“Daddy. Will you teach me to keep score?” Ellie held up a scorecard and a stub of a pencil.
Gibson felt so happy to see her that he didn’t stop to wonder how she could be here with him. Nicole must have dropped her off. This was the life, wasn’t it? The game was just starting; the players bounded out of the dugout and took their positions around the diamond. He smiled at his daughter; it looked to be a beautiful day at the ballpark.
Maybe Teddy Roosevelt would even win this time.
Big Jack Ketch parked his truck in front of his office at Dule Tree Airfield. He hadn’t had his coffee yet, and his temples ached from lack of sleep. Nine a.m.—it would be a long-ass day. He’d been at the hospital until an hour ago, waiting for news about his nephew who’d been badly burned fighting the Wolstenholme Hotel fire over in Niobe. His poor sister had about lost her mind. The hotel had burned clean down to the ground, and a lot of strange stories were beginning to emerge over there. Phone lines tampered with. A gun battle that sounded like war had broken out. Dozens of dead bodies, burned beyond recognition. A bartender who worked across the street from the hotel had still been in surgery when Jack left for work. Such a mess. The state police had cordoned off the entire town, and word was that the FBI was on the way. They said so on the radio anyway.
He opened up the office and put some coffee on. While it percolated, he sorted through yesterday’s mail and looked through the airfield logbook. He ought to see about Mo Davis’s Cessna today. That would take a few hours. Maybe this afternoon, once he’d caught a nap.
He took his coffee and went outside to smoke. His lighter was about empty and kept blowing out in the morning breeze. He glanced out to the runway. Some jackass had parked a green Nissan at the end of the runway. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Probably some fool kids out to get loaded and smash empties on the runway. Wouldn’t be the first time, and it made him mad. Especially after the night he’d had. Or maybe a couple lovebirds doing the dirty.
Either way, they were in for a rude surprise. Jack set off across the field for the runway.
Whoa . . .
There’d been a lot more than one car out here last night; the field had been torn up by tire tracks. By the look of the fence around the hangar, someone had crashed a car into it as well. Looked like someone had hosted a NASCAR derby out here. Pissed Jack off, but on the bright side, it gave him the ammunition he needed to finally convince the owners to install the new gate he’d been lobbying for the last two years.
He felt something crunch under his heels, looked down, and saw something shiny. Brass. His first thought was car keys, but then he saw shell casings. Hundreds of them scattered like confetti after a parade. Someone had decided to use Dule Tree as an impromptu gun range to fire off some toys. In his mind, Jack began to draft a stern letter to the state police . . . until he saw where the earth had been stained red.
What the hell happened here?
He looked at the abandoned car at the foot of the runway and then back toward his office. He saw a man in a fishing vest walking toward the Sentra. The fisherman raised a hand in greeting.
Jack waved back.
He stood there in the grass, waiting for him. By the time he saw the gun, it was too late.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Everything they warn about writing the second book is true.
When you write your first book no one cares. Not cruelly but in the casual way that most people don’t care about other people’s hobbies. In retrospect, disinterest in my writing proved a godsend. When no one cares that you’re writing, then no one cares when you’re finished. It’ll be done when you say it’s done and not before. Then if you’re lucky, as I have been, a publisher says, “That’s great, we’ll publish your book. Now do it all again.” Suddenly there are stakes, expectations, pressure. After writing your first book on your own time, writing the second on a deadline is akin to learning the steps to a familiar dance, only backward . . . and in heels. There’s a great deal of graceless stumbling about accompanied by the absolute certainty that Ginger Rogers is gazing down and having none of it.
The only thing that kept me from tripping and landing square on my back while writing Poisonfeather was the steadying presence of family and friends. I’m grateful for all your encouragement and support; this book would be a shadow of itself without your wisdom, insight, and expertise. My love and thanks to Steve and Marcia Feldhaus, Ali FitzSimmons, Rennie O’Connor, Vanessa Brimner, Eric Schwerin, John and Betty Anne Brennan, Michelle Mutert, Giovanna Baffico, Drew Anderson, Garner Mathiasmeier, David Kongstvedt, Garth Ginsburg, Geoffrey Sparks, Miguel Barrera Prado, Kit Manougian, Daisy Weill, and a small army of Hugheses: David, Doug, Drew, Karen, Nate, Pat, and Tom.
Thank you to my agent, David Hale Smith—half man, half BBQ . . . entirely awesome; to the brilliant Ed Stackler for editing both of my books without once wringing my neck; and to Gracie Doyle, my editor at Thomas & Mercer, who stepped into a new role midway through Poisonfeather and made it her own with tremendous style and aplomb.
Lastly, I am indebted to the entire Field School community—you are a truly remarkable group of individuals.