Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(82)

The desk was a treasure trove of junk and meaningless papers, no semblance of order. Behind the monitor, Gibson found two picture frames facedown on the desk. Based on the archaeological quantity of dust, they’d been back there for some time. Gibson lifted each up to the light. The first was a picture of a younger Charles Merrick sitting on a sofa, a small boy balanced on his knee. The boy looked determined to squirm free, but Merrick had a firm grip on him. Only Merrick’s mouth smiled; the rest of him looked prepared to flee. The second photo showed five young white teenage boys in suits and confident smiles posed in front of the Merrick Capital logo. One of them held a placard that read, “Summer Intern Team.”

They were the only personal artifacts in plain sight, so Gibson flipped them over and removed the pictures from the frames to check the backs. The intern photo was blank, but on the back of the other, written in a woman’s hand, was “Marty and Charles—2nd Birthday.” He’d hoped for a password, but this piqued his interest. Gibson looked over at the man in the chair. His head still faced straight ahead, but the man’s eyes were on Gibson now. Pupils dilated so wide it looked like an eclipse had moved permanently across the iris; the broken whites of his eyes stained red. Gibson thought it might be him. The second intern from the right in the other picture. It might be the man in the chair, but it was hard to say for certain.

“Are these supposed to be you?” Gibson asked, holding up the pictures.

The man’s head canted in Gibson’s direction. As if there’d been a delayed reaction, and it was only now getting its marching order from his eyes. His head wobbled slightly on its stalk as he looked at the pictures and began, softly, to giggle.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


Lea watched yet another car pull into the visitors’ parking lot outside the prison. She sank a little lower in her seat; there had to be at least thirty now. The parking lot was already full, and like the other late arrivals, the car circled the turnaround outside the prison gates and pulled over along the road leading to and from the prison. The crowd reminded her of the press and protestors that had clamored outside her father’s trial, but these people weren’t here for sound bites or a good cause.

It was strange, but in all the time she’d been planning on taking down her father, she’d never once felt so much as a twinge of sympathy for him. Now, though, she felt strangely protective. It was like insults and families. Family members could say what they wanted, but watch your mouth otherwise. So she felt a little conflicted at these strangers jostling for position to be the ones who would take Charles Merrick when he walked through those gates. Which should have been some time ago . . . she checked the time again. It was already five p.m. Maybe he had seen what was waiting for him beyond the gates and opted for another eight years instead. It would be his first smart move in a decade.

What about her? Did she have a smart move in her? Was she smart enough to throw in the towel and get out while there was still time? She started her car, changed her mind, and threw the key up on the dashboard. Who was she kidding? Gibson would have something smart to say right about now. It felt comforting to imagine him roaming around West Virginia in that van. And what about Gavin? She hoped he’d gotten far, far from here. Not that she believed it. Gavin was like her. Now that he had his teeth into this thing, he’d hang on until it broke his neck.

Lea felt a change in the atmosphere of the parking lot like a storm coming in. The parking lot had gone absolutely still, every head turned as one toward the front gate. There stood Charles Merrick, one foot in and one foot out of the prison. Even at this distance, she could see his fear. The desire to protect him leapt in her again. No, she thought. That man doesn’t deserve your pity. She dredged up the memories that always worked to stoke her bitterness and used them to fight back any instinct toward charity.

Her legs wobbled when she stepped out of the car. She could feel predatory eyes on her. Wondering at this woman in the formal yellow dress. Was this how Little Red Riding Hood felt when she stepped off the path? She forced herself to take a step toward him, then another, and another. By the time she’d crossed the parking lot, she was smiling. You’re happy, she reminded herself. So happy to see him.

Make him believe.




From the windows of the prison chapel, one could look out over the front gates and down the road that led away to the real world. Charles Merrick had owned homes in the most beautiful cities on earth, with views worth millions, but none stirred him as did the view from the chapel. In truth, it was an ugly, lonesome road, but he loved it, loved it enough to endure the daily services for the chance for five minutes at the window, daydreaming about the moment he walked free. In eight years gazing out the window, he’d seen maybe a handful of cars. Even on the holidays that drew more families, the modest visitors’ parking lot was never more than half-full.

Well, it was full today.

Up until the moment Charles Merrick stepped through the small door at the gates, he’d held to the belief that all the fuss about his interview was nothing but mountains from molehills. But the scene that greeted him outside Niobe Federal Prison lent him some sorely needed clarity. Merrick had never seen anything like it. Vehicles lined the circular turnaround in front of the prison. He searched them for a friendly face, but every set of eyes he met burned cold and hungry. Where was his transportation? Where was Damon Ogden?