Carla Neggers - Night’s Landing

Sarah Dunnemore wasn’t a bad liar. But she wasn’t a good one, either.

“What happened in Central Park?” he asked her.

She almost slid off her chair. “What? Rob-” She took a breath. “You know what happened. You were there. It’s where you and Rob were shot.”

“To you. What happened to you in Central Park? Why did you almost pass out?” He settled back on the couch. “Don’t tell me it was the ‘twin thing.’ That won’t wash twice.”

“Nothing happened, at least, nothing that relates to the note.”

“Sarah, you’re a smart woman. I’m sure you’re a hell of an archaeologist, not that I’d be able to judge. It’s not my area of expertise, like law enforcement isn’t yours.”

She was silent, still twisting one of her rings.

“You’re feeling isolated,” he said, “and you don’t need to.”

“I don’t want to send you all off on some wild-goose chase. If I tell you what happened, which was nothing, you’ll investigate.” She shook her head. “No, it’s crazy.”

“Guess what, Dr. Dunnemore. You don’t get to decide.”

That brought her up short. “All right. Fair enough. I’ll let that be your job.”

He smiled, trying to take some of the edge off his demeanor. But his arm hurt, and he still had an image of the two of them on the blanket. “That is my job.”

She didn’t relax. “I saw a man I thought I recognized. He was up on the street, on Central Park South, looking down into the park.”

“Recognized him from where?”

She hesitated. “Amsterdam.”

Hell.

Nate didn’t speak. He wanted her to do the talking.

“I’m sure it was just my mind playing tricks on me. He reminded me of a man I saw at the Rijksmuseum. We were all there-my parents, Rob, me.” Sarah jumped up abruptly, turning away from him and gazing out a window onto the porch, down to the river. “I was on my own. Waiting for my mother, actually. Rob and my father were off looking at the Delftware. It’s a huge museum-we limited ourselves to the Dutch collection.”

“Where was your mother?”

“Viewing Rembrandt’s The Night Watch. It’s an incredible painting-it’s in its own rotunda. I was in an adjoining gallery. I don’t even remember what I was looking at. Earlier Dutch works, I believe. This man approached me, and we chatted for a minute or two about the paintings, the museum. He was friendly. French, I think. My parents know so many people, I assumed it was one of their friends or acquaintances.”

“Did you ask them about him?”

“No. It didn’t occur to me. It’s not as if he said outright that he knew them.”

“Describe him.”

She didn’t hesitate. “About five-ten, angular features, dark hair that’s long in front. Nate, he can’t be the same man as the one I saw at the park. It’d been a long, stressful day. I couldn’t swear-”

“What was he wearing?”

“Black leather jacket and black turtleneck. So was the man at the park. That must be what made me think I recognized him.”

“Rob didn’t see the man who approached you at the museum?”

“I don’t know how he could have.”

She turned from the window, her arms crossed on her chest, a way, Nate thought, for her to keep him from seeing that her hands were still shaking. She was a woman accustomed to staying in control. She wouldn’t want him to see just how the events of the past few days had rocked her. “You’re going to tell Agent Collins, aren’t you?” Her tone was cool now, almost resigned. “About both the letter and the man in the park.”

“Damn straight.”

She nodded and let her arms drop to her side. No shaking hands now. “I wasn’t holding back on you. I was convinced-I am convinced the man isn’t the same man I ran into at the museum. Even if it is, so what? It doesn’t mean he had anything to do with the shooting. It could just be one of those weird coincidences. If I hadn’t gotten the letter…” She didn’t finish.

“We’ll get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.”

“Maybe it’s nothing.” She tried to smile. “I should show you my letter from the psychic.”

Nate got to his feet, feeling the silence of the place, the isolation on this quiet stretch of river. Obviously Rob hadn’t expected his sister to come home to a threatening letter.

It was postmarked the day of the shooting. Whoever sent it hadn’t wasted any time.

“What goes on prune cake?” Nate asked.

Sarah seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. “What?”

“Frosting.” He wanted to pull her out of her spinning thoughts, just as his uncle had done with him with his talk of his orange eggs. “Does it have a frosting, or do you eat it plain like gingerbread?”

“It has a caramel glaze. You put it on when the cake’s still warm.”

He could hear the southern roots in her words, a soft lilt that seemed to match the breeze off the river. “You can probably finish making it before the FBI gets here. I’ll call Joe Collins in New York and find out what he wants to do.”

She nodded, her breathing shallow, then started for the kitchen. She paused in the hall doorway and glanced back at him. “I’m glad you’re here.” Then a quick smile, a welcome flash in her eyes. “I think.”

Nate glanced at the note.

I’ll know if you talk.

Wait.

She’d waited-she’d waited to tell him.

Everyone assumed the answers to the sniper attack were in New York, embedded somewhere in what he and Rob did for a living. Nate was no longer so sure. He had a feeling they could be here, in Night’s Landing, in the lives of a well-known, progressive southern family who happened to be friends and neighbors to the president of the United States.

He dreaded making the call to Joe Collins in New York.

And Rob-what to tell him about his sister’s letter?

Nothing, Nate decided. At least not until he knew more.

He could smell the prune cake baking, filling the house with warmth and the scent of cinnamon. Cozy, homey smells. She’d imposed normalcy onto herself as a way to cope. He pictured Sarah racing around that morning, pulling apart phones, trying to talk herself into believing the note didn’t mean anything, that she’d been right about the man in Central Park, after all, and he was no one.

Maybe she had a point. Maybe the wide coverage of the shooting and something about the Dunnemores themselves had brought out the head cases.

But Nate didn’t think so.

It was late afternoon before all the federal law enforcement types left-except for Nate. He obviously had no immediate plans to go anywhere. Sarah retreated to the kitchen and made the caramel glaze for the prune cake, pouring it between the layers and on the top while it was still hot. She hadn’t had time to really cook in months. Now it helped her control her racing thoughts, center her as she considered her options. And the old-fashioned southern recipes helped her feel more rooted and less isolated, as if she could draw on her grandmother’s strength.

She’d taken the FBI agents, the deputy marshals and the one guy who was probably Secret Service but never said so through her house, answered all their questions and offered them iced sweet tea punch, which they’d refused. She held her temper and her tears and her nerves.

She thought she’d done all right, but now, in the immediate aftermath of their search, she wished she’d simply thrown the note into the garbage.

The agents had whisked it away.

They’d told her nothing. No theories, no assessments, no hint of what they thought of the anonymous note.

Nate had kept his distance. After the last car pulled out of the driveway, he drifted out to the front porch. Sarah had a feeling he wasn’t going to be on an evening flight back to New York.