The Witness

  you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”

  “What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”

  “I’m not mysterious.”

  “You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.

  He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.

  “You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”

  “By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”

  He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”

  “I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”

  “Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”

  “Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”

  “Understood. You must be pretty smart.”

  “I’m very smart.”

  “Where’d you study?”

  She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”

  “Fair enough. Ask me a question.”

  She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”

  “If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.

  “No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”

  “See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black and white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”

  “That seems very confusing.”

  “Not really. It’s solving problems, and the only real way to solve them is to use your head. And your gut.”

  “The intellect is a more accurate gauge than emotion. The intellect deals with facts. Emotions are variable and unreliable.”

  “And human. What good are laws if they’re not human?”

  He set his Coke down to take hers. He opened it for her, handed it back. “You need a glass?”

  “Oh. No. Thank you.” She took a small sip. “Chief Gleason.”

  “Brooks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got a name like Brooks?”

  “I assume it’s a family name.”

  He pointed at her again. “You’d assume wrong. Now, aren’t you curious?”

  “I … Yes, a little.”

  “Brooks Robinson.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was afraid of that. Baseball, Abigail. Brooks was one of the best third basemen to ever guard the hot corner. My mother came from Baltimore, where he played. My mama, she’s a fiend for baseball. Even when she drifted here, back toward the tail end of the seventies, she followed baseball, and worshipped the Baltimore Orioles. According to her, when she watched Brooks win MVP in the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, she vowed when she had a son, she’d name him Brooks.”

  “She must be very serious about baseball.”

  “Oh, she is. Where’d Abigail come from?”

  “It’s just a name.”

  “I like Abigail. Old-fashioned class.”

  “Thank you.” She rose. “I need to go. I still have work to finish today. I apologize if I seemed rude this morning, and I hope I’ve cleared things up.”

  “I appreciate you coming in. What I said this morning stands. If you need anything, call.”

  “I won’t, but thank you for the Coke and the conversation.” She handed the can back to him. “Good-bye.”

  When she left, he studied the can. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was actively thinking of sending it off for DNA and prints?

  Didn’t seem right, on several levels, he decided. But he took the can to the restroom, poured the contents down the sink. Back in his office, he slipped the empty can into an evidence bag, and stored it in his bottom drawer.

  Just in case.

  The entire day left Brooks feeling restless, and it wasn’t his usual state of mind. He didn’t want his own company, and since he’d told Sylbie he had to work instead of just saying no, thanks, he couldn’t justify dropping by McGrew’s Pub for a beer, a game of pool, some conversation.

  Instead of heading home, he drove to the end of Shop Street, hung a left and pulled into the rambling, never-quite-finished house behind his mother’s Prius.

  Scaffolding clung to the side, where he could follow the progress on her current mural. Sexy fairies, he noted, with flowing hair, delicate wings. Under the roofline on the front, burnished-skinned, leanly muscled men and women rode dragons with iridescent scales of ruby or emerald or sapphire.

  It was impressive work, he thought. Maybe a little strange for house and home, but no one could miss the O’Hara-Gleason place.

  He stepped onto the cherry-red porch to the door flanked by pointy-eared elves.

  And stepped inside music and scent and color. Clutter and comfort reigned, dominated by his mother’s art, cheered by the flowers his father brought home at least twice a week.

  Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.

  “No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.

  He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.

  The biggest room in the house, it mixed the thoroughly modern in sleek appliances—the cooktop with indoor grill, the glass-fronted wine cabinet—with the charm of lush pots of herbs, a thriving Meyer lemon tree blooming away. Crystal drops in varying shapes winked in the windows, catching the sun. More sun poured through the skylight in the lofted ceiling, over the bounty of flowers and vines and fruit his mother had painted over the soft yellow.

  He could smell fresh bread, and the allure of whatever she stirred on the stove while she sang along with Fergie. She gave Fergie a run for her money, Brooks thought.

  As far as he was concerned, his mother could do damn near anything, and everything.

  She had her hair, a gold-streaked brown, braided down her back, with silver beads dangling from her ears. Her bare feet tapped to the beat.

  A peace symbol tattoo on her right ankle announced her sixties sensibilities.

  “Hello, gorgeous.”

  She
gasped, then turned around with a laugh, eyes warm and brown. “Hi, handsome. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You can’t hear anything. How many times do I have to tell you kids to keep the music down?”

  “It helps the creative process.” But she picked up a remote and muffled Fergie. “What’s up with you?”

  “This and that. Where’s Dad?”

  “He had a meeting with parents. He’ll be home soon. Stay for dinner?”

  “Whatcha got?”

  “Minestrone, rosemary bread and a field-greens salad.”

  “I’m in.” He opened the fridge, got out a beer, waggled it.

  “Well, if you insist.”

  “I do.” He got out a second beer, opened them both.

  “Now.” She gave him a little poke in the belly. “What’s up? I know your face.”

  “You gave it to me.”

  “And a fine job I did. You got troubles, sweetie?”

  “Not really. Sylbie came by the station this afternoon.”

  She took a swallow of beer. “Mmmm.”

  “And I know your mmmms. She wanted to hook up tonight.”

  “Yet here you are in your mother’s kitchen, opting for minestrone over sex.”

  “You make really good minestrone. I lied to her.”

  “And you are that rare creature, an honest cop.”

  Now he poked her. “You’re just holding on to your flower child’s disdain for authority. Anyway, it’s one thing to lie to a suspect, that’s the job. It’s another just to lie. I don’t like it.”

  “I know. Why did you?”

  “To avoid a scene, I guess, which is just stupid, as it’s just postponing it. I don’t want to go back to high school. Been there, done that, got the letter jacket. And she doesn’t want me; she wants somebody. The sex is really good, but nothing else is.”

  “So you’re looking for more than sex.” Sunny wiped an imaginary tear away. “My boy’s growing up.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want it with Sylbie. I’m hoping for the easy way. Somebody else catches her eye and she loses interest.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to go back to high school.”

  “Yeah. I know I’ve got to fix it, and I should have when she came in today. Pisses me off that I didn’t. So I will.”

  “Good. She’s not a happy woman, Brooks. She equates her worth with her looks and sexuality, and she won’t be happy until she doesn’t. I think she could be happy, and make someone happy, once she realizes she has more to offer. You just remember you can fix the problem, but you can’t fix her.”

  “You’re right. I’ll work on it.”

  “Now, what else. Something else in there.” She tapped his temple.

  “I met, officially, Abigail Lowery today.”

  “Oh, now, this is good. This is sit-down-and-relate-every-detail good.” She settled down at the breakfast counter, patted the next stool. “I’ve been dying to pin that one down. What’s she like?”

  “At first I’d’ve said rude, abrupt and downright unfriendly, but with a little more exposure, I have to put it down to socially awkward.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “The poor thing carries a Glock on her hip to the fancy market.”

  “A gun? When are people going to realize that going around armed is just asking for—”

  She broke off when he tapped a finger to her lips.

  “I know how you feel about guns, gun control and what you see as a perversion of the Second Amendment, Sunshine.”

  She huffed, shrugged. “It can never be too often repeated. But go on.”

  He told her about the market, going out to her place, the dog, the locks. By the time he got to his digging into her licenses, and the number of registered handguns she owned, Sunny decided the story called for a second beer.

  “What’s she afraid of?”

  “See that? Exactly. That’s what I want to know. And as chief of police around these parts, that’s what I need to know. But to finish up, then Sylbie came in.”

  Once he’d told her the rest, her outrage over the guns had subsided, and her focus shifted. “That just breaks my heart.”

  “What?”

  “Honey, she’s so alone. Of course she’s socially awkward when she’s got herself barricaded up by herself, and against God knows what. She’s not sounding like one of those survivalists or those crazies thinking they’ve gotta load up on the guns and locks for the revolution or the Rapture. You said she does programming, and security business. Maybe she found something or invented something. Now the government’s after her.”

  “Why is it always the government, Ma?”

  “Because I find it often is, that’s why. She could’ve been a cyber spy or something like that.”

  “I love you.”

  She slitted her eyes, kicked him lightly in the shin. “Now you’re using those fine words to be amused and patronizing.”

  He couldn’t quite disguise the smirk. “Let’s just say she didn’t strike me as the espionage type.”

  “Well, they’re not supposed to, are they? They’re supposed to blend.”

  “In that case, she’s a crappy spy, because she doesn’t blend.”

  “All right, maybe she’s on the run from an abusive boyfriend.”

  “I didn’t find anything in her record about filing charges.”

  “Some women don’t go to the police. Some just run.”

  He thought of Missy and her latest black eye. “And some stay. One thing I know, the way she’s loaded up and barricaded, whatever she’s hiding from—if that is the case—it’s bad. And if the bad finds her, it finds her here. I’m responsible for here, and whether she likes it or not, for her.”

  “I love you.”

  “Was that amusement and patronizing?”

  “No.” She cupped his face. “That’s just fact.”

  9

  AS SUNNY WOUND DOWN THE ROAD TOWARD ABIGAIL LOWery’s cabin, she doubted her son would approve. But she had a habit of doing as she pleased, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone—unless they deserved it. In any case, her son’s visit there the day before gave her the perfect excuse to drop by.

  She parked, mentally clucked her tongue at the gas-guzzling SUV.

  Still, she approved of the house, the way it nestled right into the landscape. She could see beds were being prepped for spring planting. And the glimpse of a corner of a greenhouse caught her eye and her envy.

  It was a fine morning for a visit, she determined, with spring whispering on the air, the leaves a pretty haze of green on the trees, and the hint of wild dogwoods scattered around.

  As insurance, she’d baked a huckleberry pie that morning. No one resisted her huckleberry pie.

  She got out of her car, went up and knocked on the door.

  When it opened a few cautious inches, she beamed out a smile.

  “Hi, there. I’m Sunny O’Hara, Brooks’s mama.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know Brooks came out to see you yesterday, and it made me think I should do the same. I thought, why, that girl’s been here for nearly a year now, and I haven’t paid her a call.”