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  PRAISE FOR THE DRIFTER

  “The Drifter is a stunning debut. Peter Ash is one of the most complex characters I’ve come across in a long time. The pace is like a sniper round, extraordinarily fast and precisely calibrated. There is grit in this tale that will stay with you. I eagerly await Nicholas Petrie’s next creation.”

  —David Baldacci, New York Times–bestselling author of Memory Man

  “With The Drifter, Nicholas Petrie has written just about the perfect thriller. I haven’t read such a well-crafted and gripping story in a month of Sundays.”

  —John Lescroart, New York Times–bestselling author of The Keeper

  “As I was reading Petrie’s exceptional debut, Tim O’Brien’s [The Things They Carried] buzzed at the edges of my consciousness, casting the newer book as a thematic sequel to O’Brien’s classic. . . . The Drifter may be about a different war, but it’s about the same hell, and in this book it’s about the things a vet carries home with him. . . . [The] lean prose, gritty descriptions, and raw psychological depth give the novel a feel that reminded me of early Dennis Lehane.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “A captivating debut novel . . . [Petrie’s] main character has the capacity to become an action hero of the likes of Jack Reacher or Jason Bourne.”

  —Lincoln Journal-Star

  “A tangled tale of intrigue, action, and adventure with a battle-scarred hero who definitely rises to the challenge. The clever plot is firmly conceived and crisp writing makes this a terrific story, told terrifically.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times–bestselling author of The Lincoln Myth

  “Nicholas Petrie’s The Drifter has one of the most thrilling openings I’ve ever read, involving a dank crawlspace, the nastiest, smelliest dog in creation, and a former Marine lieutenant still suffering from the trauma of his war. It can’t get better than this, I figured, but it does. Petrie’s novel keeps accelerating even as it burrows ever deeper into the dark heart of the new American dream. It is a sterling debut. And yes, the dog is a star.”

  —William Lashner, New York Times–bestselling author of The Barkeep

  “[Ash’s] sharply intelligent, witty voice strikes the right tone for an honest exploration of the challenges returning veterans face, and while this wandering veteran will remind some of Jack Reacher, Peter’s struggle to overcome PTSD sets him apart. An absorbing thriller debut with heart.”

  —Booklist

  “Petrie’s impressive debut thriller is fine-tuned, the action gripping, and through Ash offers a well-drawn portrait of a vet who can’t escape his combat experience. Like Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe, Ash’s philosophy of detection is to poke a stick into something and see what happens. His discoveries will keep the reader on edge and whet the appetite for more from this author.”

  —Library Journal

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2015 by Nicholas Petrie

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19413-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Petrie, Nicholas.

  The drifter / Nicholas Petrie.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-399-17456-8

  1. Veterans—Fiction. 2. Retribution—Fiction. 3. Wisconsin—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.E86645D75 2015 2015007436

  813'.6—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_2

  Contents

  Praise for The Drifter

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART 1 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART 2 Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART 3 Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  PART 4 Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  VETERANS DAY Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  An Exciting Preview of Burning Bright

  Caminante, no hay camino.

  Se hace el camino por andar.

  —ANTONIO MACHADO

  Traveler, there is no path.

  The path is made by walking.

  PROLOGUE

  The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

  He walked into Harder’s Grange, announced by a chrome-plated bell mounted to the doorjamb. The faded black barn coat made him look bulky. It was mostly the coat. He wore a John Deere hat pulled down low, but there were no cameras. It was a farm-supply store in the middle of nowhere, like they all were.

  He saw a chipped Formica service counter, a pot of overcooked coffee, and a few chairs for waiting customers and old-timers looking for company. He understood that most of these places served as a kind of social center for local farmers, whose lives were pretty solitary. He’d grown up on a farm himself, although not in this state.

  Behind the counter was a weather-beaten sixtysomething guy in a red plaid dress shirt. He looked up at his only customer, then tucked the USDA brochure he was using as a bookmark into his paperback vampire novel.

  The man in the coat set a pleasant expression on his face. “Morning,” he said.

  “It definitely is,” said the counterman, a wide, cheerful smile stretching his wrinkles into a new topography. “And not a bad one at that. What can I do you for?” />
  “My mom just bought some property this side of Monroe,” said the man in the coat. “Off Highway Eleven. And she needs some fertilizer for her garden.”

  “Son, you come to the right place. We got all kinds. What do you need?”

  “I’ve been trying to get her to use manure, but she says she can’t stand the smell. She’s looking to plant a half-acre.”

  The counterman whistled. “A half-acre? That’s some garden.”

  “Well, she and my dad had six hundred acres of soybeans and corn in Bureau County, Illinois, so a half-acre isn’t much to her.” He shrugged. “She likes to keep busy since my dad died.”

  The counterman nodded in sympathy.

  “Anyway, with the farm she was using Prairie King, the 64-0-0. I believe two sacks would cover a half-acre, right?”

  The counterman looked at him. He was on the far side of sixty, but his brown eyes were clear and focused.

  This was always the moment, thought the man in the coat.

  He’d told a good story.

  He looked right. He sounded right.

  But farming and the farm-supply business was local, and the counterman didn’t know his face, which counted for a lot.

  Especially since 1995. And again since 2001.

  Finally the counterman spoke. “Son, that’s ammonium nitrate,” he said. “I cain’t sell to just anyone, even if it is only a hundred pounds. We got rules about that kind of stuff. You got your yellow card?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said the man in the coat, putting a sheepish look on his face. “Hang on, I got it right here.” He pulled out his wallet, a worn-down ballistic nylon item with a camouflage pattern. Even the wallet had been carefully assembled to make a certain impression.

  He pulled out a driver’s license and a laminated yellow ID showing that he was registered with the state to buy certain kinds of fertilizers and pesticides. The form was a single page. The application fee was $44. The counterfeit driver’s license had cost a lot more than that.

  The counterman scrutinized both cards, looking from one to the other and back again.

  “Looks good,” he said. “Nothing personal. And you’re only getting a hundred pounds, I know. But the state’s dead serious about it.” He pushed the cards across the counter to the man in the coat, then flashed a grin. “Wouldn’t want any of them goddamned socialists to get hold of this stuff.”

  The man in the coat smiled.

  “No, sir,” he said. “We surely wouldn’t.”

  The counterman pecked the order into an antique computer and took payment in cash. He directed his customer around to the loading dock to pick up his fertilizer.

  Ten minutes later, the man in the black canvas chore coat turned the old blue Ford pickup onto the county highway, headed northeast.

  It was his second stop that day.

  Three more before nightfall.

  Right on schedule.

  PART 1

  1

  There was a pit bull under the front porch and it didn’t want to come out.

  Young Charlie Johnson said, “That dang dog’s been there for weeks, sir. It already ate up all the cats and dogs around here. I can’t even let my dang little brother out the front door no more.”

  The hundred-year-old house sat on a narrow lot on the edge of a battered Milwaukee neighborhood that, like the house, had seen better days. It was early November, not warm, not even by Wisconsin standards. The leaves had already fallen from the skeletal trees that towered overhead.

  But the sun was out, which counted for something. And the sky was a high, pale morning blue. Not a morning for static. Not at all.

  Peter Ash said, “Just how big is this dog?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Never seen it up close, sir, and never in daylight. But it’s awfully dang big, I can tell you that.”

  “Didn’t you call animal control?”

  “Oh, my mama called,” said Charlie. “Two men came, took one look under there, got right back in their truck and drove away.”

  Charlie wore a school uniform, a light-blue permanent-press dress shirt, dark-blue polyester dress pants, and giant polished black shoes on his oversized feet. He was the kind of skinny, big-eared, twelve-year-old kid who could eat six meals a day and still be hungry.

  But his eyes were older than his years. They didn’t miss a thing.

  He was watching Peter Ash now.

  Peter sat on the closed lid of a wooden toolbox, his wide, knuckly hands on the work-worn knees of his carpenter’s jeans, peering through the narrow access hatch cut into the rotted pine slats enclosing the space under the porch. He had to admit the dog sounded big. He could hear it growling back there in the darkness. Like a tank engine on idle, only louder.

  He had a .45 under the seat of his pickup, but he didn’t want to use it. It wasn’t the dog’s fault, not really. It was hungry and scared and alone, and all it had was its teeth.

  On the other hand, Peter had told Charlie’s mother, Dinah, that he would fix the rotting supports beneath her ancient porch.

  She hadn’t mentioned the dog.

  Peter really couldn’t blame her.

  Her husband had killed himself.

  And it was Peter’s fault.

  —

  Peter was lean and rangy, muscle and bone, nothing extra. His long face was angular, the tips of his ears slightly pointed, his dark hair the unruly shag of a buzz cut grown wild. He had the thoughtful eyes of a werewolf a week before the change.

  Some part of him was always in motion—even now, sitting on that toolbox, peering under that porch, his knee bobbed in time to some interior metronome that never ceased.

  He’d fought two wars over eight years, with more deployments than he cared to remember. The tip of the spear. He’d be thirty-one in January.

  As he bent to look through the narrow access hatch under the porch, he could feel the white static fizz and pop at the base of his skull. That was his name for the fine-grained sensation he lived with now, the white static. A vague crackling unease, a dissonant noise at the edge of hearing. It wasn’t quite uncomfortable, not yet. The static was just reminding him that it didn’t want him to go inside.

  Peter knew it would get worse before he was done.

  So he might as well get to it.

  The space under the porch was about three feet high. Maybe twelve feet wide and twelve deep, with a dirt floor. About the size of four freshly dug graves, laid sideways. The smell was rank, worse than a sergeant’s feet after two months in a combat outpost. But not as bad as a two-week-old corpse.

  Light trickled in through the slatted sides of the porch, but shadows shrouded the far corner, some kind of cast-off crap back there. And that growl he could just about feel through the soles of his boots.

  It would be good to do this without being chewed on too much.

  He went out to his truck and found a cordless trouble light, some good rope, and a length of old handrail. White oak, an inch and three-quarters thick, maybe eighteen inches long. Nice and solid in the hand. Which was a help when you were contemplating something spectacularly stupid.

  Serenaded by the growls from the crawl space, he sat down on the toolbox and took out his knife while young Charlie Johnson watched.

  Not that Peter wanted an audience. This certainly could get ugly.

  “Don’t you have someplace to go, Charlie? School or something?”

  Charlie glanced at a cheap black digital watch strapped to his skinny wrist. “No, sir,” he said. “Not yet I don’t.”

  Peter just shook his head. He didn’t like it, but he understood. He figured he wasn’t that far from twelve years old himself.

  He cut three short lengths from his rope and left the remainder long, ten or twelve feet. Tied one end of a short piece of rope tight to each end of the oak rail. Looped the last short rope an
d the remainder through his belt a single time, so he could get at it quickly.

  Then he looked up at Charlie again. “You better get out of here, kid. If this goes bad, you don’t want to be around.”

  Charlie said, “I’m not a dang kid. Sir. I’m the man of the family.” He reached inside the door, brought out an aluminum baseball bat, and demonstrated his swing. “That’s my dang porch. My little brother, too. I ain’t going nowhere.”

  Charlie’s dad always had the same look behind the Humvee’s .50 turret gun. Eyes wide open and ready for trouble. Daring any motherfucker to pop up with an RPG or Kalashnikov or whatever. But when his wife, Dinah, sent cookies, Big Jimmy Johnson—known inevitably to the platoon’s jokers as Big Johnson, or just plain Big—was always the last to eat one.

  Peter missed him.

  He missed them all. The dead and the living.

  He said, “Okay, Charlie. I can respect that.” He put his eyes on the boy and held them there. “But if that dog gets loose you get your butt in that house, you hear me? And if you hit me with that bat I’m going to be seriously pissed.”

  “Yessir.” Charlie nodded. “Can’t promise anything, sir. But I’ll do my best.”

  Peter smiled to himself. At least the kid was honest.

  After that there was nothing more to do but lean back and kick out the slats on one side of the porch, letting in more daylight. The space was still small. The tank engine in the shadows got louder. But no sign of the dog. Must be lurking in that trash pile in the far corner.

  Not that it mattered. He wasn’t turning away from the challenge. He was just planning how to succeed.

  The familiar taste filled his mouth, a coppery flavor, like blood. He felt the adrenaline lift and carry him forward. It was similar to the static, rising. The body’s preparation for fight or flight. It was useful.

  He peered under the porch, and the static rose higher still. The static didn’t care about the snarling dog. It cared about the enclosure. It jangled his nerves, raced his heart, tightened his chest, and generally clamored for his attention. It wanted him to stay outside in the open air, in the daylight.