Friends Like These(54)

“Okay, but I definitely put pressure— ”

“No,” Keith said resolutely. “We were all there.” He looked away toward the bush, watching the birds come and go in silence for a moment. “I’ll go to rehab, but not Bright Horizons. I need someplace farther away. Someplace where I can really disappear.”

“You can disappear at this place,” I said. “I’ve seen pictures. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“No. I mean like an airplane ride away. Somewhere no one can find me.” He looked up at me, held my stare. There was something else I didn’t know about, something worse than losing his gallery that he was running from. “And I need to go today. Right now.”

“Okay,” I said, afraid that if I hesitated, he might tell me what this other bad thing was. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. “We’ll find a new place.”

I couldn’t imagine we’d be able to. I’d try, though. I always did.

“Great,” Keith said as he stood. He looked determined now, and maybe even a little hopeful. He consulted his watch, like I might be able to sort it all out within minutes. “I’ll get my stuff together. And let’s pay those contractors on the way. I don’t want you dealing with them alone.”

“Yeah, okay.” I already knew none of this was going to work out the way Keith was suggesting. But still, it was progress.

Keith opened the back door. “Listen, I may be a selfish fucker, but I’m still your friend. I’m obligated to look out for you.” And then he smiled. “Make sure Peter knows that, okay?”

“I will,” I said. “This is going to be okay, Keith. You are going to be okay.”

Keith nodded. And now it was his turn to lie. “I know.”





DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT


SUNDAY, 12:15 P.M.

It’s dim and gray as I get out of the car at the Farm. Like the sun never fully rose. And you really want full daylight in a place like the Farm, where even an ordinary situation can turn dangerous. When people have lost everything but the need for a fix and are desperate enough to live here, in a jerry-rigged shack with no running water or electricity, all options are always on the table.

The Farm is privately owned, inherited by a developer in Manhattan with big plans for condos on the land, and no plan to waste money cleaning it up in the meantime. Activists— weekenders, all of them— have tried to challenge the owner’s right to ignore the squatting, but he has enough lawyers to keep those cases stalled in the courts.

Back when Seldon was lieutenant himself, patrol officers used to go in regularly to chase some of the squatters off, round up others for petty drug possession and trespassing. But then an officer died clearing a building in the dark, a head wound in an accidental fall. Since then, the officers have steered clear of the place unless there was a specific callout.

But I’ve got no choice now. I need to see if Derrick and Keith were here before the accident, need to try and locate this Crystal Finnegan. Seldon doesn’t want the Kaaterskill drug trade implicated in the murder of some weekender, but I’ve got to follow the facts where they lead. And right now, some of the facts are pointing straight to the Farm.

It’s nearly silent when I get out of the car. Generally speaking, opioid addicts aren’t early risers. I stop some distance in front of the ramshackle building constructed from plywood and metal scrap at the bottom of the hill. Once upon a time everyone slept in the barn, until part of it collapsed in the middle of the night, almost killing three people. That’s when some of the squatters patched together the outbuilding. With its obvious tilt to the right, it doesn’t seem much more secure.

I’m debating which threatening-looking door to knock on first when there’s a loud crash from the barn up the hill. Loud even from thirty yards away. A thrashing sound follows. I turn and wait, listen. It’s quiet for a stretch. But then another noise, louder this time, followed by more frantic rustling. Like someone inside is careening into things— high and disoriented maybe. Or injured. I don’t really think it’s one of the guys I’m looking for, but it’s also not impossible.

Fuck. Slowly, I start up the hill toward the barn.

It’s been quiet for a spell. But then again— bang, bang, scramble, bang.

I move my hand so that my palm is resting against my gun. No need to draw yet. The coldness of the metal against my fingers is enough. The last thing I need is Seldon pinning an improper discharge on me.

The barn looks even worse close up— bent, rusted nails, shattered glass. Like any second it’s going to crash the rest of the way down. Probably the fucking second I go inside. I stop in front of a huge crack providing something of a doorway.

“Kaaterskill Police. Come out of the building. Now!”

On cue the noises start up again. Near the door. I can feel them, too, through the rickety wall. The impact. Thud, thud. Bang. Bang. Scramble. I pull out my gun, step closer to the opening, flashlight up. I don’t see any movement, but there is so much debris, whoever is in there could be hiding anywhere. I spot something at the edge of the makeshift entrance. A red-brown smear that could be dried blood.

“Last chance!” I shout over the noise. “You don’t come out, you might get shot!”

The thumping gets louder. I take a deep breath, preparing to move into darkness. Don’t shoot too early. Don’t shoot too late. As soon as I turn, something smacks me hard, right in the face. The impact sends me reeling.