The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(77)

She looked at him. “I know,” she said. “I called the VA yesterday. We’ll have a conversation about it. But not right now.” She pointed her chin at Miles, half asleep on the seat between them.

“I let Jimmy down. I should have visited. I was trying to help.”

Dinah nodded. “You did help,” she said. “It’s not your fault that it’s come to this. So thank you.”

He pulled the truck up in front of Lewis’s building and got out. Nino and Ray were waiting outside, standing like sentinels in the cold.

Dinah closed her eyes again at the sight of them, just for a moment. Then opened her eyes, popped the latch on her door, and got out. Peter knew she didn’t want to be there, but she had no choice and she knew it. So she kept going.

Peter nodded at Nino and Ray. They nodded back. He didn’t know what arrangement Lewis had made with them, and he didn’t care. Lewis said they’d stick and that was good enough. Dinah scooped Miles up onto her hip, where he put his arms around her neck and his face into her shoulder. He must have weighed eighty pounds, like a sack of ready-mix concrete. She carried him like he weighed nothing at all.

She looked right at Peter, her blue eyes shining clear in the dim glow of the streetlight. “We’ll talk when it’s over,” she said. Then walked toward the building without a backward glance. Peter went to let out Charlie and the dog.

As he was locking up again, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. It was the number he’d last seen in spidery handwriting on three business cards. He pushed the button. “Hello.”

“Peter, sorry to call so late.” Lipsky’s voice was so clear he might have been standing right there, talking quietly into Peter’s ear. “But I figured you’d still be up. I wanted to tell you that replacement glass for your truck window came in today. Are we still meeting at the Riverside Veterans’ Center in the morning?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Peter.

“Me, too,” said Lipsky. “See you about eleven. I’ll buy lunch.”

“Hey, thanks for this,” said Peter. “I really appreciate it.”

“Just an old soldier, trying to help,” said Lipsky. “See you tomorrow.”

The phone dead in his hand, Peter turned to Lewis’s building. But everyone had already gone inside.

He didn’t figure Dinah needed any help managing Nino and Ray.

So he put the truck in gear. Picked up his phone again and punched in Detective Zolot’s number.

“Who the fuck is this?”

The man even woke up angry.

“You said you wanted in,” said Peter. “I’m getting close. And there’s a new wrinkle.”




The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

From the dark interior of a rusting brown Mazda, Midden set the night-vision gear on the passenger seat and watched the old green Chevy pickup rumble away. It had been a simple thing to follow the Marine from the woman’s house.

He could see why the Marine was causing so much trouble. It was a risk, what they had planned. Even from a distance, he could tell the man was the real thing.

The others were asking a lot. Involving the woman and the kids. This wasn’t what Midden had signed up for.

He told himself that he was committed. He was reliable.

One last time.

Then out of it for good.

He reached into the footwell and took hold of the M4 assault rifle. Laid a chamois cloth in his lap and began to field-strip the weapon in the dark as he had done so many times before.

The series of familiar movements was like an old friend in a world where he had none.

All his other friends were dead.





   VETERANS DAY





35





Peter


Peter woke early on full alert.

His truck was on a dead-end street on the south side of town, tucked in with other parked cars. Hard to find by accident.

It was still dark, his breath steaming in the cold air coming through the missing window of his truck. He stretched his ears out for whatever had gotten his sleeping mind’s attention. The hush of a passing car on the next block. The faint clatter of the last leaves falling to the pavement. But nothing else, no warning sound. So he lay in his bag and thought about what he had to do that day.

“Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.” The voice was calm and quiet, and coming through the missing window, right above Peter’s head.

Peter’s whole body tensed, but the sleeping bag was zipped up to his chin. He’d spent an hour doubling back, checking his tail to make sure he had a safe place to sleep. He’d even looked for a GPS tracker like the one Lewis had put on the black Ford, and had found nothing.

He should have kept Mingus with him. Mingus would have warned him.

“Put your hands out.” Peter knew the voice. “Slowly. Don’t make me shoot you.”

“How did you find me?”

A snort of derision. “I could follow this truck with my eyes closed. That cargo box is like a radar beacon. Now show me your hands. Slowly. And don’t even think about the gun on the floor.”

“Okay,” said Peter, working his hands free of the bag and raising them past his head, resting them on the sill of the window. He should have slept in his boots. He should have slept away from the truck. He should have done a lot of things. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”