Angel Fire East

CHAPTER 24

Just from the look on John Ross's face, Nest knew who it was even before she answered the knock at the door. Her impatience and frustration with Larry Spence crowded to the forefront of her thoughts, but she forced herself to ignore them. This visit did not concern her; it concerned Bennett Scott. Because it was necessary to talk with him about Bennett at some point anyway, she was prepared to endure the unpleasantness she was certain would follow.

"Afternoon," he greeted as she opened the door. "Would it be all right with you if I took those statements now?"

As if she had a choice. She managed a weak smile. "Sure. Come on in."

He clumped through the open doorway, knocked the snow from his boots onto the throw rug, and slipped off his uniform coat and hat and hung them on the rack. He seemed ill at ease, as if his size and authority were out of place here, as if they belonged somewhere else entirely and not in her home. She felt better for this, thinking that it wouldn't hurt for him to walk on eggshells for a while.

"Armbruster finished the autopsy," he advised conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "The young lady had enough drugs in her system to float a battleship. But the drugs didn't kill her. She froze to death. The marks on her body were from the fall off the bluff. I'd say she lost her way and wandered off, but it's just a guess."

"Larry," she said quietly, turning him with her hands on his arms so that his back was to the living room. "I don't know anything about Bennett Scott and drugs beyond the fact she was an addict. John knows even less. I didn't even know she was coming back here until she showed up on my doorstep. John, when he came to see me, didn't either. He hasn't been back here in fifteen years. Bennett was five then. All this talk about drug dealing in the park, true or not, does not involve us. Keep that in mind, will you?"

His face closed down. "I'll keep an open mind, I can promise you that." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'll need to see the young lady's room. You don't have to let me, of course, if you don't want to. But it would save me a trip down to the courthouse for a search warrant."

"Oh, for God's sake, Larry!" she snapped. "You can see anything you want!" She sighed wearily. "Come with me. I'll show you where she was staying."

They walked down the hallway past the den and Nest's room to the guest bedroom where Bennett and Harper were staying. The room was gray with shadows and silent. Bennett's clothes were still in her bag in the closet, and Nest had already picked up after Harper and made the bed. She stood in the doorway while Larry Spence poked about, checking the closet and the dresser drawers, looking under the bed and in the adjoining bathroom, and searching Bennett's worn satchel. He didn't seem to find anything of importance, and when he was done he put everything back the way he had found it.

"Guess that'll do," he said without much enthusiasm. "Why don't we do the interviews now, and then I'll be out of your hair?"

"All right," she replied. "Do you want some privacy for this?"

He shrugged his big shoulders, and she could hear the creak of his leather gun belt. "I can interview you and Mr. Ross out in the living room. Do the both of you together. Maybe the children could play back here while we talk."

She shook her head. "I don't want Harper alone in this room just yet. I just finished telling her about her mother." She hesitated. "They can play in my bedroom."

She went past him out the door and down the hall, irritated but resigned, already thinking about the more pressing problem of how she would manage the next twenty-four hours. It wouldn't be easy. Harper would be thinking of her mother. Little John was a weight she could barely shoulder, and yet she had to find a way to do so. Ross would probably be wanting to leave and go into hiding; he hadn't said so, but she could sense he'd made the decision. Whatever she did about any of them, she would second-guess herself later.

She collected Harper and Little John, the puzzle and a few other toys, and took them all into her bedroom. She told the children she had to talk with someone out in the living room, but she would be back to check on them. It wouldn't take long, and they could come back out when she was done.

It felt awkward, but she wanted the space and maneuverability that the living room offered so that she could usher Larry Spence out as soon as the interviews were concluded— sooner, if he started to annoy her—without disturbing the children.

Larry Spence had closed Bennett's bedroom door and was standing in the hallway, waiting for her. He continued to look ill at ease. Leaving her own bedroom door open just a crack, anxious that Harper not hear what might be said, she took him back down the hall to where Ross was waiting. They sat together in the living room, Ross and Nest on the couch, Spence in the easy chair. He produced a small notebook and pen, jotted a few notes, and then asked Nest to begin.

She did so without preamble, detailing the events from the time of their departure from the house until her discovery at Robert's that Bennett was missing. She left out anything about Ross, preferring to let him tell his own story. She also left out everything about the ur'droch, saying instead that she had come back to find the house broken into and the power and phone out.

When she finished her account, she brought out the note that Bennett had left in her coat the night before. "I forgot about this earlier, but I found it this morning before you called. Bennett must have tucked it in my pocket last night before she slipped out of the Hepplers'."

She handed it to Spence, who read it carefully. "Almost sounds as if she thought something was going to happen to her, doesn't it?" he said, mostly to himself. He cleared his throat and shifted to a new position. "Just one or two more questions. Then I'll take Mr. Ross's statement and be on my way."

He ended up asking rather a lot of questions, she thought, repeating himself more than once in the process and annoying her considerably. But she stuck it out, not wanting to have to go through this again later. Once or twice, she got up to peek down the hallway, and each time Larry Spence quickly called her back by saying he was almost done, that he had just a few more questions, as if he was afraid she was going to walk out on him and not come back.

When he was finished with her, he interviewed Ross, a process that for all the noise he had made earlier about drug connections and shady characters took considerably less time than it had with her. He raised an eyebrow when Josie Jackson was mentioned, but said nothing. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he'd lost interest in Ross completely.

"Guess that's it," he announced finally, checking his watch for what must have been the twentieth time, slapping closed the notebook, and rising to his feet. "Sorry to take so long."

He was still nervous as Nest walked him to the front door, glancing everywhere but at her, looking as if he had something bottled up inside that he was dying to get out. At the door, he gave her a peek at what it was.

"Look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea, girl, but I'm worried about you staying here." He seemed uncertain about where to go with this, his head lowered, his deputy sheriff's hat in his hands. "There's things about this investigation that you don't know. Things I can't tell you."

I could say the same, she thought. She had no time for this. "Well, call me when you can, okay?"

He nodded absently. "If you want to come by the office later—alone—I'll try to fill you in." He shook his head. "I shouldn't do this, you know, I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but I can't just leave you in the dark. You understand what I'm saying?"

She stared at him. "Not really."

He nodded some more. "I suppose not. It's pretty complex, even to me. But you got yourself in the middle of something, girl. I know you don't have any part in what's happening, but I—"

"Not this again, Larry," she interrupted quickly.

"I know how you feel, but—"

"You don't know how I feel," she exploded, "and if you want my honest opinion, you don't know what you're talking about, either! If this has to do with that old man in the black coat with the leather book, I'm telling you for the last time— stay away from him. Don't listen to anything he says and don't do anything he tells you to. He's dangerous, Larry. Trust me. You don't want anything to do with him."

Larry Spence screwed up his face and straightened his shoulders. "He's FBI, Nest!" he hissed softly.

She looked at him as if he had just climbed out of a spaceship. "No, Larry, he isn't. He's not one of the good guys. He's not your friend and he's certainly not mine. He's not anything he seems to be. Have you checked up on him? Have you asked for proof of who he claims to be from someone else?"

"Don't tell me how to do my job, please."

"Well, maybe someone should! Look, do yourself a favor. Call Washington or whoever. Make sure. 'Cause you know what? It's entirely possible that old man is responsible for what happened to Bennett."

"You're way out of line, girl!" Spence was suddenly agitated, combative. "You don't know any of this. You're just saying it to protect Ross!"

"I'm saying it to protect you!"

His face flushed dark red. "You think I'm stupid? You think I can't see what's going on? You and Ross are—"

He caught himself, but it was too late. She knew exactly what he was going to say next. Her mouth tightened. "Get out, Larry," she ordered, barely able to contain her fury. "Right now. And don't come back."

He swept past her with a grunt and went out the door, slamming it behind him. She watched him stomp back to his cruiser, climb in, and drive off. She was so angry she kept watching until he was out of sight, half-afraid he might change his mind and try to come back.

When the phone rang, she was still seething. She stalked into the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Nest? Hi. You sound a little out of sorts. Did I pick a bad time to call?"

She exhaled sharply. "Paul?"

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

She brushed back her curly hair. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

She nodded at the wall, looking out the window at the empty drive. "Sorry. I just had a visitor who rubbed me the wrong way. How are you?"

"I'm good." He sounded relaxed, comfortable. She liked hearing him like this. "You got my earlier messages, right?"

"I did. Sorry I didn't call back before, but I've been pretty busy. I have some guests for the holiday, and I've..."

She ran out of anywhere to go with this, so she simply left the sentence hanging. "Well, it's been hectic."

"That's the holidays for you. More trouble than they're worth sometimes. Especially when you have a houseful."

"It's not so bad," she lied.

"If you say so. Anyway, how would you feel about having another guest, maybe sometime after the first of the year?"

She couldn't tell him how much she wanted that, how much she needed to see him. She was surprised at the depth of the feeling he invoked in her. She knew it was due in part to her present circumstances, to the loneliness and uncertainty she was feeling, to her heightened sense of mortality and loss. She knew as well that she still had strong feelings for Paul. A part of her had never really given up on him. A part of her wanted him back.

"I'd like that." She smiled and almost laughed. "I'd like that very much."

"Me, too. I've missed you. Seems like a million years since I've seen you. Well, since anyone's seen you, for that matter." His voice turned light, bantering. "Good old Hopewell, refuge for ex-Olympians. I can't believe you're still there. Seems like the wrong place for you after all you've done with your life. You still train regularly, Nest?"

"Sure, a little."

"Thinking about competing in the next Olympics?"

She hesitated, confused. "Not really. No."

"Well, either way, you've got a great story to tell, and my editor will pay a lot for it. We can talk about your career, memories, old times, flesh it out with what's happening now. I can use an old picture of you or have the photographer take a new one. It's your choice. But you might get the cover, so a new one makes sense."

She shook her head in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Of the magazine. The cover. I want to do a story on you while I'm visiting. Mix a little business with pleasure. It makes sense. Everybody wants to know what's happened to you since the last Olympics. Who can tell your story better than me? We can work on it in our spare time. They'll pay a pretty good fee for this, Nest. It's easy money."

All the breath went out of her lungs, and she went cold all over. "You want to do a story on me?" she asked quietly, remembering the editor from Paul's magazine she had hung up on a month or so earlier.

He laughed. "Sure. I'm a journalist, remember?" "That's what coming here to see me is all about?" "Well, no. Of course not. I mean, I want to see you, first and foremost, but I just thought it would be nice if—"

She placed the receiver back in its cradle and severed the connection. She stood where she was, staring down at the phone, unable to believe what had just happened. A story. He wanted to see her so he could do a story. Had the magazine editor put him up to it? Had he thought he could get to her through Paul? Tears flooded her eyes. She fought to hold them in, then gave up. She walked to where Ross couldn't see her and cried silently. The phone rang again, but she didn't answer it. She stood alone in a corner and wished everything and everyone would just go away.

It took her a few minutes to compose herself. Outside, the day was fading quickly toward darkness, and snow was beginning to fall once more in a soft white curtain. Street-lamps and porch lights glimmered up and down Woodlawn Road, and Christmas tree lights twinkled through frosted windows and along railings and eaves. On a snow-covered lawn across the way, a painted wooden nativity scene was bathed in white light.

Ross appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Are you all right?" Everybody's favorite question. She nodded without looking at him. "Just disappointed."

The phone rang again. This time, she picked it up. "Look, Paul," she began.

"Nest, it's Larry Spence." She heard him breathing hard in the receiver, as if he had run a race. His voice was breaking. "I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry, that's all. I'm sorry. I know you'll probably never speak to me again, but Robinson is right—we can't take chances with this business. You're not thinking straight, girl. If you were, you'd see how much danger you're in and you'd get the hell out of there. I'm just doing what I have to do, nothing more. But I'm sorry it had to be me, 'cause I know you—"

"Go away, Larry," she said, and hung up.

She stared at the phone absently. What was he talking about? She had no idea, but his tone of voice bothered her. He sounded anxious, almost frantic. Apologizing like that, over and over, for asking a few boring questions...

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she thought of the children. She had forgotten about them in the rush of events, of Larry Spence coming and going, of the phone calls. She glanced toward her bedroom. They were being awfully quiet in there.

She walked down the hallway quickly, snapping on lights as she went. She was being silly. She was overreacting. Pick's security net was in place. No one could get in or out of her house without her sensing it. She fought down the impulse to run. No, she kept saying inside her head, trying to reassure herself. No!

"Harper! Little John!"

She reached her bedroom and threw open the door. An orange blur shot past her from under the bed and disappeared down the hall—Hawkeye, hair all on end, hissing in rage and fear. Her eyes swept the room hurriedly. Shadows nestled comfortably in the corners and draped the bed in broad stripes. The puzzle and toys lay scattered on the floor. Harper's cup of apple juice sat half-empty on her nightstand.

But the children were gone.