And like that, their alliance came to an end.
“And what about you?” Gibson said to Swonger.
“Sorry, dog,” Swonger said with a shrug. “Wasn’t happening.”
“I’m sorry,” Lea said. “Facts are facts.”
“So you came back here? You know what you’ll be up against at the prison when Merrick walks through those gates? Do you even have a plan?” When neither spoke up, Gibson snatched his bag out of the van. “You screwed us good here. I want you to remember that. This was the way.”
He started down the driveway toward the street.
“Where are you going?” Lea asked.
“To the hotel. I need a shower. Park the van out of sight.”
They called after him to come back, but Gibson kept going. The walk was the most exercise he’d had since they left Niobe. It felt good to stretch his legs, and it gave him time for his anger to dissipate. Well, not to dissipate but at least to spread evenly throughout his body and stop his temples from throbbing. He came up Tarte Street and saw the hotel on his right but instead walked down to the river and looked out toward Ohio. The river was beautiful by moonlight, and the ruined bridge seemed almost dignified. The road down to the bridge still stood, although it was blocked off by orange barrels and sealed at the mouth of the bridge by a plywood wall. What a strange thing to live with, he thought. How could anyone imagine a fresh start with the ruined bridge reminding them of what had been? Knowing your history was one thing, but living in it? That was a cage.
Gibson pushed through the door into the Wolstenholme Hotel. One of Emerson’s goons sat in Emerson’s chair, watching the lobby; at the sight of Gibson, he spoke into a radio.
“Big day tomorrow,” Gibson said. “Shouldn’t you be getting some rest?”
The goon smiled, uncrossing one leg and crossing the other, shifting in his seat as he did. Tomorrow was coming fast, and Gibson had a bad feeling that not everyone would live to see another. He wondered if Merrick had any inkling of the tempest waiting to fall upon him.
A disheveled Jimmy Temple appeared from the back after Gibson rang the buzzer several times. He didn’t look any too happy to see Gibson.
“I need a room.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Something facing out back.”
Jimmy handed him a key. “How long will you be staying?”
“Just the night.”
“Good.”
Up in his new room, he’d barely put his bag down before a knock came at the door. He engaged the chain on the door before opening it.
The fisherman stood on the other side and smiled through the crack. “Welcome back.”
Gibson acknowledged the greeting with a faint nod, in no mood for the fisherman’s particular brand of vague. Wary too of what his real interest in Charles Merrick might entail.
“Will you invite me in?” the fisherman asked.
Gibson shook his head.
“Were you successful?”
“No. Too much ground to cover.”
The fisherman thought it over. “That is a shame, but it was a lot to hope. I’m sure you did your best.”
Gibson expected a “but.” There was none; instead, the fisherman started away down the hall.
Gibson stopped him. “What do you think will happen now?”
The fisherman considered the question for a moment. “In Mandarin, the word ‘crisis’ is composed of two characters. One represents danger and the other represents opportunity.”
“Is that true?”
The fisherman shook his head. “No, not exactly. It is just something that John F. Kennedy repeated because it sounded inspiring.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Because he said it, and people believed him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” The fisherman inclined his head toward Gibson and left him to his thoughts.
In his bathroom, Gibson ran the shower until it was hot enough to strip paint and stood under it until he couldn’t feel the van on him anymore. By the time he stepped out, he knew he didn’t want to be in Niobe come morning. The fisherman—he still didn’t know the man’s name—was right: something bad was coming. Call it a crisis, call it an opportunity, call it what you will—it would be bloody, and he didn’t trust the fifth floor to exhibit much trigger control.
Gibson climbed into bed, wrestled with the covers until he was comfortable, and then got up again. Satisfied it looked like the bed had been slept in, he put out the “Do Not Disturb” sign, repacked his bag, and climbed out the fire escape. He dropped down lightly onto the parking lot, listened to the night, and disappeared into the shadows.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
In the morning, Gavin was gone. Lea had lent him a pillow and a blanket, pointed him toward the couch, and promptly passed out in her clothes. When her alarm went off at five a.m., she felt stiff, as if she hadn’t moved a muscle all night. She poked her head out her bedroom door to check on her guest; the pillow and blanket were stacked exactly where she’d left them. No note or indication of where he had gone, but the message was clear enough—she was on her own now. To her surprise, she found she missed Gavin. She didn’t quite know what to make of that—missing people wasn’t something she did anymore.
The wardrive had been devastating for her, but she felt grateful for the clarity it had brought. Up until now, her father’s victims had been an abstraction, a meaningless number. So to meet Gavin and learn firsthand of the damage done by her father made her ashamed not to have understood the true impact of his crimes before now. So intent on her own personal revenge that she’d made her father’s crimes all about her. What a child she had been. The memory of telling Gibson that the money belonged to her family made her cringe. The money belonged to the Swongers and the Birks.
Could there still be a way?
Lea made coffee and took stock of what needed to be done. Partnering up had been a bust—time for plan B, or rather, the old plan A.