Gregg Hurwitz - Last shot

"Can you get us names?" Tim asked.

"Of course." A few wiggles of the mouse and Aaronson said, "In the first we have a Chellee Meehleis."

"And in the second?" Bear asked impatiently.

Front teeth pinching his thin lower lip, Aaronson right-clicked several times, and then his scalp shifted back, wrinkling his forehead. "Pierce Jameson," he said.

Walker stepped down quietly into the model home's family room and aimed his Redhawk at the back of the man who was urinating into his fireplace. After spotting the blue Plymouth with a bent hood pulled into the neighboring-and doorless-garage, he'd entered the house silently through the master window, which he'd left open for precisely such contingencies. He waited patiently as the man hummed to himself and rocked on the heels of his Ropers. The man finished, bouncing at the knees to augment his shake, then turned around.

Morgenstein. As Walker's father had promised.

He jokingly raised his hands, letting himself dangle. Walker tucked the revolver back into his waistband, tight against his right kidney.

"Toilets don't work, you know." Morg zipped himself up.

"Yeah," Walker said. "They do."

"Oh. The problems must just be downpipe." He grinned at the wet stain in the fireplace. "Sorry 'bout that." He'd aged badly in the years since Walker had seen him-more jowly, burst capillaries in both cheeks, scalp glinting through thinning hair. His dress slacks were worn thin at the knees, and a dribble marked his button-up at intervals down the right side. He laughed. "It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times." He tucked in his shirt self-consciously, his voice rife with bitterness. "Money's tight now that your old man went straight. He wouldn't use me as a foreman here, wouldn't even let me run security." His chin jerked in the direction of the front door, indicating the grounds beyond. "New truck and all. How's it drive?"

"Dunno."

"He gave you the key, right?" Morg realized Walker wasn't going to answer and chuckled off the question like he didn't care. "Now that he's moved on, he can't afford to deal much with the likes of me. Guess we're in the same boat that way, you and me."

"You'll get by."

"Yeah, well. Not all of us fit his hand-me-downs."

Walker sloughed Pierce's jacket and tugged off the tie. The room darkened a few shades in a single lurch-the mountains had caught the setting sun. Surprisingly crisp air offered a preview of good sleeping weather; thirty-four eventful waking hours had left him tired. He hadn't used a proper mattress in two and a half years, but he had a few more rocks to kick over before lying down. "Electricity's off."

"I'll get it turned on."

A breeze blew through the screen in the kitchen, wrinkling both of their noses. "The fuck went on here?" Walker asked.

"Sewage issue, case you hadn't figured that out. The construction manager cut corners-no Porta-Potties-had a twenty-five-man work crew taking dumps in the one functional toilet"-a nod down the hall-"shift after shift. The drain field backed up, but your old man still wasn't about to spring for a proper system. Department of Health brought down the hammer. Your old man had the plumbing rerouted to the storm-drain channels-fucking genius-while he waits to slide a bribe through. The cool air'll tamp down the odor in the winter. He'll sell off the units, then reconnect to the old shitty system." Morg tapped the cardboard box on the hearth with the tip of his cowboy boot. "Brought you some food." He tossed something, and Walker caught it in front of his face. A can opener. "Not exactly Wolpgang Fuck, but as your old man says, 'Guess what you win when you complain?'"

Walker pried a hand between the overlapping flaps of the box and yanked out a can. Turkey chili. Crouching, he popped the lid with a few hurried twists of the opener and poured out a mouthful, swallowed without chewing. Then another. Morg was watching him like something on Animal Planet, but Walker didn't care.

"Your father wants it clear that he has no idea you're staying here."

Walker set the empty can on the floor. "How 'bout you tell me something useful?"

Morg said, conversationally, "Tessy caught the short end, that's for sure. Your father, he was your age, he wouldn't have stood for it."

"Useful, Morg."

"I nosed around the edges, got mostly, you know, vagaries, but I dug up one baton to hand off. I caught word that on June sixth a contract got paid through Game. Know it?" He palmed some sweat off his shiny forehead. "Of course you don't. It's a paintball course. With a twist."

"What kind of twist?"

Morg worked a wad of keys from his pocket and headed out. "You'll see."

He stepped up into the entry and turned. Walker still stood studying him, arms crossed.

"What?"

Walker said, "Can I trust you, Morg?"

Hand resting on the ornamental banister, he looked old and frail. "Thirty-five years in with your old man," he said, reaching for the door. "Yeah, you can trust me."

The denim couch seemed to sink around Pierce Jameson's weight, the cushions tilting up on either side of him. His broad arms spread across the fabric, ensuring he occupied the entire piece of furniture. A man at leisure. The needlepoint pillow beside him, a wifely touch that inadvertently undercut his tough-guy posturing, stated, IF YOU CAN READ THIS,THANK A TEACHER.SINCE IT'SIN ENGLISH, THANK A SOLDIER.

Pierce's resemblance to his son was evident only in his sturdy frame and the shape of his head. His features were rougher, more craggy-he could have been a longshoreman.

Not having been asked to sit, Tim and Bear remained on their feet at the edge of the living room rug. Pierce's second wife-who seemed far too lovely to have married him-and their two children had retreated to the kitchen, heeding Pierce's pointed glance.

"Nope," Pierce said, "haven't seen hide nor hair for years."

Tim's mouth twisted-con men got under his skin in a hurry.

"Have you talked to him or had contact in any way?" Bear asked. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Walker's escape, but given how quickly he'd gotten to his mother, Tim and Bear were rushing through their contact list.

Pierce shook his head and-again-eyed his watch. The smell of baking biscuits floated through the closed kitchen door.

Tim's irritation flared, and Bear shot him a glance to gauge him. Pierce watched their noninteraction with suspicion.

"Can we have a word with your kids?" Bear asked.

"No."

Tim repeated, "No?"

"They don't need to know they have a jailbird half-brother. Maybe in your family, Deputy…uh, Rackley-right? — that's no big deal. Around here it is." Pierce hefted himself grandly from the couch and strode to the front door, which he jerked open. "Dinnertime with my family is important to me."

Tim stayed his tongue, and he and Bear exited, Pierce closing the door behind them. They sat in Bear's rig out front, watching through a picture window as Pierce joined his family at the table. Pierce looked out at them and twisted the blinds shut.

Guerrera had taken a run through Pierce's rap sheet and relayed his findings-fraud counts all too familiar to Tim. The scams and rackets Pierce had been charged for showed a range as impressive as Tim's father's, though with greater returns, but evidently Pierce had gone straight in his old age. Not a single arrest in ten years.

Tim caught himself wondering if his own father would pull it together before spending his golden years in an orange jumpsuit. Tim had been three when his mother decided she'd had her fill of his father's schemes and infidelities. She'd fled, sacrificing Tim along with the dour house, and he'd spent his childhood being a supporting player in his father's serial cons. The aid beneficiary, the tantrum-throwing diversion maker, the delivery boy-he'd played them all, but from the time he was school age he'd sought the straight and narrow the way other kids sought drugs and bad company. In retrospect his upbringing had been great on-the-job training for undercover and interrogation work. Despite his not speaking to his father since their latest falling-out more than three years ago, Tim couldn't deny that he owed a number of his acuities to him.