Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  “They don’t mean nothing by it,” she said. “Not used to company this late is all.”

  Lea didn’t entirely believe that and lingered at the bottom of the stairs, feeling like a rib eye hanging off the edge of a kitchen counter.

  The woman looked them over. “The name is Claudette Noble. This is my place. You must be Swonger,” she said as if she’d just found something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

  “That’s right.”

  He stepped forward, but Claudette’s attention had moved to Lea, ignoring Gibson altogether. “Come up here, girl. Dogs won’t bother you ’less I tell them. This here the Mustang?”

  “Yes,” Swonger said.

  “Hush, boy, no one’s talking at you,” Claudette snapped.

  Lea took a step up. “It is, yes.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me these boys didn’t bring back the same Mustang, thinking they’d put one by on old Claudette?”

  “No, this is the car,” Lea said, glancing over at Gibson and Swonger for confirmation. Both men chimed in that it was.

  “Well, all right, give me your arm and let’s go take a look. Just us girls. What do you say?”

  Lea helped her up, wincing under Claudette’s iron grip, uncertain whether she was helper or hostage. Certainly, the old woman needed no help standing or walking. Claudette gestured at Swonger and Gibson to stay put, and the dogs came forward to the edge of the porch and sat on their haunches.

  Claudette opened the Mustang’s driver’s door to read the VIN off the frame. Never loosening her grip on Lea’s arm, the old woman produced a knife—Lea couldn’t say from where—and pried at the VIN, testing to see whether it had been tampered with. Satisfied, Claudette shut the door; the knife disappeared from her hand, and she took Lea back up to the porch.

  “Good. Looks good. Everything smooth, I trust?”

  “Like clockwork,” Lea said.

  A look passed between Gibson and Swonger that she couldn’t interpret. Swonger looked away while Gibson nodded confirmation. It gave Lea a bad feeling, and the junkyard fell silent in solemn agreement.

  The old woman sat back down and looked them over. “All right, then,” she said finally. “On your way. I’ll pass it along.”

  They mumbled a good-bye and backed away. Halfway back to the van, the office door opened. “A word,” Deja Noble said and stepped out onto the porch.

  Lea didn’t know the kind of pistol, but it looked enormous and lethal in Deja’s small hand.

  “Aunt?” Deja said, the muzzle tapping her thigh inquisitively.

  “Niece,” Claudette replied. “There a problem?”

  “Yeah, there’s a problem. Swong, my aunt asked you a question, but she didn’t hear an answer. Asked if everything went smooth. Now what’ve you got to say to her?”

  Swonger’s mouth started to open.

  “It went fine,” Gibson cut in.

  Deja looked back and forth between the two men. “That was good. His mouth opened, your voice came out. Magic.” Deja mimed a shiver of excitement. “How’d you all do that? Let me try another. Swonger, where’s Terry at?”

  Swonger looked sick to his stomach. “Out there.”

  “That’s good. And what’s he doing out there?”

  “Got a rifle.”

  “Where’s it pointed?”

  “Come on, we really gotta—”

  “Where’s it pointed?” Deja asked again, patiently.

  “My head,” Swonger moaned.

  “Got it in one. Now go ahead and throw down your piece like before. Then we can get back to the question at hand.”

  “I ain’t—”

  “We didn’t bring guns,” Gibson interjected. “Wasn’t part of the plan.”

  Deja considered this, and Swonger, with interest. She made a twirling gesture with her finger for Swonger to lift his shirt and do a three-sixty. When he was done, Deja shook her head.

  “Not getting the whole pacifist thing, but that’s you all’s call. Now, Swonger. My aunt asked you a question, and all of us up here want to hear your answer. Not his. Not hers. Just yours. Auntie?”

  “Did things go smooth?” Claudette repeated her question.

  Swonger didn’t answer but glanced in Gibson’s direction again.

  “Quit looking at him,” Deja said.

  “Nah, it’s all good,” Swonger said. “Went like he said.”

  “We got the Mustang you needed. What’s the problem?” Gibson demanded. “We held up our end.”

  Deja cast her eyes on Lea. “That your story too?”

  Lea nodded, her bad feeling metastasizing. She was on the hook for something but had no idea what. It didn’t give her a lot of options.

  Deja studied them all with her relentless gaze. “Truck. What do you think?”

  A towering man came out of the office, stooping as he passed through the door. When he stood upright again, his head grazed the porch roof. He was the largest human that Lea had ever seen. Massive biceps and forearms strained the sleeves of his black button-down. Despite his size, he moved with a balletic grace that few large men possessed. His physique was perfectly proportioned apart from his head, slightly too small for his body, which only accentuated his otherworldliness.

  Gibson looked astonished.

  Swonger looked like the second coming himself had just ducked out onto the porch. “Hey, Truck.”

  “What do you think?” Deja asked.

  Truck shook his head.

  “Yeah, me too. Frustrating. Know what I mean?”

  Truck nodded in solemn agreement.

  “I understand them two lying,” she said. “They don’t know us. What are we to them? But my heart’s broken over Swonger here. After all you did for him. And he’s lying to us.”

  Deja looked disappointed by this troubling development. Disappointed in life. Disappointed in humanity. Lea didn’t get the sense that this was a family that dealt with disappointment well. Her elation at pulling off the job was gone, replaced by the dry-mouthed certainty that she would not leave this junkyard. If this went bad, it was going to go bad their way. Like anyone, she’d tossed around the word “afraid” all her life. Now she understood what it was to be afraid. Afraid that these were the last faces she’d see.

  “Want me to ask him?” Truck asked, speaking at last, his voice surprisingly high and sweet for such a large man.

  “Would you? I can’t seem to get through to him.”

  Truck picked up the sledgehammer and hefted it lightly over his shoulder. It looked like a toy in his fist. He started down the stairs. “Come here, Swong.”

  Swonger turned the white of a fried egg. “Hey, dog. Hey. Come on.” The nonsensical words of a man with no defense save hope for a mercy that wasn’t coming.

  “Don’t make me come over there.”

  “Please,” Swonger said quietly, all masculine posturing forgotten. He fell to his knees.

  “The guard at the front gate took our pictures,” Gibson said loudly.

  Everyone stopped at that and looked at him. He said it again. Truck looked back at his sister.

  “I thought you boys took security down,” Deja said.

  “We did. That’s why he took the pictures himself. On his phone.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Whatever internal lie detector Deja thought she possessed accepted that answer. “Well, hell, that ain’t even a thing. Why are you all making me sweat? Swong, you can’t go appealing to my baser instincts this way.” Deja said it like this had all just been a misunderstanding over nothing.

  Swonger smiled weakly and apologized. Lea took a deep breath and realized she’d been holding it.

  “Which one was it?” Deja asked. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “No,” Gibson said, punching a finger in Swonger’s direction. “Don’t you say a word.”

  “You know,” Deja said, “for a fella that’s unarmed, you’re giving a lot of orders.”

  “It doesn’
t matter who it was.”

  “Does matter if those pictures lead to you, because you lead to my family here. That guard is a loose end. What did I tell you? You should’ve gone in hard, with masks.”

  Gibson protested, and Deja shouted him down. Lea listened to them argue back and forth, voices rising, echoing across the junkyard, Gibson becoming more and more animated.

  Again, Deja shut him down. “Both you boys got records,” she said. “They find you, they find us. Can’t have that. Told you that up front. So now this thing needs tying off.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Really not going to tell me, are you?”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Even if Truck beats old Swong to death with that sledgehammer? Even then?”

  Lea prayed that was a rhetorical question. At some point, the shotgun had made its way into Claudette’s hands. Underscoring the importance of every choice made, every word uttered from here on out. The only thing she knew for certain—she wasn’t about to let Gibson Vaughn act out whatever morality play he planned on staging.

  “You don’t get it,” Deja told Gibson. “We talking about risk. It ain’t worth the risk to me.”

  “What would be?” Lea said.

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  “What would what be?” Deja asked.

  “What would make it worth the risk?”

  “To leave that guard alone? What you got?”

  “Ten percent of my end.”

  “Ten percent of what end?”

  Lea hesitated, unsure how to answer since she didn’t know how much there actually was to offer. She guessed at a number. “A million.”

  Deja Noble came down the stairs to search Lea’s eyes. “What are you all into?”

  “What do you think the van’s for?” Gibson asked.

  “What’s the job?” Deja clarified.

  “This isn’t an interview. We’re not hiring,” Lea said.

  Deja froze and then burst out laughing. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Listen to this bitch here. Not hiring, she says.”

  “Ten percent.”

  “You pay us a hundred thousand to leave that guard alone?”

  Lea nodded. “As Gibson said, we got away clean. So as long as we don’t raise further suspicion, the guard will delete the pictures once security is back up and running and things get back to normal. But as your partner, I can see your concern and that you are assuming a measure of risk here. I think it’s only fair to compensate you for managing that risk on my behalf. Insurance, if you will.”

  “If I will?” Deja was smiling and shaking her head in amused disbelief. “Getting all MBA up in here. All right, well allow me to counter—we, the undersigned, do accept your offer of one hundred thousand, but not contingent on the success of the heretofore mentioned ‘job.’ You owe now. One hundred thousand, regardless. Do you stipulate?”

  “We go free and the guard doesn’t get hurt?”

  Deja glanced to her brother, who pursed his lips and arched an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I believe that buys you a ticket on my ride.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Margo lived in a thumbprint of a house on the outskirts of Niobe. She hadn’t seemed especially happy to see them, but she agreed to stash the van in her two-port garage, which was almost as large as the house itself. Gibson knew she and Lea had ended their business partnership after the incident at Slaski’s house, but the two women embraced in the driveway, and a relieved Margo slapped Lea’s back before letting her go. Gibson backed the van into the garage. He didn’t expect a hug.

  For the most part, it looked like an ordinary panel van; however, four small antennae arrayed across its roof might draw unwanted attention. Swonger had said he might have a solution and, after measuring the roof of the van, left and hadn’t been back all day. Having them both out of his hair suited Gibson fine; he had work to do, and the showdown with the Nobles had left everyone rattled. The delicate ecosystem of their alliance had taken a serious hit, and some time apart would do them all good. Hopefully when they reconvened, Lea and Swonger would have figured out that last night was a net win. The proof of which was parked right here in Margo’s garage.

  Margo stuck her head in to say she was going to work. She looked around at the mess he was making.

  “Y’all make sure you red up after you’re done.”

  Not knowing what “red up” meant, he gave her a silent okay sign without breaking away from the screen. Margo lingered by the door until he removed his earbuds and looked her way.

  “Was it worth it?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Almost getting killed.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “That you know if it is or not.”

  He shrugged, put in his earbuds, and turned away. He didn’t have time for bartender philosophy. His thoughts were already elsewhere. He got this way when deep in a project, zoning out for eighteen-hour stretches while the real world passed by out of focus. He had never seen a Stingray, and the Virginia State Police hadn’t been considerate enough to leave a user’s manual, so Gibson was learning how it worked by trial and error. Charles Merrick walked out of prison in eleven days, so it needed to be more trial and less error.

  He couldn’t say for certain how long it was before the knocking at the side door made its way down to his conscious brain. He threw open the door with an apology, expecting Swonger. Instead, it was a trim Asian man with a doughy face and short-cropped hair, uniformly black apart from a small, perfect shock-white circle above his temple. He wore blue jeans and wading boots; a frayed fishing vest with a dozen densely packed pockets hung heavily over a green plaid shirt. Gibson recognized him from the hotel. They’d passed in the hall a few times, but the fisherman smiled at Gibson like they were the oldest of friends.

  “Mr. Vaughn,” he said in a clipped, inflectionless cadence. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  Mr. Vaughn, not Mr. Quine. That did not bode well.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “A friend. Perhaps an ally. May I come in?”

  Gibson couldn’t place the accent, but if he had to guess, it would be somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Or maybe midwestern? The man’s accent kept drifting.

  “I’ll come out,” Gibson said, conscious of the half million in stolen equipment behind him.

  The man put a gentle hand on his chest. “Better that I come in. Trust me, I’ve seen a Stingray before.”

  The mention of the Stingray knocked Gibson sideways. This man knew his name and his business here in Niobe. His immediate reaction was fear, anger fast on its heels, panicky questions piling up on his tongue. But he also felt admiration for the man’s ploy—a threat painted as reassurance and framed with a smile. Gibson knew the role he was expected to play here and held his tongue, unwilling to play defensive or nervous. Instead, he stepped aside and invited the fisherman inside.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put out cookies.”

  The fisherman shook his head. “No. You’re overdoing it. Less is more.”

  “Fine, why don’t you just feed me my lines?”

  “May I?” The fisherman indicated the van.

  “Be my guest,” Gibson said with a tired wave of his hand and watched him poke around in the back of the van. The man wasn’t law enforcement; beyond that Gibson had no idea.

  “I admired your work at the police yard. It was well executed.”

  “Are you with Deja?” Gibson asked and regretted it immediately. It was a stupid question that did nothing but give information away cheaply. He’d get none in exchange.

  The fisherman winced in mock sympathy at Gibson’s slip. “I’d like to offer my help.”

  “You want to help me? How?”

  “You have a Stingray—that’s good—but there are more cell phones in Niobe Prison than you’ve been led to believe. Do you know when Charles Merrick uses his? Because otherwise, think about the time and effort it will take to
sort through all the background noise to pinpoint Merrick’s number. A week? Two? Does your schedule have that kind of leeway? Charles Merrick will be released in eleven days.”

  Gibson knew it didn’t and had been fretting over this exact issue. “What are you offering?”

  “The day and time.”

  “Just like that? That’s a generous offer, but I already have a lot of partners. What exactly do you want in return?”

  “Only your success, Mr. Vaughn.”

  “Again, very generous. What’s your interest in all this?”

  “That is between Charles Merrick and myself.”

  Call him a cynic, but Gibson didn’t believe in selfless acts, and he didn’t like not knowing the agenda behind this generosity. What did Merrick have that was more valuable to this man than money?

  “Who are you?” Gibson asked.

  “I’m the gift horse,” the fisherman said. “Let’s leave my mouth out of it, yes?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “And if I say no?”

  Knowing when to expect Merrick’s call would be a huge corner to cut, saving them at least a week. Gibson didn’t trust that this man had a generous bone in his body, and he didn’t like how much the fisherman knew about him or how little he knew about his new patron. It did underscore how unpredictable Niobe had become. They needed to get out of town as soon as possible.

  “You’re not going to say no.”

  Gibson knew that to be true. “When?”

  “How soon will you be operational?”

  “I need a couple of days to really master the software. It’s not overly complex, but I’m not ready to run it in the field yet.”

  “That is unfortunate, because the next opportunity will be tomorrow. After that, Merrick’s schedule is murky.”