The Peripheral

29

Netherton, the man from Milagros Coldiron, looked like he was standing in the back of something’s throat, all pink and shiny.

She heard plates rattling in the kitchen, from where she’d stepped out on the porch to answer her phone. She’d regretted that Coffee Jones French espresso, trying to get back to sleep, but then she had, for a while.

Tommy had let them off at the gate, and they’d walked to the house, neither of them wanting to say anything about Conner until Tommy had driven away. “That was him,” she’d said, but Burton had just nodded, told her to get some sleep, and headed down to the trailer.

Leon woke everybody up at seven thirty, to tell them he’d just won ten million dollars in the state lottery, and now their mother was cooking breakfast. She could hear him now, from back in the kitchen.

“Drones,” said Wilf Netherton’s little pink-framed face, when she answered her phone.

“Hey,” she said, “Wilf.”

“You mentioned having them, when we spoke before.”

“You asked me if we had any, and I told you we did. What’s all that pink, behind you?”

“Our atrium,” he said. “Do you print your own? Drones?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

He looked blank, then up and to his right. Appeared to read something. “You do. The circuitry as well?”

“Most of it. Somebody does it for us. The engines are off the shelf.”

“You contract out the printing?”

“Yes.”

“The contractor is reliable?”

“Yes.”

“Skilled?”

“Yes.”

“We need you to arrange some printing. The work will have to be done quickly, competently, and confidentially. Your contractor may find it challenging, but we’ll provide technical support.”

“You’d have to talk with my brother.”

“Of course. This is quite urgent, though, so you and I need to have this conversation now.”

“You aren’t builders, are you?”

“Builders?”

“Making drugs.”

“No,” he said.

“Person does our printing won’t work for builders. Neither will I.”

“It’s nothing to do with drugs. We’re sending you files.”

“Of what?”

“A piece of hardware.”

“What does it do?”

“I wouldn’t know how to explain it. You’ll be paid handsomely for arranging it.”

“My cousin just won the lottery. You know that?”

“I didn’t,” he said, “but we’ll find a better way. It’s being worked on.”

“You want to talk to my brother now? We’re about to have breakfast.”

“No, thank you. Please go ahead. We’ll be in touch with him. But contact your contractor. We need to move on this.”

“I will. That’s one ugly-ass atrium.”

“It is,” he said, smiling for a second. “Goodbye, then.”

“Bye.” Her screen went black.

“Got biscuits,” Leon called from the kitchen, “gravy.”

She opened the screen door, into the shadowy morning cool of the front hall. A fly buzzed past her head, and she thought of the lights, the white tent, the four dead men she hadn’t seen.