Nope, definitely an asshole.
“What do you want from me?”
“Your help.”
Gibson pointed at the hotel. “You still haven’t thanked me for the last time.”
“Thank you for that. Now I need your help.”
“It’s been kind of a long day. Why don’t you call in the big boys? I’m tired.”
“I fully intend to do just that, but it’s the middle of the night in West Virginia. By the time my people mobilize, Merrick could be out of the country. So call you my fail-safe.”
“So other than falsely accusing me of treason, why should I help you?”
“The American way of life?” Washburn said.
“Oh, I already have one of those, trust me.”
“What about Jenn Charles? You got one of those?”
At the mention of her name, Gibson felt his heart leap. He tried hard to hide it from Washburn, though. “You know where she is?”
“No. But the Agency does. George Abe too.”
“Why is the CIA keeping tabs on Jenn and George?”
“Because you did a little more than burn down a hotel in Atlanta, didn’t you? The vice president died. We pay attention to that sort of thing.”
“So I help you, and you tell me where they are? That the idea?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Are they even alive?”
“Your Chinese associate—any idea where he might be?”
Gibson started to say no, but stopped. As a matter of fact, he thought that he might. “What’s this all about? How is Charles Merrick mixed up with the Chinese?”
“It’s classified.”
“Good luck with that.” Gibson started to walk away again.
“Merrick knows the identity of one of our assets inside China. A mole the Chinese call Poisonfeather. He . . . it’s a long story. Bottom line: Merrick’s gone over to the Chinese. He’s made a deal with your Chinese friend to trade the name of their mole for a new life, since you stole his earlier today. In a way, this is your fault.”
The pieces all fell into place. From the start, he’d questioned how Merrick had hidden money from the Justice Department. The answer was, of course, that he hadn’t. Justice had simply turned a blind eye because Merrick had given the CIA something more valuable. Poisonfeather.
“Can you find them?”
“I’m not killing anyone.”
“Believe it or not, that’s not what we do. And I need Merrick alive. If you find him, bring him to Dule Tree Airfield. You know where that is?”
Gibson nodded. “How do I let you know?”
“I have a number; do you need to write it down?”
“No, just give it to me.”
Washburn told him the number. “Text the letters GV. I’ll have a plane there in sixty minutes.”
“If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, I’m probably not coming at all.”
“I figured as much.”
“What about her?” Gibson nodded at Deja’s prone form.
“Unless she’s a Chinese spy, I don’t think she falls within the Agency’s purview.”
“Do all you guys talk like that?”
“Good hunting,” Washburn said, neither confirming nor denying.
The two men shook hands once more.
“What are you going to do in the meantime?” Gibson asked.
“Me? Find a working phone. Call the cavalry.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Wolstenholme Hotel fire burned for an hour and a half before the first fire engine arrived. In addition to cutting the phones and the Internet, Lucinda King Soto’s men had disabled the alarms. By the time the nearest firehouse had responded to the scene, it was too late anyway. The hotel burned to the foundations while the town stood by helplessly and watched. The fire would have leapt to nearby buildings, but a group of seven devoted Toproll regulars rallied to the cause and doused the neighboring rooftops before the blaze could spread. For years after, whenever all seven convened in the bar, Margo would ring a bell and serve them a round of flaming shots to cheers all around.
Gibson pushed through the crowd gathered on Tarte Street to watch their history burn. A few recognized him as an outsider and eyed him accusingly, but none roused themselves from their vigil to confront him. The fire reflected off the river in beautiful golds and reds. From a safe distance, tragedy was life’s most irresistible spectacle.
Back behind the wheel of the van, Gibson slipped his Phillies cap back onto his head and thought about how to find Swonger in this chaos. Was Swonger even alive? A car horn replied to his rhetorical question, and Gibson glanced in the direction of the gray Scion. Swonger sat in the driver’s seat as if he’d been waiting on him, a sly smile fighting his best efforts to look steely. Gibson shook his head and laughed at the total absurdity of it. Where else would Swonger be but just around the bend, waiting for him? For the first time, Gibson felt happy to see him, and to his surprise, Swonger looked happy to see him too. Gibson grabbed his bag from the back of the van and joined Swonger.
Before Gibson could ask, Swonger launched into an account of finding Lea in the hotel kitchen, the confrontation with Deja, and escaping the hotel. “Margo took her to a hospital.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
Swonger shrugged bashfully and patted the Scion’s dashboard. “Couldn’t leave my baby behind.”
“Thank you.”
Swonger nodded.
“You think she’ll make it?” Gibson asked.
“I ain’t no doctor. Surprised as shit she alive when I found her. He shot her in the chest, dog. In the chest.”
“Who did?”
“The fisherman.”
“About him. You remember where his fishing cabin is?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Show me.”
Swonger started the car and then shut it off again. “You’re not going to start some shit ’cause he shot her, are you?”
“When did you get so circumspect?”
“Dog, look at that,” Swonger said, meaning the inferno that had been the Wolstenholme Hotel. “I know you don’t believe in fate or nothing like that, but if ever the universe was trying to tell us something, this is that time.”
“Yeah? What’s it saying?”
“It’s saying to get up out of this town. Go meet Margo and check on our girl. We just walked out of that mess, and you want to go start in again with some John Woo fisherman? Universe liable to take that the wrong way.”
There was truth to what Swonger said. Gibson had pushed his luck every way he could in the last twelve hours, and eventually it would catch up with him. But he also didn’t believe in fate; he believed in the cold mathematics of chance. Throwing heads ten times in a row didn’t change the odds on the next. The last twelve hours didn’t matter, only what came next; and if it had been about anyone but Jenn Charles, Gibson might have agreed. But this was Jenn and George. Even if it was only a 1 percent chance, he knew he would take it.
“There’s something I have to do first.”