situation?
Abbie slumped down on the carpet. When she stopped laughing, depression flooded over her. She leaned against the wall and started to cry. It was Robert's fault she was falling apart. She had loved him without reservation and he had deceived her. She hated him more than she ever thought possible.
Abbie closed her eyes. She was so tired. She started to fade out, then jerked herself awake and struggled to her feet. She was going to sleep, but not on the floor in the entryway.
Abbie's bedroom was at the end of a short hall. She staggered inside.
The shades in the bedroom were open and the backyard looked like a black-on-black still life. The only light came from the window of the house next door. Abbie reached for the light switch. In the moment before the bedroom light went on, a shape erased the glow from the next-door window. Abbie stiffened.
Someone was in the yard. She switched off the light so she could see outside, but she had been blinded momentarily when the bedroom light flashed on.
Abbie pressed her face against the windowpane, trying to see as much of the backyard as possible. There was no one there. She must have imagined the figure. She sagged down on the bed and Closed her eyes. A doorknob rattled in the kitchen. Abbie's eyes flew open. She strained to hear, but her heart was beating loudly in her ears.
Abbie had received a number of threats over the years from people she had prosecuted. She had taken a few of them seriously enough to learn how to shoot a semiautomatic 9mm Beretta that she kept in her end table.
Abbie took out the gun. Then she kicked off her shoes and walked on stocking feet down the dark hall to the kitchen. Abbie heard the doorknob rattle again. Someone was trying to break in. Was it Rose?
Had he parked his car and returned on foot?
Abbie crouched down and peered into the darkened kitchen.
There was a man on the deck outside the kitchen bent over the lock on the back door. Abbie could not see his face because he was wearing a ski mask. Without thinking, she ran to the door and aimed her gun, screaming 'Freeze!' as she pressed the muzzle to the glass. The man did freeze for a second. Then he straightened up very slowly and raised his arms until they were stretched out from his sides like the wings of a giant bird. The man was clothed in black from head to foot and wore black gloves, but Abbie had the strange feeling that she knew him.
Their eyes met through the glass. No one moved for a moment.
The man took one backward step, then another. Then he turned slowly, loped across the yard, vaulted the fence and disappeared.
It never occurred to Abbie to pursue him. She was just glad he was gone. The adrenaline began to wear off and Abbie started to shake. She dropped onto one of her kitchen chairs and put the Beretta on the kitchen table. Suddenly she noticed that the safety was on. She felt sick for a moment, then felt relieved that she was safe.
Abbie contemplated reporting the attempted break-in, but decided against it. She was so tired that she only wanted to sleep, and she could not describe the man anyway. If she called the police, she would be up all night. Worse, she would have to tell the officers about Tony Rose, even though she was certain he wasn't the intruder, and there was no way she was going to do that.
Abbie rested for a few moments more, then dragged herself back to the bedroom after checking to make sure that all the doors and windows were locked. She put the Beretta on the end table and stripped off her clothes. She was certain she would drop off to sleep immediately because she was so exhausted, but every sound primed the pump of her overwrought imagination and she did not slip into sleep until an hour before dawn.
Chapter SIX
The intense leather, glass and stainless-steel decor of the big law firms was nowhere to be found in Matthew Reynolds's reception area. The hand-knit antimacassar draped over the back of the country sofa, the Tiffany lamps and the deep old armchairs had a calming effect that was equally appreciated by clients facing prison or a nervous young woman waiting for a job interview.
Masterful black-and-white photographs of jagged mountain peaks, pristine lakes and shadowy timberland trails graced the walls. One picture in particular caught Tracy's eye. A doe and her fawn were standing in a clearing nibbling on a bush, apparently oblivious to the presence of the photographer. A wide ray of sunlight shone down through the trees and bathed the bush in light. The picture had a quiet, almost religious feel to it that touched something in Tracy. She was admiring the photograph when the receptionist beckoned her down a corridor on whose walls hung more of the exceptional wilderness photography.
'Mr. Reynolds took those,' the receptionist proudly told Tracy as she stepped aside to admit her to Matthew Reynolds's office.
'They're terrific,' Tracy answered, genuinely impressed by the use of light and the unique perspectives. 'Has Mr. Reynolds ever shown them in a gallery?'
'Not that I know of,' the receptionist answered with a smile.
'Why don't you have a seat. Mr. Reynolds will be with you shortly.'
The receptionist left Tracy alone in the large corner room.
Law books and legal papers were arranged in neat piles on the oak desk that dominated it. Two high-backed, dark leather client chairs stood before the desk. Through the windows Tracy could see sections of a flower garden and the cheerful green of a wellmanicured lawn.
Tracy wandered over to the near wall, which was covered with memorabilia from Reynolds's cases. There were framed newspaper clippingsand the originals of courtroom sketches that had appeared in newspapers around the country. Tracy stopped in front of a frame in which was displayed the cover of a brief that had been filed in the United States Supreme Court. Above the cover, in a narrow recess, was a white quill pen.
'Those pens are specially crafted for the Court,' Matthew Reynolds said from the doorway. 'If you ever argue there you'll find them at counsel table. You're expected to take one as evidence that you have appeared before the highest court in the land. I've argued seven cases in the United States Supreme Court, but that pen means the most to me.'
Reynolds paused and Tracy was transfixed, the way she imagined his juries were, as his homely features were transformed by his quiet passion.
'I won that case on an insignificant technicality. A procedural point.
Saved Lloyd Garth's life, though. Took him off death row as surely as any great legal point would have.' A gentle smile played on Reynolds's lips.
'Two weeks before the retrial, another man confessed to the murder.
Lloyd always swore he was innocent, but few people believed him. Sit down, Ms. Cavanaugh. Sit down.'
Tracy had been caught up in Reynolds's tale and it took her a moment to respond. While she took her seat, Reynolds studied her r(sum(. Tracy was rarely at a disadvantage, but she felt that Reynolds had already begun to dominate the interview. To regain the initiative, Tracy asked, 'Are all the wilderness photographs yours?'
'Why, yes,' Reynolds responded with a proud smile.
'They're incredible. Have you had formal training?'
Reynolds's smile vanished. A look of sadness passed over him.
'No formal training with a camera, but my father was a hunter--a great hunter--and he taught me all about the woods.
He could stay with an animal for days in the forest. The sheriff asked him to track men on occasion. Lost hunters, once an escaped convict. He found a little boy alive after everyone else had given up hope.
'He taught me to hunt. I was good at it, too. Eventually, I lost heart in the killing, but I still loved the woods. Photography is my way of getting out of myself when life gets too ponderous.'
'I know what you mean. I rock-climb. When you're on a cliff face, and the difference between life and death is the strength in your hands, you pull into yourself. You forget everything else except the rock.'
Tracy realized how pretentious she sounded as soon as she spoke.
Reynolds seemed to close off a little. When he addressed her, there was less warmth.
'You're from California?'
Tracy nodded.
'What do your parents do?'
'My father works in motion pictures. He's a producer.'
Successful?
Tracy smiled. 'Very.'
