33

Huck left a meeting with Joe Riccardi and Vern Glover to go over his car-parking duties-a serious matter, as far as his Breakwater colleagues were concerned-and spotted Cully O’Dell staggering out of the marsh, half falling over the barbed-wire fence.

With everyone else preparing for the arrival of guests, Huck moved in behind O’Dell and followed him to the indoor shooting range.

The kid had a swollen, bloody lip and left eye, and winced aloud as he walked, leaning to his right as if his ribs hurt. Huck had endured enough thrashings to recognize the signs of broken ribs in someone else.

Inside the range, O’Dell got out his gun box and set it on the counter. He was a dead shot, better than everyone Huck had seen at Breakwater, except himself.

“O’Dell?”

The kid didn’t look at him, but mumbled, “These guys aren’t about protection.” He shoved a fresh magazine into his Glock 17. “They’re a bunch of damn liars.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

He wiped blood off his lip. “Leave me alone.”

Huck stayed where he was. “Emptying a few mags into a target isn’t going to get you stitches in that lip.”

“I don’t need stitches.”

“At least come with me and get some ice.”

“I’m okay. I just need to think.”

“Cully, who pummeled you?”

“No one. I fell in the marsh.”

The kid didn’t even try to sound convincing. “What were you doing in the marsh?” Huck asked.

“Bird-watching.”

“You’ve done well here the past couple weeks. Do you like this work?”

“Protective service work, yeah. Sure. I like it a lot. I’m good at it. But this place-” O’Dell glanced around, as if he was afraid someone might be eavesdropping, then pulled goggles out of his gear box. “This place has guys who are batshit insane.”

Not something Huck was about to argue. “If someone I worked with beat me up, I’d quit.”

“I told you-”

“You didn’t get that cut lip bird-watching, O’Dell.”

“I was jumped from behind. I wasn’t paying attention and shouldn’t have let it happen.” He got out his ear protection. “I don’t know if this place will ever get off the ground. The training’s been good. Joe Riccardi seems like a stand-up guy…”

“Are you sure you didn’t see who hit you?”

Cully shook his head, moaning in pain, as if he’d forgotten for a second how much he hurt. “If I saw anything, I don’t remember. I went into the marsh. I was-I don’t know what the hell I was doing. I saw Sharon Riccardi go in there last night. She was drunk.”

“I ran into her in town and brought her back here.”

“So I’m not crazy. She was out there. I was beginning to wonder. I had no idea what she was doing in the marsh, especially at night, so I thought I’d follow her. But I didn’t see anything. Just tall grass, underbrush, birds. Next thing, I’m in the mud, covered with mosquitoes.” He ran a surprisingly steady finger over the barrel of his gun. “I want out, Boone.”

“Then go. Now. Pack up your gun and get out.” Huck managed a smile. “I’ll clean out your room and mail you your stuff.”

Overwhelmed by emotion, the kid set his gun on the counter, the barrel pointed toward the targets. Even beat-up and clearly distraught, he put safety first. He was thorough-but, as Huck had suspected, not one of whatever was really going on at Breakwater.

“I hoped I’d fit in here,” O’Dell said. “I thought I could make a go of it.”

“There are other firms. They’re more established, they’ve figured out how to screen out the crazies. You’ll do fine.”

O’Dell turned to him. “What about you?”

“I’m not a kid like you. I have a track record. It’s not as easy for me to land somewhere else. I can hang here and draw a paycheck until things go south, and it won’t come back to haunt me.”

O’Dell tried to put on the goggles, but he smeared blood on them, and set them down, frustrated, the reality of the beating he’d taken finally sinking in. “Why do you care what I do?”

“I don’t, except you remind me of myself when I was your age.”

“How old are you now?”

Huck grinned. “Older than you.”

“I don’t want to turn into a Travis Lubec, mad at the world. It’s no way to live.”

“Go, O’Dell. Get out of here now. Just say you’re not cut out for this work and leave. You have a cell phone?”

He nodded.

“Call me if you get into any trouble.” Huck tore off the corner of a paper target and jotted down his cell number.

“Who are you?” O’Dell asked, taking the number.

Huck was willing to go only so far. He winked. “Be good, O’Dell.”

The kid dismantled his Glock and put it back in the metal case, along with the goggles and ear protection. Then he left without another word. Huck followed him out the door and watched him walk sullenly back toward the converted barn. The kid would get out of there. Getting his head smashed in had put Cully over the edge, forced him to question what was going on at Breakwater Security.

Huck noticed Travis Lubec falling in behind O’Dell and called to him. “Hey, Lubec. What’s up?”

Lubec hesitated, then abandoned O’Dell and joined Huck at the shooting range. “What are you doing?”

“Target practice. Want to join me before I have to go park cars?”

“O’Dell-”

“Looks like he had his face smacked against a tree.” Huck shrugged, nonchalant. “I figure he had it coming.”

Lubec didn’t respond, just stepped past Huck into the range. He got ear protection out of a closet, pulled a Heckler & Koch USP out of his belt holster and started firing at a paper target. No vest, nothing on his eyes, his face as pale and expressionless as ever. One-handed, he put ten rounds into the target at twenty-five yards, hitting center mass with every shot.

“Bet the marines would love to have you,” Huck said.

Travis shrugged. “Too old.”

“The feds’ll take you up to thirty-six.”

“I don’t see myself toeing that particular line, do you?”

Huck grinned. “No. Me neither.”

Travis, almost as good a shot as O’Dell, seemed to take no pride in his skill. He peeled off his ear protection and put a fresh magazine into his H & K. “We need to get moving.”

“Party time, huh?”

Lubec didn’t take the bait and comment further. When he got outside, he headed for the main house, not inviting Huck to join him, not waiting for him.

As he headed for the barn, Huck risked using his cell phone to call Diego. “Cully O’Dell is on his way out of here. Pick him up.” He squinted up at an osprey hunting over the marsh. “Quinn?”

“In her party clothes driving in your direction.”

“She doesn’t listen, does she?”

“That’s why you like her.”

Gerard finished getting dressed for the open house at Breakwater and told himself that Steve Eisenhardt was burned out, insane, paranoid or all of the above. Alicia’s death must have affected him more than anyone had realized.

But Gerard couldn’t ignore a gnawing feeling in his gut that told him that Eisenhardt was on the level. What if something was going on under the surface and he was being shut out? He’d been fighting a growing sense of uneasiness about Ollie ever since the kidnapping. Yet, over and over again, Gerard would tell himself that he needed to let any investigation take its course. Ollie Crawford was too high-profile, too wealthy, too invested in the system to do anything totally outlandish.

Denial.

Gerard climbed out onto the marina dock, the wind having finally died down. A dozen gulls had clustered around a small fishing boat. The sun glistened on the water. He loved this spot for its lack of glamour, its simplicity, but often found himself restless here for the same reasons.

“You’re never happy. You’re always striving.”

His wife’s words. He could hear her voice, sad more than angry, resigned more than accusatory.

What would happen to him if he lost everything? He’d already lost his wife. He didn’t see his children nearly often enough. The family life he’d envisioned for himself had been a myth. All he had now was his work. His reputation. His ambitions.