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
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
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.
24
Brooks came into the kitchen with a clutch of white daisies with bright yellow buttons and a rawhide bone for Bert.
“You brought me flowers again.”
“My daddy brings my mama flowers once or twice a week, and I figured out it’s because they make her smile, just like you are now.”
“I worried things wouldn’t be right when you came tonight, that it would feel awkward after everything. And you brought me daisies.”
“Then you can stop worrying.”
She got a vase, wished she had a pretty little pitcher instead, and vowed to buy one the next time she went into town.
“Every time I come in here something smells good, in addition to you.”
“It’s the rosemary,” she told him, as she arranged the flowers. “It’s very fragrant. I found a new recipe for chicken I wanted to try.”
“Happy to be your taste-tester.”
“It should go well with the
