He opened up all the cottage windows. The curtains fluttered in a cool breeze. Quickly, routinely, he checked his weapons. He had two Browning single-action 9 mm semiautomatics, as well as the Smith & Wesson.38 semiautomatic he used as an ankle gun.

The two wounded deputy marshals in New York. The archaeologist sister. The elderly statesman and his younger wife in Amsterdam.

The president of the United States.

Charlene Brooker, murdered army captain.

Ethan couldn’t see how they fit together. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe only some did. But he’d never been a big plotter, one to agonize over every why and wherefore. Establish the mission, then accomplish it. He figured if he got in these people’s faces, something would start clicking.

In the meantime, he had nothing solid to take to the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service, the Secret Service, army investigators, the Dutch police or anyone else.

Not that he would go to any of them when he did.

He wanted Charlene’s killer all to himself.

Fourteen

A fine mist rose off the river, sparkling in the early-morning sun that would burn it off within the hour. Sarah had walked down to the dock and up along the riverbank to the edge of the fields, aware of the tightness in her muscles after so many hours of worry, fear and tension. But she felt less conflicted about being back in Night’s Landing, less guilty for having left her brother. It was what he wanted. He had friends, colleagues-armed guards-who’d look after him.

And she was home, away from the guns, the investigation, the angry and concerned federal agents.

When she returned to the house, she put on water for hot tea and settled at the round oak kitchen table, piled with mail Ethan must have brought in while she was in New York. She flipped through it, hoping for a good catalogue to occupy her while she drank her tea. There were cards and notes from well-wishers-most were people she knew, but some were strangers who’d heard that her brother had been shot and wanted his family to know they were thinking of him.

She made her tea and read the cards and letters one by one, appreciating the good thoughts from friend and stranger alike. I know I haven’t seen you in several years, but I had to write…

“Nice,” she said aloud, lifting a larger envelope off the pile.

No return address. New York postmark. One of Rob’s associates?

She opened it and unfolded the single white eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper inside. Several lines were centered on the page in large, bold, computer-printed italics.

A poem, she thought.

No.

The first words registered.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

Unable to breathe, Sarah shoved her chair back, its legs screeching on the wood floor. She lurched to her feet.

The paper fluttered in a breeze from the open window, the words plainly visible in at least twenty-eight-point italic type, glaring up at her.

If I can get to your brother, I can get to you.

Do nothing. Tell no one.

The marshals, the FBI, your local sheriff.

Your parents in Amsterdam.

I’ll know if you talk.

Wait.

She was aware of herself gulping in air without expelling any. Aware of her tea mug teetering on the edge of the table, of her hand holding tightly onto the back of the old oak chair. It was as if she was looking down at herself. She couldn’t make herself stop.

What was going on? Was someone trying to take advantage of her situation for their own jollies, to terrify her, to get attention-to what?

Was it a serious, credible threat?

From the shooter?

From someone else?

She didn’t dare touch the offending letter again for fear of further contaminating any forensic evidence it might contain. The envelope was front-down on the table. Was the address printed, or handwritten? She couldn’t remember.

But what difference did it make? She wasn’t an investigator, a handwriting analyst.

She picked up her mug, careful not to spill tea all over the letter, and staggered to the kitchen counter with it and set it down. She grabbed the old telephone, immediately dialing her parents’ number in Amsterdam. She had it memorized, just as well because she doubted she’d have been able to look it up. Her hands were shaking, her head spinning-she remembered Nate ordering her to hold her breath in the park. She’d been hyperventilating. That was what she was doing now.

She didn’t want to pass out.

She held her breath, but somehow, it made her want to cry.

Her mother answered.

“Hi-it’s me.” Sarah winced at the sound of her own voice. She felt as if she were back in school, calling and pretending all was well when she was homesick, exhausted, anxious, miserable. “I just wanted to check in. I made it back to Night’s Landing okay. I haven’t talked to Rob yet this morning. It’s still early. How’re you and Dad?”

“We’re hanging in there.” Her mother’s voice sounded almost as strained as her own. But that was to be expected under the circumstances-it didn’t mean she’d received an anonymous letter of her own. “We’re making plans to leave for New York, I hope tomorrow. I can’t-neither of us can stand not seeing Rob another day.”

“Is anyone there with you?”

“Not right now. The Marshals Service sent someone over yesterday to check in on us.” Her mother hesitated. “Sarah? What’s wrong?”

She sank against the counter. She was still shaking, but she had her breathing under reasonable control. “Why don’t you let the marshals take care of you? Two deputies met me at the airport when I got back last night and drove me home. It was a big comfort.”

“You’re spooked, aren’t you? Being home alone after what happened to Rob. Well, I don’t blame you. Frankly, I think you’d have been better off staying in New York. I don’t care what Rob says.”

“I’ll be okay. I just-”

“Call one of your cousins, or your uncle.” The Quinlans were all in Belle Meade west of Nashville. “You have enough family and friends in the area that you don’t need to be alone.”

It was sound advice, but Sarah had no intention of dragging anyone else into her mess.

She couldn’t tell her mother about the note. She’d meant to, maybe, but now she realized she couldn’t. Her mother was safe and there was nothing she could do from Amsterdam. Whoever had sent her the letter could have her phone tapped, her house bugged.

I’ll know if you talk.

How? Was it an idle threat, designed to frighten her?

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “It’s been a stressful few days, but at least Rob’s doing well.”

“We’ll get him down to Night’s Landing. This’ll be behind us in time.” Her mother took in an audible breath. “Sarah, are you sure you’re all right?”

She reassured her mother and quickly said goodbye.

The note continued to flutter in the breeze, and she half wished it’d blow out a window and into the river, except the windows all had screens and the river was in the other direction.

God.

What was she going to do?

She spotted Nate Winter’s card on the counter. She’d found it in her pocketbook last night before she went to bed and assumed he must have tucked it in there when she wasn’t looking. He’d scrawled his home number on the back.

She’d thought about him for most of her flight to Nashville. Most of the night. He was good-looking, sexy, hard-edged, impatient and impossible to figure out, at least in the couple of days she’d known him-and yet she couldn’t deny she was attracted to him. It was crazy. Had to be adrenaline.

She splashed her face with cold water at the kitchen sink and, without considering the pros and cons, dialed his home number.