He also had a library of handsomely bound leather books, many of them first editions of wonderful fiction penned by storied writers from the past. Or so he’d heard. The one-name designer and his wife had purchased them all in a single lot. He’d never actually read any of them. Didn’t have the time. He wasn’t much into fiction. Cold, hard facts ruled his entire existence.
He took one flight down to his study and spent about an hour working there. Then, when his concentration continued to wander, he clicked off his computer, rubbed his eyes, and went back upstairs, where his wife was finishing dressing for her night out.
“You can come with me,” she said. “I’m on the board. I can certainly get you a seat.”
“Thanks, maybe another time. I’m really beat.”
She turned around, lifted up her hair, and pointed down to her zipper. “Can you help me, sweetie?”
Before he zipped her up he let his gaze wander down the inside of her dress, to the black thong she wore. He reached his hand down and squeezed her soft butt cheeks.
“I thought you said you were really beat,” she chided him.
“That was before I saw you naked.”
“God, your timing is incredibly poor.”
“I know,” he admitted
After he zipped her up he moved his hand along her smooth back, which made her writhe a bit. She turned to him, smiled. “I shouldn’t be too late tonight if you really want to fool around later. I bought some new lingerie.”
“I’d like that,” he said, momentarily forgetting that people were dropping all around him, and that he was facing professional doom or even an early and violent death. This thought coupled with the seeming domestic bliss of his life made him feel suddenly dizzy.
She kissed him and said, “I’m having Leon drive me over. He’ll wait to bring me back. Or he can come directly back if you need the car.”
“No, I don’t plan on going out. See you later, honey.”
He watched her leave. At forty-six his wife was still a stunner. They’d been married over seventeen years, and it felt like the first year over and over.
I’m a very lucky man. In some ways. Not so much in others.
Time passed and he wandered the house, a second glass of gin he’d poured dangling precariously in his hand. He finished it off, chewed the ice cubes down, sucking in every last drop of alcohol.
Foster and Quantrell were in this together and obviously had been for quite some time. Bunting had moles embedded everywhere, but they’d completely missed that little alliance. The E-Program, despite its proven worth, was going up in flames. And those two were poised to walk out of that fire with their kingdoms not only intact but far larger. And Bunting?
Either I’m dead or in prison. They’ve set me up nicely.
He had called James Harkes and gotten no answer back. It was clear to Bunting what that meant. Harkes was supposed to be his attack dog. But he had returned to his true master now, like Cerberus to Hades.
He rubbed his forehead. Harkes had been a plant. Either by Foster or Quantrell, or both. If he had killed those people? If the FBI thought that Bunting… Enough evidence to send him away forever, he was sure, was all neatly planted. Foster was nothing if not thorough.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. The comforter had been hand-sewn in Italy. It had cost more than Bunting’s first year’s college tuition. He had never much thought about this. And he didn’t dwell on it now. He would buy a hundred such comforters if only he could put this all behind him.
He took a deep breath and smelled the alcohol coming out of his mouth. It tickled his nose, warmed him. He poured another gin, let it wash down his gullet, splash into his gut, and give him a cool burn, like diving into icy water naked.
His phone buzzed. Bunting lifted it from his pocket, gazed at it wearily when he saw who it was. He considered not answering it, then habit took over and he relented.
“Yes, Avery?”
“I just received a call from Sean King. He wants to meet.”
Bunting didn’t say anything. He felt a painful stitch in his chest.
“Mr. Bunting?”
“Yes?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but he heard it wobble.
“He wants to meet.”
“I heard that. With you?”
“No, with you.”
Bunting cleared his throat, tried to work some saliva into his mouth. “When?”
Avery didn’t say anything.
“When!”
“He said he’s standing outside your house right now.”
CHAPTER 55
KELLY PAUL LOWERED her binoculars and studied the immediate landscape as afternoon fell away into evening in eastern Maine. She had a pad and pen. She made some notes: numbers, locations of things, degrees on the compass, obstacles, and possible advantages. She looked out to the ocean. The water was calm today. Cutter’s Rock didn’t seem nearly as intimidating from this heightened angle.
She lifted the binoculars once more as the van passed through security and arrived at the front doors to the facility. She adjusted the magnification and studied the writing on the side of the van. Cutter’s must be having an issue with their power system, she concluded. And these gents were here to fix it. They were inside for nearly two hours and then did some work at a second, far smaller building behind the main facility. Later, they came out, put their equipment in the van, and drove away.
Paul lowered her optics when the van passed from sight.
The federal facility, she concluded, was an onion with layers that needed to be peeled away. After Sean had told her about it Paul had had Michelle tell her in detail about the other pair of eyes she’d seen on Cutter’s. She had given Paul the approximate location of these eyes. That was why she was here, to see it for herself. It was a good observation point. She could understand why they had chosen it.
She looked down at the facility plans in her hands. They had been hard to come by. But she had built up many favors over the years and could think of no better reason to use them. She had also learned that Cutter’s Rock had gotten a new director to replace the deceased Carla Dukes. She was certain that this new person had been as carefully selected as the last one, perhaps even more so. She wrote other things down and then used her cell phone to make some calls. She had suspected certain tactical actions were in the works, and her observations today had confirmed that. She needed help. With these phone calls she cashed in more favors and got the assets she needed. It was proof of the work that she had done in the field over the last two decades that not a single person said no, or even questioned why she wanted to do this.
She put the phone away, retraced her steps, and got back in her rental. The drive back to Machias was quick but it still gave her precious time to think. She found Megan Riley in the front parlor at the inn. Megan had her laptop, notepads, and legal documents spread out in front of her on a wide, oval table that Mrs. Burke had allowed her to use as a makeshift desk. She sat down across from her.
“Being productive?” she asked.
Megan bit on the end of her pen and looked up at the woman. “Depends on how you define productive.”
“Making progress?”
“Marginally. It’s not easy.”
“Hard things in life are, de facto, never easy.”
“Sean and Michelle are gone again.”
“I know.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or you won’t tell me.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you all think I’m a baby lawyer who will screw stuff up.”
“You are and you might.”