Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(31)

“He hates screaming. His mother, my aunt, used to scream a lot. When he was fourteen he put his dad in the hospital for making her scream. You? He’ll probably kill you.”

She was lying, but it was a good lie. Told like it was an old story that she’d been telling for years. Felt real, and only the faintest tremor around her eye gave her away. Gibson wasn’t sure he would have caught it if he hadn’t been at the bar with her earlier. She was very, very good. He didn’t know whether to duck or applaud.

Swonger licked his lips dryly and let go of her wrist. “I was just being friendly.”

“We’re going,” Gibson said.

“Uh-uh.” Swonger leaned back in his chair and lifted his shirt to reveal the black beveled grip of a pistol in the waistband of his jeans. “She can go, but you and us have some conversating to do. Unless he’s your cousin too.”

Gibson looked at Lydia expectantly, but she didn’t budge. He didn’t know why he expected Lydia to bolt for the door; he hadn’t known her very long, but he already knew she wasn’t the bolting type. She took another sip of her drink and leaned forward conspiratorially.

“So,” she asked. “What are we talking about here?”

“What are we talking about, Gibson?” Birk asked.

Lydia caught Gibson’s eye, and he saw something click behind hers like a sniper adjusting a high-powered scope trained on his head.

“Gibson,” she repeated. “What a nice name, Ben.”

“Who the hell is Ben?” Birk asked.

“You tell this nice lady your name is Ben?” Swonger asked.

“Just let it go, okay?”

“Ma’am, this here is Gibson Vaughn. Famous computer hacker and varsity asshole.”

Gibson exhaled wearily. He glanced over at Lydia, expecting the third degree. Instead, she had fixed a shocked, confused, explain-how-the-world-works-to-me-you-big-smart-man expression on Swonger. It was a thing of beauty; her eyes had somehow grown three sizes until she looked like the most innocent babe lost in the most dangerous of woods. It was a hell of an act, one that would keep an attention whore like Swonger talking until the rapture.

“Who?” she asked meekly.

“Gibson Vaughn? Guess she hasn’t heard of you, big shot. Look up the Benjamin Lombard hack. That’ll catch you all up.” Swonger winked at Gibson.

“That was you?” she asked Gibson.

He nodded. No point in lying now.

“I remember when that happened. You were an idiot.”

“Still is,” Swonger said.

Gibson didn’t feel inclined to argue with either of them.

“Well, nice to meet you, Gibson Vaughn,” she said and smiled at him. But behind her eyes, he could see her tallying up all the ways he was going to pay for not playing straight with her.

“What are you two doing here?” What he really wanted to know was how they had followed him to New York. Or had even known to. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, and when he’d left the farm he’d been pretty damn definitive that Merrick was a no-go. Had they compromised his phone? Could these two hillbillies have hacked him? His natural paranoia fanned from a spark into flame.

“What did you think? That I wouldn’t catch up with you?” Swonger snorted. “Boy, you can’t hide from me.”

“No, he means, why are we here?” Birk said.

“I mean both.”

“Oh, why? Why’s easy. ’Cause you a backstabbing son of a bitch,” Swonger said. “I wondered why you sat up there talking to that vegetable stand all that time. But then I couldn’t find the magazine after you left. So I wondered, why would Gibson Vaughn take the magazine unless he was up to something?” Swonger held out both hands toward Gibson and Lydia. “And here we are. Are you selling us out to this bitch?”

Birk put up a hand. “You played us. It’s very disappointing. This is my deal. I brought you in on it.”

They sat back righteously and waited. For what? For Gibson to break down and confess his betrayal? Lydia was watching intently; he could hear her mental tape recorder running. It was irritating, and he was losing patience with all of them.

“So?” Gibson asked.

“So?” Birk repeated incredulously.

“So you work for us. That so what.”

“Like hell I work for you, Swonger.”

“I brought you in on it,” Birk complained.

“No, the judge brought me in, and the judge is the only thing keeping me in. You mean nothing to me.”

“I was going to cut you in.”

“Oh, you were going to cut me in. After I did all the work. Why should I cut you in at all? What do you even bring to the table?”

“What do you mean, what do I bring? It was my deal. We figured it out,” Birk said.

“Yeah, that was pretty clever of you. But you already told me everything you know. So, I ask again, what do you bring to the table now?”

“Oh, so you double-crossing us,” Swonger said.

“Jesus Christ. I can’t double-cross you if we never made a deal, dummy. You asked me to see the judge; I saw him. Don’t yell at me because you talk too much. Piece of advice: if all you have is information, don’t give it away for nothing.”

“We trusted you.”