1 Peter Peter Ash opened his eyes in the dark, listening. Some sound had pulled him from sleep. Not one of the normal noises of the old house. His subconscious mind was used to the wintery clank of the radiators, the wind''s rattle of the loose windowpane that he hadn''t gotten around to mending before the weather turned. This was something different. Peter often woke in the night, pillow wet with sweat, mind racing, the war returned in his dreams. He''d come to terms with it, mostly. Had learned not to fight it.
It helped to look over and see June Cassidy snoring softly beside him, buried under a mound of quilts, to think of the life he was making with her every day. Sometimes that was enough. Other times, his chest was so tight he could barely breathe. So he''d get up and pace the unlit house, heart pounding, skin flushed and damp. Fighting to pull air into his lungs, he''d feel the desert sun baking his skin. He''d see the faces from those gone-away days, good friends who had died or men he had killed. He''d smell the stench of unburied bodies. Breath after breath, he let it all come.
The cost of war. But Peter wasn''t sweating now. He felt cool and alert, his senses searching the night. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was a quarter to four. Then came a soft clink, like metal on stone. Someone downstairs. Slowly and carefully, not wanting to wake June, he untwined himself from her naked body and eased himself out of bed.
He knelt beside the nightstand and slipped a Browning Hi-Power pistol from the holster he''d mounted to the underside, then took a cylindrical suppressor from a leather sleeve beside it and threaded it onto the pistol''s barrel. No reason to wake the neighbors if this got ugly. Gun in hand, he stepped into the pair of raggedy blue boxers that June had peeled off him the night before, then left the bedroom and walked barefoot across the sloping wood floor toward the stairs, the night air cold against his bare skin. As he crept down the steps, he stayed tight against the wall, where the wide oak treads wouldn''t squeak. His scalp tingled and his heart thumped in his chest. The Browning''s safety was already off. He heard the sound of running water from the back of the house. He ghosted down the long hall toward the dim electric glow of the kitchen stove.
The faint rumble of a drawer, closing softly. He rounded the corner with the Browning up and his finger on the trigger. A shadow stood staring into the open upper cabinets, hands on his hips. His starched white shirt glowed against his dark skin. Peter had thought he''d been utterly soundless, but Lewis spoke without looking at him. "Where''s your big thermos at?" On the counter, the coffeemaker gurgled and began to drip. A loaf of brown bread stood on a cutting board beside a jar of peanut butter and a plastic bear filled with honey. Peter lowered the Browning, felt his heartbeat slow.
"I thought you were in Detroit. That investment conference." "Left early." Lewis''s voice was slippery and dark, like motor oil. "Big thermos?" Peter put the pistol on safe and set it on the counter. "Above the coffeemaker. Top shelf." The cabinets were custom and went all the way up to the nine-foot ceiling.
Peter had built them himself. He and Lewis had renovated most of the old house together, adding big new windows that opened up the back to the forested ravine that dropped down to the river below. Outside, the Wisconsin landscape shone white with moonlit snow. Lewis found the dented green Stanley thermos, set it in the sink, and filled it with hot water, pre-warming the cold metal. His movements were quick and clean, his sleeves rolled exactly twice. His polished black combat boots moved silently across the slate floor. "You busy today?" Peter was in the middle of a spec project on the expensive side of the river, a gut remodel. The electrician was starting the rewire at seven a.
m. The plumbing inspector was due after lunch. Before the drywall delivery, scheduled for midafternoon, Peter had sagging floor joists to reinforce in the dining room and a new beam to install in the basement. But whenever he''d needed Lewis in the past, calling from California, or Denver, or Memphis, or Nebraska, Lewis had always showed up, no questions asked. So Peter just smiled. "I''m all yours. What''s up?" Lewis nodded. "Take a ride with me.
Should be back tonight." Peter picked up the Browning again. "Let me get some clothes on." He was waiting for Lewis to look him up and down, make some crack about Peter in his underwear. But it never came. "Dress warm," Lewis said. "Leave the phone. Bring the gun.
" Peter left a note on the counter for June, sent three quick emails to rearrange his day, then shrugged into his coat and walked out the side door, locking it behind him. The wind made his eyeballs ache. Dirty snow was piled waist-high beside the shoveled driveway where Lewis''s black Yukon idled, the powerful engine rumbling low. Peter opened the door and climbed inside, grateful for the heat. The dashboard thermometer read five below zero. Early February in Milwaukee. Lewis wheeled the big SUV through the darkened city toward the freeway. He hadn''t said a word since Peter got in the car.
Two cheap phones lay charging on the center console. The thermos and a brown paper sack full of food sat on the floor by Peter''s feet. "Are you going tell me what this is about?" Lewis turned onto the on-ramp, headed north. "We''re going up past Crandon, see a guy I used to know." Crandon was four hours away in good summer weather. "Used to know?" "Used to work with," Lewis said. "Back in the bad old days." The highway was brightly lit, the pavement clear.
Southeastern Wisconsin hadn''t seen fresh snow in almost a week. But the sky hung low on the overpasses, the clouds brushing the high tops of the tall, curving streetlamps, which meant snow was coming. Peter was surprised, as he always was, how many cars were on the road at this early hour, people living their unknowable lives. Where were they all going? "This guy got a name?" "Upstate Wilson." Lewis sighed. "First name, Teddy. Ray started calling him Upstate because Teddy was a country boy, always talking about his place upstate, the hunting and fishing upstate, what he was gonna do when he got back upstate. Plus he was usually wired high on some kind of ups, burning that candle.
So Upstate Wilson kinda stuck." "I always thought it was just you and Nino and Ray. Keeping things simple." Lewis raised a shoulder in a shrug. "That''s how it was, usually. Business model wasn''t complicated. Target criminals, keep the civilians out of it. If nobody calls the cops, they don''t know to come looking for you.
" "What about the criminals you targeted?" Lewis flashed a mirthless smile. "Dead men don''t cause no trouble." Peter knew some of this, but not much. Lewis almost never talked about his old life, at least not at the level of detail that might be used in a court of law. "Anyway," Lewis said, "when you''re in business long enough, you get to know a few people. Opportunities come your way. We get a good one, we maybe diversify a little. Rules were the same, though.
Don''t steal from nobody can''t afford it, don''t hurt nobody don''t deserve it." Peter had always known that Lewis was more than he seemed. The better he knew the man, the more clear this became. The fact that Lewis had held himself and his crew of killers to a code of conduct? Icing on the cake. "So where does Upstate Wilson come in?" "Nino knew him from the service. Huge guy. We''d bring him in when we needed extra muscle. An asshole generally, but good with a gun, good under pressure.
He was also a safe and lock man, alarms and electronics, so we''d use him for that. Self-taught, but talented-when he wasn''t high. When he was using, he was prone to weirdness. Conspiracy theories. Paranoia." They were out of the city now, the suburbs low and dim behind walls and fences and lines of trees. After they passed Good Hope Road, the high lamps fell away and the night grew darker. "Anyway, a couple years before you and I met, we were going after these bikers in Cali.
This was Pagans territory, but these bikers were too nasty to be official members. So they had their own little group, doing the kind of stuff the Pagans didn''t want their name on, the real dirty work. Murder for hire, running guns and meth up and down the Central Valley. "Their clubhouse was a shithole bar outside of Bakersfield, we went in late one night wearing body armor under these FBI jackets we bought in a costume shop. That usually gave us about three seconds before they all scrambled for their weapons. We took care of things, but in the process, Teddy got shot in the head. He actually stepped in front of me, so he took a bullet that probably had my name on it." Lewis shook his head.
"Blood everywhere. Overpressure from the round popped one eyeball out of its socket, left it hanging by the nerve bundle. Ugly as hell. We were sure he was gonna die, but we weren''t going to leave him there. So we got him in the car and drove him to an ER in Fresno. "Som.