The Drifter (21 page)

T
he thin November light was fading, night coming earlier as winter came on. Peter and Lewis sat in the Yukon, waiting.

Through yet another Web search, Peter had found a newspaper article about Skinner’s house in Fox Point, three suburbs north of the city. It had forested lots, narrow curving roads, and a distinct lack of streetlights. The most expensive area was between Lake Drive and Lake Michigan.

Skinner’s place was on the lake.

They were parked on the verge, where they could watch both the road and the house through the thin screen of leafless trees. Although “house” didn’t quite describe the place. It had wings, like a museum. Dinah’s little cottage would fit inside it ten times. Maybe twenty. From the road, it was hard to know how big the place really was.

It looked like some kind of castle. Not a storybook castle with towers and turrets, but more like a Norman keep, high stone walls with tall, narrow windows and minimal plantings. It looked like a fortress with a six-car garage.

But Peter knew from the article the house was only a few years old. New construction being what it was, the stone likely was a
thin veneer over particleboard and drywall. Even if he didn’t want to break a window or pry open a door, he could get inside with just a crowbar and hand sledge. Most people would be appalled at how easy it was to break into a house. Especially if you didn’t care about making noise.

Lewis said, “You think he’s gonna tell you anything?”

Peter shrugged. “This guy faced down the cops over killing his wife, and the SEC over securities fraud. He’s not going to get scared by a couple of guys knocking on his door. But if we get up his nose we might break something loose, get something in motion.”

“We not just a couple of guys,” said Lewis. He smiled his tilted smile and put some street in his voice. “We sho ’nuff not the po-lice. An’ we def’ny not the SEC.” The smile got wider. “We can apply leverage they can’t.”

Even sitting still, he conveyed the impression of contained power, the mountain lion not quite at rest.

Peter still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Lewis. He’d been a soldier but was now a successful criminal. He knew his way around computers well enough to search state and federal databases. And with his mention of the SEC, Peter thought maybe he knew something about finance, too.

“You know what the SEC is, don’t you?” asked Peter.

“Securities and Exchange Commission,” said Lewis. “I gotta explain why the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act led to the banking crisis of 2008?”

“Please, don’t,” said Peter, who had followed the financial crisis and its aftermath from a war zone and was now thoroughly sick of the whole thing. “But why are you interested?”

“Modern criminal needs to know. The financial system’s
designed to favor established capital. Investment banks, hedge funds. Corporations. They in business to hoover money out of the pockets of small investors like me. You want to keep your hard-earned green, you better know how this shit work.”

“That doesn’t explain your interest in Glass-Steagall,” said Peter.

Lewis smiled his tilted smile. “You want to be good at your work, you study up, right? Some of these finance guys are the biggest fucking thieves out there.” He shrugged. “So it’s educational.”

Peter looked at him. “You’re not who I expected you to be.”

“Nobody is,” said Lewis. His face was unreadable in the dim light. “Anyway, I get interested in shit. Man can’t have a hobby?”

Peter grinned at that. “Well,” he said. “We can definitely apply some leverage.”

Lewis tilted his chin at the road ahead. “Here comes your guy. Home from the salt mines.” He shifted the Yukon into drive.

Skinner’s deep blue sedan coasted toward them on the smooth asphalt road. Its engine carried just the hint of a growl.

“You know what kind of car that is?” asked Peter.

Lewis leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “I believe that a Bentley,” he said. “Nice ride. About three fifty new.”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand?”

“Yup. And the steering wheel ain’t even solid gold.”

The deep blue sedan turned up the long driveway.

“Get up behind him,” said Peter. “Give him a good bump before he gets up to the house.”

Lewis goosed the gas and the Yukon leaped forward. “Bumping a Bentley like punching the
Mona Lisa
, man. Maybe I just rev the engine up loud and scare him.”

“Pussy,” said Peter, one hand on the oh-shit handle and the
other clamped to his armrest. The needle was at fifty and climbing fast.

They made the turn into Skinner’s driveway at speed, the Yukon’s police suspension gobbling up the bumps on the curve. Grinning widely, Lewis kept his foot down and the deep blue sedan got closer and closer until the Yukon hit with a crunch that Peter felt in his bones.

The sedan lurched forward and the whole back end accordioned up into scrap metal and waste plastic. Lewis stood on the brake and the Yukon stopped like it was nailed to the asphalt.

Peter popped his seat belt, stepped out, and walked behind the sedan to the driver’s side, aware of Lewis a few steps to his left, consciously or not keeping some distance between them to present a smaller target, as if this was a checkpoint stop.

Through the sedan windows, Peter could see the cloud of deployed air bags collapsing now as the driver pushed them down and away.

Then the sedan door opened and Skinner levered himself out, shaking and white.

“Sorry, the gas pedal stuck,” said Peter. “We need to talk. Remember me?”

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.

Although not on the mind.

Midden couldn’t rid himself of what they had planned. It was bothering him.

He reminded himself that he was committed.

Boomer’s Ford was parked by the main entrance, all scraped up on the driver’s side, the front bumper torn loose and hanging. Midden didn’t want to know how it happened. Boomer would surely have an excuse. The man was getting less reliable. And now he was late.

Midden got out of the van and walked the few steps to the street, looking for pedestrians. Looking for Boomer in the new truck. There was nobody out in the cold and the wind.

He looked up through the bare tree branches. He’d never noticed before how the big old trunks stayed still while the tips of the branches whipped around in the weather. It could make you dizzy, watching. He’d forgotten how beautiful November could be in the Midwest.

He walked back to the loading dock. Fallen leaves crunched under his boots. He reached behind the broken brick for the key to the padlock. It was a good lock. He might take it with him when this was done.

Jesus, Midden thought. When this was done, he could buy as many locks as he would ever need.

Part of him would always be the farm kid in secondhand clothes, up to his elbows in thirdhand farming equipment, just trying to keep things running. Setting aside old parts against the day he might need them again. How his father had been. It wasn’t a bad way to view the world.

That wasn’t what he was doing now, though. Fixing things.

He was doing the opposite.

He looked at his watch. Boomer was late. Midden didn’t want
to roll up the door until he got here. Boomer was supposed to get the hand truck. Twenty gallons of fuel oil sloshing around in a fifty-gallon plastic pickle barrel was no picnic to move, even on a level surface. Midden doubted Boomer had remembered.

It bothered him. You had to be able to count on your team.

Midden told himself that he wasn’t having second thoughts. He’d done many things he wasn’t proud of. A few things that haunted him. This would be just one more. The paycheck would let him get out of this life forever.

Only the memories would remain.

There wasn’t much he could do about that.

He was ready for it to be over.

He’d go away somewhere. Somewhere out in the country, in the middle of nowhere. Mountains. Trees. No unreliable people.

Maybe that would end the dreams, the thoughts he couldn’t escape. But he doubted it. Even now, all he had to do was close his eyes to imagine it. The rising ball of black smoke and orange flame. The smell of burning bodies.

He heard engine noise, getting louder. He turned back toward the street and saw a Mitsubishi box truck coming up the block. The kind with the windshield right up front, easy to maneuver through these old neighborhoods. Boomer looked at him through the glass, his face like a punching bag.

Definitely less reliable.

Midden walked over as the truck came to a stop. “What happened?”

“That fucking jarhead blindsided me.” He sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. Maybe his jaw was broken.

“Tell me you didn’t kill the man. Or put him in the hospital. We can use him.”

Boomer’s ruined face twisted with anger. “I was just trying to keep an eye on him. But I was lucky to make it out of there. I wrecked my rig doing it.”

Midden found that he wanted to meet the Marine. Point of fact, he might need to, if this thing was going to get done at all.