Swonger started the car again. “All right. I tried.”
They left Niobe in silence. For the first time since he’d known him, Swonger drove the speed limit. Ten minutes out of town, Gibson felt his phone buzz in his hip pocket. It had a signal; they’d rejoined the twenty-first century. Random news alerts and sports scores began popping up—dispatches from another world, another life. The battery was below 10 percent so he resisted the urge to check his messages in case he got lucky and needed to text Washburn. The Scion stopped along a lightless road. Dawn was still a little ways off yet. Swonger pointed to a dirt turnoff.
“It’s down there,” Swonger said. “About fifty yards. What’s the plan?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need you to leave.”
Swonger leaned back, dissatisfied. “That ain’t right.”
“I need you to go home. Make things right for your family. For the Birks.”
“Thought there weren’t no money.”
“No, there just wasn’t a billion dollars.”
“You said—”
“You never let me finish.”
“How much?”
“A million four.”
Swonger looked to be at a loss for words. Gibson enjoyed the effect.
“And you’re giving it to me?”
“I gave it to you yesterday. It’s in the bank account Christopher set up. I tried to tell you, but you were busy shooting at me.”
“Yeah, about that—”
“Take care of the judge. Get him in a home. Make him comfortable. Then we’re square.”
“My word.”
“Thank you . . . Gavin.”
“Why you got to be such an asshole?”
But Swonger was grinning at him. They shook hands. Gibson got out of the car with his bag. Damn, it was dark. On impulse, he took off the baseball cap and handed it to Swonger.
“Hold on to this for me?” Gibson said.
“Riding into battle without your crown? Don’t know about that, dog.”
“I’ll catch up with you after.”
Swonger held out his gun. “You might need it.”
“It’s okay. I have my own,” Gibson said and showed him the dead guard’s Glock.
“Deja’d be proud.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“You sure about this?”
The question alone caused Gibson’s resolve to waver. Walking into the woods alone, at night, into God knows what, didn’t exactly thrill him. But he needed to know Swonger was safely away. He’d come here for the judge, at what cost, he couldn’t say yet, but he needed to know it hadn’t all been for nothing.
“I’ll call you if I need you.”
Swonger looked at him funny. “Uh-huh.”
“Tell Lea I’ll check in on her.”
“Better had.”
Gibson watched the Scion until the taillights disappeared around the far bend. Then he picked up his bag and walked into the woods.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Why rent a fishing cabin in the woods and a hotel room in town? That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? At the time, distracted by the hunt for Charles Merrick’s money, Gibson hadn’t given it much thought. But now that he knew the fisherman was a Chinese spy, he was betting that he’d been prepping a safe house. Somewhere to stash Merrick off the grid until transportation out of the country could be arranged. In the darkness, Gibson stumbled over a rut and almost rolled his ankle. Watch where you step, he reminded himself.
The road crested a gentle rise. Down below in a dirt clearing stood a simple one-story cabin. It looked peaceful in the moonlight. Raised up on stilts, it overlooked a lazy bend of river, and log steps cut into the slope led down to a modest dock. No boat, but beneath the detached carport, Gibson saw an old Nissan Sentra—underwhelming as far as spy-mobiles went, but you couldn’t beat the gas mileage. If it was even the fisherman’s car. The naked bulb above the porch was off, but at the edge of the windows halos of light leaked from behind drawn shades. A shadow passed before the window. Someone was home.
Gibson knelt beside a stunted, dying sycamore that would never get enough sunlight to compete with the surrounding forest. Normally, he’d spend weeks prepping this kind of hack, but there wasn’t the time. He reached up to adjust the hat that wasn’t there. Instead, he rubbed his forehead and thought through his strategy. He drew the Glock and shoved it into the bottom of his bag under his laptop and among his dirty clothes. Then he walked down the slope to the cabin and up the stairs, and knocked on the front door.
The truth is your friend; lie as little as possible.
From inside, he heard a voice tinged with alarm. A second voice, calm and calculating, quieted the first. Gibson stepped back down the stairs, not wanting to crowd the door, and also to give himself running room in the unlikely event that the fisherman decided to shoot him as a precaution. Unlikely, because Gibson represented information, and the fisherman would have questions he’d want answered first. The way Gibson had it figured, that bought him maybe ten minutes before the fisherman dumped his body in the river.
The lights went out inside the cabin and the door opened. The fisherman stood in the doorway, a gun rested at his side. Most likely the gun that had shot Lea, Gibson reminded himself.
“Mr. Vaughn. You should not have come.”
“I need your help.” Technically true.
“How did you find me?”
“I had my man tail you after our first meeting.”
“The hillbilly?” The fisherman sounded skeptical.
“I know, right? Surprisingly handy that way.”
“Is he here with you now? In the woods with a rifle, perhaps?”
“I’m alone.”
“Of course.” The fisherman studied Gibson’s face for clues he might be lying. The dance had begun. Seemingly satisfied, the fisherman stepped back from the door, a welcoming smile on his face. “Come inside.”
An instruction, not an invitation. More instructions followed—Gibson shut the door and switched on the lights. The fisherman never allowed him closer than ten feet, his gun raised now.
“Do you have a weapon?”
“In my bag.” Gibson hoped to establish his good intentions with overt cooperation.
The fisherman patted him down anyway and confiscated his cell phone, the gun pressed firmly to the base of his skull. As Gibson knelt, nose to the door, the fisherman searched his bag for the gun.
“There is blood on this gun, Mr. Vaughn. Were you on the fifth floor of the hotel earlier this evening?”
“Yeah, took it off one of the men you killed.”
“I haven’t killed any men tonight. You have Chelsea Merrick to thank for that.”