Hawk unfolded enough of the paper to see that it was a hand-drawn map to Jane Carlysle’s house. He muttered, “Thanks,” to himself, since Deputy Schaefer was already loping off across the highway, where two regular police cruisers were pulled up in the Waffle House parking lot.


He was glad to have Monroe’s map, because there was no doubt he’d need one, and it saved him the time and trouble of stopping to ask for directions. But it bothered him, too. Bothered him to have the map spread there on the seat beside him, tangible evidence that FBI agents had already been to Jane’s house, had almost assuredly been inside it, invading her personal space and privacy. It bothered him even though he’d been doing just that himself, not so long ago.

But that was then, he thought. Things have changed.

He wasn’t even exactly sure when they’d changed, but he was only beginning to understand how much.

Even with the map he managed to make a couple of wrong turns, and the sunset’s glow was fading fast by the time he finally turned into the graveled driveway he was sure at last was Jane’s. When he turned off the Nissan’s engine, he could hear a stereo thumping. The daughters, he thought. Naturally they’d be home on a Sunday evening. It gave him a peculiar feeling to think of Jane in a warm, cozy kitchen, surrounded by boisterous teenagers. And yet, wasn’t that how he’d always pictured her? Supermom.

No, something inside him corrected, that’s how your conscience told you you Should think of her. You thought of her in a different context entirely.

He got out of the car, and then he could actually hear the music. A waltz? Strange choice for teenagers, he thought.

He went up to the front door and knocked, but the music was so loud he knew no one inside would ever hear him, so he went through the carport and stepped out onto a covered deck that ran the entire length of the back of the house. He saw planters filled with pansies and the green spears of budding daffodils, and hummingbird feeders hanging from the rafters. He saw wind chimes gently swaying, though he couldn’t hear their music. Just off the deck and reachable from it, he saw a bird feeder hanging from the branch of an oak tree, still rocking slightly from the customers scared away by his sudden appearance. He saw that a set of French doors leading into the living room was standing wide open, though the air temperature was dropping rapidly with the coming dusk. Alarmed, realizing now that the house was empty, he began to look around in earnest, his eyes lifting to scan beyond his immediate surroundings. And now at last he saw her.

She was standing on a broad platform-a boat dock, it looked like-far out on the water at the end of a long pier. She had her back to the house and was watching the sunset fade, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. She couldn’t have been home long, he realized. Even from that distance he could see that she still had on the blazer and slacks she’d been wearing since yesterday.

He walked rapidly down the steps and across the lawn, slowing as he went, realizing he didn’t know how to approach her. He didn’t want to startle her, and with the music on she couldn’t possibly hear him. With her back to him, she wouldn’t even know he was here. As he stepped onto the pier, he could feel his heart beating.

He’d only taken a few steps before she turned and saw him. She’d felt him, he imagined, felt the vibrations of his footsteps on the wooden pier. He lifted his hand in greeting, knowing what light there was would be on his face, and that she should be able to identify him well enough. Her face was in purple shadow, and unreadable. She didn’t move a muscle, didn’t raise her hand in response to his wave, but simply stood with her arms crisscrossing her body, and waited for him to approach. Something in the way she held herself, in her very stillness, told him she wasn’t smiling.

What do I say to her? Hawk thought as he walked toward that silent, waiting figure, his heart thumping now in rhythm with his footsteps on the planks of the pier, to the music soaring out of the stereo into the cold, winy dusk. What am I doing? What’s my reason for being here? He realized that for once in his life he hadn’t prepared a cover story in advance.

At the join of the pier and the dock he paused, one hand resting on the railing. A few feet still separated him from Jane. He could see her face now but still couldn’t read it. She had the slightly dazed look of someone who couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

“Hi,” he said, making a feeble attempt to smile.

“Hi,” she responded, and he saw her shoulders hunch suddenly, as if a chill had just shaken her.

Now what? She didn’t say anything more, refusing to ask the expected question, “What are you doing here?,” to which he was certain inspiration would have provided him with a clever and believable reply. Instead, the music abruptly ceased and the evening filled with silence, a timeless void marked only by the faint creaking of the dock and the hollow thudding of his heart. My God, he thought, what’s happening here? Another minute and he’d be shaking like an adolescent standing on his first date’s doorstep.

The silence ended as abruptly as it had begun, on the opening chords of “The Blue Danube Waltz.” And Hawk, hearing the familiar melody of the introduction, felt something happening inside him. Something seemed to stretch and reach…to struggle, then suddenly lift, like a bird making its first leap toward the sky. For the first time in many years he felt…happy.

He kept his face straight as he made a small, stiff bow from the waist, but laughed as he held out his hand, making a joke of it when he said “Ma’am, may I have this dance?”

Chapter 13

He seemed to her to come from nowhere, as if conjured from the purple shadows by a cruel and heartless genie. In spite of that, she never doubted for a moment that he was real; in fact, she wondered if, in some locked-away part of herself, she had even been expecting him.

Oh, God Of course. He’s figured it out. He knows.

In the next moment, bewildered, she thought, but if that’s so, then why is he here? Unless…he still thinks it’s me.

“Hi,” he said. And she responded, somehow, though her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

And then she saw the unmistakable, unbelievable leap of gladness in his face, in his eyes, and felt the very same within her entire being. Glad to be here? Glad to see…me? Her body shivered and tingled with shock, and her legs weakened. She wanted to run into his arms, touch his face, feel his hands on her body, and know once again those kisses that had seemed to reach into her very soul.

Instead, she stood still, and silent, and so did he.

She saw his hand extend toward her, and she stared at it uncomprehending. What does this mean? she thought. What does this mean?

Then, unbelievably, he laughed and said, “Would you like to dance?”

To see joy and laughter in his face was what she’d wanted, longed for. In response, she should have felt joy, too. But she didn’t. Instead, it was anger that began to rise like steam from the churning soup of her emotions.

Why is he doing this? she wondered. What does he want from me, when he has nothing to give me back? I won’t let him do this to me-I won’t. I can’t. I promised myself, she inwardly whimpered, wanting, childlike, to slap at his hand and shout, Go away! Leave me alone! Hadn’t she just vowed, after last night, never again to let herself need anyone so much? Never again.

A sharp, breathy sound escaped her, it might have been mistaken for a laugh, but it was pain. Pure anguish. But the music filled her ears and invaded her mind like a drug, and she saw her hand reach out as if it were guided by someone else’s will. She saw herself like the young girl in the painting, in a graceful and low-cut gown and high-piled coiffure, as Tom, elegant in embroidered waistcoat and silk cravat, took her hand in his and raised it briefly to his lips. For a moment she was sure that on the cold March breeze she had caught the scent of lilacs.

She took a step backward and Tom followed her onto the landing, as if they were the choreographed first steps of the dance. He guided her gently into position. Then for a few beats they stood still, listening to the rhythm, adjusting to it with their bodies while they gazed at one another. And he was smiling, but she was not.

Their eyes never left each other’s faces as they began to move and sway to the tempo of the waltz, small, tentative steps at first, but gradually gaining in confidence and gusto, until they were whirling around on the gently rocking platform as if it were a ballroom floor. The last of the light faded, and the sky filled up with stars. Yard lights came on and swam in the dark water like reflected moons.

The platform dipped suddenly, riding the wake of a distant and long-departed boat. Jane gasped and lurched toward Tom, off balance. He caught her close while he steadied them both, then murmured, “Feels just like old times.”

“We’re both going to wind up in the water,” she said, her voice bumpy with frightened laughter. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.

The song ended, the last one on the CD, and silence came to stay. And still he wouldn’t release her from the warm and heart-wrenchingly wonderful prison of his arms. She drew her hands from his neck and shoulder and brought her folded arms between them, and tried to lighten the moment by saying mockingly, “You are surprising.”

She heard the familiar irony in his voice as he responded in the same mode, “You, too, Miss Jane.”

“I’ve always loved to dance,” she said, and the irony faded from her voice as she added, “I guess that’s why I liked the painting so much.”

He didn’t speak. His arms shifted, one hand coming to cover hers and press them against his chest. She could feel his heart beating beneath her fingers as his head slowly descended.

As well as she knew he was going to kiss her, as much as she wanted him to, she knew that she would be truly and forever lost if he did. So she turned her face away before he could, saying on a ripple of laughter as false as it was light, “Tom, what in the world are you doing here?”

She could feel his breath sigh soundlessly through his body as he let her go. “I came to see you, what else?” And she knew he was smiling his familiar crooked smile.

“I thought you were going back to Arlington, to try and find out who bought the other paintings.” She was moving away from him, onto the pier, heading back toward the shore, moving quickly to hide the fact that she was trembling.

“I was, and I did.” Tom’s voice and footsteps followed her up the pier. “Seems all but one of ’em are right here in Cooper’s Mill.”

“Really?” said Jane faintly. “Imagine…” What is he saying? she wondered, trying desperately to read the thoughts behind that dry and casual voice. What does he suspect? Or does he know?

“Yeah, one that I guess didn’t sell was still there at the auction company’s warehouse. Didn’t take us long to check it out. The rest, it seems, your friend Connie Vincent bought.”

“Really!” said Jane, her voice high with feigned surprise.

“Yeah, looks like I’m gonna have to wait until tomorrow to see about those, though. Apparently, they’re locked up tight in her shop.”

But you’re lying, Jane thought. Because as important as whatever it is you’re looking for seems to be to you, I know you’d go in after it right this minute, locks or no locks. If you’re waiting for morning, there’s a reason for it. What is it? What are you up to, Agent Hawkins? Why are you lying to me?

“I’m just amazed you got here so fast.” Words tumbled over themselves in their rush to leave her, the way they did at parties, or other occasions when she felt ill at ease. “Actually, I just got home myself, a little while ago. I haven’t even had time to change my clothes, or-”

“Yeah, how come? Greenville’s…what? A hundred miles from here?” And she could hear the tenor of his voice change with his frown.

“It’s a long story,” she said, tossing it off with light, rueful laughter. I know he still suspects me, she thought, shivering as the evening chill found its way inside her jacket and penetrated instantly to her bones. And I’m making it worse.

But she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not until she’d had a chance to find out for sure. Bacause…what if it wasn’t true? There still might be an innocent explanation for everything. Oh, God, she prayed, please let there be an explanation. She couldn’t bear the thought that she might have been so wrong, so stupid.