Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Gibson looked at him, dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “I’m curious to see what happens.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope you find what you need.” The Fisherman pulled the collar of his coat tight. “Because they will bury you for this.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gibson liked working the industrial dishwasher. Over its roar, he couldn’t hear anyone and was grateful for the peace it granted him. Anyone but Duke Vaughn, whose voice he heard perfectly. They had paid their first visit to Damon Ogden’s neighborhood that morning, and Duke hadn’t stopped scheming since.

  When Sana put a hand on his shoulder, Gibson jumped a mile. Sana apologized profusely. Gibson apologized profusely. They both apologized once more for good measure, and then Sana pointed to the front of the restaurant: a police officer was here to see him. Gibson stifled his first instinct, which was to flee out the back. He didn’t like the visit coming so soon on the heels of his reconnaissance of Ogden’s neighborhood.

  “Be cool,” Duke said. “You haven’t done anything illegal yet.”

  “Besides meeting with the Chinese? Maybe they know what we’ve planned.”

  “Boy, you really think they’d send one measly Virginia cop if they knew that? SWAT would be dancing on your back.”

  His father had a point. This was something else. Gibson peeled off his heavy rubber gloves, dried his face on his apron, and went out front. Detective Bachmann, perched on one of the counter stools, pointed to the stool beside him. Gibson sat and studied his hands.

  “Nice haircut,” Bachmann said. “Like a whole new man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you?”

  “What do you want?” Gibson was in no mood to banter. Duke stood off to the side and tried to get his attention. Gibson ignored him as best he could; he was getting better at blocking out Duke and Bear when he was around people.

  “Just checking up on you. You seemed disoriented the last time we spoke. Wanted to see how you’re settling in. You have a job. That’s a good start.”

  “Living the dream.”

  That didn’t satisfy Bachmann, so Gibson gave him a family-friendly version of his recent activities: the basement room he’d rented and his landlady, Gloria Nakamura, a widow and a curmudgeon with a dim view of the government, who was more than happy to take the rent in cash so long as Gibson paid in advance and didn’t bring women home. Bachmann asked for Gibson’s new address while somehow making it seem a friendly gesture. Gibson thought it a good trick and gave the address to the detective, who jotted it down in his notebook.

  Gibson fed him a line of bullshit about updating his résumé and straightening out his finances. He left out the reconnaissance he’d been doing of the abandoned power plant that met his needs exactly. Instead, he told Bachmann about buying a 2002 Yukon on Craigslist. That he’d taken it for a test drive and that it ran well for a vehicle with 180,000 miles on the odometer. But he left out that he’d paid for it from money raised by the sale of Charles Merrick’s watch to a collector. He left out all the other interesting items that the Charles Merrick Gold Watch Fund had bankrolled. And he definitely left out tomorrow’s trip to Longman Farm to buy the hard-to-acquire items on Duke Vaughn’s shopping list.

  He didn’t tell the detective how badly he wanted a gun. How it had caught him by surprise because he intended to take Ogden alive, so why did he need a gun? He’d never felt any particular fondness for firearms. The Marines had taught him their care and use—five weeks of training before they’d entrusted him with live ammunition—which had instilled in him a healthy respect for their capabilities. But that was all. To him, firearms had always been tools and nothing more. He’d never felt an attachment to them before. Not the way he did now. This craving to feel the weight of a loaded gun in his hands.

  Ordinarily, acquiring a gun couldn’t have been easier. There were hundreds of ranges and gun shops in Virginia, but all would require a background check. If he were on a watch list, it would raise all kinds of red flags at Langley. Flags that he could ill afford, given his plans for Damon Ogden. His best bet was the secondary market: a gun show where sellers weren’t required to conduct background checks so long as they had no reasonable expectation that the buyer intended to commit a crime. Unfortunately, the next regional gun show wasn’t for another month, and Gibson had no intention of waiting that long. He asked himself who he knew who would have black-market contacts. One name leapt to mind. And that name owed him . . . At least that was how Gibson saw things.

  “Have you looked for your ex-wife?” Bachmann asked.

  “Found her.” Gibson saw no reason to lie about that.

  Bachmann looked disappointed. “You remember that restraining order?”

  “Does this look like Seattle to you?” Gibson asked.

  “Still, you think that’s wise?”

  “You know, I had a father, but I remember going to his funeral. So for the life of me, I can’t figure out who the fuck you are.”

  “Good one,” Duke said with a grin.

  Bachmann shrugged. “You go anywhere near her, and you’ll find out pretty fast who I am.”

  Gibson stood, his interest in this interview waning.

  “Walk me out,” Bachmann said, finishing the last of his coffee.

  “Walk yourself out.”

  “Hey.” Bachmann took hold of Gibson’s arm. “That assaulting-an-officer charge can come back anytime. So be a good boy and walk me out.”

  Bachmann held his gaze until Gibson relented and followed the detective out into the cold. Bachmann unlocked his car and sat in the driver’s seat to start the engine while Gibson stood and shivered.

  “Given any more thought to your statement?”

  “You mean, did I suddenly remember burning down my daughter’s house?”

  “Did you?”

  “Nicole told you I didn’t.”

  Bachmann shrugged in a familiar gesture of seen this, done that. “Yeah, a woman defending her loser ex-husband. A first in the annals of police work.”

  “I can’t help you, detective.”

  Bachmann tried a different tactic. “Well, let’s say for a second you didn’t do it. Any ideas who would want to settle a score with you?”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t even start with that. We both know your history, Vaughn. If it wasn’t you, it was someone sending you a message. Your family was just the envelope.”

  Unfortunately, Gibson did have ideas. Too many. But he wasn’t about to share his suspicions with a Virginia detective. That would only raise more questions that Gibson couldn’t afford to answer. Besides, figuring out who’d burned down the house wasn’t his priority. The fire was only a symptom. Ogden was the disease.

  “You do, don’t you?” Bachmann said.

  “No, not off the top of my head. But I’ll sleep on it.”

  “You do that,” Bachmann said amicably, shutting his door. Through the glass, he winked at Gibson and mouthed the words “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Gibson stood in the parking lot and watched until the car was out of sight. A red Acura pulled into the just-vacated spot. Two couples got out, men from the front, women from the back, even though one of the women was a good three inches taller than either of the men and could have used the legroom. The foursome laughed together about some joke from the car and gave him a wide berth as they bundled into the diner. Gibson felt a visceral, contact hate for them and stood in the cold, wondering why. They’d done nothing to warrant his rage. It wasn’t until he passed them on the way back to the kitchen that he recognized it for what it was: jealousy. He resented their laughter, their happiness, their easy camaraderie. Gibson wished he shared such a bond with someone who was not a ghost.

  His thoughts went to Jenn Charles. Missing for two years now. Neither he nor Dan Hendricks had seen or heard from Jenn since Atlanta. Before the eighteen months in a cell, Gibson had hunted for Jenn and George Abe but found not a trace of either. Now when he thought of t
hem, it was in the past tense. He realized that while he’d been locked away he’d quietly declared them dead. He hoped he was wrong. He missed Jenn and on some level knew that she was one of the few people who could help him. Ironic, given that she didn’t particularly like him. But she understood him. Toby liked him but didn’t remotely understand him.

  On impulse, he took out one of his new phones and dialed the last number he knew for Dan Hendricks.

  Surprisingly, Hendricks picked up on the second ring. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Gibson.”

  There was a sizeable pause. “Is Tupac or Elvis with you?”

  “Not recently.”

  “Damn. Looks like I lost the dead pool. Where’ve you been?”

  “It’s a long story. How are things? What have I missed?”

  “The Cubs won the World Series,” Hendricks said.

  “You are kidding me.” Gibson wasn’t a Cubs fan, but he loved baseball, and it reminded him how out of touch he was with the world.

  “You really didn’t know that?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Cubs took it in seven.”

  “Well, that’s just fucking fantastic.”

  “Chicago seemed to think so.”

  “Have you heard from Jenn or George?” Gibson asked, working up the courage to raise the question that he’d called about.

  Another pause. “No. Nothing.”

  Gibson felt himself sag, physically and emotionally. “What do you think that means?” He knew exactly what it meant but needed to hear it said in plain English. Hendricks had picked up one hell of a bedside manner during his twenty-year stint as a cop in Los Angeles. Gibson could count on him to pull no punches.

  “It means it’s been over two years. Either they’re dead or they wish they were.”

  Gibson let that sink in. It was a harsh assessment, but he could find no fault in it. Two years was a long time. Too long. He could add another name to the list of people that he’d failed.

  “You still there?” Hendricks asked.

  Without Jenn to connect them, Hendricks and he didn’t have much to say to each other. Gibson had never been Hendricks’s favorite person.

  “I gotta go,” Gibson said.

  That seemed to surprise Hendricks, who traditionally was the one in a hurry to get off the line. “You all right? This a good number for you?”

  “Probably not for long,” Gibson said. His plans for Damon Ogden would involve swapping cell phones regularly.

  “Keep in touch. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Well, it is a new year.”

  Hendricks chuckled at that. “Auld lang—”

  Gibson hung up and went back inside. He had a lot of dirty dishes to clean.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gibson had been to Longman Farm once before.

  Nineteen months ago. Starting him down a long path that had led to his detention by the CIA. It had been the height of spring. The countryside had sparkled with new life.

  Not like today.

  Today the barren trees reached up like dying nerves into the low-hanging sky. This was another beginning, and Gibson couldn’t help but read stark metaphor into the landscape.

  “Kid, you’re starting to get on my nerves with all your moping around,” Duke said.

  “Mind your own business, then.”

  “Isn’t there a ball game on?”

  “It’s January,” Gibson said.

  “That means pitchers and catchers report next month. Getting close.”

  Gibson flipped on the radio, looking for anything to distract his father. He found an oldies station with Jackson Browne singing about life on the road. Duke sang along, and for once, Gibson didn’t mind so much.

  Gibson didn’t see the sign that marked the break in the trees that led back to Longman Farm. He realized his mistake a mile down the road and swung out onto the shoulder to turn around. He’d missed it the other time he’d been here, and a prickling déjà vu raised hairs on his neck. Another bad omen.

  Duke snorted and shook his head.

  Back at the turnoff, Gibson thought that the old sign might have seen a coat of yellow paint since he’d been here last. They bumped up the uneven gravel road to the gate that announced Longman Farm officially. The rusted gate had been fixed, and the long, curving drive up to the big house had been repaved. Everywhere he looked, Gibson saw mended fences and other indications of upkeep. Last time the farm had been practically falling down around itself, but no longer.

  Gavin Swonger waited on the front porch like an upright nail. The last eighteen months might have been good to Longman Farm, but time hadn’t worked any magic on Swonger’s beard. It was the same mangy patchwork of scruff and acne. Still, there was something different about him that Gibson couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something in Swonger’s face had changed, his features heavier, eyes purposeful and silent. Or perhaps it was his heavy work pants, the boots, or the thick sleeveless fleece over a flannel shirt. All Swonger had ever wanted to be was a farmer. He looked the part now.

  Apart from the black pistol in his hand.

  Bachmann had asked if he had any idea who had burned down Nicole’s house. Swonger hadn’t been one of the names Gibson considered. They’d had their differences in West Virginia, but Gibson thought they’d parted on good terms. Almost friends. Then again, perhaps that had been the money talking.

  Gibson stopped the Yukon but left it in gear. Just in case he’d been wrong about Swonger. But when Swonger ducked his head to see who was behind the wheel, Gibson realized that he hadn’t carried the gun out onto the porch specifically for him. He’d simply seen an unfamiliar vehicle come up the drive and reached for a weapon. A strange way to greet company. Maybe life hadn’t been so good at Longman Farm after all.

  Gibson killed the engine and eased out of the driver’s seat, hands in plain sight. He’d parked so he could keep the Yukon between himself and the porch.

  “Hey, Swonger.” Gibson pointed to the pistol. “That for me?”

  “Gibson?” Swonger asked, half greeting, half disbelief.

  “More or less.”

  Swonger nodded but didn’t come rushing down from the porch to embrace him. Movement around the side of the house caught Gibson’s eye. A man he didn’t recognize had eased into a crouch and sighted a rifle on him. Not exactly a hero’s welcome.

  “Where you been at?” Swonger asked.

  “Away.”

  “Away? This ain’t the time for no games.” Swonger’s thumb flicked off the safety—maybe the gun was for him after all.

  Gibson realized what was different about Swonger. When they had first met, Gibson had dismissed him as one more yard-boy ex-con who talked a whole lot tougher than he’d ever hope to be. It had taken time to recognize the intelligence behind Swonger’s surly, antagonistic posturing. Longer still to respect Swonger as a man, despite his bluster. All that had burned off now. There was a calm, a lean simplicity to the ex–car thief that hadn’t been there before.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Gibson said.

  “And you so good with words. Why you here? Let’s start with that. This about your house?”

  The question caught Gibson by surprise. Maybe it had been naïve of him not to connect Swonger to the fire. This was going to take an ugly turn if Swonger were mixed up in it.

  “Why?” Gibson asked. “You have something to do with it?”

  “That what you think?”

  “Not until just now.”

  Swonger looked away, thinking. “Let’s take a drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Ain’t far. We’ll take your car.” Swonger finally came down from the porch but gestured with a hand for Gibson to put his hands up. “Cole’s got to search you.”

  “Cousin Cole?” Gibson asked.

  “Yeah,” Swonger said. “He got released six months ago.”

  “Nice to see a man turn over a new leaf,” Gibson said as the man with the rifle frisked him.

&
nbsp; “He’s clean,” Cole said, standing back up.

  “All right,” Swonger said. “Let’s take that drive.”

  Swonger got in the passenger side and rested the gun on his thigh. Cole got in the back beside Duke, who stared daggers at the back of Swonger’s head.

  “Go for his gun,” Duke said between gritted teeth. “He was in on it. He’s taking you somewhere to bury your body. Do him before he does you.”

  “We don’t know that,” Gibson said sharply to the rearview mirror. He didn’t like this side of his father. Duke had changed since Gibson had decided to go after Ogden. Hardened. It bothered Gibson but not as much as the knowledge of what he might do if Swonger had been involved with the fire.

  “Don’t know what?” Swonger asked, glancing at Cole in the backseat, who shrugged in confusion.

  “What?” Gibson said dumbly, realizing his mistake.

  Swonger gave him a puzzled look. “You all right, dog?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Where are we going?”

  Swonger directed him around the big house and deeper onto the farm. Cattle stood glumly in a frozen field and watched the SUV disappear around a bend and down a sloping hill. Swonger glanced back and forth from the road to Gibson. As if Gibson might vanish if Swonger didn’t keep a proper eye on him.

  “Here,” Swonger said, pointing to a gap in a tall hedgerow.

  Gibson pulled in and stopped before the blackened ruins of a house. Fire had gutted it, collapsing the roof except for a portion in the back corner, which stood defiantly against the elements. The surviving brick walls left some semblance of a floor plan, and the fireplace rose like the charred spine of an animal sacrificed to a primitive god.

  “Welcome to Casa Swonger.”

  While Longman Farm belonged to Hammond Birk’s family, Gavin Swonger’s father had been the longtime farm manager. Swonger had grown up here. His family had lived on the property and done the lion’s share of the day-to-day work.

  “What happened?” Gibson asked, staring out at the house.

  “Consequence happened.” Swonger wouldn’t say more.