Skinner glared at him, mouth a red slash in the pale, aristocratic face. Peter thought the man was in shock, maybe banged up a little, but that wasn’t it. He was furious.
“I know who the fuck you are,” said Skinner. His thin lips parted, showing bright white teeth. Something ancient and reptilian peering through his eyes. “I know exactly who you are.”
Peter wanted to hit him in the face as hard as he could. Instead he said, “You need to tell me about the cash. Four hundred thousand dollars. Where did it come from?”
“You came to my house,” said Skinner. The last word was a grunt. “My house. I’m going to erase you. Take everything you are. Your woman. The children.”
Peter took a step and slapped Skinner on the face. His hand was open, but it was still hard enough to rock the man back.
“Where did the money come from? Why was James Johnson killed?”
Skinner’s smile was as cold as death. The red mark of Peter’s hand slowly emerged on his pale face. “I’m so glad you did that,” he said.
He was quick. He reached under his suit coat like a striking snake, brought out a flat automatic pistol, and lifted his other hand to cup the butt in his palm.
He looked like he knew what he was doing.
Peter felt the adrenaline surge, the taste of copper in his mouth. But he didn’t react. Hoping Skinner would say something he shouldn’t.
Skinner’s hands were steady. “I have four acres here,” he said. His voice was conversational, but his tongue was flicking the edges of his lips. “I could bury you in my backyard. Under the garden. I just had it tilled. The ground is nice and soft.”
“But you’d rather use a knife, right?” said Peter. “Like you killed your wife? It’s so much more personal that way. And you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
Skinner’s face flushed pink. But he didn’t answer.
“Why don’t you tell me about the four hundred thousand? Did you kill James Johnson, or was it the man with the scars?”
Skinner’s smile was genuine and full of pleasure. “You really have no idea about anything, do you? You’re merely a tool. Put to use by those farther up the evolutionary ladder.”
“Educate me,” said Peter. “Tell me how smart you are.”
“I honestly don’t think you’d understand,” said Skinner. “This is so far above your level.” His eyes shifted to Lewis, then back to Peter. In the distance, the faint, thin sound of a siren lifted above the cold wind. Skinner’s knuckle whitened as he increased pressure on the trigger.
Lewis moved so fast he was just a flicker, reaching in to pluck the flat automatic pistol from Skinner’s hands. There was a soft crunch as Skinner’s finger broke, caught for a moment in the trigger guard.
Then Lewis was two steps away again, the gun held negligently down at his side.
“Time to go,” he said. “Cops are coming. Either your man here dialed nine-one-one or the Bentley called in the accident.”
Skinner was pale with rage, a peculiar glitter in his eye. He didn’t even seem to notice his broken finger. Again Peter felt that powerful urge to do him permanent damage. There was something primitive about it, like the urge to kill a snake. Snakes had a certain wrongness to them, the flickering tongue, that sinuous slither. Skinner had a different kind of wrongness. An emptiness in the eyes. An utter lack of regard for anyone other than himself. In ordinary moments he could hide it, could put on his charming act. But not now.
Lewis climbed into the Yukon. The tubular steel bumper wore deep blue paint on its edges but was otherwise unharmed.
“Get in the truck,” he said, leaning across to push open the passenger door. “I’m not waiting.”
Peter took four long strides and reached for the door. Before he was fully in his seat, Lewis had the pedal down.
They took the first curve fast, but Lewis eased off as soon as he found a side road. Once they were heading away from Skinner’s house on a leisurely trajectory designed not to intersect with main roads or police cars, Lewis took out a handkerchief and wiped down the gun. Then threw it out the window and into the trees.
“I don’t like that he mentioned a woman,” said Peter. “And children.”
“Your woman,” said Lewis, eyes carefully on the road. “Is what he said.”
“She’s not my woman,” said Peter. “We’ve had this conversation.”
“Whatever,” said Lewis. “But we got to get them out of that house, somewhere away.”
“We will,” said Peter. Then, “I don’t like how he didn’t threaten us with his lawyer.”
“Yeah,” said Lewis. “He got something going on. You want me in on this, you gotta tell me the whole thing.”
“We need to get to that black Ford. I’ll buy you a burger on the way. This might be a long night.”
Peter kept talking as the Yukon wove a crooked path through the suburbs, back toward the city.
The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat
Midden backed the white Dodge van to within a few feet of the loading dock. The van wasn’t tall enough to mate with the dock directly. They would have to use a plank ramp to get the drums inside.
The new truck would be the right height, thought Midden. Loading it would be much easier on the back.