The Witness (43 page)

“She makes me happy. When I’m with her I feel like that’s where I’m supposed to be, where I’ve been wanting to be. And everything that matters makes sense. I don’t know why one person falls in love with another, Sylbie. They just do.”

“You’re in love with her?”

“I’m in love with her.”

She stared down at the tabletop for a moment. “Can I have a sip of your coffee?”

“Sure.”

She took it, grimaced, set it down again after one sip. “You always drink it too sweet.”

“Bad habit.”

“Did you ever love me?”

“I wanted you. There were times I craved you like I was starved to death. The first time around, we were too young to know. The second? Maybe we were both trying to know. I couldn’t make you happy. You couldn’t make me happy. And nothing that really mattered made sense.”

“The sex did.”

He laughed a little. “Okay, you’re right about that. But sex, even good sex, can’t be the start, finish and the whole in between.”

“I thought I’d figured that out after my first divorce, but I guess I didn’t. And the second one … I never wanted to be the kind of woman with two divorces on her back.”

She turned to stare out the wide window. “But I am.”

“Maybe you should think of it as two marriages. I figure people who try marriage more than once, they’re optimists.”

“Optimists.” With a half-laugh, she shoved his coffee away. “Sounds better than a loser.”

“You’re not a loser, Sylbie.”

“I’m sort of seeing Grover.”

“You … oh.” Brooks picked up his coffee, gulped some down. “Well.”

“I know. He’s not the type I usually aim for. He’s not handsome, and he’s a little paunchy. But he’s got a sweetness to him. You did, too, but I didn’t appreciate it. I’m appreciating his. We’re not sleeping together yet, but I feel good when I’m with him. I feel better about myself. I guess we’re friends the way you and I never were.”

“That’s good.”

“He makes me happy, and I didn’t expect to be. I guess I’ll find out if I can stay happy.”

“I hope you can.”

“So do I.” She slid out. “I don’t think I’m ready to say I hope you stay happy with Abigail Lowery, but I nearly am.”

“That’s a start.”

“I’ll see you around.”

She sashayed out. Roland decided he had a lot more mulling to do, but since he’d finished his pie, he needed to do it elsewhere. In any case, Gleason was leaving, laying money on the tabletop for the coffee.

Maybe he’d drive out toward Lowery’s place, get the lay of the land.

T
AKING A BREAK FROM WORK
, Abigail paged through recipes online. It kept her from worrying. Nearly kept her from worrying. She knew Brooks would want to talk about what happened next when he came. She worried about what he thought should happen next.

So she worked, did laundry, worked, weeded the garden, worked, looked through recipes. She couldn’t seem to settle, focus on one chore until she completed it.

It wasn’t like her.

She wished he’d come.

She wished she could be alone.

She wished she knew what she really wished. She hated this indecision, the gnawing anxiety. It wasn’t productive.

When her alarm sounded, she spun in her chair, certain that telling Brooks—telling anyone—the story had brought the Volkovs to her door.

Illogical. Actually ridiculous, she admitted, but her pulse hammered as she watched the man in the ball cap on her monitor.

A good camera, she noted. Boots that had seen some wear. A backpack.

A hiker or tourist who’d wandered onto her property, despite the postings. That was it, probably.

When he took out binoculars, aimed them toward her cabin, the anxiety increased.

Who was he? What was he doing?

Coming closer. Still closer.

He stopped again, scanned with his compact field glasses, turning slowly until it seemed to Abigail he stared through them right at one of the cameras. Then he continued on, continuing the circle.

He took off his cap, scrubbed at his hair before taking out a water bottle and drinking deeply. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a compass, took a step, stumbled. He fumbled with the compass, dropped it. She saw his mouth move as he dived for it, snatched it off the ground.

He shook it, lifted his face to the sky, then sat on the ground, dropped his head to his knees.

He stayed as he was for several moments before pushing to his feet. He mopped at his face, then continued toward her cabin.

After checking her weapon, Abigail took the dog outside, circled around.

She could hear him coming. Nothing stealthy in his approach, she thought, and he was muttering to himself, breathing fast, heavy. From the side of the greenhouse, she watched him come into view, heard him say, very clearly, “Thank God,” as he arrowed straight toward her rear door.

He knocked, swiped sweat from his face, waited. He knocked again, more forcefully. “Hello! Is anybody there? Please, let somebody be there.”

He walked down the porch, cupped his hand on the window glass.

And she stepped out, the dog by her side. “What do you want?”

He jumped like a rabbit, spun around. “Jeez, you scared the—” His eyes went huge when he saw the gun, and his hands shot straight up in the air. “Jesus, don’t shoot me. I’m lost. I got lost. I’m just looking for the way back to my car.”

“What were you doing in the woods, on my property? It’s clearly posted.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was taking photographs. I’m a photographer. I was just going to take a few shots, get the feel of things, and I got caught up, went in farther than I meant to. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have ignored the No Trespassing signs. You can call the cops. Just don’t shoot me. My—my name’s Roland Babbett. I’m staying at the Inn of the Ozarks. You can check.”

“Please take off your pack, set it down, step away from it.”

“Okay, sure.”

He wasn’t wearing a gun—she’d seen him do a full circle and would have spotted it. But he might have a weapon in the pack.

“You can keep the pack,” he said, when he set it down. “My wallet’s in there. You can keep the money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Listen, listen, I got lost. I dropped my compass and broke it. I saw the cabin through my binoculars when I was scanning around. I just came for some help. Call the police.”

“Where did you leave your car?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be lost. I don’t mean to be a smart-ass,” he added quickly. “I drove out of Bickford, south out of town for about a mile, then I pulled over. The light was really good, the shadows. I wanted to take some shots. Photographs, I mean,” he said, with another wary look at the gun.

“You should respect private property.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m really sorry.”

She pointed. “If you go that way, you’ll come to the road. Turn left. You should find your car in about a quarter-mile.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll just—”

“Take your pack,” she told him, as he started to step off the porch without it.

“Okay.” He picked it up, his eyes shifting from her face, to the gun, to the dog, back again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She watched him walk away, in quite a hurry, until he was out of sight. Back in the house, she continued to watch him on the monitor as he hiked at a half-jog up her road to the main one, tossing glances over his shoulders every few minutes.

She’d frightened him, she thought. Well, he’d frightened her. She supposed that made them even.

R
OLAND KNEW EXACTLY
where his car was parked.

He hadn’t been expecting the gun. He hadn’t been expecting the cameras, either. He’d been told she had security, including cameras around the house. Nobody had mentioned she had them ranged back in the woods.

If he hadn’t spotted one when he had, he’d have blown the job.

She’d bought the scared, lost hiker routine. Why not? He
had
been scared. She’d held the Glock like someone who knew how to use it. Like someone who would use it.

He had to admire that, now that he wasn’t standing on the wrong side of it.

And the dog. He’d known about the dog, but
God damn,
that was one big bastard.

Then the locks on the back door. As good as they came, he mused,
as he tossed the pack in the backseat. He was pretty damn good with the picks, but he’d never get through those. Moot point, as he couldn’t get by the cameras, not without a whole lot of equipment.

That much security? Overkill.

The job just got a lot more interesting. Anybody with security like that, the big dog, the Glock, the ’tude?

She had something to hide. He loved finding out what people wanted to hide.

B
ROOKS CAME INTO THE KITCHEN WITH A CLUTCH OF WHITE
daisies with bright yellow buttons and a rawhide bone for Bert.

“You brought me flowers again.”

“My daddy brings my mama flowers once or twice a week, and I figured out it’s because they make her smile, just like you are now.”

“I worried things wouldn’t be right when you came tonight, that it would feel awkward after everything. And you brought me daisies.”

“Then you can stop worrying.”

She got a vase, wished she had a pretty little pitcher instead, and vowed to buy one the next time she went into town.

“Every time I come in here something smells good, in addition to you.”

“It’s the rosemary,” she told him, as she arranged the flowers. “It’s very fragrant. I found a new recipe for chicken I wanted to try.”

“Happy to be your taste-tester.”

“It should go well with the
Pouilly-Fumé
.”

“If you say so.” He brushed her hair back, then indulged himself with a nuzzle of her neck. “How’d your day go?”

“I was restless and distracted, but I finished some work. And I was
interrupted by a lost hiker—a photographer. I don’t understand why people don’t respect boundary lines. There’s so much land here open to the public, there’s no need to come onto private property.”

“Grass is always greener. He came to the house?”

“Yes. He set off the alarm, and I saw him on the monitor. He dropped and broke his compass, and apparently saw the cabin through his binoculars.”

Brooks paused in the act of pouring their wine. “Binoculars?”

She checked the chicken. “Yes. I wondered if he’d seen the camera through them, but apparently he was looking for his way, or some help. I went outside, around the greenhouse, so I could come up behind him.”

“You went out, when some strange guy was coming to the house?”

“I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time, remember? He was alone. I had my gun and Bert. He knocked, called out. And he was very disconcerted when I stepped out, with the gun.”

Brooks finished pouring the wine, took a long swallow. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“I didn’t mind frightening him. He shouldn’t have come onto posted property. I questioned him briefly, then directed him to where, if he told me accurately, he’d left his car. He left quickly.”

“An armed woman with a big dog? He’d’ve been a fool not to. What was he doing out here?”

“Photography. He said his name was Roland Babbett, and he was staying at the Conroys’ hotel.”

“That’s easy enough to check on.” Brooks dug out his cell phone. “What did he look like?”

“Mid-thirties. Between five-ten and five-eleven, about a hundred and seventy pounds. Medium complexion, light brown hair, brown eyes, prominent chin. He wore a brown cap with the Greenpeace logo, a black T-shirt with the name of the band R.E.M., khaki cargo shorts and hiking boots. He had a navy backpack, and a Nikon camera on a strap. The strap had multicolored peace signs on it.”

“Yeah, you would’ve made a good cop,” Brooks replied. “I saw him at the diner earlier today. Cherry pie à la mode.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just curious. What time did he come here?”

“The alarm sounded at four-eighteen.”

“Yeah, that’s curious. I see him at the diner in town going onto four o’clock. Less than a half-hour later, he’s out here.”

Her hand tightened on the stem of her glass. “You think they’ve found me.”

“Honey, did he look like Russian Mafia? And would it be their style to have some guy poking around up in your woods?”

“No.” Her shoulders relaxed. “He wasn’t armed. At least he wasn’t wearing a weapon. The Volkovs wouldn’t send a single unarmed man.”

“I think that’s a pretty safe bet.” But he intended to be thorough, and punched in a number on his cell. “Hey, Darla, how’s it going? Uh-huh. Those spring colds can hit hard. You get some rest. Yeah, it’s that time of year, all right. Listen, do you have a guest name of Roland Babbett registered? No problem. Uh-huh, hmmm. It takes all kinds, doesn’t it? Uh-huh.” He rolled his eyes at Abigail. “Yeah, Roland Babbett. What room’s he in? Now, Darla, I’m not just anybody asking. I’m the chief of police. I’m just following up on something. You know I can call Russ and ask. Uh-huh. Is that so? Mmm-hmm. No, no trouble, just a routine thing. You take care of that cold, now, you hear? Bye.”

He picked up the wine again. “Darla tends to run on a bit. He’s there, all right. Took a room—requested it—right down the hall from the Ozarks Suite.”

“The one Justin Blake and his friends vandalized?”

“That would be right. Now, isn’t it curious how I saw this Babbett in town, and he comes here, got a camera and binoculars, and he’s staying down from that particular suite?”

“It could be a coincidence, but it feels designed.”

“Designed is a good word for it. Designed by Blake.” Leaning a hip
on the counter, he picked up his wine. “What do you bet if I scratched the surface some, I’d find out Roland Babbett is a high-priced private investigator?”

“I think I’d win the bet. He did see the camera, and he thought very quickly, pretending to be lost.” Duping her, she thought, with considerable annoyance. “But I don’t see what he gained by coming here.”

“A little legwork. Check out your setup here, get a feel. He had some luck today, spotting one of your cameras, using it to his advantage to make contact. I don’t doubt the reception gave him a bad moment, but all in all, it worked for him. He had a conversation, a close-up look. Same thing earlier when I happened to go in for some coffee when he was in the diner. He got to sit there, eating his pie, and get a good look, and … shit.”