Burning Bright

by Nick Petrie

  Behind Dawes, a boxy black Mercedes SUV turned off the road and rolled down the ramp to the parking lot.

  Dawes kept his eyes on Peter’s face. “This isn’t the kiddie pool. You are in deep fucking water with some very big fish and you have no fucking clue what’s going on.”

  The Mercedes SUV came to an abrupt stop behind him. The driver’s door opened and a very big man slid out and planted his feet on the asphalt before the Mercedes stopped rocking.

  Peter registered the tiny eyes in the craggy stubbled head, the gray T-shirt and black tactical pants, and the empty black nylon shoulder holster. But his focus was on the big automatic in the man’s enormous fist, pointed directly at Peter’s center of mass.

  Chip’s smile spread farther, and Peter was reminded of a reptile unhinging its jaw to swallow its meal whole. “Please,” he said. “Get in the truck. You’ll be my guest. We have so much to talk about.”

  Then Lewis came around the boxy back of the SUV and slammed the butt of the assault rifle into the bodyguard’s temple.

  The big man dropped like his strings had been cut.

  Lewis kicked the pistol out of the bodyguard’s hand and reversed the rifle to cover Peter, not even breathing hard. “This a little awkward,” he said to Dawes, his voice pleasant. “Your man not so big on the ground.”

  Dawes held himself still, but the smile remained. The Mercedes growled in the background as he locked his eyes on Peter’s face. The guy was for real. Most people would be focused on the guns.

  “Your name is Peter Ash,” said Dawes. “Formerly a lieutenant in the U.S. Marines. Served with apparent distinction, even awarded a Silver Star. But after eight years you were still a lieutenant, which seems to me to be a difficult trick to do. Some sort of irregularity in your record. I haven’t located the details quite yet.”

  Peter stared at him, for a moment wondering how the man knew who he was. Then he remembered the Web-connected nanny cam, staring right at him as he lifted it down from the top of the master sergeant’s kitchen cabinet. Facial recognition. Chip was an intelligence officer, after all. Information and its manipulation were his livelihood. No doubt he still had active sources in the CIA.

  “I know you, too,” said Peter. “I know your home address on Mercer Island. You tried to kill a friend of mine. Now is the time to convince me not to kill you.”

  “Okay,” said Chip. “How’s this for an argument? Betzold Road. Bayfield, Wisconsin.”

  Peter felt it like a sledgehammer to the chest. His parents’ house.

  Dawes’s voice was soft. Playful.

  “That’s where you grew up, I believe? Where your parents still live now? Your father runs a building business with your uncle, and your mother teaches art at some podunk local college. Your aunt is a musician on the snowmobile circuit. So quaint. How is their health, by the way?”

  Peter moved in fast and put the gun to Chip’s forehead, pressing hard. Chip set his feet, leaned into the barrel, and kept talking.

  “I’m not the only one who has this information,” Chip said calmly. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “I’d advise you to back off. At this moment, this can still go a few different ways. If I’m dead, there’s only one way.”

  Peter took a deep breath and pushed down the anger, at the same time admiring the stones of the guy. A gun to his face and he thinks he’s still in charge.

  Maybe he was.

  Peter shuffled back two steps and lowered the Glock. An angry red circle on Chip’s forehead marked where the gun barrel had pressed into his skin. “What do you want?”

  Chip’s smile widened like he could eat the world. “Only what I deserve,” he said. “You choose the delivery system. The software or the girl who controls it. I’m thinking the best outcome for you personally would be her computer and access codes. My people will do the rest. By five o’clock today.”

  Peter said, “What’s in it for me?”

  “Aside from healthy parents?” Chip raised his finger in a playful scolding gesture. “Don’t be greedy, Peter. You’ve inserted yourself into my business far too much already.”

  Peter sighed and let his eyes slip away. “I need another day,” he said. “It’s more complicated than you think.”

  “This afternoon,” said Chip. “Five p.m. The girl or the algorithm.”

  “What’s your guarantee?”

  Chip opened his empty hand in a graceful gesture. “Once that software is in my possession, you have my word. Your parents, your aunt and uncle, your childhood home, all will continue happily as it did before.”

  His word, Peter knew, was worth exactly nothing.

  The bodyguard stirred. Lewis kicked him in the stomach, and the big man curled abruptly into a ball. The risks of being an asshole’s bodyguard.

  Chip looked at Lewis. “You, I don’t know,” he said. “But I will. I have a very good memory for faces.”

  Lewis stared back at Dawes, rifle held ready, face utterly devoid of expression.

  Peter had felt that implacable gaze before. It had weight and substance, like the hot desert wind before a killing sandstorm. It was a good look.

  Lewis’s voice was pleasant. “Won’t have much memory with a bullet through your brain.”

  Chip didn’t flinch, but it cost him some effort. He looked back at Peter. “Put your dog on a leash.” Then stepped over his injured man and slid into the driver’s seat of the big Mercedes. “Call my office at four-thirty. I’ll tell you where to meet.”

  The door closed behind him with an impressive solidity. Peter watched as Chip drove off.

  “Should have killed him,” said Lewis.

  “That’s your answer to everything,” said Peter.

  “Not everything,” said Lewis. “But shit, him?”

  Peter put his arm up and waved. The Escalade came up fast, June’s window down.

  “That was my dad,” she said. “On the dock? In the plane? That was my dad.”

  “I know,” said Peter. “We’ll talk about it.”

  Lewis pointed his rifle at the bodyguard, red-faced and bleeding on the ground. “What about him? Not much of a severance package. Or you suppose this an independent contractor?”

  Peter walked around to the passenger door. “Leave him. I need to make a phone call.”

  Lewis shook his head. “I’d say you getting soft, but I know better. I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Peter looked at him across the hood of the silver Escalade. “Me too.”

  Lewis picked up the man’s big black Colt 1911 and held it casually in one hand, looking down at the bodyguard as he struggled to sit up. “You home free today,” he said. “Take that as a gift. Find a new employer. I see you again, I’m gonna assume you got bad intentions. We clear?”

  “Yeah,” the big man said thickly, not looking at Lewis. “We’re clear.”

  Lewis tucked the pistol into his coat pocket, then climbed into the Escalade and June drove them out of there.

  • • •

  AS SHE ROCKETED toward the south end of Lake Union, Peter pulled out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. On the other end, it rang and rang, until, finally, someone answered in a raspy voice. “Stan’s Backwoods Bar and Grill, you kill ’em, we grill ’em.”

  “Dad, it’s Peter.”

  “Holy shit! The prodigal son lives! Your mother was a little worried, you weren’t returning her calls.”

  This was vintage Stanley Ash. A profane enthusiasm combined with a gentle reminder about good behavior.

  “A bear ate my phone, Pops. But that’s not why I’m calling.” He could hear the murmur of the Internet radio Peter had bought him in the background, probably playing some NPR podcast. His dad had a longstanding crush on Terry Gross. “You’re in the shop, right?”

  “Yessir, I am. Gluing up some cherry for a dining
room table.”

  Peter felt a surge of affection. He could picture his dad standing by the big worktable, glue on his fingers, sawdust on the sleeves of his old Pendleton shirt, scrap lumber popping in the woodstove. He could almost smell the blue enamel coffeepot perking away. His dad drank roughly a thousand cups of coffee per day.

  “Listen,” said Peter, “if your hands are free, do me a favor. Go to the shelves over the radial arm saw. On the top shelf, you’ll find a metal box.”

  “Ha! I thought that was yours. Found it in January when I got stir-crazy and spent a few days cleaning. Not a great place to put your life savings, son.”

  Peter hadn’t exactly told his parents everything.

  “Dad, you and Mom are going on a trip, and you’re taking Uncle Jerry and Aunt Max. At least two weeks, leaving today. Take a month if you want. There’s a credit card in that envelope. It has your name on it but the bills go to me. It has a fifty-thousand-dollar limit, so spend as much as you want. Where have you always wanted to go?”

  His father’s voice was kind. “Son, we can’t just pick up and leave. We have obligations. The Jarretts want their dining room table. Your mom has students. And I’m not spending your hard-earned money.”

  “Dad, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m in the middle of something. I agreed to protect a friend, and now some bad people have threatened my family if I don’t back off. They know the address of the house. So make whatever excuses you need to make, but you’re going. And don’t use your own credit cards, because they’ll be able to track them.”

  In his father’s silence, Peter could hear the man’s attention sharpen as he made his calculations.

  Stanley Ash was fifty-seven. He’d trained as a mechanical engineer at Northwestern, but in the late 1970s he decided he wanted to work for himself and left Chicago to start a carpentry business with his brother. He still swung a hammer most days, unless he was kayaking or ice fishing with his buddies or hiking in the Porcupines with Peter’s mom.

  Peter knew he was thinking now about the steps he would take to protect his home. His dad got his deer every year, and usually a few on his buddies’ licenses, too. He still kept a shotgun by the kitchen door.

  “Dad, these are professional killers, believe me. Staying is not an option. You know Mom’s always wanted to see Italy. You don’t even need to pack. Just buy what you need when you get there.”

  “Son, I never want to pry. But you need to tell me more. For starters, how can you afford this?”

  “I’ll explain when you get back, okay? I promise. But spend what you need to spend. Buy yourself a new suit, on me.” Peter put on his Marine lieutenant command voice. “Now get on the phone and buy some goddamn plane tickets. Do you understand?”

  His dad sighed. “Fuck a duck. Okay, son. But you owe me a serious conversation.”

  “Agreed. Dad, I’m sorry about this. I love you.”

  “Back atcha, kiddo.”

  When Peter hung up, June looked at him. “He threatened your parents?”

  Peter showed his teeth. “Yeah.”

  Lewis spoke up from the back seat. “I believe that a tactical error on his part.”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  They were in a newer neighborhood of mid-rise office buildings and condos. June turned left onto a busy street that rose toward a bridge over the freeway, her hands tight on the wheel. “We need to talk about the Yeti. What was he doing there?”

  Peter put his hand on her shoulder. “We’re gonna find out.”

  From the back seat, Lewis said, “Who the fuck is the Yeti?”

  44

  This is why you were asking me about my dad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Peter.

  June was driving very fast up the bridge through heavy traffic. She was used to a smaller car and Peter was pretty sure she’d start chunking off side mirrors any minute now. In her current state of mind, he figured side mirrors were best-case. “Slow down, would you?”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she said. Her voice was loud.

  There was no good response to that. He figured she was headed to her apartment, which would have felt like a safe place. It probably wasn’t a good idea, but now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

  “How did you know my dad was involved?”

  “I didn’t,” said Peter. “But I figured the cops thought your mom was killed in a hit-and-run, so they were probably calling insurance companies and looking at body shops. If they’d known she was murdered, the first thing they’d do is look at friends and family. So I asked Lewis to do that. He found out about the restraining order on your dad.”

  “You were investigating my mom?” She stomped the brake behind a slow Prius, then swerved across the yellow line to pass. A beer truck came at them, eating the whole lane. The driver hit his air horn and Peter grabbed the dashboard as June ground her teeth and ducked back to her lane.

  “Not investigating,” he said. “Getting more information. Doing my job. Protecting you.”

  “Fuck!” She slammed her hands into the steering wheel.

  “June.” Peter kept his voice calm. “I know this is hard. But we need to know more about your dad. What else do you know that you haven’t told me?”

  “I don’t know anything,” she said. “I tried to forget all about him.”

  “Try to remember,” said Peter. “Anything will help.”

  “You guys see that?” asked Lewis from the back seat.

  They all saw it, a plume of smoke coming from just beyond the crest of Capitol Hill, getting bigger with each block.

  “Oh, no.” June slipped the Escalade onto a side street, finding as always the fastest way through the dense traffic. At every turn, Peter kept an eye on the smoke, hoping their path would take them away from it eventually. But for every left that pointed them away from the smoke, there was another right that pointed them toward it. As the plume grew larger in the windshield, there was little point in pretending it was coming from someplace other than her apartment.

  It would have been impossible to keep her away, so he didn’t try.

  Half of June’s block was filled with fire trucks and police cars keeping a perimeter. She pulled the Escalade into a random driveway and opened her door to get out. Peter put his hand on her arm. “Stay in the car,” he said. “They’re still here. This was no accident. Dawes isn’t waiting for our next move, he’s still looking for us. For you.”

  She shook off his hand. “I have to see it,” she said. “It’s my home. Anyway, they won’t do anything here, not with all these people.”

  “They got into your mom’s lab in Stanford,” said Peter. “They put you into their car on a busy street. These people do whatever they want.”

  June hopped out, but left the Escalade running. “I’ll just walk past,” she said. “I won’t stop. But I’m going.”

  Peter scrambled out to follow her. “Lewis, can you pick us up on the other side? Maybe they won’t be expecting that.”

  “Done,” Lewis said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Look for me on the next block.”

  They walked down the opposite sidewalk, through knots of spectators and policemen watching the firefighters continue to spray water on the smoking remains.

  Leo Boyle’s empty shell of a house had become a wet pile of charcoal and ash settled into the heat-cracked foundation. Only the smoke-stained chimney still stood, towering improbably over the ruin. All that ancient bare wood, dry as bone, coated in fresh paint, just waiting for a match.

  June’s garage apartment behind it was nothing but a smudge on the concrete slab.

  Peter allowed himself only a moment to look at the house. The rest of the time, he had his head on a swivel, looking for anyone who didn’t belong. June tried to stop, but he put his hand on her elbow and said into her ear, “Get a good look, but keep walking. Lewis w
ill be waiting for us.”

  “Fuck them,” she said, her face dark. “That was my home.”

  But she kept walking.

  Three houses past the police perimeter, a familiar scraped-up BMW was angled into a parking spot. It faced the wrong direction, with two wheels on the curb. One corner of the front fender was newly crumpled into the trunk of a big maple. Four tickets were stacked under the wiper. The house wasn’t the only thing ruined.

  “Wait,” Peter said, and nudged June’s elbow.

  June saw the car. “Fucking Leo,” she said, and stalked forward. Boyle was curled up in the back seat with his jacket as a pillow and his hands tucked between his thighs like an oversized five-year-old. Across the floor lay a scattered mess of translucent lollipop wrappers.

  June yanked open the door. “Leo.” She thumped him in the chest with the butt of her fist. “Leo. Wake the fuck up.”

  Boyle blinked myopically up at her. “June? What are you doing here?” His lips moved in a tentative smile.

  “Who are you working for? Why did you pick me?”

  The smile fell away and he looked like a rat in a trap. “What? June, what are you talking about?”

  “Let me help.” Peter stepped past her and grabbed Leo by the front of his shirt and dragged him mewling out of his car and onto the wet grass behind a row of evergreen shrubs, out of sight of the police. He was heavy and soft like an animal bred for slaughter. Peter’s ribs gave a twang with the effort.

  “Who do you work for, Leo?”

  Boyle was scared and breathing hard. “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Peter put a knee on the kid’s chest and backhanded him across the face. It was like kicking a puppy. He didn’t like it, but he needed the information.