw the argument in her eyes.

  Phoebe dragged on her shoes, nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  It made more sense to have him driving the Porsche like a hellhound over the island roads toward the bridge. She had her hands and mind free to contact Dave, to take notes.

  “He claims he can’t give his name, not until you get here,” Dave told her. “He’s saying he’s wired for sound as well as the bomb, and the person behind it can hear everything. He’s wearing an ear bud and a mike.”

  “Is he lying?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll be there inside five minutes myself, but from the sound of it, my professional assessment would be he’s scared shitless. On-scene reports there are a lot of fresh bruises on his face, his torso, arms and legs. So far, he hasn’t told us who did it, how, when, why. He can’t, he says. He can only tell you.”

  “The way we’re moving, I’ll be there inside fifteen. What grave is he chained to?”