Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Gibson pushed through the crowd gathered on Tarte Street to watch their history burn. A few recognized him as an outsider and eyed him accusingly, but none roused themselves from their vigil to confront him. The fire reflected off the river in beautiful golds and reds. From a safe distance, tragedy was life’s most irresistible spectacle.

  Back behind the wheel of the van, Gibson slipped his Phillies cap back onto his head and thought about how to find Swonger in this chaos. Was Swonger even alive? A car horn replied to his rhetorical question, and Gibson glanced in the direction of the gray Scion. Swonger sat in the driver’s seat as if he’d been waiting on him, a sly smile fighting his best efforts to look steely. Gibson shook his head and laughed at the total absurdity of it. Where else would Swonger be but just around the bend, waiting for him? For the first time, Gibson felt happy to see him, and to his surprise, Swonger looked happy to see him too. Gibson grabbed his bag from the back of the van and joined Swonger.

  Before Gibson could ask, Swonger launched into an account of finding Lea in the hotel kitchen, the confrontation with Deja, and escaping the hotel. “Margo took her to a hospital.”

  “Why aren’t you with them?”

  Swonger shrugged bashfully and patted the Scion’s dashboard. “Couldn’t leave my baby behind.”

  “Thank you.”

  Swonger nodded.

  “You think she’ll make it?” Gibson asked.

  “I ain’t no doctor. Surprised as shit she alive when I found her. He shot her in the chest, dog. In the chest.”

  “Who did?”

  “The fisherman.”

  “About him. You remember where his fishing cabin is?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Show me.”

  Swonger started the car and then shut it off again. “You’re not going to start some shit ’cause he shot her, are you?”

  “When did you get so circumspect?”

  “Dog, look at that,” Swonger said, meaning the inferno that had been the Wolstenholme Hotel. “I know you don’t believe in fate or nothing like that, but if ever the universe was trying to tell us something, this is that time.”

  “Yeah? What’s it saying?”

  “It’s saying to get up out of this town. Go meet Margo and check on our girl. We just walked out of that mess, and you want to go start in again with some John Woo fisherman? Universe liable to take that the wrong way.”

  There was truth to what Swonger said. Gibson had pushed his luck every way he could in the last twelve hours, and eventually it would catch up with him. But he also didn’t believe in fate; he believed in the cold mathematics of chance. Throwing heads ten times in a row didn’t change the odds on the next. The last twelve hours didn’t matter, only what came next; and if it had been about anyone but Jenn Charles, Gibson might have agreed. But this was Jenn and George. Even if it was only a 1 percent chance, he knew he would take it.

  “There’s something I have to do first.”

  Swonger started the car again. “All right. I tried.”

  They left Niobe in silence. For the first time since he’d known him, Swonger drove the speed limit. Ten minutes out of town, Gibson felt his phone buzz in his hip pocket. It had a signal; they’d rejoined the twenty-first century. Random news alerts and sports scores began popping up—dispatches from another world, another life. The battery was below 10 percent so he resisted the urge to check his messages in case he got lucky and needed to text Washburn. The Scion stopped along a lightless road. Dawn was still a little ways off yet. Swonger pointed to a dirt turnoff.

  “It’s down there,” Swonger said. “About fifty yards. What’s the plan?”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I need you to leave.”

  Swonger leaned back, dissatisfied. “That ain’t right.”

  “I need you to go home. Make things right for your family. For the Birks.”

  “Thought there weren’t no money.”

  “No, there just wasn’t a billion dollars.”

  “You said—”

  “You never let me finish.”

  “How much?”

  “A million four.”

  Swonger looked to be at a loss for words. Gibson enjoyed the effect.

  “And you’re giving it to me?”

  “I gave it to you yesterday. It’s in the bank account Christopher set up. I tried to tell you, but you were busy shooting at me.”

  “Yeah, about that—”

  “Take care of the judge. Get him in a home. Make him comfortable. Then we’re square.”

  “My word.”

  “Thank you . . . Gavin.”

  “Why you got to be such an asshole?”

  But Swonger was grinning at him. They shook hands. Gibson got out of the car with his bag. Damn, it was dark. On impulse, he took off the baseball cap and handed it to Swonger.

  “Hold on to this for me?” Gibson said.

  “Riding into battle without your crown? Don’t know about that, dog.”

  “I’ll catch up with you after.”

  Swonger held out his gun. “You might need it.”

  “It’s okay. I have my own,” Gibson said and showed him the dead guard’s Glock.

  “Deja’d be proud.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “You sure about this?”

  The question alone caused Gibson’s resolve to waver. Walking into the woods alone, at night, into God knows what, didn’t exactly thrill him. But he needed to know Swonger was safely away. He’d come here for the judge, at what cost, he couldn’t say yet, but he needed to know it hadn’t all been for nothing.

  “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Swonger looked at him funny. “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell Lea I’ll check in on her.”

  “Better had.”

  Gibson watched the Scion until the taillights disappeared around the far bend. Then he picked up his bag and walked into the woods.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Why rent a fishing cabin in the woods and a hotel room in town? That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? At the time, distracted by the hunt for Charles Merrick’s money, Gibson hadn’t given it much thought. But now that he knew the fisherman was a Chinese spy, he was betting that he’d been prepping a safe house. Somewhere to stash Merrick off the grid until transportation out of the country could be arranged. In the darkness, Gibson stumbled over a rut and almost rolled his ankle. Watch where you step, he reminded himself.

  The road crested a gentle rise. Down below in a dirt clearing stood a simple one-story cabin. It looked peaceful in the moonlight. Raised up on stilts, it overlooked a lazy bend of river, and log steps cut into the slope led down to a modest dock. No boat, but beneath the detached carport, Gibson saw an old Nissan Sentra—underwhelming as far as spy-mobiles went, but you couldn’t beat the gas mileage. If it was even the fisherman’s car. The naked bulb above the porch was off, but at the edge of the windows halos of light leaked from behind drawn shades. A shadow passed before the window. Someone was home.

  Gibson knelt beside a stunted, dying sycamore that would never get enough sunlight to compete with the surrounding forest. Normally, he’d spend weeks prepping this kind of hack, but there wasn’t the time. He reached up to adjust the hat that wasn’t there. Instead, he rubbed his forehead and thought through his strategy. He drew the Glock and shoved it into the bottom of his bag under his laptop and among his dirty clothes. Then he walked down the slope to the cabin and up the stairs, and knocked on the front door.

  The truth is your friend; lie as little as possible.

  From inside, he heard a voice tinged with alarm. A second voice, calm and calculating, quieted the first. Gibson stepped back down the stairs, not wanting to crowd the door, and also to give himself running room in the unlikely event that the fisherman decided to shoot him as a precaution. Unlikely, because Gibson represented information, and the fisherman would have que
stions he’d want answered first. The way Gibson had it figured, that bought him maybe ten minutes before the fisherman dumped his body in the river.

  The lights went out inside the cabin and the door opened. The fisherman stood in the doorway, a gun rested at his side. Most likely the gun that had shot Lea, Gibson reminded himself.

  “Mr. Vaughn. You should not have come.”

  “I need your help.” Technically true.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I had my man tail you after our first meeting.”

  “The hillbilly?” The fisherman sounded skeptical.

  “I know, right? Surprisingly handy that way.”

  “Is he here with you now? In the woods with a rifle, perhaps?”

  “I’m alone.”

  “Of course.” The fisherman studied Gibson’s face for clues he might be lying. The dance had begun. Seemingly satisfied, the fisherman stepped back from the door, a welcoming smile on his face. “Come inside.”

  An instruction, not an invitation. More instructions followed—Gibson shut the door and switched on the lights. The fisherman never allowed him closer than ten feet, his gun raised now.

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “In my bag.” Gibson hoped to establish his good intentions with overt cooperation.

  The fisherman patted him down anyway and confiscated his cell phone, the gun pressed firmly to the base of his skull. As Gibson knelt, nose to the door, the fisherman searched his bag for the gun.

  “There is blood on this gun, Mr. Vaughn. Were you on the fifth floor of the hotel earlier this evening?”

  “Yeah, took it off one of the men you killed.”

  “I haven’t killed any men tonight. You have Chelsea Merrick to thank for that.”

  Gibson didn’t believe him but let it pass, wary of being drawn off script. He was a good improviser, but the chances of a miscue increased with each unforeseen topic. His host knew it too and would look to get him talking and keep him talking. Loosening him up until the truth slipped out. This was an interrogation, not a conversation. The fisherman stowed the gun and cell phone in Gibson’s bag and pointed to an old rattan couch for Gibson to sit.

  The small living space looked like it had been decorated by picking one piece of furniture at random from six different houses. Everything was second- or third-hand. A kitchenette the size of an airplane galley took up the far wall. Two closed doors led to bedrooms or bathrooms . . . and his new business associate, Charles Merrick. Between the doors hung a framed needlepoint that read, “Everyone should believe in something; I believe I’ll go fishing. —Henry David Thoreau.”

  The fisherman stowed all of Gibson’s things by the kitchenette and returned with a stool. Adopting a friendly, convivial tone, the fisherman asked him the same questions a second time, probing for inconsistencies. They could have been mistaken for good friends catching up after a hard day, and Gibson admired his host’s illusion of nonchalance. It was false—the gun resting on his thigh attested to that—but it made for good theater. He wouldn’t kill Gibson until certain that this location hadn’t been compromised beyond Gibson and Swonger. So they talked in circles, despite that being the only question that mattered.

  Gibson tried to steer them back to a topic that mattered to him. “Look, I have Charles Merrick’s money.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Did you give my name to the CIA?”

  “Why would I have any cause to speak to the CIA?”

  “Well, someone gave Damon Washburn the impression that I worked for you.”

  “I don’t know a Damon Washburn. In what capacity does he believe you work for me?”

  There it was. If this were poker, the fisherman would have just raised Gibson all in. Gibson now had two options—fold or call. If he called, it meant showing all his cards, and if he did, the fisherman would never willingly let him leave this room alive. Gibson tried and failed to keep his eyes from drifting down to the gun pointed casually at him.

  “Washburn thinks you’re with the Chinese Ministry of State Security. He says Charles Merrick knows the name of a mole in your Politburo. Poisonfeather, I think you call him. That’s why you helped me steal Merrick’s money. So he couldn’t leave the country without your help and would have no choice but to give you the identity of Poisonfeather. Which makes me a traitor. Thank you for that, by the way. You really fooled me with that accent.”

  “We had an arrangement. You’re a very rich man now, thanks to me.”

  “What good is money going to do me? Where can I go that the CIA won’t find me? Washburn accused me of treason. They’re going to hang me.”

  “So what is it you want?”

  “You need to get Merrick out of the country, yeah? That’s the deal, right? You take care of him; he gives you Poisonfeather. I have a plane, fueled and ready to go. Take me with you.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  Gibson did his best to look frustrated and desperate. Not that much of an act, really. “I’ll split the money with you. One point two seven billion dollars,” Gibson enunciated emphatically more for his audience in the back bedroom than for the fisherman. He needed to convince only one of them, and he wasn’t getting anywhere with the fisherman.

  “A very generous offer,” the fisherman said and sat back thoughtfully, pretending to think it over. In fact, he was shifting the gun off his thigh. There’d be no final speeches; the fisherman would put him down with as little fuss as possible. Gibson’s daughter’s face flashed before his eyes. A face he’d been suppressing these last few weeks while he’d been on this fool’s errand. These were the consequences of ignoring his better judgment. How many opportunities had he been given to walk away? How many times had he ignored the warnings?

  One time too many as it turned out.

  A second thought occurred to him, and this one was terrible. That his daughter was better off without him. Because, even now, he didn’t think he’d do it differently if he had it to do over. He’d put the judge ahead of her, then Lea, and now Jenn Charles. Each of those choices felt right to him, even now. Maybe he didn’t possess the bravery to live the quiet life that his daughter deserved. So how would he ever be the stable presence that she needed? He’d been fading from her life for years; better to pull the plug now than this slow dissolution. The fisherman saw it on Gibson’s face—not the details but the awareness—and smiled at him.

  “You can have it all,” Gibson said.

  “I know.”

  The fisherman wasn’t taking the bait, but the same couldn’t be said for Charles Merrick. It saved Gibson’s life, at least in the short term. A crash came from the next room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. The windows in the cabin were narrow; a grown man wouldn’t fit through without smashing out the upper frame. It sounded as if Charles Merrick was having second thoughts about their partnership.

  The fisherman rose with a stark warning. “Move and I will shoot you.”

  At the bedroom door, he glanced back to make sure Gibson had stayed on the couch. His divided focus might have accounted for how much he underestimated Charles Merrick. The fisherman unlocked the bedroom door and hurried across the room toward the broken window. Charles Merrick stepped out from behind the door. He had something large in his hands. It was like watching a movie through a peephole. Gibson saw a red blur. The fisherman cried out and crashed to the floor.

  Gibson scrambled across the room to his bag, unzipped it, and dug through it for his gun. He grabbed something metallic and yanked it out from among his unfolded laundry. Wrong end. He cursed. Two steps to reverse the gun in his hand. At one, a gunshot splintered the wall above his head. Gibson froze. Charles Merrick stood in the doorway with the fisherman’s gun.

  “So you’re the one who stole my money.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  In a predictable turn of events, the cabin didn’t get the best cell service. Gibson’s phone showed only one bar. He thought how funny it would be to die now because
he couldn’t reach Washburn. Merrick held the gun to Gibson’s ribs and watched over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t a trick.

  Sending . . . sending . . . sending.

  Miracle of miracles, the text went through. After a short interval, a reply came back:

  Confirmed. Plane inbound one hour. Thank you for your business, Mr. Vaughn.

  A nice touch. Just the thing to convince Merrick that Gibson’s flight out of the country was real. They took the fisherman’s Sentra, Gibson driving while Merrick kept the Chinese agent’s gun trained on him from the passenger seat. Gibson kept his hands on the wheel and eyes on the road. The way Merrick tapped the trigger restlessly made him wince every time the car hit a bump. At least with the fisherman, if he had been shot, it would’ve been on purpose.

  “I transfer the money back to you and you let me go?” said Gibson, projecting nervousness.

  That was their deal, although Merrick seemed capable of anything at this point. The dried blood caked down the front of his suit made Gibson wonder what had really happened in the presidential suite. The fisherman had claimed that Lea had killed all those people, but Merrick’s clothes told another, grimmer story.

  “Just drive,” Merrick said.

  The car’s clock read 5:56 a.m. when they turned onto the road that led up to Dule Tree Airfield. Somehow they bumped their way up the hill without Merrick accidentally shooting Gibson. Praise be.

  Gibson drove out to the runway and parked. No plane. That fact wasn’t lost on Merrick.