Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(74)

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, only my third call. I’m not really good at it.”

“Oh, no, you were okay.”

“Really?” she said, allowing her voice to brighten.

“Definitely. Politics just isn’t my thing.”

“I appreciate that so much. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just moved to Charleston for this job, and I don’t know anybody.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know how that is. But maybe it’ll get better?”

“You’re really nice. Do you live in Charleston?” She held her breath.

“No, I’m about two hours away.”

“That’s not so far. Maybe you could drive in some time?”

“Wish I could, but . . . how did you get this number?” Changing topics on a dime’s edge. He sounded completely different, paranoid and unhinged, like a madman had snatched the phone away.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. They just give us a call sheet, and we’re supposed to go down the list.”

“What’s my name?”

Lea didn’t expect the question and drew a hard blank, almost said “Gibson Vaughn” because he was in her line of sight, and spluttered out the author of the book she was reading.

“It says, Thomas Piketty.”

The line went dead and her face went cold. She looked at Gibson. “I’m sorry.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “You killed it,” he said with a huge grin. “You really are a natural.”

“Yeah,” agreed Swonger. “You seemed like actually nice.”

“But we still don’t know where he is.”

“We know so much,” Gibson said, spreading a map of West Virginia out on the table. With a pencil, he drew a circle around Charleston. “He’s only a couple hours away. That eliminates the eastern and northern corners of the state. Plus we know he’s in state, so the Ohio River cuts down our western area.”

“Also cuts out everything right around Charleston,” Swonger chimed in.

“Exactly.”

“So we just have to search a band that’s a ‘couple hours’ from Charleston.”

“You did it,” Gibson said. “We have a shot.”

“So now what?” she asked.

“Now? Now we wardrive.”





CHAPTER THIRTY


Wardriving dated back to the early days of wireless networks, when few routers came with encryption already enabled. Most people, too lazy to follow instructions, just plugged the router in, factory settings enabled, and left themselves exposed to the world. Big cities became all-you-can-eat buffets of wide-open Wi-Fi that software such as Netstumbler or InSSIDer could exploit. Often it was simply to “borrow” free Wi-Fi, but open Wi-Fi presented many less adiaphorous avenues if one were so inclined. Many hackers were, driving the length and breadth of a city, mapping all its unprotected access points. Nowadays, commercial routers defaulted to passwords, so wardriving was less prevalent than it once had been.

Lea’s performance on the call had significantly narrowed their search parameters, but Gibson knew they still had a lot of roads to cover and not a lot of time to cover them. To have a chance meant driving twenty-four hours a day. The plan called on them to drive in shifts, stopping only for gas, food, and bathroom breaks. A fold-down cot in the back of the van would serve as a communal bed. They would drive until they found the cell phone or time ran out. Either way, Gibson didn’t see returning to Niobe. This was his shot, and if he missed, he wasn’t fool enough to mix up with the predators now circling the prison.

Emerson Soto Flores folded his newspaper and watched Gibson check out of the hotel. Two of his men sat in the parlor over a chessboard. Jimmy Temple looked tired and anxious. His once-spotless suit had a stain on the lapel, and a small black thread dangled from his sleeve from a missing button. Eartha Kitt vamped her way through “Santa Baby” over the lobby speakers as Gibson and Jimmy shook hands over the counter. Gibson thanked him for his hospitality. Jimmy accepted it with a careless shrug. He hardly seemed the same man.

“Good luck, Jimmy.”

“Drive safe.”

Emerson met Gibson at the counter and escorted him across the lobby. “Don’t be hard on yourself; there is no shame in cowardice. Sometimes knowing your limits is all that keeps a man alive.”

Emerson held open the door for him, and Gibson saw the van idling at the curb. Lea motioned to him from the passenger seat, but Gibson hesitated. Emerson felt it and faced him as his men emerged from the parlor.

“You have something to say?” asked Gibson.

God knows Emerson did, along with a bully’s excitement at the prospect. His men pressed closer. The van honked, and Gibson could hear Lea calling him. He should go, but still he found it hard to be the one to look away first. His father, a shrewd political strategist, had always said, Fight the fight, but never let them pick the venue. It was good advice. Before Emerson could speak, Gibson broke away, descended the front steps, and threw his bag in the van. He turned back to take one last look at the Wolstenholme Hotel. Emerson watched him from the front doors, an amused expression on his face. Gibson climbed in back, gave Emerson a lazy two-finger salute, and slammed closed the sliding door. He’d be happy to leave Emerson, the hotel, and Niobe in the rearview mirror.