It was well over an hour’s drive to the first of the wineries scattered along the Shenandoah Valley. During the ride, she wanted to know about the fallout from the latest killing.
“That judge up in P.G. County has taken an indefinite leave of absence and gone into seclusion with his wife someplace out of state,” he answered.
“I heard on the news that several of the criminals you profiled have vanished. Apparently, they don’t want to be next.”
“Good thinking.”
“So, Dylan Hunter, ace investigative reporter: How does it feel to be provoking all this uproar?”
He shrugged. “I have mixed feelings, Annie. I’m not weeping about what happened to those criminals. On the other hand, for an investigative reporter, it’s best to maintain a low profile. But the people doing these killings-they’re making that impossible for me now.”
“You say ‘people.’ Do you think it’s some kind of organized group?”
“That’s what the cops think. They told my editor that, given the quote sophistication unquote of the crimes-especially the latest one in Bowie-it has to be a team. Apparently, a variety of weapons are being used, and different vehicles, too. They think that it would take several people to conduct all the surveillance, planning, logistics, and do the killings, too.”
“Do they have suspects?”
“Not yet. But the theatrics with the flagpole raised this to a whole new level. I understand they’ve called in FBI profilers to come up with a psychological portrait of the perps. Since the shootings have taken place across several jurisdictions, they’ve also set up a joint task force. Perhaps by pooling their resources and information, they’ll get somewhere.”
“How’s the management at the Inquirer reacting to all this? Are you in trouble?”
He shook his head. “At first, the publisher was upset. He was fielding calls from prosecutors, mayors, even police chiefs urging him to shut me up. They told him I’m inciting people to take the law into their own hands. Fortunately, though, he answers to shareholders and readers, not to public officials. And our shareholders and readers love all this. Circulation is up over twenty-five percent during the past couple of weeks. So, our dear publisher has suddenly become a champion of my First Amendment rights.”
She chuckled. “How noble of him. Think he’ll give you a raise?”
“I’m not doing this for the money.”
“I know, Dylan.”
*
They talked about music, wine, the Smithsonian museums, travel. She spoke of a week-long trip she’d taken to western Ireland. About the “fairy trees” and an old Irish storyteller; about a vast region of bare limestone known as “the Burren”; about the spectacular Cliffs of Mohar and the rugged, rock-strewn islands off the coast.
When she asked where he’d traveled, he chose to tell her of a trip ten years earlier through Switzerland, when he’d stayed in the small town of Meiringen. “That’s the place Arthur Conan Doyle chose for Sherlock’s fight to the death with his arch-enemy, Dr. Moriarty,” he explained. He described the majestic Reichenbach Falls, where Doyle’s embattled fictional antagonists supposedly plunged to their deaths. How the locals had turned the tale into a tourism bonanza, painting a white cross on the cliff to mark the spot, and opening a Sherlock Holmes museum in the basement of a quaint little church.
“Do you like to take cruises?” she asked. “I love them.”
“I’ve never done that,” he said. “But I might try it out with an experienced guide.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile.
The Shenandoah Valley, Virginia
Saturday, September 20, 11:10 a.m.
The first winery was a two-story wooden structure that looked like a lodge, atop a hill covered with vineyards. They went inside to the counter for a tasting. Agreeing on the merits of a Cab-Merlot blend, he bought a couple of glasses plus some French bread, cheese, and cold cuts, and they went outside to picnic on the courtyard patio.
The breeze was chilly. Gray clouds that threatened rain drifted over the distant Blue Ridge chain. Near their little table, bees darted around a trellis interwoven with flowering vines, and water tumbled over the lips of a fountain. They ate, drank, and struggled to keep straight faces at each other’s jokes.
They visited another winery during the following hour and, after more sampling, bought several bottles. This one had a second-floor balcony overlooking a large willow and a duck pond. They took glasses of Syrah out there and sipped as dark clouds rolled in.
“Looks like the weather isn’t going to cooperate,” he said. “Perhaps we should head to the inn for an early dinner.”
A beat passed. “That’s probably a good idea.”
They drove down winding country roads, past pastures and small cattle herds, outrunning the rain until they reached the village. He pulled into a sprawling Colonial-style complex. The main inn and restaurant were surrounded by several charming cottages and outbuildings.
He took her hand as she emerged from the car. Held it as they headed up the wide steps and into the lobby. She veered off to explore the ornate decor while he made arrangements at the front desk.
He approached behind her as she examined an antique curio cabinet. Placed a hand on her shoulder. “I made early dinner reservations. So that we can watch the rain while it’s still light outside.”
“That’s good.” She didn’t look at him.
“We have about an hour. Perhaps you’d like to get ready.”
“All right.”
Her shyness both amused and touched him. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back to the car. He drove the short distance to a small outbuilding. The two-story cottage was painted deep red with cheerful yellow shutters and was dominated by a broad field-stone chimney. The entrance was through a small outdoor dining pavilion adorned with wicker furniture and hanging plants.
The first scattered drops of rain greeted them as he helped her from the car. He held out the room key, smiling. “Why don’t you go on in and explore, while I bring our things.”
“Okay.”
She went ahead. He gathered up their bags and the wine they’d bought. When he entered, she was standing in the middle of the living room, her back to him, facing the gray stone fireplace. The staff had already prepared a cheerful fire for their arrival.
He set down the items, keeping his distance. She didn’t face him.
“I know, Annie. I’m a little scared too.”
“I’m more than a little scared.”
“That’s all right. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready. I’ll use the bathroom down here.”
She turned to him. She looked small and vulnerable. “It’s so beautiful, Dylan. It’s perfect.”
“It is now that we’re here.”
*
The inn’s five-star restaurant was renowned for its spectacular cuisine and service. All tables were filled for the Saturday night, and Hunter felt fortunate to have reserved an isolated one for two. Carved oak wainscoting embraced their corner table; a fringed silk shade muted the overhead lamp; thick, coffee-colored drapery, drawn back with golden rope ties, highlighted the window beside them. Outside, the lawn rolled away to a distant grove of trees almost hidden in the misting rain.
Her head was turned toward the window, taking in the magical scenery. She wore a sleeveless red taffeta dress, cut low, slit to mid-thigh. A black velvet sash fell at an angle across her narrow waist; she had matched it with teardrop earrings of black tourmaline and a black velvet choker.
They feasted on lamb carpaccio, cold pear soup, filet of halibut, and braised veal. The wine pairings were superb, and by the second glass, she began to relax. Laughing and gazing into each other’s eyes, they fed each other morsels from their plates and talked about things that he knew he would never later recall. By the time the dessert sampler arrived, he had slid his chair around the table to be next to hers.