U. S. Marshall: Night's Landing Part 13

She made her tea and read the cards and letters one by one, appreciating the good thoughts from friend and stranger alike. I know I haven't seen you in several years, but I had to write...

"Nice," she said aloud, lifting a larger envelope off the pile.

No return address. New York postmark. One of Rob's a.s.sociates?

She opened it and unfolded the single white eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper inside. Several lines were centered on the page in large, bold, computer-printed italics.

A poem, she thought.

No.

The first words registered.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

Unable to breathe, Sarah shoved her chair back, its legs screeching on the wood floor. She lurched to her feet.

The paper fluttered in a breeze from the open window, the words plainly visible in at least twenty-eight-point italic type, glaring up at her.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

Do nothing. Tell no one.

The marshals, the FBI, your local sheriff.

Your parents in Amsterdam.

I'll know if you talk.

Wait.

She was aware of herself gulping in air without expelling any. Aware of her tea mug teetering on the edge of the table, of her hand holding tightly onto the back of the old oak chair. It was as if she was looking down at herself. She couldn't make herself stop.

What was going on? Was someone trying to take advantage of her situation for their own jollies, to terrify her, to get attention-to what?

Was it a serious, credible threat?

From the shooter?

From someone else?

She didn't dare touch the offending letter again for fear of further contaminating any forensic evidence it might contain. The envelope was front-down on the table. Was the address printed, or handwritten? She couldn't remember.

But what difference did it make? She wasn't an investigator, a handwriting a.n.a.lyst.

She picked up her mug, careful not to spill tea all over the letter, and staggered to the kitchen counter with it and set it down. She grabbed the old telephone, immediately dialing her parents' number in Amsterdam. She had it memorized, just as well because she doubted she'd have been able to look it up. Her hands were shaking, her head spinning-she remembered Nate ordering her to hold her breath in the park. She'd been hyperventilating. That was what she was doing now.

She didn't want to pa.s.s out.

She held her breath, but somehow, it made her want to cry.

Her mother answered.

"Hi-it's me." Sarah winced at the sound of her own voice. She felt as if she were back in school, calling and pretending all was well when she was homesick, exhausted, anxious, miserable. "I just wanted to check in. I made it back to Night's Landing okay. I haven't talked to Rob yet this morning. It's still early. How're you and Dad?"

"We're hanging in there." Her mother's voice sounded almost as strained as her own. But that was to be expected under the circ.u.mstances-it didn't mean she'd received an anonymous letter of her own. "We're making plans to leave for New York, I hope tomorrow. I can't-neither of us can stand not seeing Rob another day."

"Is anyone there with you?"

"Not right now. The Marshals Service sent someone over yesterday to check in on us." Her mother hesitated. "Sarah? What's wrong?"

She sank against the counter. She was still shaking, but she had her breathing under reasonable control. "Why don't you let the marshals take care of you? Two deputies met me at the airport when I got back last night and drove me home. It was a big comfort."

"You're spooked, aren't you? Being home alone after what happened to Rob. Well, I don't blame you. Frankly, I think you'd have been better off staying in New York. I don't care what Rob says."

"I'll be okay. I just-"

"Call one of your cousins, or your uncle." The Quinlans were all in Belle Meade west of Nashville. "You have enough family and friends in the area that you don't need to be alone."

It was sound advice, but Sarah had no intention of dragging anyone else into her mess.

She couldn't tell her mother about the note. She'd meant to, maybe, but now she realized she couldn't. Her mother was safe and there was nothing she could do from Amsterdam. Whoever had sent her the letter could have her phone tapped, her house bugged.

I'll know if you talk.

How? Was it an idle threat, designed to frighten her?

"I'll be all right," she said. "It's been a stressful few days, but at least Rob's doing well."

"We'll get him down to Night's Landing. This'll be behind us in time." Her mother took in an audible breath. "Sarah, are you sure you're all right?"

She rea.s.sured her mother and quickly said goodbye.

The note continued to flutter in the breeze, and she half wished it'd blow out a window and into the river, except the windows all had screens and the river was in the other direction.

G.o.d.

What was she going to do?

She spotted Nate Winter's card on the counter. She'd found it in her pocketbook last night before she went to bed and a.s.sumed he must have tucked it in there when she wasn't looking. He'd scrawled his home number on the back.

She'd thought about him for most of her flight to Nashville. Most of the night. He was good-looking, s.e.xy, hard-edged, impatient and impossible to figure out, at least in the couple of days she'd known him-and yet she couldn't deny she was attracted to him. It was crazy. Had to be adrenaline.

She splashed her face with cold water at the kitchen sink and, without considering the pros and cons, dialed his home number.

What time was it? She glanced at the stove clock. Six-fifteen, but she was in Central Time. It was seven-fifteen in New York. Still early, possibly even by Deputy Winter standards.

He answered on the second ring. "Winter."

Sarah took a calming breath. Though he was at home, he sounded as if he was on duty. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't tell him. What if the note was for real and the person who wrote it did have her phones tapped, her house bugged? Or Nate's phones, his apartment?

What if she talked and ended up getting someone killed because of it?

"Sarah? What's going on?"

"I knew you'd have caller ID." She gave a faltering laugh. "Paranoid cops. I'm home, safe and sound. I wanted to let you know." She didn't sound believable even to herself. "It's early, I realize, but you strike me as the crack-of-dawn type."

"You sound like you're coming undone."

"Do I?" She tried another laugh, but it only seemed to make her sound even nuttier.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Have a good day. Sorry if I woke you."

She slammed down the phone and took it apart, then charged into the living room and took apart that phone, and finally ran upstairs and took apart that one.

She didn't find anything that looked like a phone tap, not that she knew what she was looking for.

"You're insane," she said aloud. "Just drive to the police station and hand them the stupid letter."

There. A plan.

What if she was followed?

What if Ethan Brooker had sent her the letter?

From New York?

Okay, so that didn't make sense. But the point was-did she dare risk telling someone, anyone? Did she dare risk not telling someone?

At least her parents were safe in Amsterdam, and her brother had his armed guards in New York.

She put the phones back together and made more hot tea, calming down as she sipped it and stared at the note, as if it might make better sense to her now that she'd gotten over the initial shock of it.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

Special Agent Collins would definitely want a look at this little missive. The FBI had profilers, handwriting a.n.a.lysts, fingerprinters, paper a.n.a.lysts and ink a.n.a.lysts. They'd figure out if it was for real or just some jerk getting off at her expense.

Feeling more in control of herself, Sarah opened the rest of the mail and discovered two obvious crank notes. One was from a woman who wanted a lock of Rob's hair so she could make psychic contact with the sniper-obviously she was not a legitimate psychic. The other was from a man who claimed Rob and Nate had lived only because G.o.d was giving them a second chance to renounce their sinning ways.

In that context, the anonymous note from New York maybe wasn't for real. The shooting had received maximum news coverage. It had brought out a few nuts, and the writer of the offending note could be just another one of them, someone who wanted to frighten and get everyone stirred up but who wouldn't act on his threats.

Her phone rang, startling her. Her mind leaped in a dozen different directions, but she composed herself enough to answer in a reasonably calm voice on the third ring. "Dunnemores."

"I'm on a midmorning flight to Nashville," Nate said. "Stay put."

He hung up before she could say a word.

Midmorning his time. A two-hour flight would put him in Nashville before noon her time, in Night's Landing thirty to forty-five minutes later. He hadn't asked her to pick him up at the airport. For all she knew, he'd get a ride from another marshal.

Rob would tell her she was on a need-to-know basis and should learn to live with it.

Blowing out a lungful of air, Sarah got a pair of dented aluminum tongs from a drawer and shoved the offending note and its envelope to the bottom of the pile of mail. When Nate arrived, she'd show it to him.

Problem solved. He was the law enforcement professional. He could help her figure out what to do.

He'd be on his way back to New York by tonight.

In the meantime, she'd make her prune cake.

Fifteen.

N ate bought a map and rented a car at the Nashville airport and drove east until he came to Night's Landing, basically a wide bend on the c.u.mberland River. It wasn't even a town, really. He pulled into a gas station and started to call Sarah for directions to her house, but there was no cell service. Before using a pay phone, he asked inside.

"I thought Sarah was still in Scotland," the skinny old man at the cash register said. "I've been telling the reporters that. She and Rob used to like to come in here and buy red licorice. I told them it'd rot their teeth." He eyed Nate suspiciously. "Why should I tell you where they live?"

Nate was in no mood to screw around and showed the man his badge.

Directions involved a cornfield, a country church and a back road he wasn't supposed to take and one he was.

The back road brought him down toward the deep, slow river, and he turned left, as the old man had instructed, onto a long driveway that led to a log house nestled among shade trees and gardens, its sprawling lawn ending at a dock on the riverfront. On one side of the property were more fields, on the other, thick woods that seemed to go on forever. Spring was further along in middle Tennessee than in New York, the leaves full and dark, a huge pink azalea growing close to the house, a tangle of white roses creeping up one side of the front porch.

Nate parked behind an old pickup with Tennessee plates and climbed out of his car. He could smell freshly mowed gra.s.s tinged with the sweetness of flowers and heard a small boat puttering on the river.

In the side yard, a ponytailed man in overalls stabbed a pitchfork into a pile of compost and dumped it onto a plowed vegetable garden. One end had sprouts growing-spinach, onions, loose-leaf lettuce. The man shooed a horsefly with one hand. "Can I help you, sir?" he called to Nate.

Nate walked down to the garden. "I'm looking for Sarah Dunnemore."

"And you would be?"

"Deputy U.S. Marshal Nate Winter. I work with her brother."

The man-presumably the property manager Sarah had mentioned-had a black bandanna tied around his forehead. Sweat dripped down his face nonetheless. "You're the other marshal who was shot with him, aren't you? Doing okay, sir?"

"Yes, thanks, and you're-"

"Brooker, sir. Ethan Brooker." He grinned amiably, not breathing that hard from his work. "Chief manure spreader. Composted or not, horse manure stinks, don't it? I take care of the place."

Nate noticed the tattoo on the man's tanned, muscular right arm. He had on a dirty T-shirt under the overalls. By contrast, Nate had put on a suit for his travels south. His bandaged arm had given him some discomfort on the flight, but he'd taken a couple of Tylenol when he landed.

"Dr. Dunnemore's in the house," Brooker said. "Is she expecting you? She's got company."