Across the runway, another hooded man clambered to his feet. The man had also been lying facedown on the runway, but his gray suit had been the perfect camouflage. Gibson watched the man pull off the hood and look around in confusion. Even under the shoulder-length hair and matted beard, Charles Merrick was unmistakable. The last person Gibson expected, but, seeing him, Gibson knew it couldn’t have been anyone else. The same man who had condemned him to that damned cell.
The two men, standing on the lonely runway, their wild hair dancing in the wind, must have been a strange sight. Loose snow tumbled across the runway as they stared each other down like defanged gunslingers. In the early days of his imprisonment, Gibson had dreamed of what he’d do if he ever saw him again. But as time had passed, he’d felt less and less about Charles Merrick. His father had argued that the man was an animal and had done what animals do when cornered. It would be foolish to expect anything different; the blame belonged elsewhere. With those who should have known better. With the CIA and the man who called himself Damon Washburn.
“You!” Merrick’s voice echoed off the trees that ringed the airfield.
Trees . . . Gibson realized where he had been delivered. It had been spring the last time he’d seen this place, so he hadn’t recognized it now. He was back in West Virginia—Dule Tree Airfield. The CIA had dumped the pair at the very place where they’d taken them, God only knew how long ago. Six months? A year and a half? Longer? What had happened to warrant their release? His mind didn’t feel capable of solving that particular riddle. More than that, he didn’t care. He was free and could think of a lot of places he’d rather be than standing on a runway with Charles Merrick, contemplating the implications of his release.
Actually, there was only one place he wanted to be. One person he wanted to see. Ellie. How old was his daughter now? How many birthdays had he missed? The question snapped him from his inertia. Without a word, he slung his duffel bag over a shoulder and turned his back on Charles Merrick. He had no use for the man. At the edge of the runway, he scrabbled over the snowbank and set off across the field for the airfield’s office and perhaps a phone. The snow was knee-high, and it took exaggerated steps to break through the icy shell. Badly out of shape, he labored across the field with his heart and breath hammering in his ears. Duke walked behind in the path Gibson had cut through the snow. His father began to sing:
“Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how;
I can go no—”
“Shut up, Dad.”
Every so often Duke would get to singing. If Gibson didn’t nip it in the bud, it could go on awhile, and he was in no mood for Christmas carols. He needed to get gone from this place. Away from Charles Merrick. It didn’t occur to him that Charles Merrick might feel differently.
Merrick tackled him from behind and sent him sprawling. The two men struggled in the snow, Merrick keening, “You . . . you . . . you . . .” As if he had much more to say but didn’t know where to begin. The rage in his voice said enough. Gibson wriggled free of Merrick’s grasp and tried to stand up in the deep snow. Merrick crawled after him and pulled him back down just as he got his feet under him. The two men wrestled again—a feeble, slapstick version of a fight. After so long in captivity, both men tired quickly. They gave up and lay there in the snow, panting and holding on to each other like castaways.
Bear stood nearby with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring under one arm, head cocked to the side, watching Gibson. So thin that she didn’t break through the snow but stood atop it like an angel. Her gossamer sundress fluttered in the wind, and her feet were bare; Gibson worried that she’d catch her death. She balanced the book on her head and put her arms out as if on a tightrope.
“It’s time to go home,” she said. “Ellie is waiting.”
Gibson nodded happily, tears in his eyes. “I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”
“You’re silly,” Bear answered.
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t,” Merrick said, not seeing Bear and assuming Gibson meant him.
“Are you coming?” Bear asked.
Gibson pushed Merrick off. Merrick rolled onto his back and lay there wheezing. Gibson stood and brushed off the snow. He looked around for Bear, but she was nowhere in sight. She’d gone on ahead. Good. He hoped she found someplace warm. He fetched his bag, keeping a wary eye on Merrick in case he caught a second wind.
“You did this,” Merrick moaned.
Gibson didn’t have the energy or inclination to argue the point. Merrick didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was getting home to his daughter. He left Merrick in the snow and trudged toward the airfield’s office. He tried the door—locked. No hours posted at the door. Gibson peered through the window but didn’t see a clock in the gloom. Based on the sun, it couldn’t be much after dawn. It was far too cold to wait around to see if anyone showed up to work. If this was a Sunday, he could be waiting a long time. His eyes fell on an office phone; he could call his ex-wife and let her know he was on his way. But that would mean breaking in. Jeopardizing his newfound freedom by committing such a pedestrian crime seemed foolish. He had a far bigger crime in mind. The one he and his father had planned together.
He cast one last look toward Charles Merrick, who lay motionless in the snow. Maybe he’d had a heart attack. Gibson hoped not. He wanted the disgraced ex-billionaire to live a long, penniless life. That would be the best revenge of all.
With that cheery thought to warm him, Gibson started down the airfield’s dirt road for home.
CHAPTER THREE
At the bottom of the hill, Gibson paused beside the “Dule Tree Airfield” sign to consider his options. Looking up and down the road, he couldn’t see any signs of human life. If his memory served, and he didn’t know that it did, the airfield was pretty damned isolated. So which way to go? Left or right? Right led back to the town of Niobe. It would take more than a day on foot. No one would pick him up looking like a deranged mountain man. Besides, Niobe held a lot of bad memories, and he didn’t know that he’d be welcomed there.
Left it was. It felt better to be moving toward home and his daughter, forward not backward, and perhaps he’d get lucky and stumble upon a town.
The conditions made for slow going—snow had been plowed high onto the shoulders, where it had melted and refrozen into sharp white teeth. That meant walking along the edge of the icy road in sneakers. After a tractor trailer sent him sprawling onto the snowbank for safety, he crossed the road and walked against traffic so at least he’d get a good look at the vehicle that killed him. The wind strengthened as he walked, funneled through the gully between the woods to either side of the road. Gibson leaned into the wind, eyes watering. After a quarter mile he couldn’t feel his face. He stopped, shivering uncontrollably, and put on every shirt in his duffel bag. With a Marine Corps T-shirt, he fashioned a crude keffiyeh to cover his neck, mouth, and nose. He zipped the windbreaker up tight, tucked his hands up into the sleeves, and set off again. He looked ridiculous, but it would slow the creep of hypothermia.