Gibson stood in the parking lot and watched until the car was out of sight. A red Acura pulled into the just-vacated spot. Two couples got out, men from the front, women from the back, even though one of the women was a good three inches taller than either of the men and could have used the legroom. The foursome laughed together about some joke from the car and gave him a wide berth as they bundled into the diner. Gibson felt a visceral, contact hate for them and stood in the cold, wondering why. They’d done nothing to warrant his rage. It wasn’t until he passed them on the way back to the kitchen that he recognized it for what it was: jealousy. He resented their laughter, their happiness, their easy camaraderie. Gibson wished he shared such a bond with someone who was not a ghost.
His thoughts went to Jenn Charles. Missing for two years now. Neither he nor Dan Hendricks had seen or heard from Jenn since Atlanta. Before the eighteen months in a cell, Gibson had hunted for Jenn and George Abe but found not a trace of either. Now when he thought of them, it was in the past tense. He realized that while he’d been locked away he’d quietly declared them dead. He hoped he was wrong. He missed Jenn and on some level knew that she was one of the few people who could help him. Ironic, given that she didn’t particularly like him. But she understood him. Toby liked him but didn’t remotely understand him.
On impulse, he took out one of his new phones and dialed the last number he knew for Dan Hendricks.
Surprisingly, Hendricks picked up on the second ring. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Gibson.”
There was a sizeable pause. “Is Tupac or Elvis with you?”
“Not recently.”
“Damn. Looks like I lost the dead pool. Where’ve you been?”
“It’s a long story. How are things? What have I missed?”
“The Cubs won the World Series,” Hendricks said.
“You are kidding me.” Gibson wasn’t a Cubs fan, but he loved baseball, and it reminded him how out of touch he was with the world.
“You really didn’t know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“Cubs took it in seven.”
“Well, that’s just fucking fantastic.”
“Chicago seemed to think so.”
“Have you heard from Jenn or George?” Gibson asked, working up the courage to raise the question that he’d called about.
Another pause. “No. Nothing.”
Gibson felt himself sag, physically and emotionally. “What do you think that means?” He knew exactly what it meant but needed to hear it said in plain English. Hendricks had picked up one hell of a bedside manner during his twenty-year stint as a cop in Los Angeles. Gibson could count on him to pull no punches.
“It means it’s been over two years. Either they’re dead or they wish they were.”
Gibson let that sink in. It was a harsh assessment, but he could find no fault in it. Two years was a long time. Too long. He could add another name to the list of people that he’d failed.
“You still there?” Hendricks asked.
Without Jenn to connect them, Hendricks and he didn’t have much to say to each other. Gibson had never been Hendricks’s favorite person.
“I gotta go,” Gibson said.
That seemed to surprise Hendricks, who traditionally was the one in a hurry to get off the line. “You all right? This a good number for you?”
“Probably not for long,” Gibson said. His plans for Damon Ogden would involve swapping cell phones regularly.
“Keep in touch. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Well, it is a new year.”
Hendricks chuckled at that. “Auld lang—”
Gibson hung up and went back inside. He had a lot of dirty dishes to clean.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gibson had been to Longman Farm once before.
Nineteen months ago. Starting him down a long path that had led to his detention by the CIA. It had been the height of spring. The countryside had sparkled with new life.
Not like today.
Today the barren trees reached up like dying nerves into the low-hanging sky. This was another beginning, and Gibson couldn’t help but read stark metaphor into the landscape.
“Kid, you’re starting to get on my nerves with all your moping around,” Duke said.
“Mind your own business, then.”
“Isn’t there a ball game on?”
“It’s January,” Gibson said.
“That means pitchers and catchers report next month. Getting close.”
Gibson flipped on the radio, looking for anything to distract his father. He found an oldies station with Jackson Browne singing about life on the road. Duke sang along, and for once, Gibson didn’t mind so much.
Gibson didn’t see the sign that marked the break in the trees that led back to Longman Farm. He realized his mistake a mile down the road and swung out onto the shoulder to turn around. He’d missed it the other time he’d been here, and a prickling déjà vu raised hairs on his neck. Another bad omen.
Duke snorted and shook his head.
Back at the turnoff, Gibson thought that the old sign might have seen a coat of yellow paint since he’d been here last. They bumped up the uneven gravel road to the gate that announced Longman Farm officially. The rusted gate had been fixed, and the long, curving drive up to the big house had been repaved. Everywhere he looked, Gibson saw mended fences and other indications of upkeep. Last time the farm had been practically falling down around itself, but no longer.
Gavin Swonger waited on the front porch like an upright nail. The last eighteen months might have been good to Longman Farm, but time hadn’t worked any magic on Swonger’s beard. It was the same mangy patchwork of scruff and acne. Still, there was something different about him that Gibson couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something in Swonger’s face had changed, his features heavier, eyes purposeful and silent. Or perhaps it was his heavy work pants, the boots, or the thick sleeveless fleece over a flannel shirt. All Swonger had ever wanted to be was a farmer. He looked the part now.
Apart from the black pistol in his hand.
Bachmann had asked if he had any idea who had burned down Nicole’s house. Swonger hadn’t been one of the names Gibson considered. They’d had their differences in West Virginia, but Gibson thought they’d parted on good terms. Almost friends. Then again, perhaps that had been the money talking.
Gibson stopped the Yukon but left it in gear. Just in case he’d been wrong about Swonger. But when Swonger ducked his head to see who was behind the wheel, Gibson realized that he hadn’t carried the gun out onto the porch specifically for him. He’d simply seen an unfamiliar vehicle come up the drive and reached for a weapon. A strange way to greet company. Maybe life hadn’t been so good at Longman Farm after all.
Gibson killed the engine and eased out of the driver’s seat, hands in plain sight. He’d parked so he could keep the Yukon between himself and the porch.
“Hey, Swonger.” Gibson pointed to the pistol. “That for me?”
“Gibson?” Swonger asked, half greeting, half disbelief.
“More or less.”
Swonger nodded but didn’t come rushing down from the porch to embrace him. Movement around the side of the house caught Gibson’s eye. A man he didn’t recognize had eased into a crouch and sighted a rifle on him. Not exactly a hero’s welcome.
“Where you been at?” Swonger asked.
“Away.”
“Away? This ain’t the time for no games.” Swonger’s thumb flicked off the safety—maybe the gun was for him after all.