The Witness

  Arousal, he thought, as he grinned his way to his truck, wasn’t always just a reflex. Sometimes it was a result.

  11

  AFTER HIS MONDAY MEETING WITH THE SELECTMEN, WHERE he always felt a little bit like a fraud, Brooks headed over to Lindy’s with Russ Conroy. Old friend, current selectman, and just-announced mayoral candidate for the fall election.

  “Mayor Conroy.”

  “That’s the plan. Vote early, vote often.”

  Brooks shook his head. They’d gone through school together from kindergarten right through high school graduation. They’d played ball together, with Russ on the mound, Brooks at third. They’d lied and bitched about girls, then women—and if it hadn’t been a lie on Russ’s side, they’d lost their virginity within the same week.

  He’d served as best man at Russ’s wedding three years before, and stood as godfather for their daughter when Cecily was born some eighteen months later.

  He’d seen Russ, a redheaded runt with a face full of freckles and teeth too big for his head, go from grumbling general dogsbody at the pretty hotel the Conroys owned to the buff, compact manager of same.

  His love-’em-and-leave-’em, let’s-take-a-road-trip-to-Key-West friend had become a canny businessman, a loving husband and a devoted to the point of giddy father.

  But he’d never expected there’d come a day when he’d cast his vote for Mayor Russell Conroy.

  “Why is that the plan?”

  “I’d be good at it.” Russ pulled open the door to the diner, wagged a finger at the waitress as he aimed for a booth. “Bickford’s been good to me. It gave me a home, a living, and more, it gave me Seline and CeeCee. I want a chance at helping it grow—and stay stable, to pump up the tourist trade here and there.”

  “You would be good at it.” Brooks sat back as Kim served them coffee without being asked, and as Russ chatted her up.

  He’d probably been born for it, Brooks realized.

  “Mayor Conroy,” Brooks murmured as he lifted his coffee.

  “Chief Gleason.”

  “Ain’t it a kick in the nuts? We’re the grown-ups. Especially you, Daddy.”

  “Daddy times two, come September.”

  “Again? Really?”

  Pride and pleasure shone on Russ’s face. “As real as it gets.”

  “Hey, congratulations, Russ. You do good work in that department.”

  “We’re keeping it quiet for another month, but word’s getting out.” He leaned forward a bit. In the Monday-morning quiet of the diner, ears were always pricked for gossip. “Seline’s sick as three dogs in the morning. A couple of the other teachers—including your dad—noticed she was, well, we’ll say glowing some.”

  “He didn’t say a word to me, and I saw him for a bit yesterday.”

  “She asked him not to. Your dad’s a vault.”

  “He is that.”

  “So, with me being an old married man and father of one and a bump, I have to live vicariously.” Russ wiggled red eyebrows. “Hot date this past weekend?”

  “I got called in just before eleven to help break up a fight at Beaters. Justin Blake, apparently taking on all comers.”

  “Boy’s a troublemaker.”

  “That plus belligerent, spoiled and still underage. I’m adding substance-abuse problems. His daddy didn’t appreciate me putting his firstborn in a cell.”

  “Lincoln’s an older troublemaker, with the money to back it up. I’m surprised they served the kid at Beaters.”

  “According to all the witnesses I talked to, they didn’t. He shoved his way in, already lit, then got rowdy when they wouldn’t serve him and tried to haul him out. Anyway, Blake dragged himself and his lawyer down to the station.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a fun-filled Saturday night for you.”

  “Or most of Sunday,” Brooks added. “But the kid’s out on bail. He’ll have to go to alcohol school, do some community service, pay a fine and damages. Barely nineteen, and booted out of two colleges, already with two DUIs and more moving violations than I can count. He can’t drive, legally, for another year, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from getting drunk or high, then going someplace else to pick a fight.”

  “Ah, youth.”

  Brooks gestured with his coffee. “We were never that stupid, or that arrogant.”

  “We were pretty stupid, but no, not that. We never got behind the wheel after we got piss-faced on beer we were too young to buy and drink.” Russ sat back, shoved a flop of his carrot-juice mop off his forehead. “You need a Saturday night off, son. You know Seline’s got a list of eligible friends she’s dying to pair up with you.”

  “I’ll kill you first, and as chief of police, I know how to get away with it.”

  “Just saying. Unless you’re still bumping hips with Sylbie.”

  “That’s done. Good and done.”

  “Then—”

  “Actually, I’ve spent some time recently with Abigail Lowery.”

  “No shit?” Eyes bright, Russ edged forward again. “Do tell, and I mean do.”

  “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “You can’t drop that and not follow through.”

  “Let’s just say she’s interesting, mysterious, sexy without trying to be. She’s got a dog who looks big enough and smart enough to operate heavy machinery. And she can handle a Glock.”

  “Then why’s she spending time with you?”

  “I keep getting in her way. I’ve got to get to work. Pay for the coffee, and I’ll vote for you.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Hey, come on over for dinner, bring the lady.”

  “I’m still working on her getting used to letting me into the house,” Brooks said as he slid out of the booth. “Getting her out of it’s going to take more doing.”

  IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, Brooks took some personal time and ran the errands to complete a mission. By the time he’d finished them and drove to his parents’ house, his father had changed from his work clothes to his gardening clothes.

  Sunny and Loren worked on one of the front beds, plugging in young, colorful annuals.

  Both of them wore hats, his father’s a battered ball cap that went back to Brooks’s third-base days, his mother’s a wide-brimmed straw with a clutch of red flowers tucked in its ribbon.

  He loved the way they worked together, hip to hip, with music spilling out of the screened windows and doors—all wide open, though there was still a chill to the air.

  When Brooks pulled in, Loren pushed to his feet, rising up on his long legs. Healthy color in his face, Brooks thought, easy smile, hair curling out from under the cap showing plenty of gray but still thick.

  One day, maybe, he’d stop seeing his father as he’d been in the hospital before the bypass. Stop seeing him pale and gray and old and a little afraid.

  His mother got to her feet as well, planted her hands on her hips. Brooks remembered the fear in her eyes, too. She’d talked a good game as they’d waited and paced and prayed. But the fear had lived in her eyes.

  Now they looked like they were supposed to, he thought. Grubby from gardening, happy to see him, and still hip to hip.

  He got out, hoped to hell he hadn’t made a big mistake, and retrieved the travel crate from the back of the car.

  “Hey, there,” his father began.

  “Hey, back. Hi, Ma.”

  “What have you got there?”

  “I brought you a present.” As he spoke, the contents of the crate woke with a yip that trembled with nerves and joy.

  “Oh.” Sunny actually put her hands behind her back. “Brooks, I told you, I’m not ready for—”

  “He comes with a return policy. You know Petie out at the county pound? He’s bending the rules just a little so you can have a look at the pup here, and he at you, before all the papers I filled out get finalized.”

  “Brooks, I just can’t … Oh, God, look at that face.”

  “Petie says it looks like he’s got some shepherd and some retrie
ver in him, and God knows what else. But he’s got a sweet nature, and some balls. The literal ones have to go, that’s the rules, but he’s a brave little bastard.”

  “Oh, Brooks. Loren, do something.”

  “We ought to let him out, don’t you think?” Loren put an arm around Sunny’s shoulders. “At least take a real look at him.”

  “Some help you are. All right, let him out of there. It’s not right he has to be in a cage like a criminal.”

  “That’s the thing.” Brooks set the crate down, opened the door and scooped out the bundle of wiggling, licking, yipping delight. “He’s about ten weeks old. If he doesn’t find a home in another month, say, it’s curtains. The green mile. Riding the lightning.”

  Deliberately, Sunny folded her arms. “Stop.”

  “Dead dog walking,” Brooks added as his mother sighed and his father struggled not to laugh. “What?” Brooks held the dog’s nose up to his ear. “You sure? Okay. He says he wants me to tell you … ‘Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,’” Brooks sang in somber tones.

  “Oh, give me that pup.” Sunny stepped forward, gathered up the dog, who trembled with the force of love at first sight as he lapped at her face. “Oh, damn it. Damn it. Damn it,” she said a third time, with the words soft and muffled against the pup’s fur.

  Beside her, Loren gave his son a thumbs-up before he ruffled the dog’s ears. “Has he had his supper?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got everything you need in the car. That is, if Ma’s willing to save his life.”

  “I should’ve at least tried out spanking with you.” She held the pup up so his paws ran in the air and his tail wagged. “Loren, he’s going to dig in the flower beds and poop on the floor. He’ll chew everything he can get those milk teeth on.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Loren reached over, tickled the pup’s belly. “He’s going to be a whole world of trouble.”

  She brought the pup down, hugged him to her. “Come here, you brat.”

  “You talking to me?” Brooks asked her.

  “You’re the only brat I see in my front yard.” When he was close enough, she grabbed his ear, pulled him in. “Thank you.” Then she laid her head on Brooks’s shoulder and cried a little. “Love finds a way. I didn’t think I had it in me to do this again, feel this again. But love finds a way.”

  She sniffled, straightened. “I’m going to take him around back, show him where he’s supposed to do his business. Y’all can get his stuff out of the car.”

  “What made you bring her a puppy?” Loren asked.

  “Actually, somebody put the idea in my head, and I ran with it.”

  “It’s a good run. Let’s get his gear.”

  “I thought he should have his own, so it wouldn’t seem like a replacement. So I got it all,” Brooks said as they started unloading. “Toys, bed, chew bones, leash, collar, bowls, puppy chow. Got these papers. He has to see the vet for the rest of his shots and the—” He made snipping motions with his fingers. “I’ll take the copy back to Petie tomorrow.”

  “We’ll take care of it. This means the world to her, and to me. I’ve missed having a dog. I bet he perks up old Chuck, too.”

  “Might at least get that cat off the couch a couple times a day.”

  “Might. Your mama’s going to be busy with that pup for a while. How about I toss some burgers on the grill?”

  “I say—hell,” he said when his radio squawked. “Chief Gleason.”

  “Hey, Brooks, are you down at your folks’ yet?”

  “Yeah, right in the yard,” he told Alma.

  “Mrs. Willowby’s reporting an intruder again.”

  “Okay, I’m two minutes away. I’ll take it.”

  When he clicked off, he shrugged. “Old Mrs. Willowby reports an intruder about once a week. The house settles, the faucet drips, the sun shines the wrong way on the window, they’re coming for her. I’ll have to stay for weak tea and stale cookies after I go through the house.”

  “Then we’ll wait to throw the burgers on.”

  “That’d be great. Shouldn’t take but about thirty minutes.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  ONCE OR TWICE A WEEK, when her workload allowed for the time, Abigail gave a few hours an evening to personal business. In the normal course of things, she paid any bills that weren’t on auto-payments as they came in, did her online shopping as the need—or sometimes just the whim—demanded. She followed the news, a handful of blogs on a weekly or daily basis, and even allowed a certain amount of time each day for games.

  Since she’d designed and programmed one and hoped to do more one day, she felt she needed to keep abreast with current trends and technology.

  But once or twice a week, she went hacking.

  She checked on her mother by hacking into bank accounts, brokerage accounts, the hospital work schedule.

  She knew Dr. Susan L. Fitch planned to take a three-week vacation in May to tour Provence. She knew which hotels Susan had booked, which private charter service she and her companion of the last several months—one Walter P. Fennington III—would use.

  She knew quite a bit about her mother’s life, activities, finances.

  They had neither seen each other nor spoken since the night Susan had left her with Terry and John at the first safe house in Chicago.

  But she checked, off and on, out of curiosity, and to reassure herself the Volkovs had taken no reprisals in that area.

  Why would they? Abigail wondered. They had moles in law enforcement. And those moles knew Susan Fitch knew nothing, cared to know nothing about the daughter she’d so meticulously conceived, then walked away from.

  She checked on John’s family. She hoped he’d be happy his wife had remarried eight years after his death. He’d be happy his children were well and apparently happy. She knew where they lived, worked, attended school. Just as she knew Terry’s parents had moved to Sarasota.

  She’d programmed an auto-search so any mention in any media outlet of the Volkovs popped on her computer. She followed them carefully. Ilya was engaged; a fall wedding was planned. His fiancée was from a wealthy family with ties to another bratva. She considered it as a kind of merger, though she imagined Ilya was pleased enough, as the woman was very beautiful.

  Hacking into Ilya’s computers regularly took more effort, more time and a great deal of research. But she didn’t mind. On every visit, she copied and downloaded all of his files, e-mails, stored them, reviewed all the sites he visited.

  People like him thought they were careful, but they weren’t. She knew his business nearly as well, she imagined, as he did. She knew his life, his fiancée’s, his girlfriends’, how he spent his money, where he bought his clothes, his shoes.

  Everything.

  And she knew the Volkovs still looked for her.

  She wasn’t a priority, but from what she could extrapolate, she was more than a loose end. Elizabeth Fitch was a principle.

  She was to be found and eliminated. As long as Sergei Volkov served as head of the bratva, she would remain a target. And she believed, absolutely, she would remain one when Ilya officially took his place.

  She knew Yakov Korotkii continued as enforcer. She’d compiled a list, one she added to on these visits, of people she believed he’d terminated. She knew—as she’d hacked those agencies as well—that the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service and Interpol, among others, had similar lists.

  But nothing stuck to Korotkii. He was, perhaps because of her, a highly favored and well-protected tool.

  She also knew the FBI and the marshals continued to look for her. Or for Elizabeth Fitch.

  She remained a witness in the murders of Julie Masters and Alexi Gurevich, and also a person of interest in the deaths of John Barrow and Theresa Norton.

  John had spoken the truth, protected her to the end. She could trust no one. To the Volkovs she was a target to be terminated out