Cold Harbor (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 3)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Mesmerized, Gibson got out and walked up the brick stairs and into the house. Swonger yelled that it wasn’t safe, but Gibson didn’t care. Some part of him needed to stand in the ruined house. He clambered up and over the debris from the collapsed upper floor. Running his fingers across the charred end of a cracked wooden beam that had been seared to a charcoal tip, his hand came away black. He held it to his nose to smell the cold smoke. A stuffed, one-eyed rabbit caught his eye. It was moldy and sodden; Gibson tried to brush the dirt away but succeeded only in knocking loose the rabbit’s remaining eye. He searched the rubble for the eye, and when he couldn’t find it, tossed the toy away. What good was a blind rabbit?

  Had anything of Ellie’s survived on Mulberry Court? He imagined that Nicole must have walked the wreckage of their home, scavenging odds and ends from her life while making plans to disappear. For the first time, he felt grateful that she had run, grateful for his ex-wife’s resourcefulness.

  Swonger joined Gibson in the ash and surveyed the scene. The gun had disappeared from his hand.

  “We made some mess, huh?” Swonger said.

  “That we did.”

  Swonger swore under his breath as if this were his first time seeing the fire-ravaged house.

  “Who?” Gibson asked.

  “Who you think?”

  “Deja Noble.”

  Deja Noble ran a crew out of Virginia Beach. Because Swonger knew her brother from prison, he and Gibson had turned to Deja in desperation in West Virginia. She’d helped them, but her involvement had come at a price. Gibson hadn’t considered her for the arson, but now the symmetry of it made perfect sense.

  “Consequence in the flesh,” Swonger said. “Hit us the same day as your ex-wife’s house.”

  “Anybody home?”

  Swonger shook his head.

  “You didn’t go to the police?”

  “And tell them what?”

  Gibson was familiar with that particular quandary.

  “You know I carried Deja out of the hotel during the fire? Saved her life.”

  “Good thinking,” Swonger said.

  “Guess it didn’t make us even.”

  “Not as such, no. Thinks we set her up and sent her and her men into that hotel to die.”

  “Which we did.”

  “Which we did,” Swonger agreed.

  “So she burned down our houses.”

  “For starters,” Swonger said.

  “What about the money? She didn’t take it, did she?”

  Gibson had cleaned out the last of Charles Merrick’s brokerage account and transferred it to the Birks and Swongers. Almost a million and a half dollars. Some of that money had been meant to take care of Judge Birk. It had been about the only good thing to come out of that disaster, and it would hurt to know it had been for nothing.

  “No, she don’t know nothing about that,” Swonger said. “Is that why you’re here? The money?”

  “Not as long as you took care of the judge like we agreed.”

  “Judge doing fine. In a home near Richmond. He’s all the way gone now. Waste of damn money, you ask me, but he has people taking care of him like you wanted. Got the address you want it.”

  Gibson nodded, sorry but not surprised to hear the judge’s dementia had worsened. When he had time, he’d stop in and pay his respects.

  “Where you been, Gibson?” Swonger asked. “And don’t give me no ‘away.’”

  Gibson told Swonger a sanitized version of the last eighteen months, leaving out the part where he’d been driven crazy in solitary confinement. Remarkably, Swonger seemed wholly unsurprised at the mention of the CIA’s involvement, as if the government’s abetting Charles Merrick’s crimes confirmed deep-seated paranoias. Only the end of the story seemed to bother him.

  “Motherfuckers just dumped you on the airfield like you was trash? That’s cold, dog. Real cold.”

  “Kind of why I’m here,” Gibson said and held out his shopping list. “I need your help.”

  Swonger looked it over. “Let’s go back to the house and cut it up.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The clapboard farmhouse was a beautiful home. Gibson could feel its history in the creak of the floorboards and the way Swonger had to put his shoulder into the front door to open it. Time had done its work, and the old house had eased comfortably into its foundations. The floors rose and fell in rolling swells, and none of the doors or windows sat squarely in their frames. When the wind picked up, the house expanded like a lung and a cold draft whistled through the hallways. Gibson zipped up his jacket, unable to decide if he’d been warmer inside or out.

  In the kitchen, Swonger poured him a cup of burnt coffee from a pot that had been sitting far too long. It was hot, though, and Gibson drank it without complaint. Swonger threw fresh logs on the kitchen fire that had burned down to glowing embers. When the wood caught, they sat at a banquette built under the kitchen windows. Gibson looked out on a small, frozen pond beside the house while Swonger read over his shopping list. Swonger’s brow furrowed as he tried to guess what it added up to.

  “What the hell is all this?” Swonger asked.

  “Don’t you still have contacts in Richmond? Is it a problem?”

  “That ain’t even the question, dog. Why you need a Yukon? You drove up in one. And what you need so many protein bars for? You feeding an army?”

  “No,” Gibson said. “Just one guy.”

  “That’s like a year’s supply.”

  “Two,” Gibson corrected.

  Swonger stared at Gibson, started to ask a question, then stopped, perhaps realizing that he didn’t want to know the answer. He went back to the list instead.

  “How clean does this gun got to be?”

  “Spotless,” Gibson said.

  “Ketamine? You planning on tranking a horse?”

  “Can you get it?”

  “This a farm, ’course I can get it.”

  “I take it back,” Duke said. “I like this guy.”

  “Okay, then,” Gibson said. “So will you help me?”

  Two men in work clothes barged in the kitchen door, stomping feet and talking loudly. They saw Swonger and stopped in their tracks.

  “Sorry, Mr. Swonger,” they said in unison.

  “I need the kitchen, fellas. Can you give my dad a hand out on three?”

  The men said they would and backed out of the kitchen, repeating their apologies. Swonger met Gibson’s eyes.

  “Mr. Swonger?” Gibson said.

  “You know how it is,” Swonger said shyly.

  Gibson smiled. “It has a nice ring to it. Looks like you’re really handling things here. I think it’s great.”

  Swonger glowed at the praise, but another thought intruded, and he grew somber. “I ain’t told you everything.”

  “Is it Lea? Did she make it?”

  Lea Regan aka Chelsea Merrick aka Charles Merrick’s daughter had been a friend and ally in Niobe, West Virginia. She’d had her own reasons for hating her father, but because Charles Merrick was her blood, Gibson had never entirely let his guard down with her. Still, they’d worked side by side, and Gibson knew her to be good people. She’d taken a bullet to the chest during the chaos inside the Wolstenholme Hotel. Swonger had pulled her out before fire engulfed the hotel, and the last Gibson knew, she’d been on the way to a hospital. But beyond that, he knew nothing.

  “Yeah, man,” Swonger said. “She pulled through.”

  “Good,” Gibson said with relief. “You in touch with her? I should let her know her father is out.”

  Swonger shook his head. “Ain’t seen her, dog. She lit out soon as she got out of the hospital.”

  There was sadness in Swonger’s voice that Gibson couldn’t decipher. He knew Swonger had been in love with Lea, although he wasn’t sure if Swonger knew it. Either way, Swonger had been too starstruck to act on his feelings. Probably for the best. Lea Regan and Gavin Swonger were from different worlds. Wherever she was, Gibson hoped she wa
s safe and happy. He would track her down and give her the news when he had time. He owed her that much.

  “So if it’s not that, what haven’t you told me?”

  “I work for Deja Noble now,” Swonger said. “I do, but I don’t. Tell the truth, whole farm is hers. It’s not, but it is, if you understand me.”

  “I don’t.”

  Swonger told him about Deja’s gunpoint ultimatum after the fire. How she’d become a silent partner in Longman Farm, paid off enough of the farm’s debt to keep it solvent. That the Swongers would be allowed to remain on the property and manage the farm. That “allowed” really meant “forced.” In exchange, the farm would become Deja’s personal depot as her crew moved merchandise in and out of the state.

  “Did the Birks go for it?”

  “Not exactly, but Christopher’s share of the money went a long way to convincing him not to force the issue. Not like he was pining away to be no farmer.”

  “You all right?”

  “Course I am. Got everything I ever wanted, didn’t I?” Swonger said with a weary chuckle. “So you know, I’ll have to let Deja know you was here. Nothing personal, but sometimes her people are watching, sometimes they ain’t. Can’t risk not telling her. Hope you understand.”

  Gibson nodded that he did. “Don’t jam yourself up on my account. Is she liable to come looking for me?”

  “Dog, I’m out of the Deja Noble prediction game. But, yeah, I wouldn’t bet against it. She still has some issues to work out with you. She’s sore about Truck.” Truck Noble was Deja’s warship of a brother. He’d used Gibson as a piñata until a bar owner in Niobe had broken a baseball bat over Truck’s head. Gibson had claimed responsibility for the whole thing to protect the bar owner from the Nobles.

  “What about him?” Gibson asked.

  “He’s not all there anymore.”

  “What part of him?”

  “The brain part,” Swonger said. “Big man don’t talk much no more. Deja didn’t appreciate you breaking her brother like that.”

  “Guess that’s fair.”

  “Still want my help?”

  Gibson nodded that he did.

  Swonger said, “Okay, but I need one thing from you.”

  “Name it.”

  “Don’t go messing with Deja Noble. I know you, you have that damned honorable streak. Think you always have to balance the ledgers. Far as I’m concerned, the ledgers are balanced as a mother. It ain’t ideal, but I got equilibrium. Things are working out right now. Guess I’m asking, can you leave Deja be, knowing what I told you?”

  It was a good question. “And if I can’t?”

  “Then I can’t help you. I’m sorry. Lot of her people died in that hotel, Gibson. But weren’t nobody home when she burned down our houses. Think on that. She showed us a piece of mercy. Just a little piece. But you go riling her up, she’ll pile the bodies up. Yours and mine. Can’t risk that collateral.”

  “And if she comes messing with me?” Gibson asked.

  Swonger shrugged. “Pistols at dawn, dog.”

  Gibson indicated he could live with that. As with Charles Merrick, Gibson couldn’t sustain any anger toward Deja or what she’d done. She didn’t owe him any loyalty. It had been an eye for an eye, and while hard, it also felt fair. Gibson hadn’t been there to speak for himself, so she’d taken it out on Nicole instead. And that was why Damon Ogden still had to answer for himself. The way Gibson saw it, Ogden had owed him loyalty—not to mention his life—but shown him none. That ledger he would balance.

  Satisfied, Swonger fetched a spiral-bound notebook, and the two men spent the next few hours hashing out the details. Swonger made meticulous notes in an illegible scrawl, asking questions but never prying into Gibson’s business. His questions were sharp and raised points that hadn’t occurred to Gibson. Gibson marveled at how much Swonger had grown up in only eighteen months. Ultimately, they split the list into two deliveries. Gibson wasn’t working on a traditional clock, but the sooner the better—he didn’t know how long he could hold his ghosts at bay.

  “When you need the first delivery?” Swonger asked.

  “Soon as possible.”

  “Give me a few days.”

  “Good enough,” Gibson said and gave him the number of one of his burner phones. He pulled out a roll of bills wrapped in a thick rubber band. The proceeds from selling Merrick’s watch. “How much?”

  Swonger sat back, stung. “Not taking your money, dog.”

  “This is business, Swonger.”

  “No, it ain’t, even. Put it away. You paid all you’re going to pay. You hear?”

  “Thank you.”

  The two men shook hands over the table, and Swonger smiled now that it was settled. “Ain’t nothing. Just tell me what it was all for someday.”

  Gibson wasn’t sure there’d ever be a someday, but he promised that he would. Satisfied, Swonger walked him to the front door. From the top of the staircase that led to the second floor, a woman’s voice called his name. Gibson looked up to see Lea. She smiled down at him, but he was too astonished to smile back. Still, he felt an unexpected rush of happiness to see her.

  Two thoughts occurred to him as he glanced at Swonger. First, there had been a time when Gibson had known Swonger’s mind thirty seconds before Swonger did. It scared him how easily he’d swallowed Swonger’s lie. Swallowed it without a moment’s hesitation. The madness that had ground him down in that cell had also eroded his ability to read people. If people had once been open books to him, then he was all but illiterate now. Second, he had no way to know if Swonger would hold up his end of their arrangement. He didn’t like having to take it on faith, but what other choice did he have?

  As Lea started down the stairs, Swonger let out a cry and bounded up to meet her. She put her arm around his shoulder, and together they came down one stair at a time. She looked pale and terribly thin. Swonger chided her for being out of bed, but Lea shushed him. At the bottom of the stairs, she threw her arms around Gibson. Gibson hugged her back while Swonger fetched a quilt from another room. Swonger put it around her shoulders and eased her into an armchair. Swonger said he’d be right back and went to make Lea a pot of tea. Gibson pulled up a seat close to her.

  “What happened?”

  “I got shot,” she said with a wan smile.

  “Eighteen months ago.”

  “Not like the movies, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Bullet went in here.” She pointed to a spot above her right breast and then traced the bullet’s path. “Clipped my clavicle here, and then bounced south like a pinball. Collapsed a lung. Nicked my intestine. Four surgeries so far. They had to go back in three times to get all the bone fragments. Then the secondary infections. That was not my favorite part. One little bullet. A .22. Can you believe that?”

  “Is he taking good care of you?”

  Lea’s face brightened. “Mama Swonger? He’s pretty much kept me going. Same thing with the farm. I don’t even recognize that boy some days.”

  “And you? Are you all right?”

  Lea shrugged. “You ever wish you could talk sense to who you used to be?”

  “Yeah, like either of us would have listened.”

  Lea laughed at that until it turned into a coughing fit. Swonger hurried back from the kitchen with her tea and rubbed her back until it passed.

  She thanked Swonger and looked at Gibson apologetically. “So enough of my tale of woe, what the hell happened to you?”

  Seeing Lea in her weakened state, Gibson hesitated to put more stress on her, but she had a right to know what had happened to her mother and that her father was free again. He took a deep breath and told her. When Gibson came to how he found her mother, Lea looked away and wiped tears from her eyes. She took Swonger’s hand and held it tightly. Swonger didn’t take his eyes off her.

  They’d all experienced the tragedy in Niobe but from different perspectives. Now, they spent the afternoon trading their war stories, f
illing in details for each other. Duke waited impatiently in the doorway, but Gibson needed this.

  “Do you know where my father is now?” Lea asked.

  “Only where I’d like him to be.”

  “We were so stupid. We should have gotten out of West Virginia while we had the chance,” Lea said.

  “Not sure we ever had one,” Swonger said.

  The plain truth of that quieted them. They’d all been too arrogant, too righteous, to play it safe. Looking around the room, Gibson saw the price they’d paid for it. They all did. Lea looked suddenly tired and made a joke about a full day’s work. Gibson began to feel he’d overstayed his welcome. He made his good-byes. Lea kissed him on the cheek, and Swonger saw him out. At the car, the two men embraced, and Swonger clapped Gibson on the back before stepping back.

  In a low voice, Gibson asked, “So are you two—”

  Swonger shook his head vehemently. “Naw, it ain’t even like that. I just look after her, is all. She keeps the books for the farm. Has like a calculator in her head.”

  “You should tell her. Life is short.”

  Swonger looked back at the farmhouse. “Woman like that, dog. You think she don’t know?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After the last trailer, the lights in the theater dimmed. Gibson gripped the armrests and tried to quell his rising panic. His foot started tapping, but he couldn’t stop it. He stared up at the screen, willing the movie to begin before he lost his nerve.

  Since his visit to Longman Farm, he’d been catching a movie at an Arlington multiplex in the afternoons after his shift. If nothing else, it gave him an opportunity to practice controlling his fear of the dark. It embarrassed him. He knew he had other, more serious psychological issues, but panicking every time the lights went out felt foolish. A child’s fear. Not that knowing it was irrational did anything to lessen its power over him. Through clenched teeth, he focused on slowing his breathing and holding his foot still. When the projector finally flared to life, his body uncoiled like it had been yanked free of an open power line. He went limp in his seat, exhaled hard, and took a long drink from his huge soda to wet his parched throat.