Dark Pursuit

Margaret nodded, studying him. His eyes looked alert, back straight. Energy chugged from him like a warming engine. It wasn’t likely to last long, especially given his lack of a full night’s sleep. “Does he think he can set up by three?”

Defensiveness flitted across D.’s face. “Pete can. The computer tech he set me up with—name’s Martin Something-or-Other—wasn’t supposed to be available until mid afternoon. I told Pete to tell him I’d pay him triple.”

D.’s expression gave him away. He’d indeed forgotten the detail of the tech’s availability when he talked to Craig. Margaret refused to let her dismay show. Without proof of the hacking, where would they be? “And the reporter?”

“I’ve got to call him right now.” D.’s face slacked. He shuffled through papers on his desk. “Where is that number …”

“Right here.” Margaret pointed to a yellow sheet of paper he had shown her and Kaitlan last night. Ed Wasinsky, from Channel Seven.

“Yes, yes, I see it.” Darell waved her away.

The reporter—and cameraman he’d bring along—had no idea what they would be filming. Ed knew only that he’d been offered an “explosive exclusive” story, if he would trust Darell Brooke. If it weren’t for Darell’s reputation, Margaret had no doubt the station wouldn’t have released him and a cameraman to come.

But would they be available so many hours earlier than expected?

D. focused on the paper and started dialing. Margaret held her breath.

Within minutes D. was able to speak to Ed Wasinsky. He and his cameraman couldn’t leave San Francisco until around one-thirty. That would put them here at two. It was barely enough time to be briefed and get into place.

D. shot her a stubborn look. “They’ll get here. Stop worrying.”

“I just—”

The phone rang. He plucked up the receiver. Margaret could hear the gravelly voice on the other end. It was Pete, saying Martin Schloss would do his best to leave his house by noon.

D. hung up the phone triumphantly. “See? Everything’s falling into place.”

Maybe. If nothing went wrong. If there was no traffic … “Yes, D., it’ll be fine.”

Out of tasks, D. took a sharp breath and looked around, as if not knowing what to do next. His chest caved, and he sagged in his chair. His gaze wandered to the floor.

Margaret touched his arm. “You’ve got time now to shave and clean yourself up. Maybe rest a little.”

He blinked up at her. “Yeah. Okay.”

Not even an argument about resting. For once Margaret wished he’d snapped at her.

D. reached for his cane and struggled from the chair. “When Pete and the rest of them come they’ll be setting up in the library.”

Her eyes rounded. “D., no! It’s all the way on the other side of the house.”

“It’s the best choice. The upstairs floors squeak. And my bedroom’s too close. One noise from any of you in there could filter across the hall.”

“That’s not what you said last night! You made me think we’d be right next—”

“I didn’t say what room; you just assumed it.”

“But you’ll be alone with him. If something happens—”

“Shut up, Margaret!” He thumped his cane against the floor. “I’m tired of your arguments!”

He stalked from the room.

Margaret opened her mouth to lash out again, then snapped it shut. Fighting with him would only rile him up more, and right now he needed to rest. Pete would have to persuade him.

D.’s bedroom door banged shut.

She brought a hand to her forehead. It sounded like he was beyond rest already.

A skreek nearby made her jump. Margaret’s gaze cut to the window behind D.’s desk. A scraggly oak branch scratched the glass like the twisted fingernail of a hag.

Beyond, the fog had barely lifted, gnarled trees on the front lawn grayed and ghoulish.

What if Pete and the others couldn’t find their way?

The branch screeched again. Margaret shivered.

Abruptly she strode from the office and headed for the north wing. The vague hiss of water ran through pipes. Kaitlan must be taking a shower upstairs. Margaret turned the corner into the library and stalled, not sure why she’d come. Her eyes flitted over the room. The leather sofa and armchair, D.’s cherry wood desk and phone. Far as this was from the office, D. had a point. Sound wouldn’t carry easily from here to there.

She pictured the men with their equipment. They would need an extra table for Pete’s monitor. Margaret didn’t want the desk scratched.

Hurrying back up the north wing hall, she swerved toward the garage. If she remembered correctly, she’d seen a square folding table there.

The garage smelled faintly of oil and dust. Margaret’s footsteps echoed as they clipped over the concrete floor. She passed D.’s black Mercedes in the first parking space, her own Subaru in the second. The third space remained empty, as did the fourth. Pete and the tech could park here, leaving the reporter and cameraman to hide their car just outside the garage. Craig Barlow was to remain in the front part of the house, unable to see the visitors’ vehicle in the rear driveway.

At least that was the plan.

In the storage closet at the far side she found the folding table.