“I’m not sure how much of this I understand anymore,” he said. “But I think there may be more at stake than just your friends.”
June heard a sound like someone tearing metal. It came and went. She stood and went to the big windows, where she had a clear view down the long road to the rapid destruction of the four black SUVs. One was stalled on the road, one was pulled tight beside it, a third on fire, and the fourth some distance back being chewed up by gunfire from the trees.
She didn’t know what she was seeing. She didn’t know where Peter was, or Lewis. But the firepower was serious, more than she’d expected. More like a war zone.
She needed to find Sally. Goddamn family dinner was in an hour, so that’s where she’d be. Sally was so fucking sure of herself, and so fucking cold, that she’d planned a dinner party after a massacre.
Well, June could be pretty icy herself.
She was pretty sure who’d killed her mother now. Maybe not who’d driven the car, but she knew who’d given the order.
But June wasn’t done yet. She had something hard to do.
She put her hand on her dad’s shoulder. “Can you help me with something else?”
His eyes pierced her with their keen, unearthly blue, and his creased face cracked open in that beatific smile. “Anything for you, Hazel.”
Jesus, her heart was breaking twice. But there was no time for that.
“I need you to help me kill my friend.”
57
PETER
Pristine white cloths covered the rugged picnic tables set in a line in the orchard clearing. Under the carefully pruned trees just beginning to bud, the tables were set with an assortment of old enameled tin plates, tin cups, plastic wineglasses, and mismatched silverware on cloth napkins in pale blues and greens. There were mason jars with wildflowers artfully arranged, votive candles in windproof holders, and old-style kerosene lanterns in the center of each table, not yet lit but fueled and ready.
Night came fast in the mountains, and it was nearly dusk already.
Cleanup from the killings had taken some time, and everyone was starving.
There was a buffet set up on a long folding table, one leg shimmed with a folded napkin to keep it from wobbling. Two big pans of cabrito, roasted goat meat in red sauce, stood beside giant bowls of potato salad, green beans, and a large green salad. Four pies stood to the side with napkins laid over their tops to discourage insects. Peter’s mom did the napkin thing, too.
The flatbed was parked on the two-track, with a man in a seersucker suit lying prone on the splintered wooden bed, thoroughly trussed and covered with a greasy canvas tarp.
Peter sat on a folding chair, his wrists caught in shiny metal cuffs. Wilkes sat across from him, as an added security measure. Peter faced the rocky outcrop, which was maybe fifty meters away. He thought he’d seen movement up there but wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to get caught staring.
He was about to place a very large bet.
He counted sixteen of Sally’s men, either in line loading their plates, digging a beer or soft drink out of the big coolers on the flatbed, or seating themselves at the tables. They were talking and joking, true believers in a way that Peter had once been, and could never be again.
Oliver, the smooth-faced young man, was silent. He’d taken a place at the end of the last table.
June and her father sat at the other end, having walked down from the black barns as the food was being laid out. They weren’t eating. The Yeti had his notebook open, reading and making notes in the fading light. He raised his eyebrows slightly to June, and she’d nodded. Then she saw Peter’s handcuffs. Her eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to speak, but Peter made a small patting motion with his hands. Stay cool. Wait and see.
Sally was next to Peter, her computer tablet on the table beside her. She still checked it every few minutes, but it hadn’t made any chiming noises since they’d left the outcrop. Peter was cautiously optimistic.
Sally had set the tables herself, fussing over the wildflower centerpieces, lighting the candles, and checking the cloth wicks in the kerosene lanterns. She’d changed into clean khaki pants and a crisp shirt so white it almost glowed in the evening light. But Peter saw that the cracked skin of her hands, though pink from scrubbing, still held traces of greenhouse dirt. Her grubby barn jacket was folded neatly over the back of her chair.
Now she stood up with her wineglass in her hand. “I just wanted to take a second to thank everyone for their contribution today,” she said. “We are tasked with protecting our nation’s interests. Sometimes that work can be ugly, but it is no less necessary. Thank you all. Let’s eat.”