Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(77)

“Really,” Tom said into the phone. Then he winced and said, “Just my girlfriend.”

“How much did she hear?” the man asked. Candy could hear the man clearly. He was agitated.

“Just my girlfriend the nobody,” Candy said.

“How much did she hear?” the man shouted.

Candy found herself being nudged to the side by Missy, who had obviously awakened due to the argument in the garage. Missy stepped in front of her and held out her hand to Tom and said, “Where the hell is my package?”





TWENTY-FOUR


FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE, ORLANDO PANFILE HAD walked silently toward the house from his camp in a pale blue wash of starlight and just a slice of moon. He could hear coyotes wailing in the timber behind him and that was the only sound other than the watery music of a breeze through the pine trees.

He’d carried a sawed-off double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun and there was a snub-nosed .357 Magnum revolver in a shoulder holster under his jacket. A sheath knife hung from his belt and he wore the cowboy boots with razors hidden in the shafts. His trouser pockets bulged with shotgun shells.

Panfile was exhausted. The American lawyer had been relentless, peppering him with questions, asking the same thing over and over again, cajoling him to sign a document promising that he’d be available to testify in court. Panfile had refused. He’d given the lawyer—who claimed to be the ex-governor of Wyoming, as outlandish as that seemed to be to Panfile—only what he intended to give him: a statement that would eventually result in the release of Nate Romanowski from jail. That’s why he’d given his real name—a fake name might have been found out, and then his affidavit would have been worthless. He’d debated for quite a while about doing any of this. His whole life had been about avoiding the law. But this was too important. Romanowski had to pay for what he’d done—and he couldn’t do that from a jail cell.

Besides, Panfile was going to be gone very, very soon. It was too cold here, too isolated. He missed his children. And he was nearly out of the food Luna had packed for him.

It was time to go home.

But first he needed to carry out his plan.

*

THERE WAS A LIGHT on in the rear guest bedroom of the Romanowski house. It was always the last one to go out at night. Panfile didn’t know what the woman did alone in her room after everyone else had gone to bed. Maybe she had a television in there, or more likely she was staring at the screen on her phone. That’s what Americans did, he’d observed. They stared at their phones.

He walked around the back of the house and paused before going around to the front. He knew from his surveillance that, unlike most of the homes up here in the countryside, there were no dogs to raise an alarm. Plenty of falcons and hawks out in the mews, but no dogs.

Panfile froze when one of the hawks shrieked. The high-pitched sound chilled him to his bones. Would the others join in?

Panfile didn’t trust the man’s falcons not to know what was about to happen. They had unexplainable and mystical qualities as well as a special connection to Romanowski himself. If the falcons knew something, Panfile surmised, the falconer would know it at the same time.

But Romanowski wasn’t there, was he?

Panfile knocked softly on the front door. When nothing happened, he knocked harder.

A light came on inside. He stepped back on the covered porch so he could be seen when the curtains were eased back from the front window. The porch light came on.

The young woman who opened the door was wrapped in a bathrobe. Her hair was down and she had bare feet.

“Loren Jean Hill?” he asked softly.

She nodded her head and said, “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“May I come inside and wait?”

She stepped aside so he could enter. The home itself was neat and warm. He moved through it tentatively. He didn’t want to act like he owned the place.

She said, “My brother . . .”

“He’ll be okay,” Panfile said to her. “He’ll be fine. As soon as my people hear from me that all went well, that you did everything we asked of you, he’ll be released.”

“I’m supposed to believe you, aren’t I?” she asked. “I knew he should never have let himself get mixed up with you people.”

“He’ll be fine,” Panfile said again. “You’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”

“You won’t hurt them, will you?” she asked him. “Kestrel is just a baby. I’ve grown fond of her.”

“I don’t hurt babies,” Panfile said, shaking his head as if disappointed in the question. “My intention is to give him a reason to come after me on my soil. That’s where I have the advantage. I want him away from here where he’s comfortable.”

He’d told her too much. He said again, “Everyone will be fine.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Hill asked.

“Call the mama and ask her to come back first thing tomorrow morning. Make sure she brings the baby.”

“What if she’s suspicious?”

“She won’t be if you’re convincing,” he said. “Your brother’s life depends on it.”

Hers did, too. But he didn’t think he needed to say it, and he didn’t.