Poisonfeather (The Gibson Vaughn Series Book 2) Read online

  The first blue envelope had arrived unexpectedly the day before he’d graduated from Parris Island. He remembered sitting on his bunk, turning the letter over in his hands, only his third piece of mail in thirteen weeks. Family Day on base was a lonely time for a kid with none. Trying but failing not to resent the rest of his platoon as they guided proud mothers and fathers around base. The judge’s twenty-page letter, warm and wise, helped him feel less alone in the world, congratulating him on becoming a Marine but also exhorting him to be still better.

  New letters followed every few months, expansive, ranging in topic and tone, but always a needed tonic. The judge’s letters had been the bridge for Gibson’s transition into manhood—philosophical questions, well-timed advice, and encouragement at discouraging times. Gibson answered every letter; it felt good knowing there was someone out there who cared if he lived or died. Eventually Nicole filled that void, but for a time it was down to Judge Birk alone. He often wondered if the judge wrote to all the young people he granted a second chance.

  The judge’s letters continued for several years, but there came a point when they arrived less and less regularly, finally stopping altogether. It was about the time that the judge had stepped down from the bench at the end of his last term. Judgeships were voted on in the Virginia General Assembly, and the newspapers had been vague about why Birk wasn’t running again. Gibson had always worried that the decision to defy Benjamin Lombard had cost Birk his career—and that losing his judgeship embittered Birk and caused him to stop writing. As the letters tapered off, Gibson kept up his end, but by then he was married and Ellie was on the way. After four or five letters went unanswered, life overtook him, and he consigned their correspondence to the past.

  Until Sunday at the ballpark.

  Gibson felt a reverential sense of duty toward the judge. Ironic that they had only ever had the one face-to-face conversation, because he loved the man dearly. The judge had maneuvered him into the Marines instead of prison, but truth was, Gibson had viewed the Marines as a prison itself. It had been the judge who had counseled him to make the most of his time in the Corps. The judge who had helped an angry, troubled kid get his feet under him and find purpose in life.

  Nick Finelli might not believe in repaying his debts, but if it were within Gibson’s power, he would do it for Birk. Whatever the judge needed. Unless, of course, he was being set up. The timing of the judge’s letter, Spectrum’s about-face, and the stranger asking questions at the Nighthawk came precariously close to the definition of impossible coincidence. Something was way off here; he just didn’t know what. Gibson would keep an open mind, but he hoped that the judge had nothing to do with his losing the job. That would sorely test his faith in human nature.

  When 29 hit Culpepper, he followed Route 15 toward Orange. He was in farm country now, and traffic thinned out. He split off onto Route 20, a winding two-lane, and drove until he realized he’d missed his turnoff and doubled back. From the road, the turnoff for Longman Farm was hard not to miss—just a small break in the trees, a worn yellow sign, and a gravel road that led away into the woods. Gibson followed it for a quarter mile alongside a wide field dotted with baled hay until he came to a rusted gate. He turned in and followed a rutted gravel road up to the big white house on the ridge. It was good land, but Gibson could see disrepair everywhere.

  Christopher Birk came out the front door with a cup of coffee, his grass-green polo shirt clashing ever so slightly with his red chinos. He shook Gibson’s hand like they were old friends.

  “Thanks for coming,” Birk said.

  “Nice place you have here. How many acres?”

  Birk looked around as if seeing the farm for the first time.

  “Three hundred, all told. Should have seen it when I was a boy. We had more than double that. Dad sold off some to developers in ’09.”

  Gibson heard a calcified bitterness in his voice.

  “To develop what? I didn’t see anything driving up.”

  “Well, that’s the kicker. Developers went out of business in ’10. The land’s been tied up in the courts ever since. Now it just sits there, going to seed. Not sure there’s anything sadder than land going unworked. Feels wrong, know what I mean?”

  “You didn’t strike me as a farmer.”

  “Because I’m not one,” Birk said. “Doesn’t mean I appreciate my family’s farm falling apart.”

  A voice from around the side of the house: “That him?”

  “Yeah, we’re out front, Gavin,” Birk yelled back.

  The Shard pushed through a row of bushes that had once formed a neat hedge but had been left to run wild. He pulled off a pair of thick work gloves, smiled a caved-in smile, and pointed at Gibson.

  “Told you he’d show.”

  “He’s here.”

  “Told you,” said the Shard again, like an older brother who couldn’t not have the last word.

  “I’m here. I think we’ve settled that. Gavin, right?”

  “Nobody calls me Gavin. I answer to Swonger.”

  “He called you Gavin,” Gibson pointed out.

  “Yeah, and been telling him for fifteen years not to. College ain’t what it used to be.”

  “Wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s right, you wouldn’t. His uncle did you the Marines, yeah? Good on you.”

  Birk was getting impatient. “What’s in the bag?”

  “A little something for the judge,” Gibson said. It had taken him three stops to find it. “Is he here? I didn’t drive down here so you two could argue the fine points of where I am.”

  “Ain’t no call to be talking out your neck.” Swonger took an angry step toward Gibson.

  “Who is this guy?” Gibson asked Birk. “I know you’re the nephew, but what’s Cletus here got to do with it?”

  Birk sprang forward to block Swonger as he lunged for Gibson.

  “My name’s Swonger, you son of a bitch. Swonger.”

  Either Birk was stronger than he looked or Swonger allowed himself to be guided away, blustering at Gibson as he went. Gibson stood impassively on the steps while Birk soothed Swonger’s ruffled feathers out in the driveway, then came back.

  “Look. Swonger’s particular about his name. So no nicknames, okay?”

  Gibson shrugged. “Fine, but who is he?”

  “Grew up with me. His daddy’s the farm manager. The Swongers live a half mile up. And, yeah, they’re a part of this.”

  “His dad runs the farm? So what does your dad do?”

  “My dad? He drinks.”

  That ended the discussion. Swonger leaned against Gibson’s car like he owned it, smoking a cigarette and still arguing some invisible argument. Watching him, Gibson felt slightly reassured. Whatever else was happening here, Birk and Swonger didn’t strike him as part of any grand conspiracy. Perhaps the Spectrum timing and the nosy visitor to the Nighthawk were just coincidences after all.

  “Look, I’m here to talk to the judge. Is he here, or not? I’ve got family in Charlottesville to visit if he isn’t.”

  “You’re here to see him,” Swonger said with a smile. “No one said nothing about talking.”

  Gibson didn’t know what to make of that.

  “Yeah, he’s here,” Birk said. “He lives in the back house.”

  “He lives here on the farm?”

  “Couple of years now,” Birk said. “Come on. I’ll take you out to see him.”

  Birk led Gibson around the side of the house and down a path between two fields. Thirty head of cattle watched their progress with a lazy pivot of their necks. Swonger, trailing behind, stopped to fix a section of fence that had collapsed.

  The hedgerow on their left gave way, and they came up on the “back house.” It was, in reality, an ancient single-wide trailer set on a cracked cinder-block foundation. Whatever color it had once been, it had long since sloughed off its paint like dead skin. Trash lay on the path leading up to the door, which Birk tried to sweep out of the way with an embarr
assed foot. To the right of the front door, under a makeshift awning, three faded, folding patio chairs sat in the dirt around a ramshackle card table.

  “He lives here?” Gibson tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  During his trial, Judge Birk had cut a grand figure, imperious in his black robes, with a patrician bearing that overawed everyone in the courtroom. Gibson hadn’t known much about courtrooms but knew a little something about power, and even he could see that the lawyers on both sides were intimidated by Birk. Gibson assumed the judge’s family background would match it. His father had often warned against making assumptions about people based on too few data points. The farm, these people, this was far from the Virginia aristocracy. So who was Hammond Birk?

  “Yep,” said Birk in answer to Gibson’s question. “Hold up here a second.” Birk walked up to the front door but didn’t knock. “Uncle Hammond? Hey!” Birk called. “Old man, you in there?”

  Gibson heard movement from inside. A man appeared at the door in a filthy orange University of Virginia T-shirt and underwear that had once been white but now looked gray with age.

  “Is it bath day?” the Honorable Hammond D. Birk asked, moving from foot to foot like a little boy who needed to pee. His long, unkempt beard swayed joylessly with him beneath eyes stained the jaundice yellow and red of a poisoned skyline.

  It was hard to reconcile this man with the judge who had once silenced a packed courtroom with a single upraised hand. It had been more than ten years, but the judge’s condition owed itself to much more than the passage of time.

  “No, it’s not bath day. Bath day is Wednesday. This is Tuesday. Now come on, I have someone here to see you.”

  “Who?” the judge asked.

  “Gibson Vaughn. You remember. I told you he was coming.”

  The judge took a step back into the trailer, his expression uncertain.

  “Come on, now. Don’t make me come in there.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Birk caught hold of the judge’s wrist. The judge tried to pull free, but his nephew was too strong and dragged him out the door.

  Gibson didn’t care much for bullies.

  “Hey,” he said. “Take it easy.”

  The judge stopped struggling and looked in Gibson’s direction. At first, Gibson saw only confusion and fear in his eyes. Then, like smoke clearing, a distant awareness sparked, followed swiftly by shame.

  “I should put on some trousers,” the judge said.

  “Yeah,” said Birk, “I think that would be fine.”

  The judge disappeared back into the trailer. Birk and Gibson stared each other down while they waited. After a minute, the judge called for his nephew.

  “Great. Now I got to go in there. Make yourself at home.” Birk gestured to the card table and disappeared into the trailer.

  From inside, Christopher Birk scolded his uncle the way an exasperated adult might upbraid a child. But more than that, an angry, loveless undercurrent colored the nephew’s tone. It broke Gibson’s heart. How had a man as vital and wise as the judge come to live here, like this? A pariah to his own family. The man should be in assisted living, not dying alone in a trailer.

  It dawned on Gibson now why the judge had stopped answering his letters. It hadn’t been out of anger over losing his judgeship; he simply hadn’t been able. Was that also why he had defied Benjamin Lombard in the first place? Because he already knew he was sick and wouldn’t be fit for another term on the bench anyway? Lombard had tried to play politics with a man whose diagnosis had transcended career aspirations. Life had a sense of humor to it, Gibson had to give it that.

  Swonger wandered up from fixing the fence and leaned against the trailer just out of Gibson’s line of sight.

  “You work on the farm with your dad?” Gibson asked, not turning his head.

  “It look like there’s anything to work on around here?” Swonger said. “Nah, man. I help Pops out, but the Birks barely pay him anything anymore.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “What do I do? Fuck you is what I do.”

  “Good talking to you as always, Swonger.”

  Swonger spat in the dirt. Nephew and uncle reemerged. Birk led his uncle to the nearest chair. Gibson stood and held out his hand to the judge.

  “Hello, sir.”

  The judge glanced at his nephew.

  “Gibson Vaughn,” Birk prompted.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you for coming,” the judge said and shook Gibson’s hand. His skin was the texture of muslin.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Judge Birk stared at him for a moment, then looked back to his nephew hopefully. “Is it bath day?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Dementia,” Christopher Birk said. “Runs in the family, so I got that waiting on me.”

  Gibson tried to catch the judge’s eye, but Judge Birk avoided his gaze.

  “He’s a little anxious,” Birk explained. “He gets like this around new people.”

  “I’m not new people.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Is he . . . is it always like this?”

  “Comes and goes. Been not so bad lately, I suppose. Hit or miss on clothes. Has trouble with things that turn on or off. Just doesn’t understand the concept anymore. Flooded the trailer three times before Swonger’s dad shut the water off for good.”

  “He doesn’t have running water?”

  “Think that’s what the man said,” Swonger said.

  Gibson swiveled in his chair and fixed a look on Swonger. “Why don’t you come sit at the grown-up table where I can see you?”

  Swonger didn’t move.

  “Bottled water’s safer,” Birk explained.

  Gibson leaned in close to the judge. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  The judge still wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  “Did he even write the letter?” Gibson asked Christopher Birk.

  “Nah, man,” Swonger said. “He’s got the tremors something fierce. Can’t even hold a pen right. Looks like old Richter caught the big one, know what I’m saying?” Swonger made large jagged movements with his hand to demonstrate.

  “You’re a hell of a forger.” Gibson thought he knew the judge’s handwriting better than his own, but nothing about the ex-con’s penmanship had raised a red flag. Swonger had talent.

  “Sentiment was from the heart. For reals. Old boy’s been wanting to see you bad.”

  “He doesn’t seem like he wants to see me.”

  “Nah, he does. He’s just confused.”

  “What Gavin wrote,” Birk said, “is pretty much what my uncle’s been saying. He really did ask to see you. Brought you up several times. Several.”

  Gibson saw the angle. They’d trotted out the judge in all his pathetic glory so they could gauge how Gibson reacted, how affected he was by the spectacle. They wanted something from him, and the judge was the finger plucking at his heartstrings. Soften him up before they pitched whatever it was they were selling. Well, Gibson was plenty softened. In shock was more like it. And they’d exploit that weakness if he let them.

  “Well, let’s hear it,” he said.

  “Hear what?” Birk asked.

  “You paraded him out here. Okay, I’ve seen him. I’m appropriately torn up. Now why don’t you tell me why so I don’t start feeling like I wasted a day for nothing.”

  Birk and Swonger glanced at each other. That wasn’t how they’d expected it to go. They’d been following a script, but now that their mark was improvising his lines, they didn’t have the experience to adapt. Gibson found that encouraging. He didn’t like being played, but it was a kind of comfort to know the actors were amateurs.

  Birk shrugged. “Get him the magazine.”

  Swonger spat in the dirt again and went into the trailer. He came back with a copy of Finance magazine and tossed it on the table.

  “UNREPENTANT,” trumpeted the cover in block letters over a photo of a man in a prison
jumpsuit who looked more like a Hollywood star than a convict. Maybe it was the mane of golden-blond hair flecked with gray. Or the man’s smile, one part condescension mixed with two parts entitlement. But something made Gibson want to punch the guy out. He doubted he could be alone in that sentiment.

  “Do you know the name Charles Merrick?” Birk asked.

  “Not really. One of the Wall Street guys who went down during the crash.”

  “That’s right. He’s in Niobe Federal Prison over in West Virginia.”

  “Minimum security ain’t prison,” Swonger said.

  “He’s getting out in a little over a month—”

  “Twenty-nine days,” Swonger corrected.

  Birk flashed an irritated glance at his partner, then asked Gibson if he knew how a Ponzi scheme worked.

  “It’s a financial con,” Gibson said.

  “It wasn’t a Ponzi scheme,” Swonger said, interrupting.

  “Then why do they call him Madoff Junior?” Birk asked.

  “’Cause they’re idiots just like you?”

  “Swonger—” Birk began.

  “Then what happened?” Gibson asked.

  “After Merrick’s third fund flatlined, investors sued to get access to his books,” said Swonger. “That’s how they found out he’d been robbing them blind.”

  “Like Madoff,” Birk said.

  Gibson jumped in before the Ponzi-scheme debate could resume. “Let me guess. The judge invested?”

  “Oh, yeah, he did,” said Swonger.

  “Well, that’s sad for him, but what’s it got to do with you?”

  “Because the old fool talked my dad into investing with Merrick,” Birk said. “Swonger’s too.”

  A cloud passed across Swonger’s eyes at the mention of it. “Stood in my kitchen and told my dad he was missing the boat if he didn’t throw in. Talked down to him like he was a child.” Swonger chuckled bitterly. “Old boy sure could talk.”