In a moment of perfect metaphor, the Stingray alarm sounded as he pulled up to the crossroads of a small town with a McDonald’s and a service station at its center. Gibson craned back in his seat to stare at it with the look of a man who flies halfway around the world only to bump into the guy who terrorized him in elementary school.
“No . . . ,” Gibson said. “Way.”
Then he did a happy dance in his seat that resembled an upright seizure more than anything and punched the steering wheel in celebration. The car behind him interrupted, honking for him to get a move on. Gibson made a right, pulled into the service station, and heard the signal diminish in intensity. Good—the four antennae spread across the roof of the van were already doing their jobs, triangulating the signal and pinpointing its direction. The alarm was telling him this wasn’t it, which left two possibilities. He scrambled back to the laptop in its dock, his exhaustion forgotten in an adrenaline surge, and scrolled through the data.
There was the phone number, pinging away.
The Stingray led him out of town, such as it was, down a long featureless road. He followed it for a mile until the signal began to weaken, then doubled back and crawled along the side of the road with his hazards on, listening to the tone of the alarm and looking for a turnoff that he might have missed. There wasn’t one; he saw only solid woodland in both directions. But the signal was definitely coming from the east. He consulted his map and found a road that ran perpendicular to the one he was on. He went to the crossroad and took a right.
The signal was stronger now, and the Stingray chirped away happily. The homes here all had a healthy footprint, with driveways spaced out every hundred yards or so. He pulled up at a plain white ranch-style home. A unmowed lawn, but otherwise it looked unremarkable. He checked the laptop. No mistake. The cell phone was inside.
Gibson stared at the house, trying to decide what to do now. He’d been so focused on finding the house that he hadn’t considered what to do if he actually did. Nothing wrong with the direct approach, he reckoned, so he went to the door and knocked. He waited and then knocked harder. He rang the bell. Finally, he went back down the walk and made his way around the side of the house, checking the windows, which all had the shades drawn. Around back, he came upon an elevated deck. At the foot of the stairs, a dead bird lay peacefully in the tall grass. He stepped over it and went up slowly, pausing by a rusted grill to look for movement through the sliding glass door. Nothing. The only other furniture on the deck was an old aluminum chaise longue with green-and-white webbing. A metal bucket that might once have held a citronella candle was now an overflow of crushed-out cigarettes. Mixed with rainwater, over time the butts had stained the deck a soggy yellow. Empty beer and liquor bottles lay nearby where they’d been discarded.
Cupping his hands to the glass, Gibson peered into the dark house. The room was a combination kitchen and living area, divided by a kitchen island. In one corner sat a desk and an office chair with a computer and precarious stacks of papers. In the center of the room stood a wide leather armchair, and in the chair, a pasty white man in boxer shorts stared blankly at an enormous flat-screen television. The television was off. The man was emaciated, bones propping up his skin like an abandoned circus tent. Gibson rapped on the glass to get the man’s attention but saw no movement apart from a slow, steady blinking.
Gibson tested the door, found it unlocked, and slid it open. A rancid, flatulent smell stung his eyes. He asked if he could come in but got no answer. He weighed his options. Everything about the man unnerved him, far more than if it had been some burly thug with gun. He felt a superstitious tickle at the back of his neck, as if he were trespassing in a graveyard. But he’d come a long way for this, and he commanded himself to get it together.
“I’m going to come in,” he announced and stepped across the threshold. Still no response. If the man in the chair had a gun, Gibson would be a dead burglar. It wouldn’t take a jury an hour to exonerate his killer. He left the door open for ventilation and as a potential escape route.
“So how are we doing today?” he asked, not expecting an answer but needing to fill the vacuum.
He worked his way slowly around the perimeter of the room, giving the man in the chair a wide berth. Despite the smell, the place was remarkably tidy. Not clean—a layer of dust and grime coated every surface—but tidy. More than tidy, it was bare essentials and no more. Nothing hung on the walls. No plants, no decorations or personal touches anywhere. It reminded Gibson of his own apartment. A depressing thought. In the kitchen, he found the source of the smell—a half-dozen trash bags, full to spilling over, sat propped against a wall in a row. The man had taken the time to empty his trash but not to walk the trash out to the curb for pickup. A stalagmite of empty pizza boxes suggested it had been some time since he’d ventured outdoors at all. Gibson checked the chair again, but the man remained statue still.
What little Gibson knew about drugs, he knew from the movies and a guy in his unit who’d been court-martialed for a heroin addiction, but the kitchen counter looked like Amsterdam at Christmas. In the center stood an ornate green bong. Arrayed around it, like presents for all the good little addicts, were little Baggies of pills, powders, and crystals. A glass pipe with a bulb blackened from use listed on its side. Razor blades, matches, a crooked spoon—the man hadn’t missed a trick.
At the desk, Gibson tapped the space bar, and the monitor flickered to life. Amazingly, there was no password prompt, and it took him to a portal page for a brokerage account on the Bursa Malaysia—the Malaysian stock market. Lea had been right on the nose. The barbarians are at your gate, Charles. Gibson tapped the space bar again idly while he stared at the blinking cursor prompting him for the username and password for the brokerage account. It wouldn’t be stored on the machine locally, so he couldn’t change it the way he’d changed the password at the Virginia State motor pool. There wasn’t anything remotely like enough time to hack the Malaysian brokerage, so if he couldn’t find it written down somewhere, that whittled his options down to one: pry it out of the man in the chair. But how was he going to manage that? He’d never social-engineered a zombie before. Instead, he started with a quick search of the desk—under the keyboard and through all the drawers—in case it was taped somewhere helpfully. The hacking equivalent of flipping down a car’s visor and having the keys drop into your hand. Wishful thinking, but of course it wouldn’t be that easy. He set about a more thorough search of the desk.
The desk was a treasure trove of junk and meaningless papers, no semblance of order. Behind the monitor, Gibson found two picture frames facedown on the desk. Based on the archaeological quantity of dust, they’d been back there for some time. Gibson lifted each up to the light. The first was a picture of a younger Charles Merrick sitting on a sofa, a small boy balanced on his knee. The boy looked determined to squirm free, but Merrick had a firm grip on him. Only Merrick’s mouth smiled; the rest of him looked prepared to flee. The second photo showed five young white teenage boys in suits and confident smiles posed in front of the Merrick Capital logo. One of them held a placard that read, “Summer Intern Team.”
They were the only personal artifacts in plain sight, so Gibson flipped them over and removed the pictures from the frames to check the backs. The intern photo was blank, but on the back of the other, written in a woman’s hand, was “Marty and Charles—2nd Birthday.” He’d hoped for a password, but this piqued his interest. Gibson looked over at the man in the chair. His head still faced straight ahead, but the man’s eyes were on Gibson now. Pupils dilated so wide it looked like an eclipse had moved permanently across the iris; the broken whites of his eyes stained red. Gibson thought it might be him. The second intern from the right in the other picture. It might be the man in the chair, but it was hard to say for certain.
“Are these supposed to be you?” Gibson asked, holding up the pictures.
The man’s head canted in Gibson’s direction. As if there’d been a delayed reaction
, and it was only now getting its marching order from his eyes. His head wobbled slightly on its stalk as he looked at the pictures and began, softly, to giggle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lea watched yet another car pull into the visitors’ parking lot outside the prison. She sank a little lower in her seat; there had to be at least thirty now. The parking lot was already full, and like the other late arrivals, the car circled the turnaround outside the prison gates and pulled over along the road leading to and from the prison. The crowd reminded her of the press and protestors that had clamored outside her father’s trial, but these people weren’t here for sound bites or a good cause.
It was strange, but in all the time she’d been planning on taking down her father, she’d never once felt so much as a twinge of sympathy for him. Now, though, she felt strangely protective. It was like insults and families. Family members could say what they wanted, but watch your mouth otherwise. So she felt a little conflicted at these strangers jostling for position to be the ones who would take Charles Merrick when he walked through those gates. Which should have been some time ago . . . she checked the time again. It was already five p.m. Maybe he had seen what was waiting for him beyond the gates and opted for another eight years instead. It would be his first smart move in a decade.
What about her? Did she have a smart move in her? Was she smart enough to throw in the towel and get out while there was still time? She started her car, changed her mind, and threw the key up on the dashboard. Who was she kidding? Gibson would have something smart to say right about now. It felt comforting to imagine him roaming around West Virginia in that van. And what about Gavin? She hoped he’d gotten far, far from here. Not that she believed it. Gavin was like her. Now that he had his teeth into this thing, he’d hang on until it broke his neck.
Lea felt a change in the atmosphere of the parking lot like a storm coming in. The parking lot had gone absolutely still, every head turned as one toward the front gate. There stood Charles Merrick, one foot in and one foot out of the prison. Even at this distance, she could see his fear. The desire to protect him leapt in her again. No, she thought. That man doesn’t deserve your pity. She dredged up the memories that always worked to stoke her bitterness and used them to fight back any instinct toward charity.
Her legs wobbled when she stepped out of the car. She could feel predatory eyes on her. Wondering at this woman in the formal yellow dress. Was this how Little Red Riding Hood felt when she stepped off the path? She forced herself to take a step toward him, then another, and another. By the time she’d crossed the parking lot, she was smiling. You’re happy, she reminded herself. So happy to see him.
Make him believe.
From the windows of the prison chapel, one could look out over the front gates and down the road that led away to the real world. Charles Merrick had owned homes in the most beautiful cities on earth, with views worth millions, but none stirred him as did the view from the chapel. In truth, it was an ugly, lonesome road, but he loved it, loved it enough to endure the daily services for the chance for five minutes at the window, daydreaming about the moment he walked free. In eight years gazing out the window, he’d seen maybe a handful of cars. Even on the holidays that drew more families, the modest visitors’ parking lot was never more than half-full.
Well, it was full today.
Up until the moment Charles Merrick stepped through the small door at the gates, he’d held to the belief that all the fuss about his interview was nothing but mountains from molehills. But the scene that greeted him outside Niobe Federal Prison lent him some sorely needed clarity. Merrick had never seen anything like it. Vehicles lined the circular turnaround in front of the prison. He searched them for a friendly face, but every set of eyes he met burned cold and hungry. Where was his transportation? Where was Damon Ogden?
“Friends of yours?” the guard asked.
From the roadway, a horn sounded, and Merrick flinched.
The guard smirked at him. “Guess not.”
“I don’t want to be a burden, but would it be permissible to wait just inside? Just for a few minutes?”
“Permissible? Jesus. No, it would not be permissible. Only guards and inmates beyond this point, and you, Sunny Jim, are a free man.”
“I . . . I want to visit a friend.”
“Nice try. Visiting hours are over.”
“Please. Just five minutes.”
“Well, ain’t you a greedy one? We gave you eight good years, but that’s not enough for you. But there’s no pleasing some people.”
“Call the police,” Merrick said and held out the twenty he’d only just been given.
“Call them yourself.”
Merrick contemplated punching the guard. Not in anger but because they would have to take him back inside the prison. As little as the idea appealed, he feared the parking lot far more. The guard swung shut the door before he could make a fist, and he listened to the guard’s muffled laughter through the gate, took a deep breath, and turned to face the road. Some men had left their vehicles and were leaning against them, watching him patiently. He didn’t know them, but they knew him. It reminded him of a nature documentary about seals trapped onshore, returning to the ocean despite the sharks that circled just beyond the breakers. Merrick marveled at the instincts it took to take that chance. Were they too stupid to know better? Or was it simple necessity that gave them the bravery to swim that gauntlet of blood and death to reach open waters?
Well, he wasn’t an animal. He didn’t have to make a run for it. He would just stay here by the gate. It was safe here; the guards couldn’t make him leave. He’d sleep here if necessary. Those men in their cars weren’t brazen enough to take him in full view of the prison. But what if the guards had been bought off? Merrick knew exactly how easy that was. Making a break for it might be his best option. He judged the tree line to be fifty yards away. Suddenly his suit became a liability, and he wished for a solid pair of running shoes. Even if he did make it that far, these men would run him down in the discreet shadows of the forest.
“Dad?”
Merrick spun in the direction of the voice and watched his daughter walk from the parking lot toward him. She wore a bright-yellow dress like something out of a dream.
“Chelsea?”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Why are you here?”
“To see you. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Merrick tried and failed to make sense of it. He hadn’t seen his daughter since before the trial. She’d taken his arrest . . . badly. Unforgivable things had been said. And after, when prison had given him time to regret his words, either no one knew, or no one would tell him where she’d gone. He blamed his ex-wife for poisoning her against him, although Veronica claimed not to know where their daughter was either—as if he’d believe her. It had always been his intention to spare no expense to find his daughter and to send for her. But only once he was safely out of harm’s way. Not now.
“I brought your watch.”
She held out his Vacheron Constantin Tour de I’lle; it felt surreal to see the watch sparkle in the sunlight, since he’d only just been reminiscing about it.
“How?”
“I didn’t want the government to take it, so I hid it.”
“All this time?”
“Of course. For you.”
He put on the watch: even more beautiful than he remembered. Just like his daughter, who had grown into a stunning woman, made more so against the ugliness of the day. She tried to embrace him, but he took a step backward.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered.
“Dad?”
“They’ll know. If they realize you’re my daughter . . .”
Her eyes widened. “Why do these people want to hurt you?”
“Because of—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, cutting him off. “I have a car. In the parking lot. We can go anywhere.”
She took his hand as if to lead him away. His l
ittle girl wanted to save him. He beamed down at her and briefly considered it—whether her presence would shield him from what was waiting. He knew it wouldn’t. These animals wanted what was his, and he shuddered to think what they would do to take it. He should send Chelsea away now, before they got tired of waiting. Before they saw her as a weakness to exploit. But he was afraid to let her go, to be alone here. And it wouldn’t make any difference. His little girl wouldn’t leave him no matter what he said. She loved him too much to abandon him again. They’d face it together as a family.
A vehicle crested the far end of the road and came up fast on the prison. As it neared, Merrick realized that it was in fact four separate vehicles driving in tight formation. He felt a burst of relief. It was going to be all right. He was safe. The SUVs roared recklessly into the turnaround, circled, and pulled crisply to halt in front of him, blocking the entrance to the prison. A door in the lead SUV opened, and a stout, professionally dangerous man in a suit stepped out. He approached Merrick.
“What’s playing today?” Merrick asked.
“Wall Street,” the man replied and shook Merrick’s hand. “I’m Bo Huntley, Mr. Merrick. We’re here to escort you out of here.”
“How do we look?”
“Well, there’s a lot more traffic here than we’d anticipated, but we’ll be fine.”
“She’s coming with me.”
“Sir, she’s not part of the contract.”
“Then amend the contract. I’ll pay.”
“Yes, sir. Let’s get you squared away and be on our way,” he said and ushered Merrick and Chelsea toward the third vehicle, a stretch Escalade.
Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2) Page 25