Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(35)

Then I pick up the phone and call Mike Lustig. It’s late—nearly two in the morning—but I know he’ll answer. He does, on the second ring, with no trace of grogginess. “You know what time it is, my man?” he asks, but it’s done in place of a hello. I don’t answer the rhetorical question.

“You recognize the name Rivard?”

There’s a long, long pause before Mike says, “Could be thousands of them, but the only one that springs to mind is Ballantine Rivard, owns Rivard Luxe. Been a tabloid staple for—how long? Forty years? The Howard Hughes of retail. Lifetime member of the billionaire boys club, with Buffett, Gates, Trump . . . Been locked up in his tower for years now.”

“Couldn’t be anybody else?”

“Depends on the context, but it’s a pretty rare name.”

“The context is, the man who’s being tortured in the video we got out of that cabin says he was hired by someone named Rivard. We already know Absalom specializes in blackmail. Somebody that rich could be a hell of a target.”

“Could be,” Mike agrees. “You’d better be goddamn sure before we go after that particular pale whale. You sure you want to keep involving her?”

“I’m sure.” Her means Gwen. Mike isn’t convinced of her innocence. Like most people, he can’t fathom how she couldn’t have known something, since Melvin was bringing victims home to the garage just on the other side of their kitchen wall.

That’s where we differ. I got sucked under on the Internet. I got indoctrinated by the echo chamber of like thinkers who set out to believe Gina Royal was guilty, and I swallowed it completely. I was blinded by my own hatred to the extent of planning just exactly how to kill Gina Royal. Not a merciful end. One that would deliver back to her all the pain and suffering that Callie had endured.

I had a cold, hard lesson in how easy it could be to lose your way, get lost in the shadows of your own rage and other people’s delusions. I understand how Gina Royal might have been blind to her husband’s horrors. She had been innocent. Too innocent to understand the depth of evil on the other side of that wall.

But I know Mike won’t understand that. Not yet.

“You still with me, son?” Mike says. He means son in the sense that other people say brother. We’re similar ages, though he comes across as much older. “’Cause you’re keeping me from my bed.”

“Not your wife?”

He laughs. “Vivian’s dead asleep. After all these years of me being a field agent, she can sleep through a bomb blast, bless her. Don’t make for much spontaneous late-night fun, though.” He sobers quickly. “Don’t let that woman get too close to you, Sam. You’ve got a weakness.”

“I know,” I say. “See you in the morning.”

“Hell, yes, you will. Now go to sleep.”

He hangs up.

I shut down the computer, take out the USB, and after a moment’s thought, put it in a zippered pocket of my backpack. I take the pack with me into my bedroom, then shut and lock the door.

I don’t want Gwen getting up and doing the same thing I just did. I’d rather spare her that, even though she might hate me for it.

Only one of us needs to live with those images. I’ve got the thing that matters out of all that pain.

Ballantine Rivard. Rich, eccentric old man who retired years ago from the company he founded—Rivard Luxe—and hasn’t been seen outside his tower fortress since. No obituaries that I could find before I called Mike Lustig. The man was still alive and kicking.

Tomorrow we are going to find him and ask him why he hired a man to infiltrate Absalom.

And what he knows about Melvin Royal.



Gwen and I have coffee out of warm, heavy mugs downstairs in the B and B’s dining room. It’s far too early for breakfast to be ready, but we wolf down the rest of the now-cold, still-delicious blueberry scones from the night before. The proprietor’s up, and presents us with our carefully folded clean laundry, which we add to our packs, and we’re gone long before the first light of dawn even begins to blush the horizon. As Morningside House disappears behind us, I hope they do well. They deserve to. Maybe someday, we’ll come back for a real weekend retreat, once all this horror show is done.

The drive to Atlanta goes smoothly, and we’re already inside the city limits when Mike Lustig finally calls. He gives directions to a downtown coffee shop, which mostly involves various iterations of “Peachtree,” and when we find it, it’s almost exactly 10:00 a.m.

Mike’s sitting calmly at a table in the busy place, with a huge to-go cup sitting in front of him as he checks his phone like the twenty-or-so other people in the place. He’s not visibly FBI just now; he’s wearing a nice sports jacket, black pants, and a dark-gold tie. The jacket almost disguises the gun he wears in a rig at his hip, but every cop, local or state or fed, has that same habit of scanning the room like a laser, looking for anomalies. The scan catches and holds on us, and he nods at me.

“Hey,” he says. “Get your own damn drinks. I don’t even have a budget for my own.”

I take a risk. I leave Gwen at the table with him and get in line for the coffees; I make them simple and keep an eye on the table. To all appearances, Mike and Gwen are having a civil conversation.

Appearances are wrong.