Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(11)

Christopher Birk came out the front door with a cup of coffee, his grass-green polo shirt clashing ever so slightly with his red chinos. He shook Gibson’s hand like they were old friends.

“Thanks for coming,” Birk said.

“Nice place you have here. How many acres?”

Birk looked around as if seeing the farm for the first time.

“Three hundred, all told. Should have seen it when I was a boy. We had more than double that. Dad sold off some to developers in ’09.”

Gibson heard a calcified bitterness in his voice.

“To develop what? I didn’t see anything driving up.”

“Well, that’s the kicker. Developers went out of business in ’10. The land’s been tied up in the courts ever since. Now it just sits there, going to seed. Not sure there’s anything sadder than land going unworked. Feels wrong, know what I mean?”

“You didn’t strike me as a farmer.”

“Because I’m not one,” Birk said. “Doesn’t mean I appreciate my family’s farm falling apart.”

A voice from around the side of the house: “That him?”

“Yeah, we’re out front, Gavin,” Birk yelled back.

The Shard pushed through a row of bushes that had once formed a neat hedge but had been left to run wild. He pulled off a pair of thick work gloves, smiled a caved-in smile, and pointed at Gibson.

“Told you he’d show.”

“He’s here.”

“Told you,” said the Shard again, like an older brother who couldn’t not have the last word.

“I’m here. I think we’ve settled that. Gavin, right?”

“Nobody calls me Gavin. I answer to Swonger.”

“He called you Gavin,” Gibson pointed out.

“Yeah, and been telling him for fifteen years not to. College ain’t what it used to be.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“That’s right, you wouldn’t. His uncle did you the Marines, yeah? Good on you.”

Birk was getting impatient. “What’s in the bag?”

“A little something for the judge,” Gibson said. It had taken him three stops to find it. “Is he here? I didn’t drive down here so you two could argue the fine points of where I am.”

“Ain’t no call to be talking out your neck.” Swonger took an angry step toward Gibson.

“Who is this guy?” Gibson asked Birk. “I know you’re the nephew, but what’s Cletus here got to do with it?”

Birk sprang forward to block Swonger as he lunged for Gibson.

“My name’s Swonger, you son of a bitch. Swonger.”

Either Birk was stronger than he looked or Swonger allowed himself to be guided away, blustering at Gibson as he went. Gibson stood impassively on the steps while Birk soothed Swonger’s ruffled feathers out in the driveway, then came back.

“Look. Swonger’s particular about his name. So no nicknames, okay?”

Gibson shrugged. “Fine, but who is he?”

“Grew up with me. His daddy’s the farm manager. The Swongers live a half mile up. And, yeah, they’re a part of this.”

“His dad runs the farm? So what does your dad do?”

“My dad? He drinks.”

That ended the discussion. Swonger leaned against Gibson’s car like he owned it, smoking a cigarette and still arguing some invisible argument. Watching him, Gibson felt slightly reassured. Whatever else was happening here, Birk and Swonger didn’t strike him as part of any grand conspiracy. Perhaps the Spectrum timing and the nosy visitor to the Nighthawk were just coincidences after all.

“Look, I’m here to talk to the judge. Is he here, or not? I’ve got family in Charlottesville to visit if he isn’t.”

“You’re here to see him,” Swonger said with a smile. “No one said nothing about talking.”

Gibson didn’t know what to make of that.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Birk said. “He lives in the back house.”

“He lives here on the farm?”

“Couple of years now,” Birk said. “Come on. I’ll take you out to see him.”

Birk led Gibson around the side of the house and down a path between two fields. Thirty head of cattle watched their progress with a lazy pivot of their necks. Swonger, trailing behind, stopped to fix a section of fence that had collapsed.

The hedgerow on their left gave way, and they came up on the “back house.” It was, in reality, an ancient single-wide trailer set on a cracked cinder-block foundation. Whatever color it had once been, it had long since sloughed off its paint like dead skin. Trash lay on the path leading up to the door, which Birk tried to sweep out of the way with an embarrassed foot. To the right of the front door, under a makeshift awning, three faded, folding patio chairs sat in the dirt around a ramshackle card table.

“He lives here?” Gibson tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

During his trial, Judge Birk had cut a grand figure, imperious in his black robes, with a patrician bearing that overawed everyone in the courtroom. Gibson hadn’t known much about courtrooms but knew a little something about power, and even he could see that the lawyers on both sides were intimidated by Birk. Gibson assumed the judge’s family background would match it. His father had often warned against making assumptions about people based on too few data points. The farm, these people, this was far from the Virginia aristocracy. So who was Hammond Birk?