The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(28)

“Not good.”

The man pointed a finger. “You shouldn’t have called.”

“You’re the only one I could have called.”

“If this is all such a problem,” I said, entering the conversation, “why are you here?”

A sadness crept into the man’s eyes. “Because a long time ago I did a lot of bad things I regret.”

“I’ve prayed many times to the Lord for both our forgiveness,” Foster said.

“Has it helped?” I asked.

Foster shook his head.

“They want you, Benjamin,” the man said.

“You do realize,” I said, “that if they’re looking, you might have led them straight here.”

He pointed again at Foster. “That’s exactly why he called me. We good, Benjamin?”

“We’re good.”

The man retreated to his car and left.

I suddenly felt like bait again. “Is that true? You wanted him to lead them, whoever they are, to you?”

Foster said nothing.

He just stood and watched as the car sped from the cemetery.

“Who exactly was that guy?” I tried.

“He once worked for the FBI.”

I was beginning to see the bigger picture. These men were involved in something that had lain dormant for a long time. Something that had been roused by the files I’d retrieved. Something that Juan Lopez Valdez, Benjamin Foster, and the guy who was just here knew all about. But apparently Coleen Perry had been in the dark, enough that she went behind her father and made a deal with Valdez, one that people who used to work for the FBI clearly did not like.

A thousand thoughts swirled through my brain.

In the conventional world, law enforcement should be immediately involved. All of this should be turned over to the proper authorities. But I was now working in a universe with different rules. Look at how many laws I’d broken over the past twenty-four hours. Eventually I would come to know that the mission was all that mattered. Sure, never hurt an innocent, but also never let a few laws get in the way. That was precisely how the other side played, so what was good for the goose was even better for the gander. But on this day I was still riding on training wheels.

“We should return to Coleen,” Foster said.

I didn’t disagree. But Foster had never answered my question. “Do you want them to find us?”

He faced me. “Of course not. That would be foolish.”

His denial was not reassuring. I circled back to something he’d mentioned earlier. “How do you know Jim Jansen?”

“We were acquainted many years ago.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“Which is not surprising.”

He said nothing more and walked toward the car.

I followed.

He tossed the keys for me to drive. We both climbed inside and I swung the wheel hard left, gunning the accelerator, heading for the highway. Cars passed us, but none seemed overly interested and there was no one following.

We rode in silence for a while.

Finally, I tried again. “That guy could have led people straight here.”

“As you could have, in that plane.”

If that was the case, then why had they not made a more definitive move? Apparently the helicopter and police activity earlier had nothing to do with me or Coleen.

We approached the driveway for the house and I turned left, speeding down the sandy lane. A new vehicle was parked out front with Florida plates from Orange County.

“Lock the car doors,” Foster said.

I got it.

That way no one could get to the case in the trunk.

We headed for the house.

On the front porch, Foster eased close to my left ear and whispered into it. Then he brushed past and stepped through the door. I hesitated a moment, a bit shocked at what he’d said to me, before following. Inside I discovered the car belonged to Coleen’s husband, who introduced himself as Nate Perry, attorney-at-law.

Nate was eager-eyed, sharp-featured, and white, with thin dark hair that hung to his shoulders. Maybe mid-thirties. He seemed a volatile combination of self-confidence and lack of polish—a sense of rough and smooth that might explain what Coleen saw in him, since she was a little like that herself. Even more telling was his handshake. Soft and moist. Which always raised red flags with me. Being in the military I was accustomed to hard, firm grips. Most annoying was that he smiled incessantly, his tone sometimes at variance with his gestures.

And he liked to talk.

Which raised a warning.

My grandfather taught me that the smartest chickens in the coop rarely clucked.

“Lieutenant Malone—” Nate said.

“Cotton. Please. You make me feel old.”

“That’s an old southern nickname. How’d you get it?”

“It’s a story too long to tell right now. I’m more interested in why you’re here.”

He seemed a little taken aback by my inquiry, but in my newfound state of justifiable paranoia I wanted to know.

“That’s real simple, Cotton. My family owns this house.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Why are you here?”

“He’s the one who ratted me out to my father,” Coleen said. “That’s how he knew to come. Nate was to meet me here tomorrow.”