Ethan parked near the main entrance to Gentry’s Farm. The gate was closed, but he knew that wouldn’t be allowed as an excuse for missing this meeting. The darkness was severe, clouds blotting out the moon, so he switched on the Maglite and climbed over the metal railings. The farm hadn’t tried very hard to keep people out, trusting the good area and their tony, well-heeled neighbors. And really, what were people going to do in a field?
His mom’s face floated in front of him, and he remembered the stupid joke she’d told him when they’d sat him down to talk about the birds and the bees. They, because the Montclairs did everything together, including explaining how sex worked to their teenage son, who knew everything already, but humored them because this was a rite of passage and he wanted to see how they handled it.
Frankly, as it turned out. They’d spared no detail, and had done it with good humor, tag-teaming him with embarrassingly detailed descriptions. They even had a book with diagrams, so he’d be able to identify all the right parts when the time came. At the end, his mother had chucked him under the chin and said, “One last thing to remember, son. Don’t ever make love near a cornfield.”
Red-faced and mortified—not only had his mother used the term making love in a sentence, she’d talked openly about erections and vaginas and pleasuring a woman first and all sorts of other things he would just as soon forget—he’d played along.
“Why not?”
“’Cause that corn has ears!”
He’d been so caught off guard he’d started to laugh, and the three of them had howled together, then companionably gone out for curry.
He missed them. He missed Sutton. When he’d told her that story, she’d fallen over laughing, then suggested they find themselves a cornfield straightaway to test the theory.
They hadn’t, though he’d wanted to, that day with the baby. With his loves, together and perfect.
He hoofed it deeper into the field. There was a track, beaten dirt, for the hayrides, he supposed. He followed it in.
Arrived deep in the field at thirty minutes past the call, on the dot.
He stopped by a hayrick. Wilde had said to wait. The money was heavy in the bag. Ethan ground his teeth and said what passed for a prayer in his nonbeliever’s mind. If he gives me Sutton, I won’t kill him. I swear.
Not right away, that is. I’ll wait, then kill him when he isn’t looking for me. And I’ll do it slowly.
Footsteps. He ducked down instinctively, the trench knife out of his pocket, brushing his knuckles, the heavy metal blade open.
A light flashed in his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
“Whoa! What the bloody—”
“Who the hell are you and why the hell are you sneaking around here? This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”
Ethan stood, stowing the knife, though the blade flashed in the man’s light, and he heard a little gasp. “I have a gun, you idiot—”
“Sir, I’m sorry, I’m putting it away. You scared me. I’m supposed to be meeting a friend.”
“In my field? Get the hell out of here.”
Ethan put both hands up. “Right. Brilliant. I’m on my way out. Sorry for the confusion.”
He hurried toward the road. The old farmer stood, watching impassively, until Ethan could no longer see the lights behind him, could hear the whiz of the cars on the pavement.
He couldn’t go back into the field without being shot, or at least reported. He had no way of contacting Wilde without heading back to the house. He was scared and angry and carrying fifty grand in a sack and he decided, Fuck it, I’m going to get a drink.