Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(23)

To his credit, Ogden didn’t put up a fight. The man had enough savvy to recognize an argument that he couldn’t win.

“And once Merrick is on the plane, I’m back in charge?”

“Of course, Damon, absolutely.” Ambrose smiled, now that the battle was won. “We just can’t have loose ends. Merrick has to be contained. You’ve got to be my man on this.”

Ambrose signaled to the waiter that he was ready to order. Ogden reached for a menu.

“That will be all. Get it done.”

Ogden put down the menu and stood without a word.

“And, Ogden. You do understand the consequences, don’t you? For all of us.”

“I do, sir. Yes.”

“I have every confidence. Drive safe.”





CHAPTER NINE


Charles Merrick sat on a bench, basking in the warm April sunshine. He liked his little corner of the yard by the vegetable garden, tended by a collective of diligent old-timers. Lifers, no longer a threat to anyone, doing time digging in the dirt until it was their turn to be planted. It comforted Merrick to know he wasn’t one of them. His time here was nearly done.

He finished rereading his interview. At this point, he could all but recite it from memory. Wisely, the magazine had abandoned the three-column profile piece and put him on the cover, where he belonged. Damn right they had—it was a showstopper. Vintage Merrick. And as a result, requests for interviews had been pouring into the prison ever since. Much to the consternation of Warden Meeks, who’d issued a media blackout.

Disappointing but predictable.

If Merrick had one quibble about the whole thing, it was that he wasn’t altogether happy with his photo. The lighting was atrocious, but it served its purpose, he supposed. If he were being absolutely honest, he liked how it made him look just a little dangerous.

“Merrick! Visitor!” yelled a guard from across the yard.

Merrick looked up. “Who is it?”

Had Warden Meeks changed his mind?

“Your lawyer. Get your ass moving. I’m not your damn secretary.”

The answer surprised Merrick. In the last eight years, his lawyer had made the inconvenient journey from Manhattan to Niobe, West Virginia, for a face-to-face exactly twice. Both times for intense strategy sessions that followed months of calls and e-mails. So the idea that Henry Susman had arrived at the prison unannounced made Merrick uneasy. Some kind of bad news. What else could it be? And this close to his release date? Very, very uneasy.

Merrick trailed behind the guard to the legal counseling rooms. The guard ambled along, thumbs in his belt, whistling tunelessly. From a step behind, Merrick glared at him to hurry up, his imagination concocting worst-case scenarios for his lawyer’s visit, and by the time they arrived, he was sweating prison-issue bullets. The guard unlocked the door and ushered him inside. Henry Susman stood up from the table and buttoned his suit jacket. Except it wasn’t Henry Susman. For one, Henry Susman was white, pushing sixty, and a paunchy five four on his best day. Not Henry Susman was black, midthirties, and a lean six foot.

“Charles, you look well,” Not Henry Susman said.

Merrick took the compliment in stride. “Good to see you . . . Henry. Been too long.”

The two men shook hands like old friends. The man who wasn’t Henry Susman smiled expectantly at the guard, who took the hint and excused himself. They waited in silence until they heard the door lock behind him. Merrick turned back to Not Henry Susman, whose warm smile was fast melting from his face. Merrick didn’t care for the expression that replaced it.

“I thought we weren’t to see each other again.”

“And we thought you’d keep your mouth shut,” Damon Ogden said.

“Ah. So you’re not here to congratulate me on my impending liberation? Damon, I’m disappointed.”

“It’s Agent Ogden. Now sit down and shut up.”

“Don’t be that way. How’s life at the CIA?”

“Sit. Down.”

It came out as a whisper but hit like a roar. Ogden took one step toward Merrick, who dropped quickly into the chair, heart pounding, mouth dry. The agent checked himself, hands clenching and unclenching. Merrick sensed that if he spoke again, Ogden would hurt him. Hurt him badly. Even after eight years in prison, Merrick had never been in a fight, and the prospect scared him. He tried and failed to keep his fear from showing. Ogden sat on the corner of the table, one leg on, one leg off, smiling down at his humiliation. He laid a copy of Finance magazine down on the table.

“You have well and truly screwed the dog, Merrick.”

“It was one interview.”

“You had it made and still shit all over us.”

“One interview.”

“The only interview,” Ogden corrected. He opened a legal-size file folder and slid a contract across the table, spinning it so it faced Merrick. He opened it to the last page.

“This your signature?”

“Yes,” Merrick muttered.

“What’s that? Don’t go getting shy on me now.”

“Yes.”

“Have we lived up to our end?”

Merrick nodded.

“That’s right. We have. Did we let you get sent to a medium-security prison for a hundred fifty years like your pal Bernie Madoff?”