Night’s Landing

Thirteen

It was after dark when two deputy marshals dropped Sarah off at Night’s Landing. Ethan waited until she’d reassured them she was fine there on her own and their car had pulled out of the long, curving driveway. Then he knocked on her kitchen door.

Sarah opened it, looking drawn and tired, but she attempted a smile. “Hey, Ethan.”

He adopted his stereotypical good ol’ boy demeanor. “I didn’t expect you home so soon, Miss Sarah.”

“Rob and his marshal buddies basically kicked me out. A classic case of projection. Really they’re worried about themselves and their own safety, but instead they say they’re worried about me.”

Ethan doubted it was projection-the marshals probably had damn good reason to worry about her. She was an attractive academic with no experience in law enforcement and sniper attacks. In their position, he wouldn’t want her underfoot, either.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed. Thanks. Tomorrow-I don’t know.” Her eyes brightened for all of half a second. “I might just go fishing.”

“I didn’t know you liked to fish, Miss Sarah.”

“I don’t particularly, but it’s better than sitting around here worrying about Rob and feeling sorry for myself.”

Ethan smiled and managed to shuffle his feet. “I know it’s a hard time for you. The neighbors stopped by to give their regards. Mr. Fontaine, Miss Prichard, Mr. and Mrs. Kidd. They wanted to bring casseroles and flowers, but I told them I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“That’s sweet of them.” She seemed to take pleasure in the concern of her neighbors. “I’d love to have a few more casseroles in the freezer for when Rob gets here. He’s coming down to recuperate as soon as his doctors allow him to travel. What about reporters?”

“A few. I let them pound on the door, then came out and looked scary when they started peeking in the windows.”

That brought on a genuine smile. “Good thinking.”

He left her in the big empty house, the ground soft under his feet as he walked back to his cottage. He could smell the wetness of the river, hear it lapping the limestone along its banks. The stars and half-moon created enough light for the trees to cast dark, wavering shadows. He hadn’t grown up near water and trees.

He opened up all the cottage windows. The curtains fluttered in a cool breeze. Quickly, routinely, he checked his weapons. He had two Browning single-action 9 mm semiautomatics, as well as the Smith & Wesson.38 semiautomatic he used as an ankle gun.

The two wounded deputy marshals in New York. The archaeologist sister. The elderly statesman and his younger wife in Amsterdam.

The president of the United States.

Charlene Brooker, murdered army captain.

Ethan couldn’t see how they fit together. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe only some did. But he’d never been a big plotter, one to agonize over every why and wherefore. Establish the mission, then accomplish it. He figured if he got in these people’s faces, something would start clicking.

In the meantime, he had nothing solid to take to the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service, the Secret Service, army investigators, the Dutch police or anyone else.

Not that he would go to any of them when he did.

He wanted Charlene’s killer all to himself.