“It’ll be here,” Gibson said.
He hoped that was true.
Merrick ordered him out of the car.
To the east, the sky was rimmed in jaundiced yellows and reds, as if a burner, lit beneath the horizon, were bringing it slowly to a boil. Gibson watched it with a sense of gratitude. He was so close now. One last thing and then home. Improbable as it felt, he’d come through this night whole. He felt both alive and dead—a foot resting in both worlds.
He glanced back to Merrick leaning on the hood of the Nissan, Gibson’s laptop beside him for the mythological transfer of a billion dollars once they were safely in the air and out of the country. Merrick looked gaunt and old. His eyes had the haunted distance of a man sobering up after a historic bender and remembering in painful clarity all his worst excesses. Gibson knew those kinds of memories—the ones that never faded but only became more lurid and disgraceful with each remembering. He consoled himself that the things he’d done had been for good reason; he doubted Merrick knew any such solace.
“One hell of a night,” Gibson said.
Merrick flinched at having his mind read. “This plane—what’s its flight plan?”
“Doesn’t have one.”
“Good. And it’s not owed anything?”
“I paid in full.”
“You mean I paid.”
“I met your son,” Gibson said, thinking of those who had truly paid.
“Martin?”
“You have other bastards?”
Merrick ignored the jab. “How is he?”
“He’s dead.”
Merrick absorbed that information. Gibson couldn’t tell what the father felt about it one way or another.
“Did you kill him?”
No, you did. A part of Gibson wanted to tell Merrick how he found Martin Yardas. How guilt over losing his father’s money had led to drugs, and drugs had led to madness. Or maybe that hadn’t been the order of things at all. In Martin Yardas, Gibson saw a son unmade by his failure to live up to his father’s image. But he knew that was simply the lens he saw the world through. Lea. Swonger. Martin Yardas. These were his people. His kin. Through what lens would Merrick see his son’s suicide? Gibson decided he didn’t want to know.
“Would it matter?”
Against the dawn, they saw the plane descending. Merrick stood up from the hood of the car to watch it take shape. He smiled over at Gibson, and for the only time, Gibson smiled back. They were both relieved to see the plane, albeit for different reasons. The plane touched down at the far end of the runway, braked hard, and taxied toward them. They stood well back as it turned around for takeoff. The engines powered down, and stairs lowered at the front of the aircraft.
Two pilots met them at the bottom of the stairs, each built like a linebacker. Merrick immediately began issuing instructions about their destination. A booming voice interrupted him.
“Hello, Charles.”
The man who called himself Damon Washburn stood at the top of the stairs. A simple bandage had been wrapped around his wounded calf, but he looked like Caesar returning victorious to Rome. Merrick stared up at the CIA man. It took an endless second for him to grasp the situation and go for his gun. One of the pilots seized Merrick by the arms while his partner divested Merrick of the gun. Merrick fought them like an animal, writhing to get free, but it was futile. Gibson took a step back and raised his hands, just to be on the safe side.
Damon came gingerly down the steps, flanked by two more men in combat rigs, compact shotguns slung across their chests. They wore sunglasses even at dawn. Probably wore them to sleep.
Merrick’s face morphed into a relieved smile. “Damon, I’m so glad you’re all right,” he said. “It was a terrible situation at the hotel.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Obviously it was pandemonium. No time for clear thinking. But rest assured, I told that Chinese bastard nothing. Not one word.”
“I believe you.” The man from the CIA took a breath and then, as if reciting a comforting prayer, said, “Charles, didn’t I make it clear to you the consequences of violating our agreement?”
“What are you going to do? Read me my rights now?”
“What rights?”
One of the agents stepped forward and cuffed Merrick’s hands in front of him. The second knelt and shackled his ankles. Merrick watched them do it with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. “This is completely unnecessary. I didn’t tell him anything.”
“And we’re going to keep it that way.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Good-bye, Charles.”
Merrick turned his fury on Gibson, lunging for him. “You. You did this. You stole my money.”
“I left you a penny,” Gibson said. “Wasn’t that enough?”
A black hood came down over Merrick’s head, cinched tight around his neck. He howled as the two agents dragged him to the plane. Damon turned to Gibson and put out his hand.
“The Agency appreciates the assist.”
“We’re square?”
“Still don’t know whose side you’re on, but for now we’re square.”
Gibson shook his hand. “So you have something for me?”
“Jenn Charles and George Abe—”
At the top of stairs, Merrick twisted around and cried, “Gibson Vaughn! It’s Peng Bolin.”
Damon froze. Everything on the tarmac seemed to slow, and it was Gibson’s turn to be confused. He stared up at Merrick, who kept screaming the same name over and over from under his hood: “Peng Bolin! Poisonfeather! It’s Peng Bolin, you son of a bitch!”
Gibson looked at Damon for some kind of explanation. Damon looked back apologetically.
“I really wish he hadn’t done that,” Damon said.
“Done what?”
Damon nodded slightly to his men, who took hold of Gibson’s arms.
“Wait? What are you doing?” Gibson asked, dimly aware of how much he sounded like Merrick.
“I’m sorry,” Damon said as a hood came down over Gibson’s face.
Gibson fought them all the way to the plane; it did him no more good than it had Merrick. On board, they cuffed him and strapped him into a seat. The needle in his arm sent a wave of cold through him. The drug worked quickly, and by the time the plane bumped forward, Gibson had forgotten why he’d been upset. Calm settled over him. A short time later, he felt his ears pop and wondered why.
“Daddy. Will you teach me to keep score?” Ellie held up a scorecard and a stub of a pencil.
Gibson felt so happy to see her that he didn’t stop to wonder how she could be here with him. Nicole must have dropped her off. This was the life, wasn’t it? The game was just starting; the players bounded out of the dugout and took their positions around the diamond. He smiled at his daughter; it looked to be a beautiful day at the ballpark.
Maybe Teddy Roosevelt would even win this time.
Big Jack Ketch parked his truck in front of his office at Dule Tree Airfield. He hadn’t had his coffee yet, and his temples ached from lack of sleep. Nine a.m.—it would be a long-ass day. He’d been at the hospital until an hour ago, waiting for news about his nephew who’d been badly burned fighting the Wolstenholme Hotel fire over in Niobe. His poor sister had about lost her mind. The hotel had burned clean down to the ground, and a lot of strange stories were beginning to emerge over there. Phone lines tampered with. A gun battle that sounded like war had broken out. Dozens of dead bodies, burned beyond recognition. A bartender who worked across the street from the hotel had still been in surgery when Jack left for work. Such a mess. The state police had cordoned off the entire town, and word was that the FBI was on the way. They said so on the radio anyway.
He opened up the office and put some coffee on. While it percolated, he sorted through yesterday’s mail and looked through the airfield logbook. He ought to see about Mo Davis’s Cessna today. That would take a few hours. Maybe this afternoon, once he’d caught a nap.
He
took his coffee and went outside to smoke. His lighter was about empty and kept blowing out in the morning breeze. He glanced out to the runway. Some jackass had parked a green Nissan at the end of the runway. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Probably some fool kids out to get loaded and smash empties on the runway. Wouldn’t be the first time, and it made him mad. Especially after the night he’d had. Or maybe a couple lovebirds doing the dirty.
Either way, they were in for a rude surprise. Jack set off across the field for the runway.
Whoa . . .
There’d been a lot more than one car out here last night; the field had been torn up by tire tracks. By the look of the fence around the hangar, someone had crashed a car into it as well. Looked like someone had hosted a NASCAR derby out here. Pissed Jack off, but on the bright side, it gave him the ammunition he needed to finally convince the owners to install the new gate he’d been lobbying for the last two years.
He felt something crunch under his heels, looked down, and saw something shiny. Brass. His first thought was car keys, but then he saw shell casings. Hundreds of them scattered like confetti after a parade. Someone had decided to use Dule Tree as an impromptu gun range to fire off some toys. In his mind, Jack began to draft a stern letter to the state police . . . until he saw where the earth had been stained red.
What the hell happened here?
He looked at the abandoned car at the foot of the runway and then back toward his office. He saw a man in a fishing vest walking toward the Sentra. The fisherman raised a hand in greeting.
Jack waved back.
He stood there in the grass, waiting for him. By the time he saw the gun, it was too late.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Everything they warn about writing the second book is true.
When you write your first book no one cares. Not cruelly but in the casual way that most people don’t care about other people’s hobbies. In retrospect, disinterest in my writing proved a godsend. When no one cares that you’re writing, then no one cares when you’re finished. It’ll be done when you say it’s done and not before. Then if you’re lucky, as I have been, a publisher says, “That’s great, we’ll publish your book. Now do it all again.” Suddenly there are stakes, expectations, pressure. After writing your first book on your own time, writing the second on a deadline is akin to learning the steps to a familiar dance, only backward . . . and in heels. There’s a great deal of graceless stumbling about accompanied by the absolute certainty that Ginger Rogers is gazing down and having none of it.
The only thing that kept me from tripping and landing square on my back while writing Poisonfeather was the steadying presence of family and friends. I’m grateful for all your encouragement and support; this book would be a shadow of itself without your wisdom, insight, and expertise. My love and thanks to Steve and Marcia Feldhaus, Ali FitzSimmons, Rennie O’Connor, Vanessa Brimner, Eric Schwerin, John and Betty Anne Brennan, Michelle Mutert, Giovanna Baffico, Drew Anderson, Garner Mathiasmeier, David Kongstvedt, Garth Ginsburg, Geoffrey Sparks, Miguel Barrera Prado, Kit Manougian, Daisy Weill, and a small army of Hugheses: David, Doug, Drew, Karen, Nate, Pat, and Tom.
Thank you to my agent, David Hale Smith—half man, half BBQ . . . entirely awesome; to the brilliant Ed Stackler for editing both of my books without once wringing my neck; and to Gracie Doyle, my editor at Thomas & Mercer, who stepped into a new role midway through Poisonfeather and made it her own with tremendous style and aplomb.
Lastly, I am indebted to the entire Field School community—you are a truly remarkable group of individuals.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Serena Kefayeh/Creative-Ideation.com
Matthew FitzSimmons is the author of the bestselling first novel in the Gibson Vaughn series, The Short Drop. Born in Illinois and raised in London, England, he now lives in Washington, DC, where he taught English literature and theater at a private high school for over a decade.
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