Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“It’s not a pie,” Carlton said, in a high, strained voice. “It’s a large cookie. Made of marshmallow and graham cracker. And, um, chocolate.”

“I see. Thank you.” The man paused to look at them in turn. “And now, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me where you both have been the last twelve years?”

June Brodie took a deep breath. When she spoke, she was surprised at the evenness of her own voice. “It’s no secret. It was in the papers. We ran a B and B in San Miguel, Mexico. It’s called Casa Magnolia, and—”

With a single economical move, the man lifted his weapon and — with a muffled thunk— shot off Carlton Brodie’s left kneecap. Brodie jerked as if touched with a cattle prod, doubling over with a roar of surprise and pain, the blood pouring out between the fingers clutching at his knee.

“If you are not immediately silent,” the man told him coolly, “the next shot will be in your brainpan.”

Carlton took the fist that was not clutching his knee and put it in his mouth. Tears streamed from his eyes. June had jumped up to go to him, but a jerk of the gun made her sink back into the chair.

“Lying to me is insulting,” the man said. “Don’t do it again.”

The room was silent. The man tugged at his gloves, first one, then the other. He pushed the leather cap back on his head, revealing fine aquiline features: a thin nose, high cheekbones, blond hair cut short, narrow chin, cold blue eyes, lips that turned down at the edges. The man looked from one to the other, the weapon once again lolling at his side. “We know, Mrs. Brodie, that your family owns a hunting lodge in Black Brake swamp, a place not far from here. The lodge is known as Spanish Island.”

June Brodie stared at him. Her heart was now beating painfully in her breast. On the love seat, her husband moaned and shivered, clutching his ruined knee.

“Not too long ago — shortly before you reappeared — a man named Michael Ventura was found dead in the swamp, shot, not far from Spanish Island. He was once chief of security for Longitude Pharmaceuticals. He is a person of interest to us. Would you know anything about that?”

We know , he’d said. Of interest to us. June Brodie thought of the words the invalid Slade used to whisper, so often, with such apparent urgency: Stay secret. They can’t know we’re alive. They would come for us . Was it possible — was it remotely possible — that those weren’t, after all, the ravings of a paranoid, half-lunatic man?

She swallowed. “No, we don’t,” she said aloud. “Spanish Island went bankrupt decades ago, it’s been shuttered and vacant since—”

The man raised the handgun again and casually shot Carlton Brodie in the groin. Blood, matter, and body fluids gushed over the love seat. Brodie howled in agony, doubled over again, fell out of his chair and writhed on the ground.

“All right!” June cried. “All right, all right, for the love of God stop it, please! ” The words tumbled out.

“Shut him up,” the man said, “or I’ll have to.”

June rose and rushed over to her husband, doubled up and crying out in pain. She put a hand over his shoulder. Blood was running freely from his knee, between his legs. With an ugly gushing noise he vomited all over his trousers and shoes.

“Talk,” said the man, still casual.

“We were out there,” she said, almost spitting the words in her fright. “Out in the swamp. At Spanish Island.”

“For how long?”

“Since the fire.”

The man frowned. “The fire at Longitude?”

She nodded almost eagerly.

“What were you doing out there in the swamp?”

“Taking care of him.”

“Him?”

“Charles. Charles Slade.”

For the first time, the man’s mask of calm unconcern fell away. Surprise and disbelief bloomed on his fine features. “Impossible. Slade died in the fire…” He stopped talking and his eyes widened slightly, gleaming as if in comprehension.

“No. That fire was a setup.”

The man looked at her and spoke sharply. “Why? To destroy evidence of the lab?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know why. Most of the lab work was done at Spanish Island.”

Another look of surprise. June stared at her husband, who was moaning and shivering uncontrollably. He seemed to be passing out. Maybe dying. She sobbed, choked, tried to control herself. “Please…”

“Why were you hiding there?” the man asked. His tone was disinterested, but the gleam had not left his eyes.

“Charles got sick. He caught the avian flu. It… changed him.”

The man nodded. “And he kept you and your husband on to look after him?”

“Yes. Out in the swamp. Where he wouldn’t be found. Where he could work and then — when his disease got worse — where he could be taken care of.” She was almost choking with terror. The man was brutal — but if she told him everything, everything, maybe he would let them go. And she could get her husband to the hospital.

“Who else knew about Spanish Island?”

“Just Mike. Mike Ventura. He brought supplies, made sure we had everything we needed.”

The man hesitated. “But Ventura is dead.”

“ He killed him,” June Brodie said.

“Who? Who killed him?”

“Agent Pendergast. FBI.”

“The FBI?” For the first time, the man raised his voice perceptibly.

“Yes. Along with a captain in the NYPD. A woman. Hayward.”

“What did they want?”

“The FBI agent was looking for the person who killed his wife. It had something to do with Project Aves — the secret avian flu team at Longitude… Slade had her killed. Years ago.”

“Ah,” the man said, as if understanding something new. He paused to inspect the fingernails of his left hand. “Did the FBI agent know about Slade’s still being alive?”

“No. Not until… Not until he got to Spanish Island and Slade revealed himself.”

“And then what? Did this FBI agent kill Slade, as well?”

“In a way. Slade died.”

“Why wasn’t any of this in the news?”

“The FBI agent wanted to let the whole thing die in the swamp.”

“When was this?”

“More than six months ago. March.”

The man thought for a moment. “What else?”

“That’s all I know. Please . I’ve told you everything. I need to help my husband. Please let us go!”

“Everything?” the man said, the slightest tinge of skepticism in his voice.

“Everything.” What else could there be? She’d told him about Slade, about Spanish Island, about Project Aves. There was nothing else.

“I see.” The man looked at her for a moment. Then he lifted his gun and shot Carlton Brodie between the eyes.

“God, no !” June felt the body jump in her arms. She screamed.

The man slowly lowered the gun.

“Oh, no!” June said, weeping. “ Carlton! ” She could feel her husband’s body slowly relaxing in her arms, a low, bellows-like sigh escaping his lungs. Blood was now coursing in regular rivulets from the back of his head, blackening the fabric of the love seat.

“Think very carefully,” the man said. “Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, still cradling the body. “Everything.”

“Very well.” The man sat still for a moment. He chuckled to himself. “Moon pie. How vile.” Then he rose, and — still moving slowly — walked toward the chair where June had been working on the nursing forms. He hovered over it, glanced down at the paperwork for a moment as he snugged the gun into his waistband. Then he picked up her half-finished bottle of Coke, poured the contents into a nearby flowerpot, and — with a sharp rap to the side of the table — broke off its mouth.