She checked on the kids, and woke Tommy from a devilish nightmare and held him until he fell back asleep. She had had night terrors as a child and understood quite clearly how bad they could be.
Gibson went to her room, set her alarm, and pulled the covers over herself, thinking of what she had once been and perhaps what she still could be.
Chapter 32
With the kids bathed and fed and Silva in charge, Gibson set out for The Feathers the following morning. She had on an outfit that she had last worn about two years ago. She had delivered Darby about three weeks before, and had still been carrying some of her pregnancy weight. She refused to borrow any more clothes from her mother.
She drove past The Feathers twice, each time looking for anyone surveilling the place. She didn’t believe that Nathan Trask was keeping his father under eyeballs 24/7, but the man had enough resources to justify Gibson’s going through the pains of checking.
Nothing looked amiss to her, so she drove into the parking lot, and went inside with a little gift bag and small bouquet of flowers she had purchased as part of her cover. There was a sign-in sheet, so she signed in, in an undecipherable scribble. She took her temperature with the device sitting next to the sign-in ledger, and saw that it was normal. A woman at the front desk, on the telephone, nodded at Gibson, who smiled back and held up the gift bag and flowers. The woman mouthed the words Very nice.
Another lady in blue scrubs walked by pushing a basket of soiled laundry. She nodded at Gibson and moved on.
Gibson turned left and walked down the corridor, passing the library and community spaces. The nurses’ station on this hall was unoccupied. Retirement places had a hard time keeping workers because of low pay, she knew, and less than ideal circumstances. Working with the elderly, who were often in pain, depressed, and sometimes not in their right minds, would challenge anyone. Plus, even the upscale facilities operated on a shoestring, and to make a profit they had to keep the employee head count down as much as possible.
None of that was good as far as patient care went, but it was quite good for Gibson’s efforts today.
Each resident room had a name plate on it. She passed by twelve rooms without finding Trask’s.
She eyed a resident slowly making his way down the hall on a rollator. She asked him if he knew what room Sam Trask was in. He just looked back at her blankly, gummed his lips, and kept going.
She turned the corner and ran into another employee.
“Can I help you?” she asked, the woman’s features an intriguing mix of friendliness and suspicion.
“I was looking for Mrs. Edison’s room?” Gibson glibly asked, using the name she had seen on one of the rooms she had passed. She didn’t want to ask for Trask’s room in case the son had plants here. “She’s an old friend of my mother’s.” She held up the gift bag and flowers. “I thought this might brighten up her day.”
“I’m sure it will. Kate loves flowers. But you passed it. It’s back around the corner. Third door on the right.”
Gibson smiled. “Thank you. I guess I really do have to get those eyeglasses.”
The woman chuckled and went through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Gibson kept going and turned the corner. She met an elderly woman pushing herself along in a wheelchair and whistling a tune that Gibson did not recognize.
The woman stopped and looked at Gibson. “Are you lost?” she said.
“I think I might be. It’s my first visit here to see my great-uncle.”
“His name?”
“Sam Trask.”
“Room 223, upstairs.”
“Thank you so much.”
Gibson found the stairs, headed up, and ten seconds later was knocking on Trask’s door. She noted the sign next to the door that warned of oxygen being used inside.
“Come,” said an authoritative voice.
She opened the door and, breathing heavily — not from the stairs, but from apprehension — walked in.
Maybe I can get some of that oxygen.
Chapter 33
The first thing Gibson noted about the front room was how neat it was. There was no sign of clutter, just minimal furnishings. Two chairs, one coffee table, one towering shelf bulging with books with wide-ranging titles, a small kitchen area with a sink and cabinets and an under-the-counter fridge. The pictures on the wall looked like they might have been bought at the same print shop: birds, landscapes, a mountain. There were no personal photos, no knickknacks. On the carpet she saw the recent vacuum lines. The counter had a microwave and a few neatly arranged cards wishing happy holidays, and she spied one birthday greeting. Across from the kitchen was the bathroom.
There was an oxygen concentrator machine plugged into a wall outlet, and she saw the tubing snake down the floor and into the rear room. There was no doorway leading into the back room, just a short hall.
“Who is it?” called out the same voice.
“Mr. Trask?” Gibson said as she set the gift bag and flowers down on the counter and walked to the rear of the space. “I wanted to have a chat if that’s okay?”
She took a moment to look around. There was a large flat-screen TV on the wall playing CNN. There was a bed, and a nightstand with several books stacked on it. A recliner was angled next to it. A bookcase standing against one wall was full of tomes with serious titles, mostly dealing with geopolitics. A small window overlooked a courtyard below.
Sam Trask was seated at a desk with a laptop in front of him. A rollator stood at the ready next to him. What Gibson wasn’t seeing in the small apartment intrigued her.
Trask wheeled around in his chair and looked at her. The oxygen tubing was connected to a cannula, which was inserted in his nostrils.
She figured he would be at least six two standing; he was trim and fit looking, despite the need for oxygen. His hair was thin and snow white, his features were chiseled and rugged, his eyes were flint chips, and he had a pugnacious chin. All told, the man seemed to be looking for a confrontation.
“Who are you? And what do you want to chat about?”
“My name is not that important. But why I’m here is important.”
“Explain.”
She could see how he would have done well at the FBI. He was confident but curious. Direct, but there was a subtlety to it.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Harry Langhorne?”
“Mob accountant. He turned state’s evidence and helped to take down several New York and New Jersey crime families, including the Giordanos. He and his family were put into WITSEC. I lost track of him after that.”
“You worked on the task force that brought the mob down.”
“I was only one of many.”
Humility too, thought Gibson. How was Nathan Trask spawned from this?
“What exactly does all that have to do with you?” He looked her over as he took several deep breaths, sucking in extra manufactured oxygen from the tank down the hall. “You would have just been a child at the time.”
“Harry Langhorne had a home in the area under the name Daniel Pottinger. He was found murdered a few days ago at that home.”
Trask took all of this in. Watching him, Gibson could imagine his doing the same mental calculations back at the Bureau as he was briefed by a junior staffer.
“What area exactly?”
This surprised her but she answered him. “An estate called Stormfield, a bit north of Smithfield, right on the James River.”
“How was he murdered?”
“Botulinum, type A.”
“Nasty stuff. It’s not a painless death.”
“I’m sure. But he was already terminal with brain cancer.”