Tangled Webs

by Irene Hannon

  Two minutes later, after dishing up the hearty soup and setting a basket of French rolls on the table, she joined him, bowed her head, and said a short blessing.

  “So what happened?” He spoke the instant she finished.

  Her new friend might have many wonderful virtues, but patience wasn’t among them.

  She stirred her soup, her hunger evaporating. “He said he was concerned about my safety given the isolated location of the cabin and two back-to-back incidents. He more or less advised me to cut my visit short and consider coming back once they sort this mess out.”

  Twin grooves appeared on Finn’s brow. “Does he have reason to think you’re in danger?”

  “Nothing specific. But I could tell he was worried. Based on what they found after poking through the remains of the shed, there’s no question the fire was deliberately set.”

  “Why doesn’t he send more patrols out this way?”

  “I asked the same question. Insufficient personnel. The department only has three full-time officers and two part-timers.” She continued to stir her soup. “What would you recommend I do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ve never been the type to bow to intimidation—and I really don’t want to leave yet.” She poked at a piece of chicken with her spoon. “But I have to admit, after my New York experience I’m not inclined to put myself in the line of fire if there’s a serious risk.”

  Finn tapped a finger on the table. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give it a few more days? There doesn’t appear to be any issue in daylight. The chief said all of the vandalism incidents around town have happened at night. And as long as I’m around, a whistle will bring me here in minutes. Or I could sleep on your couch, if that would make you feel better.”

  The temptation to accept his offer was strong. He wouldn’t even have to cram his six-foot-plus frame onto the sofa. Pops’s bedroom was available.

  But he was a whistle away, and uprooting him from his own place felt selfish.

  “I appreciate that . . . but we’ve already put our makeshift security system to the test, and it works great. I’ll be fine as long as I keep the whistle close at hand at night. And I’ve got the Winchester.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She did her best to appear—and sound—confident.

  He studied her. “Okay. Let’s go with that plan for now. In the meantime, I intend to enjoy every mouthful of this amazing soup.”

  “Mags was a super cook. I’m glad she left me all her recipes.”

  “And I’ll be happy to sample any of them you’re in the mood to make.” With a grin, he dived into the soup.

  Finn kept the conversation lighthearted during the rest of the meal, and by the time he said good-bye with a kiss and a promise to return for their usual sunset row on the lake, she was more relaxed.

  Yet as she watched him disappear into the woods . . . as an angry gray cloud dimmed the sun . . . she shivered.

  Despite what she’d told Finn, the thought of spending nights alone in the cabin set off a flurry of butterflies in her stomach.

  And until the vandals were found, she had a feeling the restful slumber she’d enjoyed since her handsome neighbor’s arrival was going to be elusive.

  Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  BEEEEEEEP.

  Roger froze, hovering suspended near the bottom of the lake, twelve feet of dark water above him as the distinctive alert from the metal detector came through his headphones.

  This could be it.

  Letting the detector rest on the bottom, he fumbled for the small telescoping rod on his equipment belt, pulled it open, and aimed his light at the spot that had caused the detector to go berserk.

  Nothing but silt—almost fifty years’ worth.

  But he was after what was underneath.

  Heart pounding, he began poking the rod into the sediment.

  It met no resistance.

  He pushed harder, moving in a tight grid pattern.

  Just when he began to wonder if the detector he’d paid big bucks for was defective, the rod hit a hard object.

  His adrenaline surged.

  Hand trembling, he closed the rod and put it back on his belt. After retrieving the six-inch drywall taping knife he’d dug out of his garage, he began to gently scrape the sediment aside.

  Despite his slow, careful movement, particles swirled upward in the water, obscuring his vision. The guy at the dive shop had warned him about the difficulty of digging underwater, and he’d been right.

  Roger peered at his air gauge. Ten minutes left, tops.

  He couldn’t wait for the sediment to settle.

  Moving in closer, he went back to digging, working by feel now.

  Through the neoprene gloves, his fingers came into contact with a solid object. He smoothed his hand over it, calculating. It was about ten, eleven inches long, maybe half a foot wide. The correct dimensions for a .50 caliber ammo can. And there was a handle.

  He’d found the gold!

  Grasping the can with both hands, he yanked it free of the sludge.

  A cloud of sediment rose, engulfing him, but he never loosened his grip on the treasure.

  With his air gauge dipping into the danger zone, he held fast to the handle with the rubberized palm of one glove and picked up the metal detector with the other. Then he kicked upward.

  Once he broke the surface, he attached the detector to his belt and stroked one-handed toward the shore where he’d stashed his land clothes—the opposite side of the lake from the cabin, where lights always burned.

  Did Dana Lewis never sleep?

  But that wasn’t a risk he’d have to worry about anymore, thank the Lord. Assuming this can held what he thought it did, his diving career was history.

  Although his awkward cargo made for slow—and strenuous—going, he wasn’t about to complain. The payoff would be well worth the herculean effort.

  He was breathing hard when at last his feet touched bottom, and it took every ounce of his strength to heave himself and the can out of the water.

  Near as he could tell once he pulled it free, the container weighed about twenty-five pounds. At current gold prices, that was close to half a million dollars—and consistent with what Len had said in his letter about the value of the gold they’d stolen and how they’d divided it into two cans.

  For several minutes, Roger sat beside the lake, giving his energy and lungs a chance to recover—and to let reality sink in.

  His money troubles were over.

  Relief coursed through him, quivering through his muscles. Leah would have the care she deserved for as long as she needed it. He wouldn’t have to break the promise he’d made to her long ago.

  Should he send a thank-you heavenward?

  No.

  God might have allowed him to hit the jackpot tonight, but he wouldn’t approve of his methods, no matter how good the intention. In the big picture, what he was doing was wrong.

  Yet when he finally dredged up the energy to get moving, he didn’t feel one ounce of remorse. You did what you had to do for the people you loved. Period.

  He pulled off his flippers. Tugged on his shoes. Retrieved the backpack he’d hidden behind some scrub and shoved his diving equipment inside.

  Not until after he bent to pick up the can did he realize he’d forgotten to kill his dive light.

  His lungs balked, and he fumbled for the switch. Flipped it off.

  That had been a stupid mistake.

  But fatigue could mess with a man’s brain . . . and he was dead beat.

  He stood motionless, scanning the dark perimeter of the lake. An owl hooted, but there was no other sign of life.

  His taut muscles slackened.

  Only someone else with a suspect agenda would be wandering around on private property at this hour, and Wayne was lying low for the moment—assuming he was abiding by the three-day grace period he’d extended.
<
br />   Still . . . it wouldn’t hurt to get out of here ASAP.

  Hoisting his equipment and the gold that would solve all his financial woes, he began the long trek back to his car.

  Finn adjusted the hood of his dark sweatshirt and inspected the back of Dana’s cabin, avoiding the soft glow spilling from around the shades in several windows. Apparently she still slept with the lights on . . . or had started to again after the vandalism incidents.

  At least her screaming nightmares had subsided.

  And all was quiet—as it had been on his previous three circuits during the hour and a half since beginning his patrols at ten-thirty.

  Dana might have assured him again as they parted after their evening row that she’d be fine by herself overnight, but there wasn’t much chance he’d get a lot of sleep with a drill-wielding, paint-toting pyromaniac running around. Might as well put the night hours to productive use. He could sleep tomorrow while she worked.

  Staying in the shadows of the trees, he eased along the perimeter of the parking area toward the lake—and the spot he’d staked out earlier that offered him a concealed view of everything but the far side of her cabin. There was nothing to vandalize over there, though, nor any convenient access points. The windows were too high. But it didn’t hurt to do a quick circuit every . . .

  He froze as he rounded the cabin and got a full view of the lake.

  Did a light just blink on the far side of the water?

  It had come and gone so fast . . . could it have been a reflection from the full moon on the lake?

  No.

  His gut told him it had been an artificial light—and his gut had rarely let him down.

  He swung his binoculars into position. Aimed them toward the area in question. Squinted.

  Nothing.

  He rotated a tad to the right.

  Still nothing.

  Switching direction, he swept the binoculars to the left.

  Detected motion.

  His pulse kicked up.

  Someone was there.

  Tucking the binoculars into the case on his belt, he took off at a jog, hugging the woods.

  Once trees met water, however, the going got a lot more difficult—and it was a long hike to the other side of the amorphous-shaped lake, with its many little coves. Plus, the heavy underbrush forced him to slow down or risk alerting the trespasser to his presence. If the person or persons got wind of his approach too soon, they could take off before he reached them.

  Although he forged through the gnarly undergrowth as fast as he could, it wasn’t quick enough.

  When he arrived at the spot he’d homed in on from across the lake, all was quiet. Nor were there any sounds of retreat in the surrounding woods.

  Yet there was clear evidence someone had been here—matted ground cover, broken twigs on a low-growing bush, and mud at the edge of the lake, as if the person or persons had been in the water.

  He frowned. That made no sense—unless Dana’s uninvited visitors wanted to do some clandestine skinny-dipping. Perhaps a couple of teens had snuck in for some impromptu, late-night entertainment?

  No.

  On a hot July or August night, that might be a possibility. After all, this was about as far from Dana’s cabin as you could get and still be at the lake. It was the kind of spot someone with that sort of agenda would choose.

  With the cool April breeze chilling him even through his fleece hoodie, however, that wasn’t a plausible scenario for tonight.

  This felt planned—and devious.

  Yet how was it related to the two previous incidents, which had both happened on the other side of the lake, much closer to the cabin?

  The answer eluded him.

  Giving up, Finn retraced his steps, did another security circuit around the cabin, and took up his sentry position again. No sense wasting time or thought on that question tonight.

  Come tomorrow, however, he intended to go over the trampled area in the light of day with a fine-tooth comb.

  And if there was any evidence to suggest who might have paid a late-night visit to Dana’s lake, he’d find it.

  15

  At the knock on her front door, Dana jerked, sending the cursor skittering across the words on the screen.

  Who would be visiting at eight-thirty in the morning—and arriving on foot?

  “Dana, it’s me.”

  Finn?

  Her sudden swell of panic morphed to curiosity. Other than his daily lunch visits, he never interrupted her during the workday. Why break that pattern?

  Pushing back from the kitchen table, she released her ponytail from its elastic band, finger-combed her hair as she crossed the living room, and opened the door.

  Finn smiled at her. “Good morning.”

  She gave him a quick head-to-toe. He was dressed in his usual jeans, his snug tee half hidden by a jacket, a day pack slung over his shoulder. With the sparkling lake in the background and the morning sun creating a swoon-worthy glow around him, he could have stepped out of an ad for extreme-sports gear. Potent masculinity oozed from his pores.

  Dana gripped the edge of the door to steady herself. “You’re here bright and early. What’s the occasion?”

  “An apology, an invitation, and a confession.”

  “Wow. That’s a full agenda for a Tuesday morning. You want to come in?”

  “The porch’ll do. First, the apology. Sorry for interrupting your work. Second, the invitation. Would you like to take a row with me to the far side of the lake?”

  The man was full of surprises today.

  “Now?”

  “Yes—which leads me to the confession. I did a little surveillance here last night.”

  “You mean . . . while I was sleeping?”

  “Yeah. Since I didn’t figure I’d get much shut-eye with some weirdo showing up unexpectedly on your property, I decided to put my insomnia to productive use.”

  Another spike of alarm kicked up her pulse. “Did you see something suspicious?”

  “Someone. But only from a distance.”

  She listened as he briefed her, digesting his discovery—and the personal implications—as he concluded his tale.

  The man had stayed up half the night trying to protect her.

  Her throat tightened.

  Finn shifted the backpack into a different position. “I want to go back in daylight to see if I can spot any clues, and it’s much easier to take the rowboat than trek through the underbrush. Since I knew you’d be suspicious if you noticed me on the lake, I decided I’d better ’fess up about my unofficial stakeout last night.”

  “Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “Yes. I was in bed by one. I hung around for a while after I got back to the cabin, but all was quiet. I didn’t think our culprit would come back twice in one night.”

  “But . . . what was he doing here to begin with? I haven’t spotted any more vandalism today. And why was he on the far side of the lake?”

  “I’m hoping a short row might offer us some answers to those questions. Want to come along?”

  “Yes.” The manuscript she was working on could wait an hour. “Let me grab my jacket.”

  “I’ll meet you at the boat.” He did a one-eighty and clattered down the steps.

  Dana detoured to the bathroom to dab on a touch of lipstick, then grabbed her windbreaker, jammed a thin pair of knit gloves in the pocket, and joined him on the dock.

  “That was fast.” He steadied the boat as she got in.

  “I’m as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this.”

  He put the oars to use at once, and silence descended as they skimmed across the lake. Finn was intent on his rowing, and it was no hardship to silently watch the early-morning sun shimmer on the water—and burnish his auburn hair.

  As they drew close to the bank, he maneuvered the boat sideways, beside a tree. “Getting out is going to be tricky. If you can keep the boat in place, I’ll grab that branch, swing out, and give you a hand up.�
�� He pointed to a sturdy, low-hanging limb that arched over the water.

  “Or I can go first, since I’m closer. I was a jungle gym champ as a kid.”

  “A woman of many talents.” One side of his mouth hitched up, and he swept a hand toward the branch. “Have at it.”

  Trusting that jungle-gym climbing was like riding a bicycle, she stood, gripped the branch with one hand, and levered herself up. Once on solid ground, she latched on to a slender tree trunk.

  “Very smooth.” Finn let the boat drift down a couple of feet to give himself better access to the limb. “Can you secure this to a tree?” He tossed a rope up to her.

  “Sure.” She fingered the line, eyeing the slanted bank. Although she’d seen minimal evidence of the massive trauma to his leg, walking or going up and down steps was a lot different—and no doubt easier—than pulling a Tarzan stunt. “Is your, uh, leg going to be able to handle this?”

  In answer, he followed her example and swung himself up in one smooth, lithe movement, all the while juggling the day pack.

  “Never mind.” She tied the rope to a tree, hoping he wasn’t insulted by her query. “Your physical therapy regimen has obviously paid off. What’s in there?” She motioned to the pack slung over his shoulder.

  “Equipment I might need.” He nodded to the left. “I found evidence of your uninvited guest about fifteen feet that direction.”

  He led the way, and she followed on his heels as he pushed branches aside to clear the path.

  When he paused in a small clearing, she drew up next to him. The scene was just as he’d described—matted vegetation and mud on the bank.

  No question about it. Someone had been here last night.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything the person might have dropped—or that might give us a clue to his identity.”

  “You’re certain it’s a he?” She shaded her eyes against the rising sun.

  “Ninety-five percent. The kind of stunts he’s been pulling usually have a male MO.” He indicated the bank. “I’ll see what I can find there. Why don’t you search this area in about a six-foot radius.”

  “Okay—except I’m not going over there.” She pointed to a brushy patch. “Poison ivy.”