The Witness (14 page)

She’d moved to this pretty corner of the Ozarks precisely because she wanted no neighbors, no people, no interruptions to whatever routine she set for herself.

She drove down the winding up-and-down private road to her house in the woods. It had taken weeks to devise a blueprint for sensors, ones that wouldn’t go off if some rabbit or squirrel approached the house. More time to install them and the cameras, to test them.

But it had been worth it. She loved this house of rough-hewn logs and covered porches. The first time she’d seen it she thought of it as both fairy tale and home.

A mistake, she knew. She’d weaned herself off attachments, but she’d fallen for this spot. So wonderfully quiet she could hear the creek bubble and sing. So private and secluded, with its deep woods. And secure.

She’d seen to the security herself, and she trusted no one else.

Well, she thought, as she stopped the car. Except Bert.

The big dog sat on the covered front porch of the two-story cabin. Body alert, eyes bright. When she got out of the car, she signaled release. He bounded to her, all hundred and thirty pounds of him wriggling in joy.

“There’s my good boy. Best dog in the world. So smart. Just so smart.” She gave him a brisk rub before retrieving her market bag. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I had.”

She took out her keys as they walked to the house together on the narrow stone path. “Minding my own business, buying supplies, and the chief of police comes into the market to interrogate me. What do you think of that?”

She unlocked the two dead bolts, the police lock, then stepped inside to deactivate the alarm with a code she changed every three to five days.

“That’s what I thought, too.” She locked the door, secured the riot bar. “He was rude.”

She crossed the living room she’d set up for relaxation. She loved curling up there, a fire crackling, Bert at her feet. Reading or watching a DVD. And she had only to toggle over to have the view of her security cameras come on the large flat screen.

She moved back to the kitchen, with its secondary office area she’d set up in lieu of a dining room.

Out of habit, she checked the locks on the rear door, the tells she left on the windows. But she wasn’t afraid here. She believed, at last, she’d found a place where she wasn’t afraid. Still, vigilance was never wasted. She turned on the kitchen TV screen so it synched with the security cameras. She could put her groceries away—what she’d managed to buy before being interrupted—and do a perimeter check.

She gave Bert one of the gourmet dog treats she kept in a tin. She’d convinced herself he could tell the difference between them and lesser dog biscuits.

As her bodyguard, he deserved the best.

“I’ve got some work to do after this. I have to earn my fee on the Bosto account. Then we’ll go out, get some exercise. Give me an hour, then—”

She broke off, and Bert came to full alert as the drive alarm beeped.

“We’re not expecting any deliveries today.” She laid her hand on the gun holstered at her side. “It’s probably just someone who made a wrong turn. I should put up a gate, but we get so many deliveries.”

She frowned as she watched the car approach, then moved to the computer, zoomed in.

“Oh, for God’s sake. What does he want now?”

Her tone had Bert growling low in his throat. “Pillow.” Her code word for stand down had the dog relaxing again but watching her for any distress. “Pillow,” she repeated, then signaled for him to come with her.

Bert had a very successful way of discouraging visitors.

She deactivated the alarm, unlocked the front door and stepped out on the porch as the chief of police pulled up behind her SUV.

It made her itchy. He hadn’t blocked her in, or not altogether. She could get around him if she needed to. But the intent was there, and she didn’t like it.

“Ms. Lowery.”

“Chief Gleason. Is there a problem?”

“Well, funny you should ask, because that was going to be my question. Before I do, let me just say that’s a really big dog.”

“Yes, he is.”

Hip cocked, thumbs in front pockets, his body language read relaxed and casual. But his eyes, Abigail noted, were sharp, observant. Were authority.

“Is he going to rip my throat out if I walk over there?”

“Not unless I tell him to.”

“I’d appreciate if you’d not. Why don’t we go inside?”

“Why would we?”

“It’s friendlier. But we’re fine out here. The place looks good. Better than I remember.” He nodded to a patch of ground she’d marked off and covered with black plastic. “Going for flowers or vegetables?”

“Flowers. If you came all the way out here to ask if there’s a problem, I’ll just tell you no. There’s no problem here.”

“Then I’ve got a follow-up. Why are you carrying a gun?”

She knew the instant of surprise must have shown, and wished for her sunglasses. “I live alone. I don’t know you, and you came uninvited, so I have a gun and the dog for protection. I have a license.”

“It’s good you do. The thing is, you were wearing that gun when you went in to buy fancy vinegar. I don’t think you needed protection in the gourmet market.”

Sharp and observant, she thought again, and berated herself for not taking a smaller weapon. “I have a concealed-carry license. I’m within my rights.”

“I’m going to ask to see your license, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. Why do people say that when they know very well the person they say it to minds?”

“Empty manners, I guess.” He spoke pleasantly, patiently—she thought of the ability as a talent, and a weapon.

“I do want to see the license, just to cover things—Abigail, isn’t it?”

She turned without a word, took out her keys. She felt him follow her onto the porch. “I’ll bring it out.”

“You know, you’re making me wonder why you’re so hell-bent on keeping me out of the house. You running a meth lab, a bordello, running guns, making explosives?”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort.” Her hair, a blunt, shoulder-skimming drape of golden brown, swung out as she turned. “I don’t
know
you.”

“Brooks Gleason, chief of police.”

Yes, she decided, anyone who could deliver sarcasm with such a pleasant drawl, such an easygoing smile, had skills.

“Your name and occupation don’t change the fact I don’t know you.”

“Point taken. But you’ve got a big-ass dog there who’s giving me the stink eye because he knows you’re upset and I’m the reason. He must go a hundred and twenty pounds.”

“One thirty-three.”

Brooks gave Bert a long study. “I’ve got about thirty pounds on him, but he’s got sharper teeth and you’ve got a sidearm.”

“So do you.” She shoved the door open, and when Brooks stepped inside, she held up a hand. “I want you to wait here. I’m going to put
him on guard. He’ll restrain you if you don’t stay here. You have no right to wander around my house.”

“All right.”

“Bert. Hold.” She turned to the stairs, started up.

“Define ‘restrain.’”

Nearly out of patience—the police chief appeared to have more than his share—she paused, snapped, “Stay where you are and you won’t have to find out.”

“Okay, then.” He let out a breath as she disappeared up the stairs. He and the dog eyed each other. “So, Bert, what do you do around here for fun? Not talking, huh? Nice place.” Cautious, Brooks stood very still, turned only his head. “No muss, no fuss.”

And triple locks, a riot bar, secured windows, top-grade alarm system.

Who the hell was Abigail Lowery, and what—or whom—was she afraid of?

She came back down, a document in hand, gave it to him.

“A Glock 19? That’s a serious gun.”

“All guns are serious.”

“You’re not wrong.” He handed the license back to her, looked into her eyes. “And you’re not wrong that you don’t know me. I can give you the name of my former captain in Little Rock. I was on the police force there for ten years before I moved back home. I’m a good cop, Abigail. If you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in, I’ll try to help you.”

Chief Gleason wasn’t the only one with skills, she reminded herself. Her gaze and her voice remained absolutely steady and level. “I’m not in trouble. I’m just living my life. I have work to do, and I’m sure you have work to do. I’d like you to leave now.”

“All right. If you change your mind.” He took out a card, set it on a table by the front door. “My cell number’s on it, too. If you want help, you just call.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You’ve got a riot bar and three top-grade locks on your front door, security bars on your windows, and a better alarm system than my bank. I don’t think all that’s to keep the dog from getting out.”

He opened the front door, turned back to look at her. “Do you like puzzles?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I like them, too. See you around, Bert.” He shut the door.

Abigail stepped over, locked it, then, closing her eyes, knelt on the floor and pressed her face to the dog’s strong neck.

B
OYD
F
ITZWATER, GRIZZLE-HAIRED AND PAUNCHY, MANNED
the desk. He stopped chicken-pecking at the computer keyboard when Brooks walked by.

“Missy Crew came around. Like you’d expect, last night’s black eye was an accident. She got creative this time. Said she tripped on the rug and Ty tried to catch her.”

“She fell into his fist?”

“That’s just what she said. And him being a little drunk, he miscalculated when he tried to catch her.”

“And the neighbor calling us in because she ran out of the house half-naked and screaming?”

“That?” With a tight smile, Boyd shook his head. “She saw a mouse, and not the one on her eye. Overreacted, and the neighbor shouldn’t have bothered us. And before you ask, the reason she said Ty socked her last night is she was all confused. Because technically he did, but only trying to save her from a fall.”

“You let him go?”

“Couldn’t much do otherwise.”

“No, but this crap is going to stop. The next call we get on them, I want whoever’s on duty to call me. I want to handle it.”

“You’re welcome to it. I tried, Brooks. Even had Alma talk to her, figuring she might listen to another woman.”

“Well, she didn’t.” Alma Slope walked in from the break room. Her fingernails were painted electric blue today and matched the chunky beads around her neck. Her frizzy mop of guinea-gold hair had been clamped back with a blue silk flower.

She took a swig of the coffee in her hand, left a clear imprint of bold red lipstick on the rim. Pale green eyes, the only thing pale about Alma, peered out behind glasses with cat’s-eye frames studded with rhinestones.

Her face, with its network of fine lines, registered annoyance as she fisted a hand on the hip of her faded Levis.

Alma admitted to sixty, but as she’d admitted to sixty before Brooks had left for Little Rock, he couldn’t begin to guess the real age of his dispatcher.

He wasn’t sure Alma knew anymore.

“I took her in the break room, sat her down and talked to her like a Dutch uncle, whatever the hell that means. She started crying, so I thought I was getting somewhere. But she said how she loved Tybal, and he only gets mean when he’s drinking. And here’s the kicker. How it’s all going to be all right if she can just get pregnant.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She says she’s trying real hard. Once they have a baby, Ty’s going to settle right down.”

“I want the call when it comes,” Brooks repeated. “Thanks for trying, Alma. You can take the patrol, Boyd. I’ve got some paperwork to see to.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“You want some coffee, Chief?” Alma asked him.

“Wouldn’t mind it.”

“I’ll get it for you. Nothing much to do. It’s quiet today.”

“May it continue.”

He went into his office, booted up his computer, picked up the ancient Slinky on his desk. Walking to the window, he moved his hands up and down to set the coils whispering. He liked the sound of it, found it soothing, like an old blanket or bare feet in warm grass.

He considered himself—and was considered by those who knew him—to be an even-tempered sort of man. Some would say a little on the low side of temper. So it surprised him just how much the incident with Abigail Lowery had pissed him off.

Take the dog. A beautiful son of a bitch, but there’d been no doubt if he’d made the wrong move, or she’d just had a fucking whim, that beautiful son of a bitch would have sunk his teeth into him.

Brooks didn’t mind unsettled situations, because he liked to settle them, find the answer or solution. Do the job, make the peace. But he damn well didn’t like being at such a slippery disadvantage against an armed woman and her big-ass guard dog.

No laws broken, he thought. Not one. And yet.

Some people were unfriendly by nature. He’d never understood the type, but he knew them, had dealt with them. It was more than that with this woman. A whole basketful of more.

He’d found her a strange and interesting mix of nerves and confidence, straightforward and secretive. Northern accent, he considered. Still shy of thirty, if he was any judge, and—barring Alma—he generally was.

On the slim side, but there was a coiled spring in there. Pretty, though she’d worn no makeup, and her clothes had been simple. Good boots, well broken in. No jewelry, no nail polish, no bright colors.

Don’t look at me—that’s what she was saying, in his opinion. Don’t notice me.

“What’s got you worked up?” Alma stepped in, set his coffee on his desk. “You’ve got your toy going,” she added when he turned.

“Just thinking.”

“Anything to do with the woman who bought the old Skeeter place?”

“Are you doing psychic readings these days?”

“I leave that to my girl.”

“How’s Caliope doing?” Alma’s daughter read tarot, palms and auras—and was one of his mother’s tight circle of friends.

“She worked an engagement party the other night. Picked up three more bookings out of it.”

“Good for her.”

“It’s a living. I heard you had what passes for a conversation with the Lowery girl over at the gourmet place.”