Carla Neggers - Night’s Landing

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.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“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.