Murray tapped ash out of his cigarette. “It’s not a complex statement.”
“It sure as hell better be. Because if it’s as simple as it sounded, then you just threatened me, asshole.”
Murray sighed and brought the cigarette back to his lips. “Guys like you are exhausting, you know that? There’s no reason in the world—none—for you to be a stubborn bastard on this, but you still can’t stop yourself.”
“Must be nice to have a bank ledger where your ethics should be, Gavin. You’ll probably go on to big things. Most people like that do.”
“It would be a great idea to negotiate, Mr. Shaw. I can assure you of that.”
“Negotiate with who? You offer me money, I damn well want to know where it’s coming from.” Eric studied him. “So which family member do you work for?”
“Excuse me?”
“The only person who’d be worried about what I’m doing would be somebody close to Campbell Bradford back in Chicago.”
Gavin Murray smiled. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
Eric waited but nothing else was offered. He said, “I’m done with you, Gavin. And tell whoever hired you that they can find me directly if they want to talk.”
“I’ve got one more question,” Murray said. “What exactly were you discussing with Josiah Bradford?”
Eric cocked his head. “You really do know everybody, don’t you?”
That got a tight smile and a nod.
“What I told him was a private matter,” Eric said. “But if you don’t get the hell out of my sight, I’ll go fill him in on some more things. Like the fact that somebody’s in town waving seventy-five grand in my face. Wonder what they’d wave in his.”
“Not a cent.”
“I find that hard to believe. Looks to me like somebody’s awfully concerned about the Bradford legacy. And probably the Bradford stock portfolio.”
“Not true.”
“No? Then what are you doing in beautiful French Lick, friend?”
Silence.
“Right,” Eric said. “Well, enjoy your stay, buddy. And keep away from me.”
This time, Murray let him go.
26
KELLEN WAS WAITING IN the car with the windows down and music playing. He turned the volume down when Eric got in.
“So, who’s that guy working for?”
“Someone who offered me seventy-five grand to go home.”
Kellen leaned across the steering wheel, mouth agape. “What?”
Eric nodded. “Started with fifty, then bumped it up to seventy-five.”
Kellen said, “What?” again as if the answer had never been offered.
“I know,” Eric said. He was staring back down the hill, looking for Gavin Murray. He finally located him beside one of the gazebos, standing with a cell phone glued to his ear. Probably calling Chicago to provide the update and await instructions.
“Another family member would be my guess,” Eric said. “Or somebody from Campbell’s legal team. The old man’s dying, and he’s worth a few hundred million. Could be worried about Josiah.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. If Josiah’s close blood to the old man in the hospital, he could make a compelling legal claim to compensation. Campbell abandoned the family. A few generations ago, maybe, but there would be plenty of lawyers who’d be happy to argue for reparations on Josiah’s behalf.”
“But you don’t think the two Campbells are the same guy.”
“No, I don’t. Which makes this all the more interesting, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Also makes me wonder what your client will have to say.”
“Oh, yeah,” Eric said. “She’s getting a call. Right now.”
Down by the gazebo, Gavin Murray lowered the phone and put it back in the case at his belt and lit another cigarette. He was leaning against the rail, staring up at them.
“Think that’s a good idea?” Kellen said. “Telling her about this?”
“She has a better chance of understanding what the hell it’s about than I do. How can it be a bad idea?”
Kellen shrugged, then waited while Eric dialed Alyssa Bradford’s number. Cell first, then home. No answer. He left messages on both phones but no details, just a request to call him as soon as possible.
“Headache back?” Kellen said when he hung up, and Eric realized he’d been rubbing the back of his skull while he made the calls.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get moving. I told Anne we were on our way.”
As they drove away from the hotel, Gavin Murray lifted a hand in recognition. He was on the phone again.
Josiah left Danny at his grandfather’s and drove off without a word minutes after the Porsche pulled out of the drive. He considered following them, driving that polished piece of shit right off the road and hauling them out of it one at a time, administering the beating he should’ve issued at Edgar’s house. They were out of sight, though, no car visible ahead except for a blue minivan pulled into the weeds.
Josiah blew past that and on into town, stopped at the gas station and put twenty dollars’ worth into his empty tank and bought a six-pack, drank one down fast while he stood at the pump. Someone pulled in and tapped the horn, annoyed that Josiah was there blocking the pump while drinking a beer, but it only took one look to make the driver go on to the next available pump.
He threw his empty beer can into the trash and drove away from the station, heading home. His house was out in the wooded hills just east of Orangeville, surrounded by a few hundred acres of Amish farmland. They ran up and down the road in their buggies and sold vegetables in front of the farm, and early on, Josiah would hit the gas in his truck when he passed, let that oh-so-scary modern machinery roar at them. Made him laugh. Over time, though, he began to appreciate them despite himself. They were quiet neighbors, took care of their land, didn’t bother him with noise or forced-friendly conversation or gossip. Minded their own, let him mind his. As it should be.
The porch looked clean and bright when he pulled into the drive, but it no longer satisfied him. He’d taken a hell of a one-two punch. Seeing those guys sitting in Edgar’s living room was bad enough, but that had come right on the heels of Danny Hastings, old dumbass Danny, looking Josiah in the eye and telling him he thought Josiah’s plan was stupid. And being right to say so.
Yes, this day was spinning away from him in an altogether unpleasant fashion. Hell, the whole weekend was. Had gone south fast and furious, starting last night. Things had been fine Friday morning, fine as they ever were, at least.
That was the problem, though—things never were fine and never were going to change. Not unless he took some action. He’d be sitting on the porch drinking piss-water beer and matching wits with Danny for the rest of his pathetic life, till his reflexes went and he could no longer handle the truck with booze in his veins and he put it off the highway and into the trees just like his worthless father had before him.
“Something’s got to change,” he whispered to himself, sitting there in the cab of the truck with sweat trickling along his neck and the beer warming in the sun while horses walked in circles at the Amish farm next door, turning some sort of mill wheel, their heads down the whole time, step after step after step. “Something has got to change.”
He got out of the truck but didn’t want to go in the house, didn’t want to sit on the stained couch and look at the cracks in the wall and the sloped floor. The porch rail glinted under the sun, sure, but now he realized just how damn little the porch rail meant. The house was still a dump, with sagging gutters and a stain-streaked roof and mildew-covered siding. Sure, those things could be addressed, but it took money, and even then, what the hell was the point? Could only accomplish so much with polish on a turd.