He grinned. “The man of the hour.”
“They’re not back yet?”
“Looks that way. I thought you were with them.”
“I stayed behind. My knee’s acting up.”
“Sorry to hear it. Got just the remedy for that. Come on in.”
I followed him to the hyper-masculine living room. He selected a bottle from the bar cart.
“Scotch, neat.”
“You remember.”
“The old bean’s still good for a few things.” He poured for me, fixed himself a bourbon. “Take a load off.”
We sat opposite each other, him in an easy chair and me on the sofa.
“Slainte,” he said, raising his drink.
As I brought the scotch to my lips, I saw him observing me over the rim of his glass, this jolly avuncular figure, focused not on his drink but on mine, his eyes bright and expectant.
My own focus shifted. Sharpened.
I laid the tumbler aside. “You know what, I’ll hold off so we can all celebrate together.”
“That’s the spirit,” Emil said. “Anything else, while you wait? Lemonade?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“How was your day?”
“Quiet. How was Eureka?”
“Intolerable,” he said. “Makes me twice as grateful to get home.”
“I appreciate your flexibility.”
“You’ve got Beau to thank for that. He’s taken a real shine to you.”
“It’s mutual.”
“Too bad about your knee. May I ask what happened?”
“Old tennis injury.”
“Huh. You’re such a tall guy. I would have guessed basketball.”
A new smile split his meaty face.
“Must be tough to find the time to play,” he said. “Extra tough if you’re holding down a second job.”
“How’s that?”
“Private equity,” he said, “and private investigation. Hard work. Time consuming. What’s your hourly rate, Clay Edison?”
I said, “Too high, apparently.”
He roared with laughter. “I respect a man doesn’t take himself too serious.”
“Where’d I screw up?”
“Talked to Kathleen.”
“Interesting,” I said. “She made it sound like there was no love lost between you two.”
“Me and her, no. But a mama’s heart is true. You threaten her baby, out come the claws.”
He shot his bourbon, set it down. “Well, look, friend. We have a nice, peaceful community, and we intend to keep it that way.”
I stood. “I’ll get out of your hair, then.”
“We’re not done.”
“I am.”
“Sit your ass down,” he said.
A shape slid into the kitchen doorway; I turned, reaching into my shirt for the P365, and found myself confronting a shotgun-wielding Dave Pelman.
“Hands,” he said.
My fingertips brushed the grip.
I might be able to draw and squeeze off a shot.
I might get tangled up in fabric.
The outcome hinged on how quickly I moved, how accurate he was, what was chambered in the shotgun.
A deer slug: Hit or miss.
Buckshot: Didn’t much matter.
Too many unknowns.
“Hands,” Pelman repeated.
“I’d do as the man says,” Emil said.
I withdrew my hand from my shirt.
They had me lie on my stomach and lace my fingers behind my head. Pelman trained the shotgun on me while Emil knelt on my back and zip-tied my wrists.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said.
“Terrific,” Emil said. He rolled me over and confiscated the P365, along with my phone and keys. “I look forward to getting that cleared right up.”
They forced me outside and into the Jeep’s cargo hold. Pelman climbed in the back seat, leaned over, and pressed the shotgun to my scar.
A door slammed. The engine started. We began to move.
Curled up against the luggage, I could see a sliver of sky, treetops swaying.
I felt behind me for the zipper of Regina’s bag.
Maybe I could get my hands on something sharp. A nail clipper. Tweezers.
The edge of the shotgun barrel bit into my flesh.
Pelman said, “Uh-uh.”
After about ten minutes the Jeep pulled over.
The cargo hatch opened.
Emil waved me out with the P365.
We were on a narrow street, parked opposite a wooden house. Beau’s Range Rover sat at the curb. I couldn’t see a street sign, but the tow truck in the driveway told me it was Dave Pelman’s residence and garage. Gray Fox Run, somewhere in the southern half of the peninsula.
The adjacent lots were pure forest. The house itself was largish but crude, patched with raw lumber. Chain link enclosed a sodden brown lawn. A pair of squeaking weather vanes bickered. Rooster versus winged pig.
Pelman prodded me toward the driveway.
I moved through the trembling shadows of pines.
To the rear sprawled acres of junkyard: dirt piled with hubcaps, hoses, tires, rusted-out frames and panels, scrap, perforated canisters of motor oil and coolant and paint, gasoline in five-gallon jugs. Rainbow slicks floated on mud. A pathway made of pallets brought us to a swaybacked barn.
Emil hauled the door wide. Darkness yawned.
I paused on the threshold, breathing grease and solvent.
A jab to the spine sent me stumbling.
Blades of light leaked through gaps in the siding. More trash heaped in the dank corners. I passed beneath low-hanging rafters. Nailed to them, like hunting trophies, were license plates from California and a dozen other states. I wondered which belonged to Octavio Prado.
At the far end of the barn, Regina sat in a steel folding chair. Her wrists were duct-taped to the frame, her ankles to the legs. There was a cut above her left eye. Dried blood ran from one nostril and over her lips. She was shirtless, shivering, although they’d let her keep her bra and covered her shoulders with a filthy towel.
Her pink gun purse hung on a wall hook among an array of hand tools.
Beau occupied a second folding chair. He smiled. “Look who decided to join us.”
He got up. His S&W500, the bear stopper, was holstered on his belt.
Rush him. Head-butt him.
And then what?
My hands were tied.
He put me in the open chair and duct-taped my ankles to it.
“Listen up,” he said. “I’m gonna undo your hands. Take off your shirt and vest and throw them on the ground. If you make a move, if you do anything I don’t like, Dave’ll shoot her in the head. Then I’ll break your fingers, one by one, and shoot you. Are we on the same page?”
“Yes.”
“Terrific.”
He took down a pair of tin snips, circled behind me, giving me a wide berth.
Grab the tool.
Grab his gun.
Emil and Pelman were out of reach, triangulating with firearms.
Regina was immobilized.
I was strapped to the chair.
The only weapons we had were our tongues.
Beau cut the zip-tie and stood back. “Go on.”
I opened the magnetic shirtfront. “You’re not even going to buy me dinner?”
Once I was bare-chested, he taped my arms to the chair and assumed his place at his father’s side. Dave Pelman, faithful servant, stood in readiness with the shotgun.
Emil said, “Now, where were we? Oh yeah: You were going to clear up a misunderstanding. Go ahead, Clay Edison. Enlighten me.”
“It’s strictly business,” I said. “We’re just here for due diligence.”
“Pretty darn diligent, sending two of you,” he said. “Expensive. Who is this person, with money to burn? I’d love to meet him.”