The Witness

“I can get somebody to drive you.”

“No, I’m fine to drive. Thank you, Deputy, you’ve been very kind.”

She started for the door, paused when Brooks called her name. He crossed over, laid a hand on her arm. “Be a minute,” he told Boyd, then led her outside.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I told you.”

“And you just told Boyd it was more upsetting than you realized.”

“It was, but that doesn’t mean I’m not all right. I am tired, though. I think I’ll go home and get some more sleep.”

“Good. I’ll call or swing by later, just to see how you are.”

“You can’t worry about me. I don’t need it.” Didn’t want it, any more than she wanted Justin Blake to remind her of Ilya Volkov. “Did you soak your shirt, cold water and salt?”

“I trashed it. I’d see his blood on there whether it was there or not. I don’t much care for that shirt anymore.”

She thought of a pretty sweater, stained with blood. “I understand. You’re tired, too.” She let herself touch his face. “I hope you can get a little sleep.”

“I wouldn’t mind it. You drive safe, Abigail.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips, before stepping over to open her car door. “You were right, what you said in there. It was only a matter of time before he pulled a knife or a gun, picked up a bat, before he did somebody serious harm.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“Then I won’t.” Leading with emotion, she threw her arms around him, held tight. “I’m very glad you have good reflexes.”

She slid into the car and drove away.





20


JUST PAST THREE THAT AFTERNOON, ABIGAIL WATCHED ON her monitor as a dark Mercedes sedan cruised toward her house. The look of it sent a quick tingle up her spine. She didn’t recognize the car, the driver—late thirties, early forties, broad shoulders, short, dark hair—or the passenger—fiftyish, dark gray hair, wide face.

She keyed the license plate into her system, reminding herself she was prepared—for anything. Her quick search through DMV records popped Lincoln Blake as the owner, and her shoulders relaxed.

An annoying interruption but not a threat.

Blake looked prosperous, she noted, when he got out of the passenger side. It struck her that he looked deliberately prosperous in his perfectly cut suit and city shoes. The second man also wore a suit, and carried a briefcase.

She believed she saw a slight bulge on his right hip that disturbed the line of his jacket. He carried a weapon.

Well, she thought, so did she.

She considered ignoring the knock on her door. She wasn’t under any obligation to answer, to speak with the father of the boy who’d tried to kill Brooks. But she also considered the fact that a man like Blake, from everything she’d heard and intuited about him, wouldn’t simply walk away. In any case, she was a little curious.

With Bert at her side, she opened the front door.

“Miss Lowery.” Blake offered a wide smile and his hand. “Forgive the intrusion. I’m Lincoln Blake, one of your neighbors.”

“Your home is several miles away, in fact, on the other side of Bickford. Therefore, you don’t live close enough to my property to be considered a neighbor.”

“We’re all neighbors here,” Blake said jovially. “This is my personal assistant, Mark. I’d like to apologize for my son’s inadvertent trespass on your property last night. May we come in, discuss this situation?”

“No.”

It always puzzled her why people looked so surprised, even annoyed, when they asked a question and the response was negative.

“Now, Miss Lowery, I came out here to offer my apologies, as I understand my son caused you some inconvenience, and to sort this all out. It’ll be helpful if we could be comfortable while we talk this out.”

“I’m comfortable. Thank you for your apology, Mr. Blake, though it hardly applies, as it was your son who came on my property without permission in the middle of the night, and who attempted to stab Chief Gleason. I believe the police are sorting all this out, and we really don’t have anything to discuss at this point.”

“Now, that’s just why I came by. I dislike trying to have a conversation through a doorway.”

“I dislike having strangers in my house. I’d like you to go now. You can discuss this with the police.”

“I’m not finished.” He jabbed out a finger. “I understand you’re friendly with Brooks Gleason, and that—”

“Yes, we are friendly. He wouldn’t have been here at two in the morning when your son and your son’s friend came illegally onto my property with the intent to deface Chief Gleason’s police cruiser if we weren’t friendly. However, my relationship with Chief Gleason doesn’t alter the facts.”

“One fact is you haven’t lived here long. You’re not fully aware of my position in this community, or the history behind it.”

She wondered, sincerely, why he thought any of that was relevant, but didn’t bother to ask.

“I’m aware, and your position and history don’t alter the facts of what transpired here early this morning. It was very disturbing to be awakened in that manner, and to witness your son attack Chief Gleason with a knife.”

“Fact.” Blake slapped an index finger on his open palm. “It was the middle of the night, and therefore dark. I have no doubt Brooks Gleason goaded my boy, threatened him. Justin was simply defending himself.”

“That’s inaccurate,” Abigail said calmly. “My security lights were on. I have excellent vision and was less than ten feet away during the attempted assault. Chief Gleason clearly asked your son to show his hands, and when your son did so it was, first, to puncture the cruiser’s tire and, second, to threaten Brooks with the knife.”

“My son—”

“I haven’t finished correcting your inaccuracies,” she pointed out, and stunned Blake into momentary silence.

“Only then, when your son threatened him verbally and with gestures, did Brooks draw his weapon. And still your son would not drop the knife. Instead, even when I stepped out with my own weapon, your son lunged at Brooks with the knife. In my opinion, Brooks would have been fully justified in shooting your son at that time, but he chose to disarm him hand to hand at a greater risk to his own safety.”

“Nobody knows you around here. You’re an odd, solitary woman with no background or history in the community. If and when you tell that ridiculous story in court, my lawyers will rip your testimony to bits and humiliate you.”

“I don’t think so, but I’m sure your lawyers will do their jobs. If that’s all, I’d like you to leave.”

“You just wait a damn minute.” Blake stepped forward, and Bert quivered, growled.

“You’re upsetting my dog,” Abigail said coldly. “And if your assistant attempts to draw his sidearm, I’ll release my dog. I can assure you he’ll move faster than he can draw his weapon. I’m also armed, as you can plainly see. I’m a very good shot. I don’t like strangers coming to my home, trying to intimidate and threaten me. I don’t like men who raise violent, angry young men.”

Like Sergei Volkov, she thought.

“I don’t like you, Mr. Blake, and I’ll ask you to leave for the last time.”

“I came here to settle this with you, to apologize and offer you compensation for the inconvenience.”

“Compensation?”

“Ten thousand dollars. A generous apology for a mishap, for a misunderstanding.”

“It certainly would be,” Abigail agreed.

“The money’s yours, in cash, for your agreement that this was, indeed, a misunderstanding.”

“Your proposal is I accept ten thousand dollars in cash from you to misrepresent what happened here this morning?”

“Don’t be stubborn. My proposal is you accept the cash in my assistant’s briefcase as an apology, and you simply agree what occurred here was a misunderstanding. You’ll also have my word that my son will never step foot on your property again.”

“First, your word can hardly regulate your son’s behavior. Second, it would be your son, not you, who owes me an apology for this morning. And last, your proposal constitutes a bribe, an exchange of money for my misrepresenting the facts. I believe attempting to bribe a witness in a criminal investigation is a crime. The simplest solution, and certainly the best outcome for you, is for me to say no, thank you. And good-bye.”

She stepped back, shut the door, clicked the locks in place.

He actually beat on the door with his fist. It didn’t surprise her, Abigail realized. His son had inherited that same unstable temperament and illusion of entitlement. With her hand resting lightly on the butt of her gun, she walked back to the kitchen monitor, watched the assistant attempt to calm his employer down.

She didn’t want to call the police. More trouble, more interruptions, more ugly behavior.

It had shaken her a little, there was no shame in admitting it. But she’d stood up to the intimidation, the threats. No panic, she thought now, no urge to run.

She didn’t believe in fate, in anything being meant, but if she did, maybe—theoretically—she’d been meant to go through these two experiences, the reminder of Ilya, and now of his father, to prove to herself she could and would stand up.

She wouldn’t run again. If she believed in fate.

“We’ll give him two minutes, from now, to regain some composure and leave. If he doesn’t, we’ll go out again.”

But this time, she determined, her weapon would be in her hand, not in her holster.

As she meant it literally, she set the timer on her watch, and continued to observe him on the monitor.

His blood pressure must be at dangerous levels, she thought, as his face darkened, his eyes literally bulged. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his prosperous chest as he shouted at his assistant.

She hoped she wouldn’t have to call for medical assistance as well as the authorities.

All she wanted to do was finish her work and spend a little time working in her gardens. This man’s difficulties weren’t hers.

At the one-minute, forty-two-second mark, Blake stormed back to the car. Abigail let out a small sigh of relief as the assistant made the three-quarter turn and drove away.

All these years, she thought. Was it irony she was once again a witness to a crime, and once again the subject of threats and intimidation?

No, she didn’t believe in fate, and yet … it certainly felt as though fate had decided to twist her life, and circle it right back to where she’d begun.

It was something to think about.

She looked at her work, sighed again.

“I think we’ll take a walk,” she said to Bert. “I’m too annoyed to work right now.”

Her mood leveled out in the air, calmed when she walked through the trees, studied the progress of wildflowers, considered again her private seating area with its view of the hills. She would start a search for the proper bench very soon.

She felt … happy, she realized, when she received a text from Brooks.

How about I pick up some Chinese? Don’t cook. You’re probably tired.

She considered, texted back.

I’m not tired, but I like Chinese food. Thank you.

Moments later, she got another text.

You’re welcome.

It made her laugh, picked up her mood a few more notches. Since she was already out, she gave Bert a full hour of exercise, then went back home to work with a clear mind.

She lost track of time, a rarity for her, and was prepared to be annoyed when her alarm beeped again. If that disagreeable man had come back, she wouldn’t be so polite, she determined.

Her mood shifted yet again when she saw Brooks’s cruiser. A check of the time showed her she’d worked past six.

No gardening today, she thought, and put the lack of that pleasure on the head of the disagreeable man and his stony-faced assistant.

But she shut down and went to the door happy—again—at the prospect of having dinner with Brooks.

Her smile of greeting turned to concern when she saw his face.

“You didn’t sleep.”

“We had a lot going on.”

“You look very tired. Here, let me take some of that. You brought a great deal of food for two people.”

“You know what they say about Chinese food.”

“It’s not really true. You won’t be hungry an hour later if you eat properly. I see you brought pijin to go with it.”

“I did?”

“Chinese beer,” she said, as she led the way in. “Chinese villagers brewed beer as far back as 7,000 B.C.”

“I don’t think the Zhujiang I picked up is that old.”

“That’s a joke. It was used—not the beer you bought—in rituals. It wasn’t until the seventeenth century that modern beer brewing was introduced to China.”

“Good to know.”

“You sound tired, too. You should sit, have one of the beers. I slept another two hours, and had an hour’s walk. I feel rested. I’ll take care of the food.”

“I just told them to load me up. I didn’t know what you wanted, especially.”

“I’m not fussy.” She opened cartons. “I’m sorry you had a difficult day. You can tell me about it if you like.”

“Lawyers, arguments, accusations, threats.” He opened a beer, sat at her counter. “Paperwork, meetings. You don’t have to put all that in bowls. The beauty of Chinese is you can eat right out of the carton.”

“Which is rushed and less soothing.” She believed he required soothing. “I can fix your plate if you tell me what you’d like.”

“Whatever. I’m not fussy, either.”

“We should take a walk after dinner, then you should try a warm bath and try to sleep. You seem very tense, and you rarely are.”

“I guess I’m just annoyed at having lawyers in my face, who try to push and intimidate me and my deputies.”

“Yes, he’s a very annoying man.” She scooped rice out of the bowl, ladled sweet-and-sour pork over it, added a dumpling, some noodles, some butterfly shrimp. “I had to walk off my own mood after he left this afternoon.”

“Left? Here? Blake came here?”

“This afternoon, with his assistant. Ostensibly to apologize for his son’s ‘inadvertent’ trespassing. But that was just a ruse, not well disguised. He was displeased when I wouldn’t let him come in to discuss the situation.”

“I bet he was. He doesn’t like being refused. It’s good you didn’t open the door.”

“I did open the door, but wouldn’t invite him in.” She decided she’d try the beer straight out of the bottle, as Brooks did. “Are you aware his assistant carries a gun?”

“Yeah. Are you telling me he pulled a weapon on you?”

“Oh, no. No, don’t be upset.” She’d meant to soothe and had accomplished the opposite. “Of course he didn’t. I just noticed the line of his suit, and then his body language when Bert growled.”

Brooks took a long pull of beer. “Why don’t you tell me what was said and done?”

“You are upset,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“It wasn’t anything important, really. He said he’d come to apologize, then was clearly put out when I refused to invite them in. He termed what happened a misunderstanding, and indicated it was of your doing. I disabused him of that, as I was a witness. He implied I didn’t understand his position in the community, and that my relationship with you made my standing as witness suspicious. Not in those words, but that was the meaning. Do you want me to relay the exact conversation?”

“Not just yet. The gist is fine.”