Gavin Pemberton didn’t dance. He’d never liked it. Never thought it held any value. What was the point in bouncing around, jostling your insides, and looking like a fool in front of others. Even at his own weddings, he had to be forced to participate in the couple’s first slow dance. It just wasn’t something he did.
Until just now.
He sat on the edge of his seat, watching Joe give it to Walker. And, boy, did he! Joe had just taken the world’s biggest sledgehammer and bashed Walker’s skull with it—metaphorically, of course. Though he did enjoy, for a second, the thought of that actually happening. But Joe…good ol’ Joe! He couldn’t remember when he had ever been that proud of someone in his whole life. It took everything he had just to sit still and listen. Joe had him so fired up halfway through his speech, he couldn’t sit still. And when he delivered that last line—the one about how Joe promised to act like a president—he was so excited, he shot up out of his chair and began to dance a jig. Right there, in the middle of the floor, smacking his palm against his leg and bouncing around the room, whooping and hollering. He was so excited, he almost forgot he had just had his best friend killed.
The thought jarred him and brought back the anger and bitterness he’d been dealing with all day. He sat back down in his chair, turned the television off, and threw the remote across the room. He was wrought up with contempt—how had Milton allowed himself to be found and manipulated by those agents?
Earlier the local news had reported that Hayes had been found dead in his home. The report said that they believed it was a home invasion. That gunfire had been exchanged and the home had been damaged, showing signs of a struggle.
Pemberton knew what the struggle was. Alex Smith was the struggle. Obviously, Milton had fought with the woman, trying to escape and save his life. He was disappointed that Smith hadn’t been more tactful. But what did he know? He wasn’t a professional assassin. Perhaps the struggle was staged to look like a home invasion. Perhaps that was how she worked. And obviously it did work. The police had said they were looking for more than one suspect, given the amount of damage and gunfire at the scene.
But as old and mean and set in his ways as he was, Pemberton still felt some sadness for his friend. In some respects, Milton had been closer to him than any of his wives. He and Milton had shared secrets he had told no one else.
In the end, he decided that Milton was a hero. The man died promoting the sovereignty of the country. He was just an unfortunate casualty of war. And it was better this way. Eventually, Milton would have become a liability. His flippancy about the social order and his extremely liberal ideals would have caused problems. Not to mention Milton was really a coward when push came to shove. Pemberton knew that eventually those agents or someone else would’ve gotten to him. And then who knows what kind of bad could’ve happened? No, it was better this way.
He walked over to the wet bar, poured himself a glass, and held it up. “Milton, my friend, may you rest in peace. I promise I won’t let your death be in vain.” He tipped the glass back and drained it.
He grabbed his car keys and his jacket. The weather was finally starting to turn cooler. He pulled the collar up over his neck and stepped outside. He had thought about calling, but he knew the old coot would be home. Besides, he didn’t feel like messing with trying to get a landline call placed. It was still a crapshoot half the time. The idea had just come to him as he had watched Joe’s speech. And he didn’t want to explain over the phone.
He fired up the old pickup and pulled the lever in gear. He was going to see Jake Irving.