The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(71)

Lewis climbed into the Yukon. The tubular steel bumper wore deep blue paint on its edges but was otherwise unharmed.

“Get in the truck,” he said, leaning across to push open the passenger door. “I’m not waiting.”

Peter took four long strides and reached for the door. Before he was fully in his seat, Lewis had the pedal down.

They took the first curve fast, but Lewis eased off as soon as he found a side road. Once they were heading away from Skinner’s house on a leisurely trajectory designed not to intersect with main roads or police cars, Lewis took out a handkerchief and wiped down the gun. Then threw it out the window and into the trees.

“I don’t like that he mentioned a woman,” said Peter. “And children.”

“Your woman,” said Lewis, eyes carefully on the road. “Is what he said.”

“She’s not my woman,” said Peter. “We’ve had this conversation.”

“Whatever,” said Lewis. “But we got to get them out of that house, somewhere away.”

“We will,” said Peter. Then, “I don’t like how he didn’t threaten us with his lawyer.”

“Yeah,” said Lewis. “He got something going on. You want me in on this, you gotta tell me the whole thing.”

“We need to get to that black Ford. I’ll buy you a burger on the way. This might be a long night.”

Peter kept talking as the Yukon wove a crooked path through the suburbs, back toward the city.




The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

Midden backed the white Dodge van to within a few feet of the loading dock. The van wasn’t tall enough to mate with the dock directly. They would have to use a plank ramp to get the drums inside.

The new truck would be the right height, thought Midden. Loading it would be much easier on the back.

Although not on the mind.

Midden couldn’t rid himself of what they had planned. It was bothering him.

He reminded himself that he was committed.

Boomer’s Ford was parked by the main entrance, all scraped up on the driver’s side, the front bumper torn loose and hanging. Midden didn’t want to know how it happened. Boomer would surely have an excuse. The man was getting less reliable. And now he was late.

Midden got out of the van and walked the few steps to the street, looking for pedestrians. Looking for Boomer in the new truck. There was nobody out in the cold and the wind.

He looked up through the bare tree branches. He’d never noticed before how the big old trunks stayed still while the tips of the branches whipped around in the weather. It could make you dizzy, watching. He’d forgotten how beautiful November could be in the Midwest.

He walked back to the loading dock. Fallen leaves crunched under his boots. He reached behind the broken brick for the key to the padlock. It was a good lock. He might take it with him when this was done.

Jesus, Midden thought. When this was done, he could buy as many locks as he would ever need.

Part of him would always be the farm kid in secondhand clothes, up to his elbows in thirdhand farming equipment, just trying to keep things running. Setting aside old parts against the day he might need them again. How his father had been. It wasn’t a bad way to view the world.

That wasn’t what he was doing now, though. Fixing things.

He was doing the opposite.

He looked at his watch. Boomer was late. Midden didn’t want to roll up the door until he got here. Boomer was supposed to get the hand truck. Twenty gallons of fuel oil sloshing around in a fifty-gallon plastic pickle barrel was no picnic to move, even on a level surface. Midden doubted Boomer had remembered.

It bothered him. You had to be able to count on your team.

Midden told himself that he wasn’t having second thoughts. He’d done many things he wasn’t proud of. A few things that haunted him. This would be just one more. The paycheck would let him get out of this life forever.

Only the memories would remain.

There wasn’t much he could do about that.

He was ready for it to be over.

He’d go away somewhere. Somewhere out in the country, in the middle of nowhere. Mountains. Trees. No unreliable people.

Maybe that would end the dreams, the thoughts he couldn’t escape. But he doubted it. Even now, all he had to do was close his eyes to imagine it. The rising ball of black smoke and orange flame. The smell of burning bodies.

He heard engine noise, getting louder. He turned back toward the street and saw a Mitsubishi box truck coming up the block. The kind with the windshield right up front, easy to maneuver through these old neighborhoods. Boomer looked at him through the glass, his face like a punching bag.

Definitely less reliable.

Midden walked over as the truck came to a stop. “What happened?”

“That fucking jarhead blindsided me.” He sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. Maybe his jaw was broken.

“Tell me you didn’t kill the man. Or put him in the hospital. We can use him.”

Boomer’s ruined face twisted with anger. “I was just trying to keep an eye on him. But I was lucky to make it out of there. I wrecked my rig doing it.”

Midden found that he wanted to meet the Marine. Point of fact, he might need to, if this thing was going to get done at all.

“You got the hand truck?”

“Yeah. Let’s get this shit moved.”