Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(35)

“Interesting theory.”

“I’ve got more.”

Gibson believed him.

“So you really think you can get your hands on the money for us?” Birk asked.

“Let’s get something straight—I don’t work for you, and I don’t owe you anything.”

Birk started to argue.

“Let me finish.” Gibson cut him off. “I do owe your uncle something. Everything, actually. So I’m going to go home, get a few things, and head down to West Virginia and see about Merrick’s money. See if I can set things right for your uncle and your family. Don’t know if I can yet, but I have an idea about how it might be done. Will you let me do that?”

“Sure,” Birk said. “I just want to know what it is.”

A tricky question because Gibson only half knew himself. His epiphany from the interview was simple: Merrick hadn’t parked his money in a bank somewhere. No, somehow, some way, Merrick’s money was in play. Working. Appreciating. Idle money is wasted money. A direct quote from a Merrick interview in ’04. Gibson had found similar sentiments throughout the man’s public-speaking career.

Another thing Gibson knew: if Merrick was investing his money, his ego would never allow those investments to be managed by others. Not for the last eight years. In these volatile markets? Not a chance. It also did not seem like something he could do from inside a federal prison. That meant Merrick had a confederate on the outside, someone to mind the store. They’d be in constant contact somehow, and that, ladies and gentlemen, constituted a network. It didn’t matter whether they communicated via smoke signals or encrypted e-mails . . . if Gibson could find it, he could hack it.

If he could find it.

And that was his big problem—he couldn’t even start planning the hack until he knew what kind of network Merrick was using. And that would take time, which, with Merrick’s impending release, was not on his side.

Gibson laid out the situation to Birk and Swonger. To his surprise, they bought it.

“What do you need from us?” Birk asked.

“Okay. First thing, you’re going to have to scrape together a bankroll.”

“I’ve got four thousand dollars,” Birk said, producing a roll of bills wrapped in a rubber band.

“That’s it?”

Birk looked hurt. “Unless we sell some of the farm equipment. It’ll take time, but I could raise more.”

Underfunded and on a clock—things were getting off on stellar footing. Still, Gibson told him to hold off; he didn’t like the idea of crippling the Birks’ farm on a hunch. He gave Birk instructions on setting up an offshore bank account. If they got lucky and Merrick really did have money they could find, then they’d need somewhere to move it.

Swonger had sat silently stewing, but couldn’t hold his peace any longer. “Ain’t no way I’m riding the bench while you take our money.”

That wasn’t exactly a surprise to Gibson. A thought occurred to him. A horrible one, but it might be a solution. Take Swonger with him to West Virginia. Christ, were there really no alternatives? He glanced over at Swonger, who was eying him suspiciously. Well, at least this way he’d see him coming. Keep his enemy closer, isn’t that how it went?

“If we go together . . . you think you can behave yourself? Let me handle things?”

“Long as you do like you say you will. I’ll let you do your thing.”

“All right, then,” Gibson said.

“What about me?” Birk asked.

“I’ll take you as far as Union Station. After that, you’re riding the rails.”

Birk began feebly to protest.

“Or the bus, I don’t really give a damn. Look, this isn’t a package deal. One of you can tag along. The other one goes back to the farm and looks after the judge.”

“What? I’m supposed to go babysit the old man?” Birk said.

“Yeah. Between now and when I find that money, Hammond Birk better be living like a damn king. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“It means every day is bath day.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The Scion pulled into the parking lot of Gibson’s building in the late afternoon. Gibson didn’t plan on staying long; he needed to make arrangements to be gone for a few weeks. He wanted to get down to Niobe, West Virginia, and take the lay of the land. Merrick had twenty-three days left on his sentence, and Gibson would need every minute of every day if he were to have a chance of pulling this off.

“Make yourself at home,” Gibson said, flipping on a light switch.

Swonger looked around. “Damn. How you living?”

Gibson shrugged, realizing that Swonger was the first person that he’d let see his place. A depressing thought all on its own. He knew his apartment was bare bones. He’d moved in after the separation and never expected to stay this long, buying used or broken furniture on Craigslist and refurbishing it. Nothing hung on the walls. No decorations or plants. It kept him dry when it rained. That was the best you could say for it.

“Did Goodwill charge you for any of this stuff?” Swonger shook his head. “They got more comfortable chairs in the joint.”

“Take it easy.”

“No, man. Respect. Take a special kinda guy to live like a bum but still act like a condescending prick all the time.” Swonger opened the nearly empty refrigerator. “I think someone broke in and robbed your icebox.”