Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

Esterhazy knew better.

An extra pillow had been draped over the headboard. Putting his gun away, Esterhazy took hold of the pillow and, keeping his eyes fixed on the man in the bed, picked it up. Tensing, gripping the pillow in both hands, he crouched like a tiger — then suddenly pounced, landing on the bed, bringing the pillow down on the man’s face and leaning into it with all his strength.

A muffled cry came from below and a hand flew up, scratching and flailing at Esterhazy, but there was no weapon in the hand and he knew his attack had been a complete and total surprise. He drove the pillow down even harder, the muffled sounds cut off, and now the weakened man struggled silently, his flapping hands plucking at his shirt. The body heaved below him, surprisingly strong for one so recently gravely wounded. One large spidery hand grasped the covers, yanking them this way and that, as if mistaking the covers for his assailant’s own clothing. With a final heave of hands and legs the covers came off, exposing his upper body, but Pendergast was rapidly weakening and the end would come soon.

Then something gave Esterhazy pause: the man’s gnarly old hands. He stared in the dim light at the man’s lower body, his spindly legs, the parchment skin, the varicose veins. There was no mistaking it — this was the body of an old man. Nobody could create such an effective disguise. But more than that was the absolute lack of bandages, scar, or anything remotely like a month-old gunshot wound on the heaving torso.

His mind worked furiously to overcome the shock and rage. He had been so sure, so very sure…

He quickly released the pillow, exposing the old man’s distorted face, his tongue protruding, his eyes popping with terror. He coughed once, twice, gasping for breath, his sunken chest heaving with the effort.

In a blind panic, Esterhazy threw the pillow aside and stumbled down the stairs; the old crone was just staggering into the back door, blood running down her face.

“You devil!” she shrieked, grasping at him with bony fingers as he ran past, flinging open the front door and running back over the wide, empty moorlands.

Malfourche

THE MILD NIGHT AIR, SIGHING IN THROUGH the open window, stirred the muslin curtains of the living room. Feeling the breeze on her face, June Brodie looked up from the Mississippi Board of Nursing forms she was filling out. Except for the low susurrus of wind, the night was quiet. She glanced at her watch: nearly two in the morning. Faintly, from the den, she could hear the sound of a deep-voiced narrator droning from the television: no doubt Carlton was watching one of the military history shows he was so passionate about.

She took a sip from the bottle of Coke that sat at her elbow. She had always loved Coke out of glass bottles; it reminded her of her childhood and the old-fashioned vending machines where you opened the narrow glass window and pulled the bottles out by their necks. She was convinced it tasted different in a bottle. But for the last decade, out in the swamp, she’d had to content herself with aluminum cans. Charles Slade hadn’t been able to bear the way that light glinted off glass, and almost no exposed glass had been allowed on Spanish Island. Even the syringe barrels had been plastic.

She replaced the bottle on its coaster. There were other benefits of returning to a normal life. Carlton could watch his television programs without having to wear headphones. Blinds could be opened wide, allowing light and fresh air. She could decorate the house with fresh flowers — roses and gardenias and her favorite, calla lilies — without fear that their scent would provoke a desperate protest. She’d kept herself trim, she liked fine clothes and fashionable hairstyles; now she would have a chance to wear them where others could see. It’s true, they’d had to endure more than their share of stares from neighboring townsfolk — some suspicious, some merely curious — but already people were getting used to their being back. The police investigation was over and done with. The annoying reporter from the Ezerville Bee hadn’t returned. And while his story had been picked up as a small item in a Houston paper, it didn’t seem to have spread any farther. After Slade’s death, they had taken their time — almost five months — to make sure nobody would ever know how they had been living, what they had been doing. Only then had they made a public reappearance. The secret of their lives in the swamp would remain just that — a secret.

June Brodie shook her head a little wistfully. Despite telling herself all this, there were still times — times like this, in the quiet of the night — when she missed Charles Slade so much it was almost a physical pain. It’s true, all those years of tending to his wasted body, to a mind ravaged by disease and a toxic sensitivity to any kind of sensory stimulus, had dulled her love. And yet she had once loved him so fiercely. She’d known it was wrong, utterly unfair to her husband. But as CEO of Longitude, Slade had been so powerful, so handsome, so charismatic — and in his own way, so very kind to her… She had been willing, so much more than willing, to give up her job as an RN and devote herself to him, by day and — quite frequently — by night as well.

The den had gone silent. Carlton must have turned off the TV in favor of his other passion: crossword puzzles from the London Times .

She sighed, glanced down at the papers in her lap. Speaking of her job, she’d better get these things filled out. Her license as an advanced practice registered nurse had expired prior to 2004, and under Mississippi law reinstatement required that she…

Quite abruptly she looked up. Carlton was standing in the doorway, a very odd look on his face.

“Carlton?” she said. “What is it? What—”

At that moment another figure loomed into view out of the darkness behind her husband. She caught her breath. It was a man, tall and lean, and dressed in a dark, expensive-looking trench coat. A black leather cap was pulled down low over eyes that looked at her with calm detachment. In one of his gloved hands was a gun, which was aimed at the base of her husband’s skull. Its barrel seemed strangely long until she realized it had been fitted with a silencer.

“Sit down,” the man said, and half prodded, half pushed her husband into a love seat beside her. Despite the rush of adrenaline that animated her limbs and the sudden pounding of her heart, June Brodie picked up on the foreign tang in the voice. It was European, maybe Dutch, more likely German.

The man glanced around the room, noticed the open window, shut it, and closed the curtains. He took off the trench coat and draped it over a nearby chair. Pulling the chair up in front of the couple, he sat down and crossed his legs. The handgun drooped easily at his side. He hitched up the knees of his trousers and casually shot his cuffs, as if he were wearing a thousand-dollar suit instead of a cat burglar’s outfit. He leaned toward her, a long, thin, worm-like mole growing out below one eye. She had the sudden ridiculous thought: Why doesn’t he get that thing removed?

“I wonder,” he said in a pleasant voice, “if you could clear something up for me.”

June Brodie glanced covertly at her husband.

“Can you tell me, please, what is a moon pie?”

The room remained silent. June wondered if she’d misheard.

“Local foods and delicacies interest me,” the man continued. “I’ve been in this curious part of your country for a day now. I’ve learned the difference between crawfish and crayfish — that is, none. I’ve tasted grits and — what are they called again? — hush puppies. But I can’t seem to find out what kind of a pie a moon pie is.”