The Witness

Chapter 23 #2

He headed for the diner. Diners and waitresses were usually good information sources. He chose a booth with a good view of the comings and goings, set his camera carefully on the tabletop.

He was tempted to take a picture of the waitress—he really did love saturating himself in the persona, and she had a good, interesting face.

“Coffee, please.”

“How about some pie to go with it? Cherry’s especially good today.”

“Cherry pie?” He thought of encroaching middle-age paunch. So he’d do fifty extra crunches tonight. “I don’t think I can say no.”

“Warmed up? Vanilla-bean ice cream?”

Okay, seventy-five extra crunches. “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know anybody strong enough to say no to that. If it’s as good as it sounds, I’m going to be in here every day while I’m in town.”

“It is. Visiting?” she said, in nearly the same easy tone as Sunny.

He gave her the same cover, even showed her a few pictures he’d taken of the mural house.

“You never know what she’ll paint on it next. Those are right nice pictures, too.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll put your order in.”

He doctored his coffee while he waited, studied his guidebook like a good tourist. She brought back a generous wedge of pie with ice cream gently melting on the laced crust. “Sounds good, looks good.” Roland forked off a bite. “Tastes even better. Thanks, Kim.”

“You enjoy, now.” She glanced over, and so did he, as Brooks walked in. “Hey there, Chief.” When she gestured to the booth directly in front of him, Roland decided to double her tip.

“Just coffee.”

“You ain’t heard about the cherry pie à la mode. I got it on good authority nobody can say no.” She sent Roland a wink as she spoke, and he toasted her with a forkful.

“It’d be wasted on me right now. Lawyers.”

“Well, sweetie, that calls for two scoops of vanilla-bean on the pie.”

“Next time. I just came in for a decent cup of coffee, and some breathing room to review my notes.”

“All right, then. Blake’s lawyers?” she asked, as she poured the coffee.

“New ones. Harry got the ax, and between you and me, I think he’s doing a dance of joy at the firing. Blake hired on a firm from up north.”

“Yankee lawyers?” Kim’s mouth twisted in derision. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Armani suits and Louis Vuitton briefcases, at least according to the paralegal Big John Simpson’s got doing research on the case. They’ve got motions on top of motions. Want a change of venue for one thing. The judge doesn’t like them, so that’s something.”

“Want to get him away from here, away from where people know what a nasty piece of work that Blake boy is.”

“Can’t say I blame them. But here or on Pluto, fact’s fact. The trouble is facts aren’t always enough in a courtroom.”

On one step back she slapped both fists on her hips. “You don’t think he’ll get off? Not after what he did.”

“I’m not going to think it, because if he gets out of this whistling, the next time, I know in my gut, he’s likely to kill somebody.”

“Well, my Jesus, Brooks.”

“Sorry.” Brooks rubbed at his tired eyes. “I should’ve taken my crappy mood to my office.”

“You sit right there and have your coffee, and you don’t let all this weigh on you.” She leaned down, kissed the top of his head. “You did your job, and everybody knows it. You can’t do more than your job.”

“Feels like I ought to. Anyway…just the coffee.”

“You holler if you want anything else.” Shaking her head, she walked away, topping off Roland’s coffee as she went.

Roland sat, mulling. Nothing the cop said struck him as false. He despised the “nasty piece of work” himself. But as the wise and wonderful Kim had said, you couldn’t do more than your job.

His was to find anything that might tip the scales in the client’s favor.

He nearly choked on his pie when the vision walked in.

He knew small Southern towns could produce some beauties, and in his personal opinion, Southern women had a way of nurturing that beauty like hothouse roses.

Maybe it was the weather, the air, the chance to wear all those thin summer dresses like the one the vision wore now.

Maybe it was the slower pace or some secret mothers passed to daughters.

Whatever it was, it worked.

He loved his wife, and had never in their twelve years together—ten-plus with rings on their fingers—strayed. But a man was entitled to a little fantasy now and then when possibly the sexiest woman ever created sashayed into his line of sight.

She hip-swayed right up to Gleason’s booth, slid in, like melted butter on warm toast.

“Not a good time, Sylbie.”

In Roland’s world, it was always a good time for Sylbie.

“I just have a question. I’m not going to try to get you back or anything like that. I learned my lesson back in March.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s a bad time right here and now.”

“You look tense and tired and out of sorts. I’m sorry about that. We were friends once.”

When he didn’t speak, she looked away, let out a breath that had her delectable breasts rising, falling.

“I guess we weren’t friends, and maybe that’s my fault. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I humiliated myself for your benefit.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“It’s easy for you to say, since you weren’t the one standing there naked.”

Roland felt himself going hard, and mentally apologized to his wife.

“It was a mistake, and some of it’s on me for not talking it out with you. You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s forget it.”

“I can’t forget it until I know.”

“Know what?”

“Why her and not me? That’s all. I need to know why you want to be with Abigail Lowery—everybody knows you are—and you don’t want to be with me.”

Roland wanted to know, too, and not just for the client. He’d seen Lowery’s photo, and she was attractive, sure. Pretty, maybe even beautiful in a quiet sort of way. But next to the stupendous Sylbie? She was no cherry pie à la mode.

“I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Just tell me the truth. Is she better in bed than me?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“That’s the wrong thing to ask.” On an impatient gesture, she pushed back a glorious fall of hair. “I wasn’t going to ask, even though I wonder. Just give me something, will you, that I can understand?”

“She makes me happy. When I’m with her I feel like that’s where I’m supposed to be, where I’ve been wanting to be. And everything that matters makes sense. I don’t know why one person falls in love with another, Sylbie. They just do.”

“You’re in love with her?”

“I’m in love with her.”

She stared down at the tabletop for a moment. “Can I have a sip of your coffee?”

“Sure.”

She took it, grimaced, set it down again after one sip. “You always drink it too sweet.”

“Bad habit.”

“Did you ever love me?”

“I wanted you. There were times I craved you like I was starved to death. The first time around, we were too young to know. The second? Maybe we were both trying to know. I couldn’t make you happy. You couldn’t make me happy. And nothing that really mattered made sense.”

“The sex did.”

He laughed a little. “Okay, you’re right about that. But sex, even good sex, can’t be the start, finish and the whole in between.”

“I thought I’d figured that out after my first divorce, but I guess I didn’t. And the second one…I never wanted to be the kind of woman with two divorces on her back.”

She turned to stare out the wide window. “But I am.”

“Maybe you should think of it as two marriages. I figure people who try marriage more than once, they’re optimists.”

“Optimists.” With a half-laugh, she shoved his coffee away. “Sounds better than a loser.”

“You’re not a loser, Sylbie.”

“I’m sort of seeing Grover.”

“You…oh.” Brooks picked up his coffee, gulped some down. “Well.”

“I know. He’s not the type I usually aim for.

He’s not handsome, and he’s a little paunchy.

But he’s got a sweetness to him. You did, too, but I didn’t appreciate it.

I’m appreciating his. We’re not sleeping together yet, but I feel good when I’m with him.

I feel better about myself. I guess we’re friends the way you and I never were. ”

“That’s good.”

“He makes me happy, and I didn’t expect to be. I guess I’ll find out if I can stay happy.”

“I hope you can.”

“So do I.” She slid out. “I don’t think I’m ready to say I hope you stay happy with Abigail Lowery, but I nearly am.”

“That’s a start.”

“I’ll see you around.”

She sashayed out. Roland decided he had a lot more mulling to do, but since he’d finished his pie, he needed to do it elsewhere. In any case, Gleason was leaving, laying money on the tabletop for the coffee.

Maybe he’d drive out toward Lowery’s place, get the lay of the land.

* * *

Taking a break from work, Abigail paged through recipes online. It kept her from worrying. Nearly kept her from worrying. She knew Brooks would want to talk about what happened next when he came. She worried about what he thought should happen next.

So she worked, did laundry, worked, weeded the garden, worked, looked through recipes. She couldn’t seem to settle, focus on one chore until she completed it.

It wasn’t like her.

She wished he’d come.

She wished she could be alone.

She wished she knew what she really wished. She hated this indecision, the gnawing anxiety. It wasn’t productive.

When her alarm sounded, she spun in her chair, certain that telling Brooks—telling anyone—the story had brought the Volkovs to her door.

Illogical. Actually ridiculous, she admitted, but her pulse hammered as she watched the man in the ball cap on her monitor.

A good camera, she noted. Boots that had seen some wear. A backpack.

A hiker or tourist who’d wandered onto her property, despite the postings. That was it, probably.

When he took out binoculars, aimed them toward her cabin, the anxiety increased.

Who was he? What was he doing?

Coming closer. Still closer.

He stopped again, scanned with his compact field glasses, turning slowly until it seemed to Abigail he stared through them right at one of the cameras. Then he continued on, continuing the circle.

He took off his cap, scrubbed at his hair before taking out a water bottle and drinking deeply. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a compass, took a step, stumbled. He fumbled with the compass, dropped it. She saw his mouth move as he dived for it, snatched it off the ground.

He shook it, lifted his face to the sky, then sat on the ground, dropped his head to his knees.

He stayed as he was for several moments before pushing to his feet. He mopped at his face, then continued toward her cabin.

After checking her weapon, Abigail took the dog outside, circled around.

She could hear him coming. Nothing stealthy in his approach, she thought, and he was muttering to himself, breathing fast, heavy. From the side of the greenhouse, she watched him come into view, heard him say, very clearly, “Thank God,” as he arrowed straight toward her rear door.

He knocked, swiped sweat from his face, waited. He knocked again, more forcefully. “Hello! Is anybody there? Please, let somebody be there.”

He walked down the porch, cupped his hand on the window glass.

And she stepped out, the dog by her side. “What do you want?”

He jumped like a rabbit, spun around. “Jeez, you scared the—” His eyes went huge when he saw the gun, and his hands shot straight up in the air. “Jesus, don’t shoot me. I’m lost. I got lost. I’m just looking for the way back to my car.”

“What were you doing in the woods, on my property? It’s clearly posted.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was taking photographs.

I’m a photographer. I was just going to take a few shots, get the feel of things, and I got caught up, went in farther than I meant to.

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have ignored the No Trespassing signs.

You can call the cops. Just don’t shoot me.

My—my name’s Roland Babbett. I’m staying at the Inn of the Ozarks. You can check.”

“Please take off your pack, set it down, step away from it.”

“Okay, sure.”

He wasn’t wearing a gun—she’d seen him do a full circle and would have spotted it. But he might have a weapon in the pack.

“You can keep the pack,” he said, when he set it down. “My wallet’s in there. You can keep the money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Listen, listen, I got lost. I dropped my compass and broke it. I saw the cabin through my binoculars when I was scanning around. I just came for some help. Call the police.”

“Where did you leave your car?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be lost. I don’t mean to be a smart-ass,” he added quickly. “I drove out of Bickford, south out of town for about a mile, then I pulled over. The light was really good, the shadows. I wanted to take some shots. Photographs, I mean,” he said, with another wary look at the gun.

“You should respect private property.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m really sorry.”

She pointed. “If you go that way, you’ll come to the road. Turn left. You should find your car in about a quarter-mile.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll just—”

“Take your pack,” she told him, as he started to step off the porch without it.

“Okay.” He picked it up, his eyes shifting from her face, to the gun, to the dog, back again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She watched him walk away, in quite a hurry, until he was out of sight. Back in the house, she continued to watch him on the monitor as he hiked at a half-jog up her road to the main one, tossing glances over his shoulders every few minutes.

She’d frightened him, she thought. Well, he’d frightened her. She supposed that made them even.

* * *

Roland knew exactly where his car was parked.

He hadn’t been expecting the gun. He hadn’t been expecting the cameras, either. He’d been told she had security, including cameras around the house. Nobody had mentioned she had them ranged back in the woods.

If he hadn’t spotted one when he had, he’d have blown the job.

She’d bought the scared, lost hiker routine. Why not? He had been scared. She’d held the Glock like someone who knew how to use it. Like someone who would use it.

He had to admire that, now that he wasn’t standing on the wrong side of it.

And the dog. He’d known about the dog, but God damn, that was one big bastard.

Then the locks on the back door. As good as they came, he mused, as he tossed the pack in the backseat. He was pretty damn good with the picks, but he’d never get through those. Moot point, as he couldn’t get by the cameras, not without a whole lot of equipment.

That much security? Overkill.

The job just got a lot more interesting. Anybody with security like that, the big dog, the Glock, the ’tude?

She had something to hide. He loved finding out what people wanted to hide.