Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(70)

He couldn’t say for certain how long it was before the knocking at the side door made its way down to his conscious brain. He threw open the door with an apology, expecting Swonger. Instead, it was a trim Asian man with a doughy face and short-cropped hair, uniformly black apart from a small, perfect shock-white circle above his temple. He wore blue jeans and wading boots; a frayed fishing vest with a dozen densely packed pockets hung heavily over a green plaid shirt. Gibson recognized him from the hotel. They’d passed in the hall a few times, but the fisherman smiled at Gibson like they were the oldest of friends.

“Mr. Vaughn,” he said in a clipped, inflectionless cadence. “Have I come at a bad time?”

Mr. Vaughn, not Mr. Quine. That did not bode well.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“A friend. Perhaps an ally. May I come in?”

Gibson couldn’t place the accent, but if he had to guess, it would be somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Or maybe midwestern? The man’s accent kept drifting.

“I’ll come out,” Gibson said, conscious of the half million in stolen equipment behind him.

The man put a gentle hand on his chest. “Better that I come in. Trust me, I’ve seen a Stingray before.”

The mention of the Stingray knocked Gibson sideways. This man knew his name and his business here in Niobe. His immediate reaction was fear, anger fast on its heels, panicky questions piling up on his tongue. But he also felt admiration for the man’s ploy—a threat painted as reassurance and framed with a smile. Gibson knew the role he was expected to play here and held his tongue, unwilling to play defensive or nervous. Instead, he stepped aside and invited the fisherman inside.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put out cookies.”

The fisherman shook his head. “No. You’re overdoing it. Less is more.”

“Fine, why don’t you just feed me my lines?”

“May I?” The fisherman indicated the van.

“Be my guest,” Gibson said with a tired wave of his hand and watched him poke around in the back of the van. The man wasn’t law enforcement; beyond that Gibson had no idea.

“I admired your work at the police yard. It was well executed.”

“Are you with Deja?” Gibson asked and regretted it immediately. It was a stupid question that did nothing but give information away cheaply. He’d get none in exchange.

The fisherman winced in mock sympathy at Gibson’s slip. “I’d like to offer my help.”

“You want to help me? How?”

“You have a Stingray—that’s good—but there are more cell phones in Niobe Prison than you’ve been led to believe. Do you know when Charles Merrick uses his? Because otherwise, think about the time and effort it will take to sort through all the background noise to pinpoint Merrick’s number. A week? Two? Does your schedule have that kind of leeway? Charles Merrick will be released in eleven days.”

Gibson knew it didn’t and had been fretting over this exact issue. “What are you offering?”

“The day and time.”

“Just like that? That’s a generous offer, but I already have a lot of partners. What exactly do you want in return?”

“Only your success, Mr. Vaughn.”

“Again, very generous. What’s your interest in all this?”

“That is between Charles Merrick and myself.”

Call him a cynic, but Gibson didn’t believe in selfless acts, and he didn’t like not knowing the agenda behind this generosity. What did Merrick have that was more valuable to this man than money?

“Who are you?” Gibson asked.

“I’m the gift horse,” the fisherman said. “Let’s leave my mouth out of it, yes?”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“And if I say no?”

Knowing when to expect Merrick’s call would be a huge corner to cut, saving them at least a week. Gibson didn’t trust that this man had a generous bone in his body, and he didn’t like how much the fisherman knew about him or how little he knew about his new patron. It did underscore how unpredictable Niobe had become. They needed to get out of town as soon as possible.

“You’re not going to say no.”

Gibson knew that to be true. “When?”

“How soon will you be operational?”

“I need a couple of days to really master the software. It’s not overly complex, but I’m not ready to run it in the field yet.”

“That is unfortunate, because the next opportunity will be tomorrow. After that, Merrick’s schedule is murky.”

Gibson stared over at the Stingray and did some mental calculations. “Morning or afternoon?”

“Afternoon. Between two and four. Can you be ready?”

It would be cutting things close, very close, but it was feasible. It had to be done, so it would be done. Although it meant letting certain basics, such as eating and sleeping, go by the wayside.

“Then I won’t delay you any further. If I can be of any further assistance, hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on room 103.”

The door had hardly closed when there came a second knock at the door. Gibson expected the fisherman had forgotten something, but it was Lea with a paper sack of burgers and fries. His stomach rumbled at the sight of it. He hoped she was just dropping it off—he had no time for social calls—but she seemed intent on staying. They sat on the open back of the van and ate while he talked her through his progress.