Chapter 8: DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
The Proctor mansion announces its dominance before we're through the gate.
Stone. Colonial architecture updated with modern excess. Security lights that look decorative but create overlapping fields of visibility—nowhere to approach unseen. The driveway curves through manicured grounds. Trees placed for aesthetics and firing lines simultaneously.
Whoever designed this understood both beauty and murder.
"Subtle," Lucas mutters as we pull up to the entrance.
A valet appears. Young, professional, probably armed. I hand him my keys. Watch where he takes the car—parking area visible from the house, exit route that requires passing security checkpoint. No quick getaways.
Not planning to run anyway.
The front door opens before we reach it. Burton. Perfectly timed. He's been watching our approach.
"Sheriff Hood. Deputy Webb. Welcome." His handshake is firm. Assessing grip strength, reaction time, confidence. I match his pressure exactly. Neither yielding nor challenging.
"Thank you for having us," Lucas says. Playing the role. Polite sheriff accepting hospitality.
Burton leads us inside. The foyer is excessive—marble floors, crystal chandelier, art that probably costs more than I've earned in this body's entire life. My Criminal Instinct screams immediately. Value everywhere. Cameras disguised as decorative elements. Pressure sensors under the rugs. Safe room probably behind the bookshelf.
This house is a vault wearing a mansion's skin.
"Mr. Proctor is in the dining room. This way."
We follow. I count doors. Windows. Notice the staff—two visible, probably four more hidden. Security masquerading as servants. The layout is deliberate. Visitors funneled through specific paths. Nowhere to wander "accidentally."
The dining room overlooks gardens lit with subtle ground lights. Beautiful. The table could seat twelve. Set for four.
Kai Proctor rises as we enter.
He's exactly what I expected and nothing like it. Tall. Well-built. Expensive but understated clothing. Clean-shaven. His eyes are what arrest me—intelligent, calculating, patient. The eyes of a man who's built an empire through control, not chaos.
"Sheriff Hood. Deputy Webb. Please, sit." His voice is cultured. No trace of Amish upbringing in the accent. That's been scrubbed away like everything else from his past.
We sit. Burton disappears. Staff brings wine—expensive label I don't recognize. Proctor pours personally. A show of hospitality and control.
"To new beginnings," Proctor says, raising his glass. "And productive relationships."
We drink. The wine is perfect. I barely taste it. Too busy cataloging.
The fourth chair remains empty until a woman enters. Young—mid-twenties. Dark hair, sharp features, modest dress that doesn't quite hide curves. She moves with the careful grace of someone taught proper behavior but chafing against it.
"My niece, Rebecca Bowman," Proctor introduces. "Rebecca, Sheriff Hood and Deputy Webb."
"Gentlemen." Her voice is polite. Her eyes are curious. They linger on me a fraction too long.
Complication.
Dinner is venison. Perfectly prepared. I eat mechanically, aware of every sight and sound. Proctor asks questions—background, training, impressions of Banshee. Lucas handles most of the conversation. I contribute minimally. Watch instead.
Proctor's attention keeps drifting to me. Assessing. Measuring.
"You're quiet, Deputy Webb."
I swallow before responding. "Enjoying the meal."
"Most people talk when they're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
Something flickers in Proctor's eyes. Appreciation, maybe. Or recognition.
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
The conversation shifts. Town politics. Business challenges. The careful dance of a crime lord pretending to be a philanthropist. Proctor's good at it. Almost convincing.
But my Criminal Instinct won't shut up. Every word, every gesture, every glance—my awareness catalogs it all. Revenue streams. Power structures. Weaknesses in his organization. The information flows into my mind unbidden.
The shipments come through the plant on Tuesdays. Distribution happens Thursday nights. The warehouse near the tracks is the staging area. The strip club launders money. The trucking company provides logistics.
I don't know how I know this. Nothing Proctor said directly confirms it. But the pattern is there. Pieces falling into place through some instinct I don't understand.
Rebecca speaks occasionally. Intelligent observations wrapped in polite questions. She watches me more than Lucas. More than her uncle. Her interest is obvious enough that Proctor notices.
"Rebecca studied at Penn State," Proctor says. "Business administration. She helps with the legitimate operations."
"Legitimate operations." Rebecca's tone carries gentle mockery. "Uncle Kai, they're lawmen. They know you run more than a meat packing plant."
The table goes quiet. Burton, standing near the wall, tenses slightly.
Proctor smiles. "My niece enjoys provocation. A family trait."
"I enjoy honesty," Rebecca corrects. "Another family trait."
Lucas shifts uncomfortably. I remain still. This is theater. A test disguised as family banter.
"Honesty is valuable," I say. "So is discretion."
Rebecca's eyes find mine. "And which do you value more, Deputy?"
"Depends on the situation."
"A diplomatic answer."
"A practical one."
Proctor's smile widens. "I like him, Rebecca. He understands nuance."
Dinner concludes. Staff clears plates efficiently. Proctor stands.
"Sheriff, Burton will give you a tour of the grounds. I'd like to speak with Deputy Webb privately. Professional matters."
Lucas's eyes cut to me. I nod slightly. It's fine. This is what we came for.
He leaves with Burton. Rebecca excuses herself. Suddenly, it's just Proctor and me in the dining room.
"Brandy?" Proctor moves to a sidebar. Crystal decanters.
"Thank you."
He pours two glasses. Hands me one. Sits across from me, relaxed. The performance of friendliness over.
"You held back at Moody's," he says. No preamble. "I can tell."
I sip brandy. Don't confirm or deny.
"Three of my men. One broken arm. Two concussions. You did that damage in under two minutes." Proctor leans forward slightly. "But you pulled your punches. Could have done worse. Chose not to."
"They were civilians resisting arrest. Not combatants requiring elimination."
"Interesting distinction." His eyes narrow. "Where did you learn to make that distinction, Deputy?"
"Training."
"Burton's had extensive training. Military, private sector, specialized programs I won't name. He watched the footage from Moody's security cameras. Said you moved like someone with battlefield experience."
Footage. Of course there was footage.
"Burton sees what he's trained to see," I say. "Sometimes a good deputy is just a good deputy."
"Sometimes." Proctor swirls his brandy. "But not this time."
We sit in silence. Assessing each other. I'm aware of Burton and Lucas somewhere in the house. Aware of Rebecca, probably listening from nearby. Aware of escape routes and threat vectors and a dozen tactical considerations my mind won't stop calculating.
"I've built everything you see through patience and control," Proctor says finally. "Understanding when to push and when to wait. Recognizing valuable assets before my competitors do." He sets down his glass. "You're valuable, Deputy Webb. Whatever you were before Banshee, whatever brought you here—I recognize quality."
"I'm a deputy sheriff."
"You're a man wearing a deputy's badge. There's a difference." He stands, walks to the window. "I don't want to own you. I want to employ you. The distinction matters."
"Employ me how?"
"Reasonable men can have reasonable arrangements. You maintain order. I maintain business. When those interests align, we cooperate. When they conflict, we negotiate."
"You're asking me to be corrupt."
"I'm asking you to be practical." He turns. "This town runs on my businesses. Meat packing, trucking, distribution. I provide jobs. Stability. The alternative is economic collapse and unemployment." His voice is reasonable. Persuasive. Probably the same pitch that's corrupted a dozen officials. "Law enforcement that understands this reality serves the community better than law enforcement that fights it."
"And if I don't understand that reality?"
"Then you make life harder for everyone. Including yourself." Not quite a threat. Not quite a promise. "I don't hold grudges, Deputy. But I don't forget obstacles either. Both doors are still open. You can choose which one to walk through."
My Criminal Instinct pulses. Reading him. Understanding the offer beneath the words.
He's recruiting carefully. Testing boundaries. Willing to pay or threaten depending on my response. This is how he's built his empire—identifying which people bend and which break.
"I appreciate the clarity," I say. "But I need time to think."
"Of course. This isn't a decision to rush." Proctor moves toward the door. "Let's rejoin the others. I'm sure Burton has thoroughly bored your sheriff with talk of architecture."
We find Lucas and Burton in the study. Lucas looks uncomfortable. Burton looks amused. Rebecca is there too, examining a book.
"Ready to leave?" Lucas asks quickly.
"Whenever you are."
Rebecca walks us to the door. Her hand brushes my arm—deliberate, light.
"You're different," she says quietly. Meant only for me. "Most men who meet Uncle Kai leave either intimidated or corrupted. You left thinking."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends what you're thinking about." She smiles. Not flirtatious. Curious. "I hope we see each other again, Deputy."
"Small town. Likely."
She nods. Steps back. We leave.
The drive back is silent for the first five minutes. Then Lucas explodes.
"What the hell was that? Private conversation? What did he want?"
"To recruit me."
"Jesus Christ. And?"
"I didn't say yes."
"Did you say no?"
I don't answer immediately. The truth is complicated. I didn't say yes. But I didn't say no either. Left the door open. Kept options available.
"Ben." Lucas's voice is sharp. "Tell me you're not actually considering working for Kai Proctor."
"I'm considering information. He revealed more in twenty minutes than we'd learn in six months of investigation. His operation, his structure, his methods. He thinks he's recruiting me. Really, he's educating me."
"Or he's corrupting you. There's a difference."
"I know the difference."
Lucas doesn't look convinced. We pull into town. The Forge is loud tonight. Friday crowds.
"Where do we stand?" Lucas asks before we exit the car.
"With Proctor? Uncertain. But he's watching us now. Specifically, he's watching me. That gives us leverage if we use it right."
"Or it gets us killed."
"Maybe." I open the door. "But I didn't come to Banshee to play it safe."
I leave Lucas in the car. Head upstairs to the apartment. Pour another bourbon. Sit at the window, watching the town.
Proctor's offer circles in my mind. Corruption disguised as pragmatism. The oldest criminal pitch in the world.
I'm not going to take it. Not the way he wants.
But I might use it.
Information. Access. Understanding. All valuable. All available if I play this right.
The wolf doesn't join the lion's pride.
But the wolf can hunt near the lion. Learn the lion's patterns. Wait for the moment to strike.
I finish my bourbon.
Monday, I'll return to being Deputy Webb. Professional. Competent. Slightly too good at fighting but otherwise unremarkable.
Tonight, I'm just Ben. A thing pretending to be human. Planning moves three steps ahead.
The hunt continues.
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