Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(12)

“Yep,” said Birk in answer to Gibson’s question. “Hold up here a second.” Birk walked up to the front door but didn’t knock. “Uncle Hammond? Hey!” Birk called. “Old man, you in there?”

Gibson heard movement from inside. A man appeared at the door in a filthy orange University of Virginia T-shirt and underwear that had once been white but now looked gray with age.

“Is it bath day?” the Honorable Hammond D. Birk asked, moving from foot to foot like a little boy who needed to pee. His long, unkempt beard swayed joylessly with him beneath eyes stained the jaundice yellow and red of a poisoned skyline.

It was hard to reconcile this man with the judge who had once silenced a packed courtroom with a single upraised hand. It had been more than ten years, but the judge’s condition owed itself to much more than the passage of time.

“No, it’s not bath day. Bath day is Wednesday. This is Tuesday. Now come on, I have someone here to see you.”

“Who?” the judge asked.

“Gibson Vaughn. You remember. I told you he was coming.”

The judge took a step back into the trailer, his expression uncertain.

“Come on, now. Don’t make me come in there.”

“I don’t know . . .”

Birk caught hold of the judge’s wrist. The judge tried to pull free, but his nephew was too strong and dragged him out the door.

Gibson didn’t care much for bullies.

“Hey,” he said. “Take it easy.”

The judge stopped struggling and looked in Gibson’s direction. At first, Gibson saw only confusion and fear in his eyes. Then, like smoke clearing, a distant awareness sparked, followed swiftly by shame.

“I should put on some trousers,” the judge said.

“Yeah,” said Birk, “I think that would be fine.”

The judge disappeared back into the trailer. Birk and Gibson stared each other down while they waited. After a minute, the judge called for his nephew.

“Great. Now I got to go in there. Make yourself at home.” Birk gestured to the card table and disappeared into the trailer.

From inside, Christopher Birk scolded his uncle the way an exasperated adult might upbraid a child. But more than that, an angry, loveless undercurrent colored the nephew’s tone. It broke Gibson’s heart. How had a man as vital and wise as the judge come to live here, like this? A pariah to his own family. The man should be in assisted living, not dying alone in a trailer.

It dawned on Gibson now why the judge had stopped answering his letters. It hadn’t been out of anger over losing his judgeship; he simply hadn’t been able. Was that also why he had defied Benjamin Lombard in the first place? Because he already knew he was sick and wouldn’t be fit for another term on the bench anyway? Lombard had tried to play politics with a man whose diagnosis had transcended career aspirations. Life had a sense of humor to it, Gibson had to give it that.

Swonger wandered up from fixing the fence and leaned against the trailer just out of Gibson’s line of sight.

“You work on the farm with your dad?” Gibson asked, not turning his head.

“It look like there’s anything to work on around here?” Swonger said. “Nah, man. I help Pops out, but the Birks barely pay him anything anymore.”

“So what do you do?”

“What do I do? Fuck you is what I do.”

“Good talking to you as always, Swonger.”

Swonger spat in the dirt. Nephew and uncle reemerged. Birk led his uncle to the nearest chair. Gibson stood and held out his hand to the judge.

“Hello, sir.”

The judge glanced at his nephew.

“Gibson Vaughn,” Birk prompted.

“Ah, yes. Thank you for coming,” the judge said and shook Gibson’s hand. His skin was the texture of muslin.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Judge Birk stared at him for a moment, then looked back to his nephew hopefully. “Is it bath day?”





CHAPTER FIVE


“Dementia,” Christopher Birk said. “Runs in the family, so I got that waiting on me.”

Gibson tried to catch the judge’s eye, but Judge Birk avoided his gaze.

“He’s a little anxious,” Birk explained. “He gets like this around new people.”

“I’m not new people.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Is he . . . is it always like this?”

“Comes and goes. Been not so bad lately, I suppose. Hit or miss on clothes. Has trouble with things that turn on or off. Just doesn’t understand the concept anymore. Flooded the trailer three times before Swonger’s dad shut the water off for good.”

“He doesn’t have running water?”

“Think that’s what the man said,” Swonger said.

Gibson swiveled in his chair and fixed a look on Swonger. “Why don’t you come sit at the grown-up table where I can see you?”

Swonger didn’t move.

“Bottled water’s safer,” Birk explained.

Gibson leaned in close to the judge. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

The judge still wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Did he even write the letter?” Gibson asked Christopher Birk.