Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(75)

“Ready to go?” Swonger asked.

“As I’ve ever been.”

Lea piped in with an exuberant English accent. “Engage!”

That broke the tension. Even Gibson cracked a smile as he pointed the way forward. And that set the tone for the wardrive, all smiles as they left the poisonous atmosphere that had settled over Niobe, West Virginia. They had reason to feel confident: the job at the motor-pool depot, their good fortune to capture Merrick’s cell number on the first day (only Gibson knew the truth), Lea’s artful handling of Merrick’s partner . . . they were on a roll, and what’s more, they had the edge. Sure, tracking down Merrick’s partner might be a long shot, but they shared the belief that things would break their way. Plus, it felt good to leave the competition sitting on their hands back in Niobe.

It wasn’t until they’d spent a few hours on the highway that the magnitude of the task dawned on Gibson. On the map, the wide band circling Charleston that needed to be swept looked comfortingly small, at least compared to the entirety of West Virginia. However, to be effective, the Stingray couldn’t move faster than about thirty-five miles an hour. It also required line of sight, and West Virginia wasn’t the flattest state in the Union. Clearing a grid would mean combing back and forth over every road, from highway to dirt trail, before moving on. Gibson kept his reservations to himself—morale was high, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

As the days wore on and they made their meandering way across West Virginia—the Stingray resolutely and defiantly silent—a strange thing began to happen. Gibson expected tempers to fray and the close quarters to breed contempt and short fuses. Especially between Lea and Swonger, who couldn’t have had less in common. She of the Upper East Side pedigree and prep-school education, and Swonger of Buckingham Correctional Center. Instead, it brought them together.

It began over music during one of Lea’s shifts behind the wheel. The first rule of wardriving—driver controlled the music. She took great pride in her eclectic taste in music, and she deejayed her shifts, one hand on the wheel while she scrolled through her music library for the next track. An odd, discordant, synth-heavy song began. Swonger looked up questioningly at the speakers, and Gibson braced for the inevitable explosion. From his time in the Scion, Gibson knew Swonger took a dim view of anything not rap, but to his surprise, Swonger slid into the passenger seat and asked Lea the name of the song.

“‘Ashes to Ashes,’” Lea said. “David Bowie?”

“Who’s he? It’s cool.”

With the breathless, intimate pleasure that comes from introducing someone to a favorite musician, Lea spent the next several hours playing Bowie for Swonger and answering his questions. Then she moved on to Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, and Talking Heads. Perhaps that’s how “Life During Wartime” became the wardrive’s official theme song. When it was Swonger’s turn to drive, Swonger returned the favor and educated Lea about the underground rap scene: Action Bronson, Danny Brown, Vince Staples, Westside Gunn, Schoolboy Q. Swonger was an encyclopedia on the subject.

From the cot in the back, Gibson recognized only one song in ten, which made him feel hopelessly out of touch. An old man at twenty-nine. His childhood had skipped the part where he developed his own tastes. His music collection belonged to his father, to the Marines, and to Nicole. He didn’t know why it mattered, but it made him a little melancholy. Up front, Lea and Swonger were howling over some private joke, and just like that, Gibson had become the third wheel. When it came time for his next shift behind the wheel, Gibson opted for silence.

Lea took a growing interest in Swonger and peppered him with questions. Swonger, suspicious at first, gradually opened up and told her about his life, his father, and the bleak future of the Birk farm. He told it straightforwardly and with none of the false machismo that Gibson expected. She seemed mightily affected by it and grew increasingly pensive as Swonger railed against Merrick. Finally, Lea turned to Gibson.

“Does he know?”

“Not from me,” Gibson said.

Lea looked at Swonger and told him her real name.

It took Swonger a long time to speak. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Seemed right.”

“Stop the van,” said Swonger.

Gibson pulled over, and Swonger got out and walked into the woods along the road. Lea and Gibson watched him until he disappeared from view, then looked at each other. Gibson shrugged.

“What do I do?” she asked. “Go after him?”

“Let him work it out.”

“I thought I should tell him.” She had a thought. “Is he armed?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Gibson said, but he didn’t explain about Swonger’s .45. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

They waited in silence. Finally, Swonger emerged from the woods. He climbed back in the van and slid the door shut.

“He named the third fund after you . . . ,” Swonger said, his words pitched halfway between a question and a statement.

“Yes, he did.” Lea had turned all the way around in the passenger seat to face Swonger.

Swonger’s eyes studied the floor. “That why you’re here?”

“Something like that. I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t you,” Swonger said. “Let’s go.”