The Witness (49 page)

“Both of those things are in your favor from their point of view.”

“Logically.” She breathed deep. “There’s no turning back now.”

“For either of us.”

“I want to work, at least another hour or two.”

“Okay, but don’t push it too hard. We’ve got a barbecue tomorrow.”

“Oh, but—”

“It’s easy, and it’s normal, and it’s a break I figure both of us can use. A couple hours away from all this.” He stroked a hand down her hair. “It’ll be fine, Abigail. Trust me. And we’ve got news. We’re engaged.”

“Oh, God.”

On a laugh, he gave a tug on the hair he’d just stroked. “My family’s going to do handsprings, I expect. I’ve got to take care of getting you a ring,” he added.

“Shouldn’t you wait to tell them? If something goes wrong …”

“We’re going to make sure nothing does.” He kissed her lightly. “Don’t work too late.”

Work, she thought, when he left her alone. At least there she knew what she was doing, what she was up against. No turning back, she reminded herself, as she sat at her station. For either of them, from any of it.

And still she felt more confident at the prospect of taking on the Russian Mafia than she did attending a backyard barbecue.

S
HE JOLTED OUT OF THE DREAM AND INTO THE DARK
.

Not gunfire, she realized, but thunder. Not an explosion but bursts of lightning.

Just a storm, she thought. Just wind and rain.

“Bad dream?” Brooks murmured, and reached through the dark for her hand.

“The storm woke me.” But she slid out of bed, restless with it, to walk to the window. Wanting the rush of cool air, she opened it wide, let the wind sweep over her skin, through her hair.

“I did dream.” Through another sizzle of lightning, she watched the whip and sway of trees. “You asked before if I had nightmares or flashbacks. I didn’t really answer. I don’t often, as much as I did, and the dreams are more a replaying than a nightmare.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I suppose it is, basically.”

She stood where she was, the wind a gush of cool, the sky a black egg cracked by jagged snaps of lightning.

He waited for her to tell him, she knew. He owned such patience, but unlike her mother’s, his offered kindness.

“I’m in my bedroom at the safe house. It’s my birthday. I’m happy. I’ve just put on the earrings and the sweater John and Terry gave me as gifts. And in the dream I think, as I did then, how pretty they are. I think I’ll wear them, for the good, strong feelings they give me, when I testify. Then I hear the gunshots.”

She left the window wide as she turned around to see him sitting up in bed, watching her.

Kindness, she thought again. She hoped she never took his innate kindness for granted.

“It happens very slowly in the dream, though it didn’t happen slowly. I remember everything, every detail, every sound, every movement. If I had the skill, I could draw it, scene by scene, and replay it like an animated film.”

“It’s hard on you to remember that clearly.”

“I …” She hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose it is. It was storming, like tonight. Thunder, lightning, wind, rain. The first shot startled me. Made my pulse skip, but I didn’t fully believe it was a gunshot. Then the others, and there could be no mistake. I’m very frightened, very unsure, but I rush out to find John. But in this dream tonight, it wasn’t John who pushed me back into the bedroom, who stumbled in behind me, already dying, blood running out of him, soaking the shirt I pressed to the wound. It wasn’t John. It was you.”

“It’s not hard to figure out.” She could see him in a snap of lightning, too, his eyes clear and calm on hers. “Not hard to put in its place.”

“No, it’s not. Stress, emotions, my going over and over all those events. What I felt for John and Terry, but particularly John, was a kind of love. I think, now that I understand such things better, I had a crush on him. Innocent, nonsexual, but powerful in its way. He swore to protect me, and I trusted him to do so. He had a badge, a weapon, a duty, as you do.”

She walked toward the bed but didn’t sit. “People say, to someone they love: I’d die for you. They don’t expect to, of course, have no plans to. They may believe it, or mean it, or it may simply be an expression of devotion. But I know what it means now, I understand that impossible depth of emotion now. And I know you would die for me. You’d put my life before yours to protect me. And that terrifies me.”

He took her hands in his, and his were as steady as his eyes. “He had no warning. He didn’t know the enemy. We do. We’re not walking into an ambush, Abigail. We’re setting one.”

“Yes.” Enough, she told herself. Enough. “I want you to know, if you’re hurt during the ambush, I’ll be very disappointed.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “What if it’s just a flesh wound?” He caught her hand, tugged her down.

“Very disappointed.” She turned to him, closed her eyes. “And I won’t be sympathetic.”

“You’re a tough woman with hard lines. I guess I’ll have to avoid flesh wounds.”

“That’s for the best.”

She relaxed against him, listened to the storm blow its way west.

I
N THE MORNING
, with the sky clear and blue, and the temperatures rising, she worked for another hour.

“You need to give that a rest,” Brooks told her.

“Yes. I need to fine-tune. It’s close, but not perfect. I don’t want to do anything else until I consider a few options. I’m checking something else now. Unrelated.”

“I checked in with Anson. He’s meeting Garrison and Assistant Director Cabot in about ninety minutes.”

“I estimate I’ll need another day on the program.” She glanced back briefly. “I can’t divulge to the authorities what I plan to do. It’s illegal.”

“I got that much. Why don’t you divulge it to me?”

“I’d rather wait until I’ve finished it, when I’m sure I can do what I hope to do.” She started to say more, then shook her head. “It can wait. I’m not sure of the proper dress for this afternoon or—” She broke off, horrified, spun around in her chair. “Why didn’t you
tell
me?”

“What?” Her sudden and passionate distress had him bobbling the bowl of cereal he’d just poured. “Tell you what?”

“I need to take a covered dish to your mother’s. You know very well I’m not familiar with the rules. You should have told me.”

“There aren’t any rules. It’s just—”

“It says right here.” She jabbed a finger at her screen. “Guests often bring a covered dish, perhaps a personal specialty.”

“Where does it say that?”

“On this site. I’m researching barbecue etiquette.”

“Jesus Christ.” Torn between amusement and absolute wonder, he dumped milk in the bowl. “It’s just a get-together, not a formal deal with etiquette. I picked up extra beer to take over. We’ll grab a bottle of wine.”

“I have to make something, right away.” She flew into the kitchen, began searching her refrigerator, her cupboards.

He stood, watching her and shoveling in cereal. “Abigail, chill it some. You don’t need to make anything. There’ll be plenty of food.”

“That’s not the point! Orzo. I have everything I need to make orzo.”

“Okay, but what is the point?”

“Taking food in a covered dish I’ve prepared myself is a courtesy, and a sign of appreciation. If I hadn’t checked, I wouldn’t have known, because you didn’t tell me.” She put a pot of water on the stove, added salt.

“I should have my ass whipped.”

“You think it’s amusing.” She gathered sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, black olives. “I may not know precisely how this sort of thing functions, but I understand perfectly well your family’s opinion of me will be important.”

“My mother and sisters already like you.”

“They may tend in that direction, until I rudely attend the barbecue
without a covered dish. Just go out and pick a small head of radicchio out of the garden.”

“I’d be happy to, but I don’t know what it looks like.”

She spared him a fulminating glance before storming out to pick it herself.

That sure took her mind off illegal computer viruses and stepping into the arms of the feds, he thought. And since she was on a tear, he thought it might be wise to stay out of her way for a couple of hours. When she stormed back in, he made a mental note that radicchio was the purple leafy stuff, in case it came up again.

“I need to go into the station for a couple hours,” he began.

“Good. Go away.”

“Need anything? I can pick whatever up on the way back.”

“I have everything.”

“I’ll see you later, then.” Brooks rolled his eyes at Bert on his way out as if to say, Good luck dealing with her.

He’d barely gotten out the door when his phone rang.

“Gleason.”

“Hey, Chief. There’s a little to-do over at Hillside Baptist,” Ash told him.

“I don’t handle to-dos on my day off.”

“Well, it’s a to-do with Mr. Blake and the Conroys, so I thought you might want in on it.”

“Hell. I’m rolling now.” He jumped in the car, backed it up with the phone at his ear. “What level of to-do?”

“Shouted accusations and bitter insults, with a high probability of escalation. I’m rolling, too.”

“If you get there ahead of me, you start heading off that escalation.”

He thought, Hell—and hit the sirens and the gas when he swung onto the main road.

It didn’t take him long, and he pulled up nearly nose-to-nose with Ash as they came in from opposite directions.

“You shaved off your …” It couldn’t rightfully be called a beard, Brooks considered. “Face hair.”

“Yeah, it got too hot.”

“Uh-huh.”

As Brooks had judged, the to-do had already bumped up to a scene, and a scene was one finger jab away from a ruckus, so he decided to wait to rag on Ash about the haze he’d scraped off his face.

Lincoln Blake and Mick Conroy might’ve been at the center of it, but they were surrounded by plenty of people in their Sunday best, lathered up and taking sides on the newly mowed green slope in front of the red-brick church.

Even the Reverend Goode, holy book still in his hand, had gone beet-red straight back into the sweep of his snowy hair.

“Let’s simmer down,” Brooks called out.

Some of the voices stilled; some of the chest bumpers eased back as Brooks moved through.

Blake had brought his stone-faced assistant, and Brooks had no doubt he was packing. Arkansas still had laws against guns in church—Christ knew for how long—but it was short odds some of those gathered on that green slope wore a weapon along with their tie and shined-up shoes.

Add guns, he thought, and a to-do could go from a scene to a ruckus to a bloodbath in a heartbeat.

“Y’all are standing in front of a church.” He led with disapproval, laced with a thin cover of disappointment. “I expect most of you attended services this morning. I heard some language when I got here that’s not fitting at such a time and place. Now, I’m going to ask y’all to show some respect.”

“It’s Lincoln here started it.” Jill Harris folded her arms. “Mick no sooner walked out the door than Lincoln got in his face.”

“A man’s got a right to say his piece.” Mojean Parsins, Doyle’s mother, squared off with the older woman. “And you oughta keep that parrot nose of yours out of other people’s business.”

“I could if you hadn’ta raised a hooligan.”

“Ladies.” Knowing he took his life in his hands—women were apt to leap and bite, and were as likely to be carrying as their men—Brooks stepped between them. “It’d be best if you, and everybody else, went on home now.”

“You entrapped our boy, you and that Lowery woman. Lincoln told me just what you did. And the Conroys here, they’re trying to make a killing off a bit of teenage mischief.”

Hilly Conroy elbowed her husband aside. From the look of her, Brooks decided she’d finally found her mad. “Mojean Parsins, you know that’s a lie. I’ve known you all your life, and I can see on your face you know that for a lie.”

“Don’t you call me a liar! Your boy’s run that hotel into the ground, and you’re trying to make my boy pay for it.”

“You don’t want to stack your son up against mine, Mojean. If you do, and you try spreading those lies, you’ll be sorry for it.”

“You go to hell.”

“That’s enough.” Mojean’s husband, Clint, stepped forward. “That’s enough, Mojean. We’re going home.”

“You need to stand up for your boy!”

“Why? You’ve been standing in front of him his whole life. I apologize, Hilly, Mick, for the part I played in making Doyle the embarrassment he is. Mojean, I’m going down to the car, and I’m driving home. You can come or stay, that’s up to you. If you stay, I won’t be home when you get there.”

“Don’t you talk to me that—”

But he turned, walked away.

“Clint!” After a quick, wide-eyed look around, she trotted after him.

“This has about worn me out,” Jill commented. “I’m going to walk on home.”

“Why don’t Hilly and I give you a ride, Ms. Harris?” Mick stepped forward, took her arm. “I’m sorry about this, Brooks.”

“You just take Ms. Harris on home.”

“This isn’t finished, Conroy.”

Mick sent Blake a cold stare with weariness around the edges. “I’m telling you for the final time, I’ll do no business with you. Stay away from me, my family and my properties. Keep your assistant and his like away from me, my family and my properties.”

“If you think you can squeeze more money out of me, you’re mistaken. I made you a fair offer.”

“Go on home,” Brooks told Mick, then turned to Blake.

Here he didn’t bother with disapproval or disappointment. He arrowed straight into disgust, and let it show.

“I’m going to be talking to Mr. and Mrs. Conroy later.”

“Getting your stories lined up.”

“I’ll be talking to Reverend and Mrs. Goode as well. Do you want to imply your minister and his wife are liars, too? The fact is, my deputies and I will be talking to everybody who witnessed or had part in this business this morning. If I find there’s been any level of harassment on your part, I’m going to advise the Conroys to file a restraining order against you and whoever you’ve been using to dog them. You won’t like it. You’ll like it less if one’s filed and you cross the line of it.”