Revenant by Allan Leverone Page A

been no object. Still, for a shelter that was probably only going to be inhabited a couple of months a year, even a guy as rich as Brett Parker must have had to think long and hard before committing the kind of money to the project he obviously had.
    The dirt road widened into an approximation of a driveway as it wound closer to the house, and Mike pulled to the side, shutting the Explorer down next to a massive black Lincoln Navigator. Brett Parker’s luxurious vehicle shared the same family tree as the Paskagankee Police Explorer, but that was where the comparisons ended. Mike wondered whether Parker was planning on storing his car here year-round, then decided he must be. Even a big-time software developer like Parker likely wouldn’t want to pay what it would cost to ship the SUV back and forth across the country.
    Mike grabbed his hat off the seat, easing out of the Explorer and starting across the driveway toward the log home. As he did, the front door swung noiselessly open and a blocky-looking man with a sullen demeanor stepped onto the farmer’s porch. The man watched impassively as Mike approached, hands jammed into his pockets, saying nothing until Mike had almost reached the front steps.
    “Hello, Chief,” he finally ventured.
    Mike stuck his hand out. “Mike McMahon.”
    The stocky man fished a hand reluctantly out of his pocket and grabbed Mike’s with one huge, fleshy paw. He shook once and then released his grip. “Josh Parmalee,” he grunted. “Security for Mr. Parker.”
    “Formerly Seattle PD, correct?”
    “Once upon a time,” Parmalee answered. “I retired almost ten years ago to work for Mr. Parker. Best move I ever made, too.”
    Mike wondered about that. Parmalee appeared to be a good forty pounds overweight, a big man who had once probably been an impressive physical specimen but who had, over time, let himself go until now he carried more flab than muscle on his frame. Mike wondered if that kind of gradual decline was what the future held in store for him and whether perhaps Sharon had considered that possibility, too, and decided his was a future she wasn’t particularly interested in sharing.
    He forced his thoughts back to the present, annoyed with himself. There would be plenty of time to brood later, but for now he had a job to do, even if it was largely ceremonial—meeting the visiting dignitary and reviewing security procedures. Clearly Parmalee wasn’t losing any sleep over his employer’s safety; he looked as though he had just awoken from a long nap.
    “This is quite an impressive home,” Mike said.
    Parmalee ignored the comment and said, “Come on, let’s take you to meet Mr. Parker.” He turned his back on Mike and walked into the house, leading the way through a sitting room which was larger than Mike’s entire apartment. From there they threaded their way through a formal dining room complete with a massive cut crystal chandelier hanging over a sturdy oak slab dining table set for two. Mike wondered who Brett Parker might be entertaining later. He guessed it wasn’t Josh Parmalee.
    At the far end of the dining room was a hallway which appeared to run the length of the house. The pair walked wordlessly. At the end of the hallway, Parmalee rapped twice with his knuckles on a closed door, then opened it without waiting for an invitation to enter.
    Seated at a desk inside the small study was a man Mike assumed must be Brett Parker, although he had seen few pictures of the media-shy mogul who was one of the twenty richest people in America. Parker was slight of frame, with thinning sandy hair and gold wire-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose. Dressed casually in khaki pants and a baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Parker smiled and stood to greet his guest.
    “Chief McMahon,” he said. “I’m Brett Parker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke softly but firmly and seemed much more interested in social niceties than his