“Come with me,” he told Chelsea.
“What about my car?”
“I’ll buy you a dozen.”
At the Escalade, the man held the door for him. It had been a long time since someone held a door for Merrick, and he enjoyed the familiarity of it. The man’s suit jacket fit too snugly across the chest to button because of the Kevlar vest, and through the gap Merrick saw a shoulder holster. He found it reassuring.
Inside the stretch limo’s spacious interior, Damon Ogden was taking in the crowded scene in the parking lot. He began to say something, but the sight of Chelsea caused him to reconsider. Good. Merrick wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. He took his seat beside the brittle, severe woman facing Ogden. He patted her knee.
“Cutting it a little close, weren’t you?”
“Would you rather I left you entirely?” the woman snapped back, removing a pair of oversized sunglasses to study her offended knee as if calculating where to begin the amputation.
“Look who I found,” he said casually, as though they’d all just bumped into each other at Bergdorf’s. As he reached over to help his daughter into her seat, the two women froze—Chelsea balanced, half in, half out of the vehicle, Veronica Merrick staring, mouth agape. A truly priceless moment, and Merrick did not feel one bit bad for savoring it.
“Mother?” Chelsea sounded dumbfounded.
Veronica Merrick slipped her sunglasses back on and adjusted them on her nose with a surgeon’s precision.
“Hello, dear. What have you done to your hair?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The giggling tapered off, but it left Gibson with a bad case of the cold creeps. He would hear that laughter in his nightmares—low, joyless, and lunatic. The creature in the chair stuck out a hand, which opened and shut reflexively like that of an infant demanding something that it didn’t yet have a word for. He wanted the pictures. Gibson handed them over, and the man in the chair clutched them to his chest.
“Stay there,” Gibson said, as much to give himself the illusion of control as for any expectation that the man might obey.
A search of the living room turned up a wallet with seventeen dollars, a credit card, a Manhattan gym membership, and an expired driver’s license that belonged to one Martin Yardas, twenty-six years old, of Montclair, New Jersey. No slip of paper with a username and password, but the picture on the license confirmed the identity of the man in the chair . . . if Gibson squinted and used his imagination. The Martin Yardas who had stood for this picture was a plump, rosy-faced kid. There were two kinds of people in the world: people who smiled in IDs and people who didn’t. Martin Yardas fell into the former category. At least he had six years ago. Contrasted with the gaunt ruin of a man in the chair—face pitted and charred, teeth yellowed like pit stains on an old white T-shirt—the driver’s-license photo and intern photograph formed a cautionary time lapse of the brutal toll that drugs took on the body.
What other story did the pictures tell? Why was Charles Merrick bouncing a two-year-old Marty Yardas on his knee? Did Merrick have a son whom he’d kept off the grid all these years? His ex-wife’s legal team had thoroughly excavated Merrick’s life during the divorce, and she wouldn’t have hesitated to use something this damning had it been discovered. After all, Martin Yardas was roughly the same age as Lea, which meant Merrick had been stepping out while Veronica Merrick was pregnant with his daughter. That took a special sort of person, and Charles Merrick was certainly special.
But it also appeared that Merrick had remained involved in his son’s life . . . to a point. He’d bounced Martin on his knee, at least once, and arranged an internship at Merrick Capital. Would that be enough to manipulate an eighteen-year-old into being his accomplice? Convince a kid to be his lackey while he served an eight-year prison sentence? Gibson knew the answer to that. It was if the son worshipped him. If the son craved his acceptance and respect. A son like that would risk just about anything. And from Charles Merrick’s point of view, it certainly made practical, if cruel, sense—who else would Merrick have entrusted with his money? Who else but a young, estranged son desperate for Daddy’s approval? Gibson glanced at the pitiful remains of Martin Yardas.
Look what loyalty earns you, he thought.
“CharlesMerrick119070&,” whispered Yardas.
Gibson nearly jumped out of his skin. Unwittingly, he’d imagined himself as alone in the room.
“What did you say?”
Yardas repeated the string of characters.
Gibson entered it into the username field and looked expectantly at Yardas. “What’s the password?”
Martin Yardas stared sullenly past him at the monitor; his lips moved silently. Gently, Gibson prodded him for the password, but Yardas said nothing more.
Then why give me the first half? Just to mess with me?
Gibson didn’t think so. Yardas wanted to tell him, but he needed permission.
“I won’t tell him that you told me. I promise. It’ll be our secret.”
“Our secret?” Yardas repeated.
“It’s not his money. You know that.”
Giggles burbled up again from the cracks in Martin Yardas as if Gibson had unwittingly told a profound joke. Gibson saw tears coursing down his cheeks.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Gibson asked. “What’s the password?”
The giggling faded to silence, and Gibson watched Yardas struggle to his feet. The man wasn’t well, but he wasn’t as weak as he looked. He shuffled over to the computer, leaned over Gibson’s shoulder, blocking Gibson’s view, and quickly typed a long string of characters. Yardas hit enter and drew back to show Gibson.
He was laughing and crying again.
It must have been a strange sight: this ragtag motorcade snaking its lazy way through West Virginia. Her father’s rented security at the fore, pursued by God only knew who. If you could call it pursuit. Everyone driving responsibly below the speed limit, obeying all posted traffic signs—not willing to risk police interference. It lent the proceedings an illusion of peacefulness that Lea wanted desperately to believe, but she sat facing backward and in the gathering twilight could see the long line of cars come for revenge. There would be no peace today.
Not all the cars from the prison were behind them now—some had, no doubt, assessed the competition, calculated the long odds, and decided that dead was too high a price to pay for Merrick’s scalp. Part of Lea wished that she’d been one of those, because judging by what she saw out the rear window, more than enough remained to see the job through. Didn’t the hearse lead the way in a funeral procession? That’s what this felt like—Charles Merrick’s funeral. Because whenever they got to where they were going, the cars trailing behind planned on burying him.
Lea sat squeezed in between two men. To her left, a fearsome, heavily bearded white man made all the more intimidating by the military chest rig and combat rifle wedged between his legs. He had the kind of beard that food disappeared into, never to be seen again until the ants retrieved it. The man hadn’t spoken or acknowledged anyone, his attention absorbed by the chatter coming in over his headset. To her right, a pensive black man with a troubled expression fidgeted with a cell phone, checking the time every few seconds. Lea feared he might see the Walther holstered between her legs; she crossed her legs away from him.
Her parents, on the other hand, sat comfortably side by side at the back of the limo and appeared entirely oblivious to the situation. They carried on as though this were Central Park and heavy traffic on the Sixty-Fifth Street Transverse were keeping them from the Metropolitan Opera. Lea squinted into the fading sun and studied the former husband and wife. Charles Merrick certainly didn’t look like a man just out of prison, and eight years had done nothing to dull his shine. The years had been less kind to her mother, and it angered Lea to see her alongside him. She had always been a slight woman, but now she verged on a sinewy, self-inflicted gauntness. Her features had gone from sharp to severe, the tautness of her skin no l
onger a sign of youth but of will. Veronica Merrick had never lacked for that.
Lea also found it disquieting how familiar this all felt: riding in a limo while her parents bickered without ever quite fighting. Separated eight years, they’d resumed the tense cold war that had defined their marriage without missing a beat. It left Lea with a terrible feeling of emotional déjà vu that made it impossible to keep up her ruse that she was the sweet, naïve daughter just happy to be reunited with her father. She felt the pantomimed smile plastered to her face slipping.
“Is she all right?” her father asked her mother.
“She’s upset,” Veronica said.
“Oh, do you think?” Merrick said dryly. “Poor girl is obviously in shock. We should have told her a long time ago.”
“Told me what?” Lea interrupted to no effect.
“You know we couldn’t.”
“Where has she been all this time?” Charles asked.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“Tell me what?” demanded Lea.
She’d have bet money on all four Beatles reuniting before seeing her parents partnered up in any manner. Charles and Veronica Merrick despised each other. That was the bedrock on which Lea had anchored her worldview. The basis for all her decisions. Her parents’ divorce had scorched the earth and laid ruin to any pretense of civility between them. Her father had betrayed his wife, humiliated his family, and left them all destitute. That was indisputable—the reason Lea had come to Niobe. To avenge her mother. To set things right and see her father punished. Yet here they were, discussing her as though she weren’t there. A terrible thought occurred to her.
“Are you two . . . together?”
Her parents stared at her as though she’d just appeared through a wormhole. Her mother’s face crinkled into one of her patronizing smiles that passed for laughter.
“Oh, darling, no. Absolutely not. Your father is still a disgrace.”
“Thank you, Veronica,” Charles said and turned to Lea. “Your mother and I have an arrangement.”
“What arrangement? And who are these men?”
“Oh, where are my manners? This gentleman is a mercenary. I’m not sure of his name. Excuse me.”
The beard looked in Merrick’s direction.
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Smith.”
“His name is Smith,” Merrick said. “He’s part of the detail I’ve contracted to escort us out of the country.”
“You contracted?” Veronica asked, eyebrow arched.
“Well, I am paying, aren’t I?”
Veronica allowed the point to stand.
Merrick gestured to the pensive man with the phone fetish. “And this is Damon Ogden of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
For the first time, the mercenary took an interest in the conversation and looked Ogden up and down.
Damon Ogden glared at Charles Merrick. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”
“What? She’s my daughter.”
“This is, without doubt, the most bizarre family reunion of all time.” Ogden leaned across Lea to speak to Smith. “How much longer to the airfield?”
“Two mikes,” Smith replied.
“What is he doing here?” Lea asked, indicating Ogden.
“Ah, well, Damon is central to our arrangement. He’s sort of an impartial observer . . . in an unofficial capacity. I can’t really say more than that, I’m afraid.”
Lea didn’t understand. “You made a deal with the CIA?”
“It’s complicated.”
“This is why we couldn’t tell her,” Veronica said. “She has no nuance.”
“What does that even mean?” Charles asked.
“Nothing.”
“Thirty seconds,” said the mercenary.
“No. What does that mean?” Merrick continued, undeterred.
The man from the CIA cleared his throat and told them both, in no uncertain terms, to shut the hell up. Under other circumstances, Lea would have savored her parents’ astonishment at being spoken to so rudely, but she was distracted by Smith’s hand sliding nonchalantly down to his rifle’s trigger guard. Such a small thing, but it brought the stakes into focus. Out the window, night had fallen; a wooden sign whipped by announcing “Dule Tree Airfield.” They took the turn hard, limo barely slowing as it left the main road, and then Lea felt the punch of acceleration throwing her forward in her seat. They caromed up the unlit dirt road for a mile or two, climbing the entire time until, finally, the road leveled off and they passed through an open gate and the airfield spread out before them.
It didn’t look like much—the airfield—just an open space on a wide, flat hilltop carved out of the forest. It consisted of a single runway, a clapboard office, and an open hangar where a handful of single props—Pipers and Cessnas—were parked behind a chain-link fence. Lea didn’t see anything that resembled a tower, or a single light on in either of the buildings. Everyone had gone home for the day. The only light she saw came from a pair of aircraft parked side by side at the end of the runway. The limo left the roadway and made a beeline for them. Lea recognized them as Gulfstream G450s, the same model that had once ferried her parents around the world back at the height of their power.
“Why are there two jets?” Lea asked.
“One for each of us,” her mother answered. “Once we’ve conducted our business, of course.”
The limo came to an abrupt stop behind the two jets, and the three SUVs in their little convoy formed a tight semicircle between the limo and the entrance to the airfield. Doors opened in concert, and a small army deployed, fanning out along the defensive perimeter created by the SUVs. Lea watched a two-man team set up a machine gun. This was a war zone . . . or was about to be.
Smith tapped on the window before exiting. “It’s ballistic glass. Doubtful anything will penetrate that, but heads down if it gets loud.”
He slammed the door and hustled over to join his team. Lea found that far less comforting than he’d intended it to be. The four of them sat in silence, staring at each other.
They’d bought themselves a small head start with their high-speed ascent, but now Lea saw one and then multiple sets of headlights crest the rise. The lead vehicle, an SUV, veered off the gravel road and made straight for them, picking up speed as it came. Lea heard several hollow, faraway pops. The windshield of the oncoming SUV turned a mottled white, and she watched it turn drunkenly and slam into the fence surrounding the hangar. The cars that followed took the hint and peeled away, stopping a hundred yards away. More and more vehicles arrived, spreading out across the grassy field. Headlights went off, and Lea saw a bustle of activity outside the cars, but no more shots were fired, at least for now.
The limo door opened again. Bo Huntley joined them. He handed a camouflage-green laptop to Merrick. Its hardened case looked like it could survive a five-story fall without a scratch.
“All right, sir, just need to transact a little business, and we can have you on your way. Do you have a destination in mind?”
“I’ll tell the pilot when we’re in the air.”
“Copy that. Your wife has our routing numbers.”
“She’s not my wife.”
“Thank the lord.” Veronica unfolded a crisp sheet of paper and cleared her throat, ready to read the numbers to him.
“I’m not getting a signal,” Ogden said, holding up his cell phone.
“Not an issue. The limo has a satellite hookup,” Huntley said. “So . . . CIA, huh?” Word had traveled fast.
Ogden sent a glare in Merrick’s direction. For his part, Merrick glanced over the top of the laptop at Lea and smiled reassuringly at her. Lea somehow managed to return it. Ironically, she appeared to have won over her father with ease—it was almost insulting—but to see him sitting beside her mother now made her question what she thought she meant to accomplish. Had her parents conspired since the very beginning? If so, then she’d been played
right along with the rest of the world. But what else could their “arrangement” be? She wanted to scream.
It might not be nuanced, but she would have some answers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
1,490,201.12.
Million, not billion.
It lacked a very significant zero. Gibson stared at the figure, trying to understand. It might be more money than he’d ever had at one time, but it was pocket change to someone like Charles Merrick and certainly not start-a-new-life money. This couldn’t possibly be all of it.
“Are there any other accounts?” Gibson asked Yardas, who only shook his head. “So where was the rest of the money? There’s supposed to be a billion dollars here.”
Lea’s math had been correct; Gibson had doubled-checked it himself. He tabbed through the account’s activity log, looking for signs of recent transfers. Nothing. No funds had moved in or out of this account in eight years. And what’s more, the account was liquid and had been dormant for eighteen months. So what did those fifty-six text messages mean? Gibson stared at the screen, trying to make sense of what he read.
“Where were all Merrick’s trades, Martin?”
Martin didn’t answer.
Don’t get greedy, he cautioned himself. With Merrick free, Gibson didn’t have the luxury of solving the mystery of the missing billion. A million and a half dollars, while not as much as he’d hoped, was still enough to give the Birks and the Swongers the fresh start they deserved. Enough to improve the judge’s quality of life. It was enough. So don’t get greedy. He had come too far to leave empty-handed. Gibson keyed in the transfer and entered the routing number to Birk’s account in the Caymans. His finger hovered over the enter key, stopped, and changed the amount before executing the transfer—it felt right to leave Charles Merrick a little something.
As Gibson transferred the funds, it didn’t occur to him to wonder why Yardas had fallen silent. Gibson was preoccupied, wondering if maybe there was something that he’d missed. He reached for the keyboard again as a thunderclap struck. The monitor exploded, flipping off the desk like a popcorn kernel. Gibson stared stupidly at the shattered monitor, ears ringing. The thunder came again. This time two bullets slammed into the computer’s minitower, and Gibson, with primitive understanding, threw himself to the floor.
Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2) Page 26