Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(29)

“Did you mean it, back there?” asked June. “You’ll protect me?”

Her face was tight, her eyes deep wells.

“Yes,” said Peter.

“But I’m the boss,” she said. “That’s the deal. I don’t like people trying to run my life, men especially. So I make the goddamn decisions. Not you. Me.”

“Yes.”

“You promise me.”

“I promise,” he said. “Cross my heart.”

“Then I want to hire you,” she said. “Whoever they are, I don’t think they’re going to stop. So I need someone.” A tear streamed down each cheek. “To watch out for me, while I work, while I find out who’s behind this. What’s really happening.”

The shrunken thing in his chest began to enlarge again.

“I can do that,” he said. “You don’t need to hire me.”

“Yeah, I do,” she said. She scrubbed at the tears with the heels of her hands. “How much do you charge?”

“Ten dollars a week. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”

“And I’m in charge.” She looked fiercely at him, her face red. It was important to her.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “But I don’t salute. Or wear a funny hat.”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were puffy but he could see the blaze in them again. The slight twitch of her lips that meant the start of a smile.

“Well,” she said. “We may have to renegotiate later.” She jerked her thumb at the Subaru. “Grab the rest of my stuff and get in the car. You’re driving.”

Peter turned back to Al, who’d heard everything. The mechanic walked over with his wallet out, a sheaf of bills in his hand. “This is everything I got on me,” he said, and jammed it into Peter’s hands. It was mostly hundreds and fifties, and at a glance Peter could tell it was almost two thousand bucks.

“Al.”

The older man shrugged. The pale sky reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes. “You really overpaid for that Mustang.”





12





SHEPARD



The phone vibrated in Shepard’s pocket. He’d ignored it twice in the last hour, but this time he carefully peeled off a latex glove and fished the phone from under the white Tyvek suit. The caller ID was blank, but this information was irrelevant. The phone was a throwaway, dedicated to a single client. He had several phones just like it.

“I’m in the middle of something,” said Shepard. “I’ll call you later.”

“Buddy, listen, something’s broken loose and it’s serious. I need you and your special skills up here ASAP.”

Shepard had spent a lot of time in hotels, waiting. First overseas, now here. As always, the caller’s voice reminded him of a television news anchor. Calm and cool on the surface, but unable to entirely conceal his excitement at the prospect of mayhem. And always working hard to sell the audience on his own credibility and authority.

The caller was a gifted salesman who had convinced many people to believe unlikely things. Shepard had seen it happen many times. Even now, the salesman was attempting to manipulate Shepard, appealing to his friendship and pride. Shepard remained unmoved.

Intellectually, he could recognize the emotional cues and perceive their intent. But the deep encoded signals were not received by his own inner equipment. He’d known this from a very young age. It had made him a lifelong observer of human nature, attempting to parse the hidden realities of others. He was still formulating his observations, but it was clear that the salesman’s skills were formidable. The man could sell ice cubes to Eskimos.

But not to Shepard.

“I’m working. I need to finish.” Shepard stood in a four-car garage beside an idling vintage Mercedes. The walls were clean and white. The garage doors were closed.

“You’re freelancing? I thought we talked about this.”

“We did. You weren’t willing to make up the income stream.”

“Well, wrap it up,” said the salesman. “This is important.”

Shepard looked through the window glass at the man slumped in the driver’s seat. The face was slack, the eyes shut. The chest rose and fell in a shallow, ragged rhythm, but the body was otherwise still.

“It’s almost done,” said Shepard.

The Mercedes was a long rectangular sedan, older than Shepard and recently restored to an impractical degree. The hose for a high-end German shop vacuum was secured in the car window by the simple expedient of running the window up far enough to clamp the hose in place, but not so far as to restrict the flow. A garden hose was more traditional for this use, but the vacuum’s hose had a larger diameter and would more effectively transfer the gases. The hose ran along the side of the car to the rear end, then curved several feet into the exhaust pipe for maximum efficiency.

“How are you doing it?”

The salesman was often interested in these details, but this was not his area. The salesman took care of clients and employees, the business aspects. Shepard did what he did.

But not only for the salesman. Shepard had other clients.

“You don’t need to know,” he said. “Something’s broken loose?”

He watched the man in the Mercedes as he spoke into the phone. He could see the slight bulge of the man’s eyeballs moving under his closed lids, as if he were having a particularly bad dream.