The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(70)

Skinner’s deep blue sedan coasted toward them on the smooth asphalt road. Its engine carried just the hint of a growl.

“You know what kind of car that is?” asked Peter.

Lewis leaned forward and raised his eyebrows. “I believe that a Bentley,” he said. “Nice ride. About three fifty new.”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand?”

“Yup. And the steering wheel ain’t even solid gold.”

The deep blue sedan turned up the long driveway.

“Get up behind him,” said Peter. “Give him a good bump before he gets up to the house.”

Lewis goosed the gas and the Yukon leaped forward. “Bumping a Bentley like punching the Mona Lisa, man. Maybe I just rev the engine up loud and scare him.”

“Pussy,” said Peter, one hand on the oh-shit handle and the other clamped to his armrest. The needle was at fifty and climbing fast.

They made the turn into Skinner’s driveway at speed, the Yukon’s police suspension gobbling up the bumps on the curve. Grinning widely, Lewis kept his foot down and the deep blue sedan got closer and closer until the Yukon hit with a crunch that Peter felt in his bones.

The sedan lurched forward and the whole back end accordioned up into scrap metal and waste plastic. Lewis stood on the brake and the Yukon stopped like it was nailed to the asphalt.

Peter popped his seat belt, stepped out, and walked behind the sedan to the driver’s side, aware of Lewis a few steps to his left, consciously or not keeping some distance between them to present a smaller target, as if this was a checkpoint stop.

Through the sedan windows, Peter could see the cloud of deployed air bags collapsing now as the driver pushed them down and away.

Then the sedan door opened and Skinner levered himself out, shaking and white.

“Sorry, the gas pedal stuck,” said Peter. “We need to talk. Remember me?”

Skinner glared at him, mouth a red slash in the pale, aristocratic face. Peter thought the man was in shock, maybe banged up a little, but that wasn’t it. He was furious.

“I know who the fuck you are,” said Skinner. His thin lips parted, showing bright white teeth. Something ancient and reptilian peering through his eyes. “I know exactly who you are.”

Peter wanted to hit him in the face as hard as he could. Instead he said, “You need to tell me about the cash. Four hundred thousand dollars. Where did it come from?”

“You came to my house,” said Skinner. The last word was a grunt. “My house. I’m going to erase you. Take everything you are. Your woman. The children.”

Peter took a step and slapped Skinner on the face. His hand was open, but it was still hard enough to rock the man back.

“Where did the money come from? Why was James Johnson killed?”

Skinner’s smile was as cold as death. The red mark of Peter’s hand slowly emerged on his pale face. “I’m so glad you did that,” he said.

He was quick. He reached under his suit coat like a striking snake, brought out a flat automatic pistol, and lifted his other hand to cup the butt in his palm.

He looked like he knew what he was doing.

Peter felt the adrenaline surge, the taste of copper in his mouth. But he didn’t react. Hoping Skinner would say something he shouldn’t.

Skinner’s hands were steady. “I have four acres here,” he said. His voice was conversational, but his tongue was flicking the edges of his lips. “I could bury you in my backyard. Under the garden. I just had it tilled. The ground is nice and soft.”

“But you’d rather use a knife, right?” said Peter. “Like you killed your wife? It’s so much more personal that way. And you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Skinner’s face flushed pink. But he didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you tell me about the four hundred thousand? Did you kill James Johnson, or was it the man with the scars?”

Skinner’s smile was genuine and full of pleasure. “You really have no idea about anything, do you? You’re merely a tool. Put to use by those farther up the evolutionary ladder.”

“Educate me,” said Peter. “Tell me how smart you are.”

“I honestly don’t think you’d understand,” said Skinner. “This is so far above your level.” His eyes shifted to Lewis, then back to Peter. In the distance, the faint, thin sound of a siren lifted above the cold wind. Skinner’s knuckle whitened as he increased pressure on the trigger.

Lewis moved so fast he was just a flicker, reaching in to pluck the flat automatic pistol from Skinner’s hands. There was a soft crunch as Skinner’s finger broke, caught for a moment in the trigger guard.

Then Lewis was two steps away again, the gun held negligently down at his side.

“Time to go,” he said. “Cops are coming. Either your man here dialed nine-one-one or the Bentley called in the accident.”

Skinner was pale with rage, a peculiar glitter in his eye. He didn’t even seem to notice his broken finger. Again Peter felt that powerful urge to do him permanent damage. There was something primitive about it, like the urge to kill a snake. Snakes had a certain wrongness to them, the flickering tongue, that sinuous slither. Skinner had a different kind of wrongness. An emptiness in the eyes. An utter lack of regard for anyone other than himself. In ordinary moments he could hide it, could put on his charming act. But not now.