The Witness (34 page)

Action and reaction, she told herself. Nothing more.

But what if it were more?

Her alarm beeped, stiffening her spine and shoulders as she laid a hand on the butt of the Glock.

She wasn’t expecting a package.

She walked quickly to the monitor she’d set up on the porch. She remembered the car even before she made out the driver. Brooks’s mother—dear God—and two other women.

Talking, laughing, as Sunny drove toward the house.

Before she could decide what to do, the car rounded the last curve. Sunny gave the horn a cheery toot-toot when she spotted Abigail.

“Hey, there!” Sunny shouted out the car window before the three of them piled out.

The woman in the front had to be Brooks’s sister, Abigail thought. The coloring, the bone structure, the shape of the eyes and mouth were too similar not to be genetic.

“Look at this! Butterfly garden.”

“Yes. I’ve been working on it this afternoon.”

“Well, it’s just going to be wonderful,” Sunny told her. “Smell the heliotrope! I’ve got Plato in the car. Do you suppose Bert would like to meet him?”

“I … I suppose he would.”

“Mama’s so busy worrying about introducing the dogs, she doesn’t worry about the humans. I’m Mya, Brooks’s sister, and our middle sister, Sybill.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Abigail managed, as her hand was gripped and shaken.

“We blew the day off,” Mya beamed out, a lanky woman with a pixie cut in streaky brunette. “Work, kids, men. We had ourselves a fancy ladies’ lunch, and now we’re heading in to do some shopping.”

“We thought you might like to come along with us,” Sybill said.

“Come along?” Baffled, off-balance, one eye on her dog, Abigail tried to keep up.

“Shopping,” Mya repeated. “After, we’re talking about frozen margaritas.”

The puppy bounced, rolled, nipped and generally went crazy around and over Bert, who sat, quivering, his gaze slanted toward Abigail.

“Ami. Jouer.”

Instantly, he hunkered, head down, tail up and wagging, and playfully knocked Plato into an ungainly roll.

“Aw, aren’t they cute!” Sunny declared.

“He won’t hurt the puppy.”

“Honey, I can see that. That big boy’s gentle as a lamb, and God knows Plato can use a little running-around time. He’s been in the car or on the leash all afternoon. Did you meet my two girls?”

“Yes.”

“We’re trying to talk her into putting away her trowel and coming along for shopping and margaritas.” Sybill offered Abigail a warm, easy smile that showed hints of dimples.

“Thank you for asking.” Abigail heard the stiffness in her voice when compared with the other women’s ease. “But I really need to finish planting. I got a later start than I’d planned.”

“Well, it looks just beautiful.” Sybill wandered over for a closer look. “I didn’t inherit Mama’s or Daddy’s green thumb, so I’m envious.”

“It was very nice of you to come over and invite me.”

“It was,” Mya agreed, “but mostly Syb and I just wanted to get a close-up look at you and check out the woman who’s got Brooks all tangled up.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not the type I imagined would hook him so good and proper.”

“Oh” was all Abigail could think of, again.

“Something’s in Mya’s mind,” Sunny began, hooking an arm around her daughter, “it just rolls right off her tongue.”

“I can be tactful and diplomatic, but it’s not a natural state for me. Anyway, I meant it as a compliment, a good thing.”

“Thank you?”

Mya laughed. “You’re welcome. Mostly, see, Brooks—in the past—tended toward the looks without necessarily much substance to back it up. But here you are, pretty and natural, strong and smart enough to live out here on your own, clever enough to plant a well-designed garden—I did get the green thumb—and you run your own business, from what I’m told. And I guess since you’ve got that big gun on your hip, you know how to take care of yourself.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Have you ever shot anyone?”

“Mya. Don’t mind her,” Sybill said. “She’s the oldest and has the biggest mouth. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with us?”

“I really need to finish this garden, but thank you.”

“We’ll have a cookout Sunday afternoon,” Sunny announced. “Brooks’ll bring you around.”

“Oh, thank you, but—”

“Nothing fancy. Just a backyard barbecue. And I’ve got some yellow flags I need to divide. I’ll give you some. They’ll like that sunny spot over by the brook. I’ll round up that pup, and we’ll see you Sunday.”

“You’ve been seeing Brooks for a while now,” Mya commented.

“I suppose.”

“You know how he just chips amiably away at you until he gets his way?”

“Yes.”

Mya winked and grinned. “He comes by it naturally. We’ll see you Sunday.”

“Don’t worry.” Sybill surprised Abigail by taking her hand as her sister walked off to help their mother with the puppy. “It’ll be fine. Your dog’s all right with kids around?”

“He wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Unless I tell him to, she thought.

“You bring him along. You’ll feel easier having your dog with you. We’re pretty nice people, and inclined to like anyone who makes Brooks happy. You’ll be fine,” she said, and gave Abigail’s hand a squeeze before she released it and walked back to the car.

There was a lot of laughing and chattering, a lot of waving and honking. Shell-shocked, Abigail stood, her deliriously happy dog at her side, and politely lifted her hand as the O’Hara-Gleason women drove away.

It was like being rolled over by a steamroller made of flowers, Abigail thought. It didn’t really hurt, it was all very pretty and sweet-smelling. But you were still flattened.

She wouldn’t go, of course. It would be impossible on so many levels. Perhaps she’d write a polite note of regret to Brooks’s mother.

She put her gardening gloves back on. She wanted to finish the bed; plus, she’d used finishing it as an excuse, so finish it she must and would.

She’d never been asked to go shopping and have margaritas, and wondered as she dug what it was like. She knew people shopped even when they didn’t need anything. She didn’t understand the appeal, but she knew others did.

She thought of that day, so long ago, in the mall with Julie. How much fun it had been, how exhilarating and liberating it had been to try on clothes and shoes with a friend.

Of course, they hadn’t been friends. Not really friends. The entire interlude had been one of chance and circumstance and mutual need.

And that interlude had led to disaster and tragedy.

She knew, logically, the harmless rebellion of buying clothes and shoes hadn’t caused the tragedy. Even her own reckless stupidity of forging the IDs, agreeing to go to the club hadn’t caused the events that followed.

The Volkovs and Yakov Korotkii held that responsibility.

And yet, how could she not link them together, not feel the weight and the guilt even after all this time? The argument with her mother had lit the chain reaction that had ended with the explosion of the safe house. If not fully responsible, she had been one of the links in that chain.

And still, as she planted she wondered what it was like to ride in a car with women who laughed, to shop for unnecessary things, to drink margaritas and gossip.

And wondering took some of the bloom off the pleasure of the sounds and smells of her solitude.

She planted it all, added more, worked through the afternoon into soft evening wheeling bags of mulch to the bed. Filthy, sweaty, satisfied, she set up the sprinklers just as her alarm signaled again.

This time she saw Brooks driving toward the house.

She’d lost track of time, she realized. She’d meant to go in, put the lasagna on warm in the oven before he arrived. And had certainly hoped to have cleaned up at least a little.

“Well, look at that.” He got out, a bouquet of purple iris in his hand. “These feel a little dinky now.”

“They’re beautiful. It’s the second time you brought me flowers. You’re the only one who ever has.”

He made them both a silent promise to bring them often. He handed them to her, pulled out a rawhide for Bert. “Didn’t forget you, big guy. You must’ve worked half the day putting that bed in.”

“Not quite that long, but it took some time. I want butterflies.”

“You’re going to get them. It’s pretty as it can be, Abigail. So are you.”

“I’m dirty,” she said, backing up when he bent to kiss her.

“I don’t mind a bit. You know I’d’ve given you a hand with the planting. I’m good at it.”

“I got started, and caught up in it.”

“Why don’t I get us some wine? We can sit out here and admire your work.”

“I need to shower and put the lasagna in to warm.”

“Go on, get your shower. I can put the food in, get the wine. From the looks of things you worked harder than I did today. Here.” He took the flowers back. “I’ll put them in water for you. What?” he said when she only stared at him.

“Nothing. I … I won’t be long.”

Not sure what to do, he concluded, when offered the most basic and minimal help. But she’d taken it, he thought, as he went in, filled her vase. And without argument or excuses. That was a step forward.

He put the flowers on the counter, expecting she’d fuss with the arrangement later, and likely when he wasn’t around. He switched the oven, set it low, slid the casserole in.

He took the wine and two glasses out on the front porch, and, after pouring, carried his own glass over to lean on the post, study her flowers.

He knew enough about gardening to be sure the job had taken her hours. Knew enough about gardening artfully to be sure she had a knack for color and texture and flow.

And he knew enough about people to be sure the planting of it was another mark of ownership, of settling in. Her place, done her way.

A good sign.

When she stepped out, he turned to her. Her damp hair curled a little around her face, and she smelled as fresh as spring itself.

“It’s my first spring back in the Ozarks,” he said, picking up her glass to offer it. “I’m watching it come back to life. The hills greening up, the wildflowers bursting, the rivers streaming through it all. The light, the shadows, sunlight on fields of row crops freshly planted. All of it new again for another season. And I know there’s nowhere else I want to be. This is home again, for the rest of it.”

“I feel that way. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way. I like it.”

“It’s good you do. I look at you, Abigail, smelling of that spring, your flowers blooming or waiting to, your eyes so serious, so goddamn beautiful, and I feel the same. There’s nowhere else. No one else.”

“I don’t know what to do with how you make me feel. And I’m afraid of what my life will be if this changes and I never feel this way again.”

“How do I make you feel?”

“Happy. So happy. And terrified and confused.”

“We’ll work on the happy until you’re easy and sure.”

She set down her wine, went to him, held on. “I may never be.”

“You came outside without your gun.”

“You have yours.”

He smiled into her hair. “That’s something, then. That’s trust, and a good start.”

She didn’t know, couldn’t analyze through all the feelings. “We can sit on the steps, and you could tell me what happened this morning.”

“We can do that.” He tipped her face back, kissed her lightly. “’Cause I’m feeling good about it.”

H
E FILLED HER IN WHILE THE SHADOWS LENGTHENED AND
her new garden soaked up the gentle shower from her sprinklers.

She’d always found the law fascinating, the ins and outs of the process, the illogic—and, in her opinion, often the bias—infused into the rules and codes and procedures by the human factor. Justice seemed so clear-cut to her, but the law that sought it, enforced it, was murky and slippery.

“I don’t understand why, because they have money, they should be released.”

“Innocent till proven guilty.”

“But they
are
guilty,” she insisted, “and it has been proven. They rented the room and caused the damage. Justin Blake assaulted your friend in front of witnesses.”

“They’re entitled to their day in court.”

She shook her head. “But now they’re free to use money or intimidation against those witnesses and the others involved, or to run, or to craft delays. Your friends suffered a loss, and the people who caused it are free to go about their lives and business. The legal system is very flawed.”

“That may be, but without it, chaos.”

From her experience, chaos came with it.

“Consequences, punishment, justice, should be swift and constant, without the escape hatches of money, clever lawyers and illogical rulings.”

“I imagine most mobs think that when they get a rope.”

She frowned at him. “You arrest people who break the law. You know they’ve broken the law when you do so. You should be frustrated, even angry, knowing one of them finds a way through a legal loophole or, due to human failure, isn’t punished for the crime.”

“I’d rather see a guilty man go free than an innocent one go down. Sometimes there are reasons to break the law. I’m not talking about our three current assholes, but in general.”

Obviously relaxed, Brooks stretched out his legs, gave Bert a little rub with his foot. “It’s not always black and white, right and wrong. If you don’t consider all the shades and circumstances, you haven’t reached justice.”

“You believe that.” The muscles in her belly twisted, vibrated. “That there can be reasons to break the law.”

“Sure there are. Self-defense, defense of others. Or something as simple as speeding. Your wife’s in labor? I’m not going to cite you for breaking the speed limit on the way to the hospital.”

“You’d consider the circumstances.”

“Sure. Back when I was on patrol, we got called in on an assault. This guy went into a bar and beat the shit out of his uncle. We’ll call him Uncle Harry. Now, we’ve got to take the guy in on the assault, but it turns out Uncle Harry’s been messing with the guy’s twelve-year-old daughter. Yeah, he should’ve just called the cops and Child Services on it, but was he wrong to break Uncle Harry’s face? I don’t think so. You have to look at the whole picture, weigh those circumstances. That’s what the courts are supposed to do.”