U. S. Marshall: Night's Landing Part 9

She didn't mention the Rijksmuseum, because if she did, her anxiety would show, Nate would see it, and she'd have to tell him about the man in the park and what a nutcase she was for thinking she'd recognized him from the museum. But that had been such a strange day, her, Rob, their parents, playing tourist, trying to be a family in that foreign city because that was where they'd found themselves together.

She couldn't eat any more and took one last sip of beer, her gla.s.s still half-full. She offered Nate money for the tab, but he refused. As he pulled out his wallet, she noticed that he favored his injured arm and saw him wince in pain. She regretted how close she'd come to losing it in the park, to the point that he'd obviously felt he'd had to whisk her off for a beer and something to eat. However bad the past day and a half had been for her, they'd been so much worse for him and her brother.

The evening air had turned chilly, but Sarah felt hot, agitated. Nate was watching her closely-too closely, as if he believed she was trying to hide something from him. Not a pleasant position to be in. But she didn't consider herself to be hiding anything. She'd been mistaken about the man in the park.

And Nate was recovering from a bullet wound and a shocking attack that could have killed him.

She had no business reading anything into his actions, his questions, the way he looked at her.

"I should get back to the hospital," she said. "It really was serendipity that you followed me. Thanks."

He stepped off the curb to flag a cab. "I don't believe in serendipity."

She smiled at him. "Of course not."

When they arrived back at the hospital, Rob was out for the night-and Nate was done for. Sarah could see it in the dark smudges of fatigue under his eyes, the hollow look to his cheeks. "Do you have a car?" she asked him when they returned to the waiting room. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"That bad, huh?" He grinned at her, a sudden spark in his eyes. "You can drive me home another time, Dr. Dunnemore. When I don't look and feel like death on a cracker."

Her mouth snapped shut.

He laughed, and although he sounded exhausted, she felt a tingle of pure s.e.xual awareness dance up her spine.

After he left, Juliet Longstreet put down the magazine she'd been staring at and shook her head. "That man. Total hard-a.s.s, married to the job and absolute h.e.l.l on women. They all fall for him."

"Did you?"

"No way." She grinned. "I go for the southern frat-boy types."

Sarah laughed.

"I think Nate liked following you. Gave him something to do. He does not tolerate idleness well." Juliet got to her feet and stretched her arms over her head. "Which should be a warning to you."

Not knowing what to say, Sarah peeked in on her brother. He looked better. Not well, but better. She wondered if he wanted her out of town not so much because of snipers in the park, but because of the reputation of his senior deputy-but that was a lot of silliness. She rejoined Juliet in the hall and set out to her apartment for another night with the fish and the plants.

Nine.

J ohn Wesley Poe had heard that the junior senator from Ma.s.sachusetts, elected in November along with the new president, was one impressive cuss, and it was true, even more so in person. Hank Callahan strode into Wes's private study-Wes wanted to keep this visit as quiet and unofficial as possible-with the confidence of someone who'd come under fire in more ways than one in his forty-something years. Even his enemies said he was a man of the highest integrity, a retired air force rescue helicopter pilot whose first wife and young daughter were killed in a car accident while he was serving overseas.

Last fall, he'd stumbled into the headlines twice, once before the election, once after-and both times in dangerous incidents involving the Winter family of Cold Ridge, New Hampshire. His now-wife, Antonia, when she encountered a stalker. Then his sister-in-law, Carine, when she stumbled upon a murder.

Now, here was another Winter in trouble. This time it was the brother, Nate.

"Mr. President," Hank Callahan said, remaining on his feet, his military bearing evident. "It's good to see you."

Wes rose from the sofa and shook hands with the younger senator. "Thank you for stopping by. Here, have a seat. I won't keep you. I understand that one of the marshals shot yesterday in Central Park is your brother-in-law."

Callahan took the most uncomfortable chair in the room, his signal, Wes thought, that he didn't plan to stay long. "Nate Winter is my wife's brother, yes."

"He's doing all right? You've seen him?"

"He's in good shape. The other marshal-"

"Rob Dunnemore is a family friend."

Wes didn't mince words. The story had just broken. It was all over the news now, but from his blank reaction, either Callahan hadn't heard of Wes's relationship with the wounded deputy or was pretending he hadn't. "I didn't realize he was a friend. I'm sorry."

Wes had just issued a statement through his press secretary. It was a balancing act. He didn't want to give the impression, no matter how unintentionally, that anyone in his administration-anyone in law enforcement-believed that the shooting in Central Park yesterday was in any way connected to him.

"I understand Rob's had a rough time of it," Wes said. "We came close to losing him yesterday."

"Antonia-my wife-says his chances for a full recovery grow with every hour he goes without complications, especially from blood loss."

"Did you see him? Rob-how did he look? Under the circ.u.mstances, it's difficult for me to go up there myself. There's nothing political here, by the way. This is an entirely personal conversation."

But their surroundings begged the question-was anything personal, was anything private, when one was president?

Callahan stayed unreadable. "Of course, Mr. President. No, I didn't see Deputy Dunnemore myself."

Wes nodded, wondering why he'd bothered to invite Callahan over to the White House. To a.s.suage his own guilt at having neglected Rob in recent years? Wes hadn't approved of him becoming a marshal. Rob's own father hadn't approved, although Stuart Dunnemore's reasons were different and he'd have been more subtle about his objections. The kid was smart, well connected, personable. He could do anything with his life. Why spend it in the gutter catching criminals? Now that he was in the Oval Office, Wes thought, he had a different view. The work the USMS did was vital, and it needed good people like Rob Dunnemore.

And that was what scared Rob's father, Wes knew. He wasn't worried so much that Rob could do better-he was worried his only son was a throwback to the wild Dunnemores of the past, a mix of loggers and riverboat workers who lived hard and died young. To his own brother, who'd died a hero on Omaha Beach.

"You and your wife are expecting a child?" Wes asked casually.

His question seemed to catch Callahan off guard. "Just a few more weeks to go."

"That's wonderful. Nervous?"

The young senator didn't answer at once, but he obviously understood the subtext. In light of the tragedy of losing his firstborn, was he nervous about this baby? Wes's own wife had lost all four of their babies. They'd almost saved the last one, a baby girl. People told him, or at least implied, it wasn't like losing a three-year-old, as Callahan had. Wes knew it was probably true. But miscarriage and stillbirth were their own special pain, their own special h.e.l.l.

And the effect it'd had on Ev. She'd tell him he hadn't done anything wrong-it was her, all her. She'd let go some of the self-blame and self-pity since he'd entered public service and she'd taken on her own issues, devoting herself to children's health, poverty and underachievement.

They both considered the Dunnemore twins as close as they would come to having children of their own. They'd watched them grow up, attended their birthday parties and graduations, took them out on the river-and they'd gone to funerals together. Granny Dunnemore's. Leola's, Violet's. Thank G.o.d he and Ev hadn't had to face Rob's funeral.

Callahan managed a brief smile. "I guess a little nervousness is to be expected, Mr. President."

"Good luck to you. Let me know, will you?"

"I'd be glad to. Mr. President-"

"I don't know anything more about yesterday's shooting than you do," Wes said, antic.i.p.ating the senator's question. "Did you happen to see Sarah Dunnemore, Rob's sister?"

Callahan shook his head. "As soon as we realized Nate was all right, we got out of his way."

"She's an historical archaeologist. She doesn't have a background in law enforcement, the military, politics. She's just back from a research trip in Scotland. She's spent years researching the house where I grew up and the family that raised me." He sighed, picturing her hearing the news about her brother. "But she's tough. I keep telling myself that."

Callahan maintained his correct bearing. "I'm sure it's a difficult time for all of Deputy Dunnemore's friends and family."

Wes nodded, sighing heavily. "It's strange how we go through these times in our lives when it's as if we're under siege. I can't imagine how you all must have felt when you found out your brother-in-law had been shot, even if he was only slightly wounded. After what you went through last fall-"

"It hasn't been easy, but we're relieved he's okay."

"Deputy Winter-he's solid?"

"Rock solid, Mr. President."

"We don't know yet if he was the target, or if Rob was-or if they both were. Well, the FBI and the marshals won't leave a stone unturned in searching for whoever did the shooting. That much we know for sure."

Wes pictured Granny Dunnemore, as everyone called her, at her stove in the beautiful log house on the c.u.mberland River that her late husband had built just to attract a woman. They'd owned a sawmill that went out of business in the Depression. Not long after, Web Dunnemore died in a logging accident. Pearl Dunnemore always preferred her simple ways and said she never missed the mill. She remained a widow, without self-pity, for over fifty years. She made the best white beans in middle Tennessee. Even now, Wes could smell them simmering on her stove.

She was Leola and Violet's contemporary, just a few years younger than they were. But they were all gone now. Some days, it was hard to believe. They were strong women, survivors determined to do what they believed was right. Granny Dunnemore had lost her husband young, then her firstborn son in the war, and she meant her second son to live a long and happy life. She encouraged Stuart to study hard and got the application to Vanderbilt herself, then cheered him when he went off to Washington, D.C., to begin his long, ill.u.s.trious career as a diplomat and an advisor, a brilliant thinker. It was a life that, to Wes as a boy, seemed so far away, so beyond his grasp.

Reach for the stars and you might hook the moon, Pearl Dunnemore would tell him. You could be president one day.

Yet he knew Stuart's departure from Night's Landing had been another kind of a loss for his mother. Wes had seen her sitting out on her porch, crying after her son's visits and she was alone again. When he moved back with his first wife, Pearl couldn't hide her joy at having him home, despite the tragic circ.u.mstances.

And when Stuart remarried and the twins were born, Granny was the happiest woman in Tennessee. Even when Stuart took up traveling again, she understood that Night's Landing was in his blood, that it was his home, his anchor.

Leola and Violet didn't have it in them to encourage Wes to stretch his wings. They'd loved him without condition, and he them, but they'd feared the outside world. Become a schoolteacher in town, they'd say. Get a job at the local bank. Don't walk away from your home, your roots.

But what home did he have, what roots?

Hank Callahan cleared his throat in the awkward silence. "If anything," he said, "Nate might step on toes to get answers. I imagine Rob Dunnemore would, too, once he's on his feet. They're not going to sit back." He tried to smile. "Well, they're not going to like sitting back."

"Rob's twin sister has the makings of a loose cannon, especially where her brother is concerned." But people never guessed it-they'd look at her and see the pretty face, the gray eyes, the sweep of blond hair and think good girl, not realize that she came from a family tree filled with scoundrels and adventurers. Wes smiled. "I hope the marshals are keeping an eye on her."

Callahan angled a look at him, respectful but at the same time curious, even suspicious. "Mr. President, the attack yesterday-are you certain it had nothing to do with you?"

"There's no evidence of that whatsoever."

The young senator seemed satisfied, and in another minute, they bid each other good-night. After Callahan left Wes sank back down on the sofa. He'd spoken with such a.s.surance, but did he know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that yesterday's shooting had nothing to do with him? No one had given him that a.s.surance.

But it couldn't.

He'd never be able to live with himself if something happened to Rob or to Sarah because of him, because of his position. Neither would Ev. She'd lost too much already.

He glanced at his watch. Just nine o'clock. He'd work for a couple more hours, make sure Ev was asleep and unable to ask questions, unable to articulate her fears, before he ventured to bed.

Ten.

S arah awoke to the gurgle of fish tanks and the spiked end of a spider plant tickling her nose. She'd acquiesced to another night on the futon in Juliet's front room and slept better, but not much better, than she had the night before. When Juliet suggested they get breakfast somewhere, Sarah jumped at the chance.

They walked to a diner and tucked themselves into a small booth with cracked red vinyl seats. Sarah ordered a cheese omelette and iced tea. She didn't feel as trapped, as hemmed in and claustrophobic, as she had yesterday and realized it had been her own fears at work, not anything her brother's colleagues had done to her.

At least she'd had the good sense not to mention the man at the park to Juliet or especially to Nate Winter. Thinking she'd recognized him from Amsterdam seemed even more ridiculous this morning. It was simply her nerves playing on her, ratcheting up the stakes and the tension. Her Dunnemore genes kicking in.

The omelette was hot and perfectly cooked, and Sarah ate every bite, determined not to let low blood sugar affect her thinking-she'd had a shock. Even if Rob's situation was far worse than her own, she had to give herself time to adjust to what had happened.

Juliet had a bagel and three cups of black coffee.

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked Sarah.

Sarah nodded. "The aquariums and the street traffic are like white noise after a while, aren't they? I haven't lived in a city in so long." She drank more of her tea. "Where are you from originally?"

"The boonies of Vermont." But Juliet was obviously uncomfortable talking about herself and picked up the bill, heading for the cash register. "Come on. We'll take a cab to the hospital. I'll figure out a way to bypa.s.s the media if they look like they're going to pounce."

They'd watched the news last night and heard Wes Poe's statement about his friendship with the Dunnemores. It was no secret-it'd been covered in his campaign. Just no one had thought the deputy shot in Central Park was a member of that Dunnemore family.

Wes hadn't called, but Sarah told herself that she couldn't expect him to.

When they arrived at the hospital, over a dozen reporters had gathered at the ambulance entrance not far from the main door. Video cameras were rolling, photographers snapping pictures, reporters asking questions. Sarah got out of the cab, then noticed Nate Winter in the middle of the throng.

"Ouch," Juliet said, coming up next to her. "He doesn't look very happy, does he? h.e.l.l. They've got him surrounded. He should pull a faint or something and get out of there."

A young female reporter thrust a microphone in his face.

"Deputy Winter, Hector Sanchez was a known informant. Did you or Deputy Dunnemore tell him that you would be at the news conference?"

Then more questions, coming all at once.

"Do you believe he was the shooter?"

"Sources say he died of a drug overdose-do you think he was celebrating the Central Park attack?"

"Can you confirm that the rifle allegedly used in the shooting was found at his side?"

"What about the president? Has he talked to Rob Dunnemore?"

Nate held up a hand. "Sorry. No comment. If you'll excuse me."

That was it. He was done.

Juliet huddled close to Sarah and maneuvered her toward the main entrance. "Let's get you out of here before they recognize you."

"What about Nate?"