Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(90)

“Not everything,” said Lewis. “But shit, him?”

Peter put his arm up and waved. The Escalade came up fast, June’s window down.

“That was my dad,” she said. “On the dock? In the plane? That was my dad.”

“I know,” said Peter. “We’ll talk about it.”

Lewis pointed his rifle at the bodyguard, red-faced and bleeding on the ground. “What about him? Not much of a severance package. Or you suppose this an independent contractor?”

Peter walked around to the passenger door. “Leave him. I need to make a phone call.”

Lewis shook his head. “I’d say you getting soft, but I know better. I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing.”

Peter looked at him across the hood of the silver Escalade. “Me too.”

Lewis picked up the man’s big black Colt 1911 and held it casually in one hand, looking down at the bodyguard as he struggled to sit up. “You home free today,” he said. “Take that as a gift. Find a new employer. I see you again, I’m gonna assume you got bad intentions. We clear?”

“Yeah,” the big man said thickly, not looking at Lewis. “We’re clear.”

Lewis tucked the pistol into his coat pocket, then climbed into the Escalade and June drove them out of there.

? ? ?

AS SHE ROCKETED toward the south end of Lake Union, Peter pulled out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. On the other end, it rang and rang, until, finally, someone answered in a raspy voice. “Stan’s Backwoods Bar and Grill, you kill ’em, we grill ’em.”

“Dad, it’s Peter.”

“Holy shit! The prodigal son lives! Your mother was a little worried, you weren’t returning her calls.”

This was vintage Stanley Ash. A profane enthusiasm combined with a gentle reminder about good behavior.

“A bear ate my phone, Pops. But that’s not why I’m calling.” He could hear the murmur of the Internet radio Peter had bought him in the background, probably playing some NPR podcast. His dad had a longstanding crush on Terry Gross. “You’re in the shop, right?”

“Yessir, I am. Gluing up some cherry for a dining room table.”

Peter felt a surge of affection. He could picture his dad standing by the big worktable, glue on his fingers, sawdust on the sleeves of his old Pendleton shirt, scrap lumber popping in the woodstove. He could almost smell the blue enamel coffeepot perking away. His dad drank roughly a thousand cups of coffee per day.

“Listen,” said Peter, “if your hands are free, do me a favor. Go to the shelves over the radial arm saw. On the top shelf, you’ll find a metal box.”

“Ha! I thought that was yours. Found it in January when I got stir-crazy and spent a few days cleaning. Not a great place to put your life savings, son.”

Peter hadn’t exactly told his parents everything.

“Dad, you and Mom are going on a trip, and you’re taking Uncle Jerry and Aunt Max. At least two weeks, leaving today. Take a month if you want. There’s a credit card in that envelope. It has your name on it but the bills go to me. It has a fifty-thousand-dollar limit, so spend as much as you want. Where have you always wanted to go?”

His father’s voice was kind. “Son, we can’t just pick up and leave. We have obligations. The Jarretts want their dining room table. Your mom has students. And I’m not spending your hard-earned money.”

“Dad, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m in the middle of something. I agreed to protect a friend, and now some bad people have threatened my family if I don’t back off. They know the address of the house. So make whatever excuses you need to make, but you’re going. And don’t use your own credit cards, because they’ll be able to track them.”

In his father’s silence, Peter could hear the man’s attention sharpen as he made his calculations.

Stanley Ash was fifty-seven. He’d trained as a mechanical engineer at Northwestern, but in the late 1970s he decided he wanted to work for himself and left Chicago to start a carpentry business with his brother. He still swung a hammer most days, unless he was kayaking or ice fishing with his buddies or hiking in the Porcupines with Peter’s mom.

Peter knew he was thinking now about the steps he would take to protect his home. His dad got his deer every year, and usually a few on his buddies’ licenses, too. He still kept a shotgun by the kitchen door.

“Dad, these are professional killers, believe me. Staying is not an option. You know Mom’s always wanted to see Italy. You don’t even need to pack. Just buy what you need when you get there.”

“Son, I never want to pry. But you need to tell me more. For starters, how can you afford this?”

“I’ll explain when you get back, okay? I promise. But spend what you need to spend. Buy yourself a new suit, on me.” Peter put on his Marine lieutenant command voice. “Now get on the phone and buy some goddamn plane tickets. Do you understand?”

His dad sighed. “Fuck a duck. Okay, son. But you owe me a serious conversation.”

“Agreed. Dad, I’m sorry about this. I love you.”

“Back atcha, kiddo.”

When Peter hung up, June looked at him. “He threatened your parents?”

Peter showed his teeth. “Yeah.”