“He’s okay. It was just scared.” Sarah was hardly aware of what she was saying. She squinted at Juliet. “Ethan?”

“He’s greeting the SWAT guys.”

Sarah shook her head. “Nicholas Janssen had Ethan’s wife killed. Ethan’ll go after him.” She reached into the boat and touched Conroy’s hand. “Please, don’t die.”

Nate wasn’t optimistic. He looked at Juliet. “You’ve got him?”

“No problem. I’m in rough shape, but I can handle someone unconscious.”

He helped her into the boat and turned his weapon over to her, then climbed out. Blood flowed freely from Sarah’s snakebite. He had no idea if that was good news or bad news. Above them on the bluff, he saw the first of the black-clad SWAT guys.

“Shit’s hitting the fan,” Juliet said unnecessarily.

Sarah clawed at him. “My parents. It’s been an hour.”

But one of the first wave of SWAT guys to reach them told her that they’d just got word from Joe Collins. The Dunnemores were safe. Dutch authorities had them in Amsterdam. One of Janssen’s bodyguards had grabbed them at Schiphol Airport-Conroy must have offered him part of the five million to work on his behalf.

No Janssen. He’d apparently slipped out of the country.

As Sarah had predicted, Ethan Brooker hadn’t stuck around to greet the SWAT guys.

He’d disappeared.

Sarah sat in Granny’s rocker on the front porch of the log house that had always been home, a safe haven, and tried to drink some of her sweet tea punch. Her snake, though angry and frightened, hadn’t released any venom, just left a single nasty bite on the side of her neck. She’d had it cleaned and bandaged in the E.R.

Conroy Fontaine-John Wesley Poe-wasn’t so lucky. By the time they reached the hospital, there was nothing doctors could do for him. He died fifteen minutes later.

He’d lied about so much, but not that John Wesley Poe was his real name.

When she was a teenager, his mother had heard about the Poe sisters and the baby they’d found on the doorstep. Pregnant, unmarried and broke, she created the fantasy that her baby and Leola and Violet Poe’s baby had the same father. She named hers John Wesley-why she’d given her child the same name as the man she would later tell him was his half brother remained a mystery-and changed her name legally to Poe.

Agents searching out Conroy Fontaine’s background in Memphis had dug up that story with little effort. Francine Poe was long dead. After Wes Poe was elected governor and then president, everyone who’d known her and her little boy remembered her crazy tale.

Nate came out onto the porch and sat on another rocker next to Sarah. His arm was freshly bandaged, and she’d overheard an E.R. doctor giving him a stern lecture about taking it easy for a few days. You’ve been shot, need I remind you?

Sarah sipped more of the tea punch, her snakebite aching, her mind fighting off the memory of going into the river with the fat, wriggling cottonmouth. Once it realized it was in the water, it released its grip on her neck and tore off to safety. “Conroy-it’s hard to think of him as John Wesley-would have had a better upbringing if his mother had left him on Leola and Violet’s doorstep, too.”

“They were up there in age when he was born, weren’t they?”

“They’d have seen to it he got to a good home.”

“Why didn’t they do that with the president? Not that there was anything wrong with their home, but two maiden sisters living alone out here on the river, World War Two raging-” He shrugged. “It can’t have been an easy decision to keep him.”

“They believed he belonged here.” And Sarah left it at that, angled a quick smile at him. “You’ll have to watch my documentary.”

He smiled back at her. “Sarah Dunnemore, Ph.D.” But he tilted back in his chair and hoisted his feet up onto the porch rail, a warm breeze bringing with it the smells of grass, flowers, river. Nate, who’d been in marshal mode for hours, glanced at her with those incisive, impatient blue eyes. “Why would our young John Wesley Poe think the president would grant Nicholas Janssen a pardon if you asked him? It’s got to be more than your pretty gray eyes.”

Sarah looked straight ahead, across the shaded lawn to the river and didn’t answer.

“What do you have on the president?” Nate asked quietly.

“You have a suspicious mind, Deputy.” She laid on the sexy southern accent but still didn’t look at him. “The Dunnemores and Poes have been neighbors for a lot of years. I’m sure we can tell many tales about each other.”

“Whatever it is, it’s going to come out now. The media’s descending. You’ve got the Secret Service crawling all over this place. The FBI, the marshals, the ATF, your local sheriff-they’re all going to want to know why Conroy Fontaine/John Wesley Poe thought President Poe would grant a fugitive a pardon if only he could manipulate you into asking him.”

“And I could tell them I have no idea,” she said. “I could tell them that Conroy never discussed his reasoning with me when he had me in the cave.” She glanced sideways at him. “Here’s a question for you. Should I have tried to scream when he grabbed me in the cottage kitchen and put the gun to my head?”

“You should have trusted your instincts, which is what you did.”

“How long before you and Ethan realized he had me?”

“Seconds. We didn’t want to get you killed.” His eyes narrowed, darkened. “It was not a good moment.”

She felt a rush of warmth, but warned herself against reading too much into it, too much into the sparks that had flown between the two of them for days. They both had so much to process. And yet, she didn’t want him to go back to New York. She wanted to keep him right here, sitting with her on the front porch.

“I trusted you to deal with your snake,” he said.

Back to what she had on the president of the United States. She was smart to remain on her guard. “I left you no other choice.”

“I could have kept you from doing that kamikaze, feetfirst dive into the water, or I could have gone in with the two of you.”

“And got bit, too.”

“The point is that I trusted you to handle yourself.”

“Thank you, and I trust you to do your job as a marshal and therefore tell your superiors if I tell you something about the president, who is, after all, your ultimate boss.”

“So you’re saying you do have something on the president?”

She groaned.

“All right. Don’t tell me. I’ll read about it in the papers.”

He didn’t seem irritated or even that curious, just satisfied that he was right and she did have a presidential secret.

He tilted back in his chair. “I’ll bet it has something to do with snakes.”

“You’re like the cottonmouth that had hold of my neck. You won’t let go, will you?”

“Ah, Sarah.” He grinned at her, his tiredness evident underneath, but a light of humor and pure, deliberate sexiness shone in his eyes. “I’d love to latch onto you in about a dozen different ways right now. But don’t compare me to a snake, okay?”

“You’ve seen more cottonmouths since being here than I’ve seen in the last ten years-” But she sighed, and set her glass down, gazing again at the river. “Wes was a self-made businessman when I was in high school, a millionaire with political ambitions and a desire to serve the public. Leola and Violet were still alive. He’d drive out here to see them. Evelyn, his wife, often didn’t come.”

“Sarah…”

She pretended not to hear him. “It was a hot day. Muggy. Rob and I were home from school. I didn’t know Wes was here. As I told you, I’d been visiting Leola and Violet-they didn’t know, either. He and Ev had just lost their fourth child. Ev was very depressed. There were rumors she was suicidal.” Sarah shut her eyes and rocked back into the chair, feeling herself at almost seventeen, practically skipping back from the Poe house. “Wes believed he was at fault, that his ambition, the pressures of his work, had hurt their chances of having a child. He came out to the river to pull himself together. It was the low point in his life, in his marriage.”