The Storm King(17)

Nate stopped in midsentence because it wasn’t just anyone’s body they were talking about. It was Lucy’s. None of them had yet uttered her name, and Nate was suddenly aware of what a betrayal this was. Everything else had already been taken from her. Her name was the last thing she had left.

He was about to amend what he’d said when a tall blond man arrived at the table with a bottle of Hudson Valley bourbon and three tumblers.



“Looks like you’re starting to run dry,” the man said.

Owen Liffey had been a pudgy boy and even heavier teen, but he’d grown into a broad razor of a man. A tailored gray suit showed off this build as a pair of square silver glasses brought out his bone structure. The lank blond hair Nate remembered from their youth had been trimmed and artfully styled.

The transformation was stunning. It was marred only by a bandage over his right eyebrow.

“Wow. I can’t believe it.” Nate shook his head. “Sorry, that sounded really patronizing, didn’t it? But you look great, you really do, O. Good for you. Dammit, that’s an even worse thing to say, isn’t it?”

Owen laughed and clasped Nate on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

“O’s just being polite,” Tom said. “He lost the weight years ago.”

“The Empire has a certain rep to uphold.” Johnny grabbed the bottle with one hand and patted his swollen belly with the other. “Can’t have a bunch of fat asses running the place.”

Nate remembered hearing that Owen’s father had died a few years ago, and that his mother had suffered a serious stroke not long after.

“I’m the manager these days,” Owen said. “Speaking of which, and apologies for mixing business and pleasure, but Lindsay Stone called back,” he told Johnny. “She’s fine with the raw bar changes, but she wants a gratis upgrade of the wines.”

“Of course she does.” Johnny uncapped the bourbon and sloshed a generous amount into the tumblers. “Lindsay’s wedding reception was supposed to be in the Greenhouse this Saturday.” An amber stain crept across the tablecloth. “The hurricane’s been less of a hassle.”

“I thought she was already married,” Nate said.

Johnny shook his head. “Is this engagement three or four for our lovely Lindsay, Owen?”

“Three, I think. She came awfully close last time.”



“Who’s she marrying?”

“Some idiot,” Johnny said. “Anyway, her dad lost the deposits the last couple times so I offered the house as an alternative space. I’d go the Vegas route if I had to do it again, but she loves the attention. The back lawn has enough space for two big tents, and as far as settings go, they can do a lot worse.”

The Vanhouten mansion was a massive Georgian on the waterfront side of the Strand. No matter the season, its grounds were immaculately maintained by the same gardeners who handled the landscaping at the Empire. In the boys’ youth, a person would never guess that the sprawling place housed only a teenager and an alcoholic.

“Still, it’s going to suck. For me, at least. Have to host a day care too, just for Sarah Carlisle’s kid, who looks like a thing that roams the forest eating campers. Of course, Lindsay’s spitting blood about the funeral being the day before her wedding. Like some final revenge of Lucy’s, she said.”

Lindsay had always been difficult. Some people mellow with age; others ferment.

Owen’s phone chimed, and he checked its screen. “Front desk. We’ll catch up tomorrow, okay? At the funeral?”

A chord of dread thrummed within Nate. He’d hardly let himself think of the funeral, but he had a convincing, ready smile that kept him a favorite with the nurses and children on his ward. He shook Owen’s hand.

“He was a late bloomer, wasn’t he?” Nate said once Owen was out of earshot.

Johnny rolled his eyes.

“He used to want to be a veterinarian, right?”

“And Tom wanted to be an architect, and I wanted to live someplace where the temperature occasionally wanders above freezing,” Johnny said. “O probably didn’t count on being sole caregiver to his shrew of a mother, either. Not everybody gets what they want, Nate.”



“The cut on his forehead. That’s from—”

“Rolling down Snake Hill without brakes, crashing through the barrier on Finch, and slamming into an elm tree,” Johnny said.

“He’s lucky to be alive,” Tom said. “His car was totaled.”

“So how’d they do it?” Nate asked. “You’re saying these vandals pulled off, what, five attacks during one storm?” Even at the height of their mischief, Nate and his friends had never attempted more than one Thunder Run a night. Burst pipes and backed-up sewage were complicated undertakings, while cutting someone’s brake lines could easily have fatal consequences. He wondered what kind of people he was dealing with.

“We don’t know how many there are,” Tom said. “We asked the high school to keep their ears open for anything. The middle school, too.”

Kids. Nate knew as well as anyone that vandalism was the province of the young.

“There’d have to be a whole pack of them to get us at once,” Johnny said. “That or they’re real overachievers.”