Carla Neggers - Night’s Landing

Which Nate had no intention of discussing with her. She lifted her bowl and started spooning the thick batter into one of the square pans she had set out on the counter. She took a breath, setting down the bowl quickly, as if she’d been about to drop it. The tremble in her hands was noticeably worse.

She avoided his eye and spoke as she stared down at her cake batter. “You didn’t have to come here. I should have stopped you. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.” She picked up her bowl again, stubbornly folding batter into another pan. “I’m not in any danger here.”

Nate didn’t respond. She set down the bowl once more, batter spilling down its sides, then tore open the oven door and shoved the pans inside. She turned on the timer with more force than was necessary.

“I need air,” she said, pulling off her apron and tossing it onto the counter.

She moved down a hall toward the front of the house, at a fast walk at first, then a run. Nate could hear her footsteps on the wood floor. He eased off the stool and followed her out to the porch, overfurnished with old rockers and chairs, even an iron daybed.

Sarah had made it down the steps and was well on her way to the river and the small, well-kept dock.

He wondered if she’d run right into the water and try to swim away from whatever was bothering her. It wasn’t him. Or not just him. He was a reminder, tangible evidence that she wasn’t just home on vacation. That was an illusion, a ruse that had helped get her through the morning.

She stopped at the very end of the dock.

Nate walked out to her. An ancient fishing boat bobbed in the dark water. He didn’t blame her. He felt an urge to grab her and jump in the boat, go wherever the river took them and forget about shootings and whatever had frightened her. In an image that felt real, that rocked him to the point his knees almost buckled, he saw them stopped at a quiet clearing, a blanket spread, the sun on them as they made love. It was as if her body were under him now, soft and yielding, their lovemaking tender, slow, as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

Christ. What the hell was wrong with him?

Sarah glanced back at him. She had on jeans and a lightweight zip-up top in a dusty blue-gray that matched her eyes. “How’s your arm?”

The air seemed cooler, damper, on the river. His arm ached. His whole body ached. “Doctor rebandaged it this morning before I left. It’s healing well. Doesn’t bother me that much.” He glanced at the undergrowth and the rocks along the riverbank, upriver, toward the Poe house. “You swim in the river?”

“All the time. The Corps of Engineer dams backed up the river so that it’s wider and deeper here than it used to be. It’s more like a lake nowadays, so the current’s not bad.”

He shifted back to her. “Snakes?”

“Oh, sure, but they leave us alone. Sometimes you can see a water moccasin sunning on the rocks. They’re poisonous. You don’t have them up north.” She looked back at him, her words almost rote. “People often confuse them with water snakes that aren’t poisonous.”

Nate decided to let her talk about snakes and prune cake, until she was calm enough to tell him what was going on, why she’d called him at six her time-why she hadn’t called him again and dissuaded him from coming down here. “You can tell the difference?”

She nodded. “Water moccasins are a kind of pit viper. They swim on top of the water with their heads above the surface-water snakes tend to swim under the water. They’re not as fat as the cottonmouths-that’s what people call water moccasins-and they’re more likely to hang from trees and slither off when they’re startled. A cottonmouth will stand its ground.”

Like her, Nate thought. Like her brother. Even in the short time they’d worked together, Nate had done enough arrests with Rob to know he didn’t like to back down. “Ever run into a cottonmouth?”

“All the time. Rob and I used to catch them when we were kids, but Granny Dunnemore told us to leave them alone. None of the snakes will bother you if you don’t bother them. It’s when they’re startled or feel threatened that they bite.”

He smiled. “I’ll try not to startle or threaten any snakes.”

She didn’t smile back, seemed barely aware that he’d spoken. “Even most cottonmouth bites aren’t fatal.” She stared into the water, as if she were looking for snakes. “Thank you for coming down here. It was a decent thing to do. I know I must have sounded awful on the phone this morning. I’m sure I overreacted to something.”

“Tell me about it.”

She shook her head. “I have to show you.”

But she didn’t want to show him. Nate could see her reluctance in her body language. Tight, closed, afraid. Showing him meant that the “something” that had prompted her to call him was real.

She dropped her arms to her sides and pushed past him with sudden energy, almost knocking him into the river.

He followed her back to the house, into a country-style living room with quilts and afghans in odd colors piled onto overstuffed furniture and shelves bearing an eclectic collection of books, including scholarly works and what had to be every mystery Rex Stout and Agatha Christie had ever written.

“Wait here,” she said, her tone more tired than commanding, and retreated back to the kitchen.

Nate debated going after her, but decided to do as she’d asked. He stood in front of the stone fireplace, noting a wedding picture on the mantel. The parents, Stuart and Betsy Dunnemore. He was handsome, she was beautiful-startlingly beautiful. And very obviously much younger.

Sarah returned with an envelope and a sheet of paper that she laid on the marble-topped coffee table. “Here. I’ve already touched them, so they have my fingerprints on them.”

Nate took in the words in a single glance.

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

“Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath.

She seemed almost relieved at his reaction. “I didn’t know what to do. It was in with a bunch of cards and letters, some of them kind of nutty.” She sank onto a chair and took a breath. “It’s amazing what some people will stoop to. I don’t want to take any chances, but I don’t want to send you all on a wild-goose chase, either.”

“This was in your mail?”

“Ethan piled it on the kitchen table, unopened. It was here when I arrived. I opened it this morning.” She leaned forward and stared at the paper, her cheeks pale, but she seemed calmer now that she’d told him about it. “After I called you, I checked all the phones for bugs. I don’t even know what one looks like, and I imagine there are ways for someone to tap a phone line that I’d never find.”

“Sarah.”

“I couldn’t make myself tell you on the phone. I was really spooked. I let my thinking run wild.”

She was upset, uncertain, a capable, intelligent woman not used to being out of her element-not used to having to trust someone, count on someone, besides herself.

But Nate knew there was more. Something else.

She twisted her hands together, working one of her delicate rings up to her knuckle, then back down again. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“None of us does.”

“Rob, my parents. If something happens to them because of something I did or didn’t do…” She trailed off, not finishing.

“Your parents are still in Amsterdam.”

She nodded, taking in a small breath. “I know. I called them, too. I didn’t tell them about the note.” She stopped abruptly and lifted her eyes to him. “I really don’t like being afraid, you know.”

Nate sat on the edge of the couch and folded his hands. His head ached now, too. But his thinking was clear, sharp. After he’d left her last night, he’d thought about finding her collapsing in Central Park-thought about her body language and how similar it was to when he’d caught her following him to Sister Maria’s.