Текст книги "Cold Vengeance"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 11

Inverkirkton, Scotland

THE LONE BICYCLIST PEDALED WITH EVIDENT effort up the narrow, winding road. The black three-speed was fitted with a special rack over the rear fender, and it currently held leather panniers, kept in place with bungee cords. The rider was dressed in a dark gray windcheater and dove-colored corduroy trousers, and together with the black bicycle he formed a curiously monochromatic figure, set against the gorse and heather of the Scottish hills.

At the top of the hill, where a series of weathered boulders reared fang-like from the green furze, the road divided at a T-intersection. Here the rider stopped, dismounted, and – by all indications grateful for the rest – pulled a map from beneath his jacket, smoothed it over the seat, and began to study it leisurely.

But inside, Judson Esterhazy felt anything but leisurely. He had lost his appetite; it was an effort to force down food. He constantly had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t sleep nights: every time he closed his eyes he saw Pendergast, mortally wounded, staring up at him from the mire, eyes glittering with implacable intensity.

For the thousandth time he bitterly reproached himself for leaving the FBI agent in the Foulmire. He should have waited until the muck had totally consumed him. Why hadn’t he? It was those eyes; he couldn’t bear to look into those narrow silver eyes for one more second, staring back at him with the intensity of a scalpel. A pathetic and inexcusable weakness had overwhelmed him at the very moment of truth. Esterhazy knew that Pendergast was transcendentally resourceful. You have no idea – and I meanno idea – how dangerous this man Pendergast is.Hadn’t those been his very own words half a year earlier? He’s tenacious and clever. This time around he’s motivated—uniquely motivated.All Esterhazy’s careful planning – and still no real closure.

What a curse it was not knowing.

As he stood there beside the bicycle, pretending to regard the map, the chill damp breeze tugging at his trouser cuffs, he reminded himself that the wound was fatal – it had to be. Even if Pendergast had somehow managed to extricate himself from the mire, they should have discovered his corpse in their days and nights of careful searching. The most likely reason dragging the mire had failed was because Pendergast had somehow escaped the first mire, only to die in some thicket or get sucked down into another, distant bog.

But he didn’t know – not for sure, and that was driving him mad. He hadto learn the truth. The alternative – a lifetime of fear and paranoia – was simply not acceptable.

After the inquest he had departed Scotland – in as high-profile a manner as he could manage, being driven to Glasgow by a disgruntled Inspector Balfour himself. Now, a week later, he was back. He’d cut his hair short and dyed it black; he was wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses; he’d purchased a high-quality stage mustache. In the unlikely event that he ran into Balfour or any of his men, the chance of being recognized was virtually nil. He was simply another American tourist, enjoying a late-year bicycle tour of the Highlands.

Nearly three weeks had passed since the shooting. The trail, if there ever was one, was now cold. But it couldn’t be helped: before the inquest he’d been kept under close observation, prevented from making private inquiries. He’d have to move as quickly as he could now, make sure no time was wasted. He had to prove to his own satisfaction that Pendergast had not survived, had not crawled out of the Mire. If he could do that, then perhaps he could find peace.

At last he turned his attention to the map. He located his own position; located the peak of Beinn Dearg and the Foulmire; located Cairn Barrow, the largest village of the region. With a fingertip on the spot where he’d shot Pendergast, he examined the surrounding area closely. The nearest village was Inverkirkton, about three miles from the shooting site. Besides Kilchurn Lodge, no other habitation was closer. If Pendergast had survived – if he’d gone anywhere – it would have been Inverkirkton. That’s where he would start.

Esterhazy folded up the map and glanced down the far side of the hill. From his vantage spot, he could just make out Inverkirkton. He cleared his throat, got back on the bicycle. A moment later he was coasting eastward down the hill, the afternoon sun on his back, taking no notice of the sweet smell of heather drifting in the air.

Inverkirkton was a clustering of well-tended buildings at a bend in the road, but it had the two things every Scottish settlement seemed to have: a pub and an inn. He wheeled up to the inn, climbed off the bike, leaned it against the whitewashed stone. Then, plucking a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped inside.

The small lobby was cheerfully decorated, with framed photos of Inverness and the Mull of Kintyre beside tartans and a local map. It was empty save for a man in his early sixties, evidently the innkeeper, who was standing behind a counter of polished wood, reading a newspaper. He glanced up as Esterhazy stepped in, his bright blue eyes inquisitive. Esterhazy made a show of mopping his face with the handkerchief and blowing hard. Word of the shooting would have been news in this tiny local hamlet, and Esterhazy was relieved that there was no sign of recognition in the man’s gaze.

“Good afternoon to you,” the man said with a deep burr.

“Afternoon,” Esterhazy replied after seeming to recover some of his breath.

The innkeeper glanced over Esterhazy’s shoulder, where the front wheel of the bicycle was just visible through the door. “On holiday, are we?”

Esterhazy nodded. “I’d like a room, if one’s available.”

“Aye, one is. What might your name be, sir?”

“Edmund Draper.” He took another series of shuddering breaths, wiped his face again with the handkerchief.

The innkeeper hefted down a large ledger from a shelf behind him. “You seem a bit fagged, laddie.”

Esterhazy nodded again. “Cycled here from Fraserburgh.”

The innkeeper stopped in the act of opening the ledger. “Fraserburgh? But that’s close to forty miles – a good bit of it over mountains.”

“I know. I found that out the hard way. It’s only my second day of vacation, and I guess I overdid it. That’s the way I am.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll sleep well tonight. You’d best take it easy tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” Another pause for breath. “By the way, I saw the pub next door – I assume it serves dinner?”

“Aye, and a fine one. And if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest the local malt, Glen—”

The man stopped talking. Esterhazy’s face had assumed a worried, pained expression.

“Is anything the matter?” the innkeeper asked.

“I don’t know,” Esterhazy replied. He allowed his voice to become strained. “I’ve got this sudden pressure – pain – in my chest.”

A look of concern crossed the other man’s face. Bustling out from behind the counter, he led Esterhazy to a small adjoining parlor and eased him into an overstuffed chair.

“It’s shooting down my arm now… oh, God, it hurts.” Esterhazy gritted his teeth, clutched at his chest with his right hand.

“Would you like me to get you a drink, then?” the innkeeper said, bending over him solicitously.

“No… call for a doctor. Quickly…” And then, slumping over, Esterhazy closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 12

New York City

THE DRIVE LEADING UP TO THE PORTE COCHERE of 891 Riverside Drive looked a lot better than the first time D’Agosta had seen it. Back then, it had been filled with drifting trash, the surrounding ailanthus and sumac bushes dead or dying; the Beaux-Arts mansion itself had been shuttered and covered with gang graffiti. Now the property was clean and orderly, the four-story stone structure completely restored, its mansard roof, towers, and widow’s walk returned to period condition. And yet – as D’Agosta stared at it from the carriageway – there was something cold and strangely empty about the place.

He wasn’t sure why he was here, exactly. More than once he’d told himself to stop being paranoid, to stop acting like an old woman. But something about the visit from Corrie Swanson had stuck with him. And this time, when the impulse to stop by Pendergast’s mansion had risen yet again, he’d decided to act on it.

He stood for a minute, catching his breath. He’d taken the number 1 train to 137th Street and walked toward the river, but even that short journey had winded him. He hated this long convalescence; hated how the gunshot wound, the pig valve replacement, the subsequent gradual recovery, had sapped him of strength. The only good thing about it was that he’d initially lost weight, but now he was gaining it back, in spades. And unable for the time being to exercise it off.

After a few moments, he walked down the carriageway and stepped up to the oaken front door. He seized the brass knocker, gave it a stout rap.

Silence.

He waited a minute, then two. Nothing. He leaned in toward the door, listening, but the house was too well built for any sound to escape. He knocked a second time. What with Constance Greene in an asylum, maybe the place really was as deserted as it looked. But that made no sense – he knew Pendergast employed help both here and at the Dakota.

There was a whisper of a key turning in well-oiled tumblers, then the massive door slowly opened. The entranceway was dimly lit, but D’Agosta could make out the features of Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur and sometime butler. Normally expressionless and imperturbable, today Proctor looked dour, almost forbidding.

“Mr. D’Agosta, sir,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”

D’Agosta stepped inside, and Proctor carefully locked the door behind him. “Would you care to step into the library?” the man asked.

D’Agosta had the creepy sensation he had been expected. He followed Proctor down the long, echoing gallery and into the reception hall, its dome of Wedgwood blue soaring overhead, the dim light illuminating the dozens of rippled-glass display cases and their curious contents. “Is Pendergast in?” he asked.

Proctor paused and turned back. “I am very sorry to say he is not, sir.”

“Where is he?”

The chauffeur’s cold look only wavered slightly. “He’s dead, sir.”

D’Agosta felt the room reel. “ Dead?How?”

“He was on a hunting expedition, to Scotland. With Dr. Esterhazy.”

“Judson Esterhazy? His brother-in-law?”

“There was an accident. Out on the moors, while they were hunting a stag. Dr. Esterhazy shot Mr. Aloysius. He sank in the mire.”

This couldn’t be real. He had misheard. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nearly three weeks ago.”

“So what about the funeral preparations? Where’s Esterhazy? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“There’s no body, sir. And Dr. Esterhazy has disappeared.”

“Oh, my God. You’re telling me Esterhazy accidentally shotPendergast and there’s no body and then Esterhazy just disappeared?” He realized he was yelling and didn’t care.

Proctor’s face remained unreadable. “The local constabulary searched for days, dragging the mire, looking everywhere. No body was recovered.”

“Then why do you say he’s dead?”

“Because of Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony at the inquest. He testified that he shot him in the chest. He saw him sink and disappear into the quicksand.”

D’Agosta felt short of breath. “Esterhazy told you this himself?”

“I learned this from a telephone call from the inspector investigating the shooting. He wanted to ask me a few questions about Mr. Aloysius.”

“And you’ve heard from nobody else?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“Where was this, exactly?”

“At Kilchurn Lodge. In the Scottish Highlands.”

D’Agosta clenched his jaw. “People don’t just disappear. Something about this whole story stinks.”

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s all I know.”

D’Agosta took a few deep, shuddering breaths. “Jesus. Okay. Thank you, Proctor. I’m sorry I’m talking like this. I’m just upset.”

“I understand. Would you care to step into the library for a glass of sherry before you go?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got to do something about this.”

Proctor looked at him. “And what might that be?”

“I don’t know yet. But you can bet your ass I’m going to do something.”

CHAPTER 13

Inverkirkton

JUDSON ESTERHAZY SAT AT THE SCUFFED BAR of the Half Moon Pub, nursing a pint of Guinness. The pub was tiny, befitting the size of the hamlet: three seats at the bar, four booths, two each built into opposite walls. Currently it was empty save for him and old MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, but it was almost five PM and that would change very soon.

He drained his glass, and MacFlecknoe bustled over. “Will you be having another, sir?” he asked.

Esterhazy made a show of considering this. “Why not?” he said after a moment. “I don’t suppose Dr. Roscommon will mind.”

The barkeep chuckled. “Sure, and it’ll be our secret.”

As if on cue, Esterhazy saw the doctor through the large round window in the front door of the pub. Roscommon walked briskly down the street, stopping at the door of his practice, which he unlocked with a deft turn of his wrist. Esterhazy watched as the man disappeared inside the building, closing the door after him.

While pretending to have a heart attack the day before, Esterhazy had a clear image in his mind of what the local doctor would look like: bluff and red-faced, aging but muscular, as accustomed to grappling with sick cows and horses as with people. But Roscommon had proved a surprise. He was thin and fortyish, with bright alert eyes and an intelligent expression. He had examined his new patient with a cool, relaxed professionalism that Esterhazy could only admire. Quickly determining that the chest pains were nothing serious, Roscommon nevertheless recommended a few days of rest. Esterhazy had expected this, and in fact welcomed it: now he had an excuse to hang around the village. And he had met the local doctor: his main purpose. He’d hoped to befriend the doctor and extract some information from him, but the man had proven the very picture of Scottish reserve, with little to say beyond what was necessary for medical advice. That might be his nature – or he might be hiding something.

As he sipped the fresh Guinness, Esterhazy wondered again what a man like Roscommon was doing in a one-horse town like Inverkirkton. He clearly had the ability to open a lucrative practice in a bigger city. If Pendergast, against all odds, had survived the mire, Roscommon was the man he’d have gone to; he was the only game in town.

The door to the pub opened and a woman came in – Jennie Prothero. Already, Esterhazy felt like he’d met practically the whole damn town. Mrs. Prothero ran the village’s curio-and-souvenir shop and – since that business wasn’t exactly lucrative – took in laundry on the side. She was plump and amiable, with a face almost as red as a lobster. Despite the mild October day, her neck was heavily swathed in a wool scarf.

“Hullo, then, Paulie,” she said to the bartender, settling onto one of the two free bar stools as demurely as her two hundred pounds would allow.

“Afternoon, Jennie,” MacFlecknoe replied, dutifully wiping the scarred wooden counter in front of her, drawing a pint of bitter, and placing it on a coaster.

The woman turned to Esterhazy. “And how are you today, Mr. Draper?”

Esterhazy smiled. “I’m quite better, thanks. Just a pulled muscle, it would seem.”

She nodded knowingly. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“I have your Dr. Roscommon to thank.”

“He’s a fine one, and no mistake,” the bartender said. “We’re lucky to have him.”

“Yes, he seems like an excellent doctor.”

MacFlecknoe nodded. “London trained, and all.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised there’s enough here to keep him occupied.”

“Well, he’s the only medical fellow for twenty miles ’round,” Prothero said. “At least, since old Crastner passed away last spring.”

“So he’s quite busy?” Esterhazy asked, taking a casual pull from his pint.

“That he is,” said MacFlecknoe. “Takes callers at all hours.”

“All hours? I’m surprised to hear that. I mean, with a country practice.”

“Well, we have emergencies here, just like everywhere else,” the bartender replied. He nodded across the street toward the doctor’s practice. “Sometimes you’ll see every light in his house ablaze, well after midnight.”

“You don’t say,” Esterhazy replied. “When was the last time that happened?”

MacFlecknoe thought. “Oh, maybe three weeks back. Maybe more. Can’t say for sure. It isn’t all that common. I remember that time, though, because his car came and went twice. Late it was – past nine.”

“It might have been poor Mrs. Bloor,” Jennie Prothero said. “She’s been poorly these past few months.”

“No, he didn’t head toward Hithe,” the bartender said. “I heard the car going west.”

“West?” the woman said. “There’s nothing that way but the Mire.”

“Maybe it was one of the guests up the lodge,” said MacFlecknoe.

The woman took a pull of bitter. “Now that you mention it, there were some linens from the doctor’s practice sent in for laundry around then. Bloody as you please, they were.”

“Really?” Esterhazy asked, his heart quickening. “What kind of linens?”

“Oh, the usual. Dressings, sheets.”

“Well, Jennie, that’s not uncommon,” said the barkeep. “Farmers ’round these parts are always having accidents.”

“Yes,” said Esterhazy, speaking more to himself than the others. “But not in the middle of the night.”

“What was that, Mr. Draper?” Jennie Prothero asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Esterhazy drained his pint.

“Would you care for another, then?” the barkeep asked.

“No, thank you. But please let me set one up for yourself and Mrs. Prothero.”

“I’ll do that, sir, and thank you most kindly.”

Esterhazy nodded, but he didn’t glance toward the barkeep. His eyes were trained on the circular window in the pub door, and the cream-colored office of Dr. Roscommon that lay across the street.

CHAPTER 14

Malfourche, Mississippi

NED BETTERTON PULLED UP BEFORE THE GRIMY plate-glass storefront of the Ideal Café, stepped into the bacon– and onion-perfumed interior, and ordered himself a cup of coffee, sweet and light. The Ideal wasn’t much of a café, but then Malfourche wasn’t much of a town: dirt-poor and half deserted, its fabric slowly crumbling into ruin. The kids with any talent obviously got their asses out of town just as fast as they could, running for bigger and more exciting cities, leaving the losers behind. Four generations of that and look what you got, a town like Malfourche. Hell, he’d grown up in a place just like it. Problem was, he hadn’t run far enough. Scratch that: he was still running, running like hell, but getting nowhere.

At least the coffee was halfway decent and once inside, it felt like home. He had to admit, he liked hardscrabble joints like this, with the gut-solid waitresses, truckers bellying up to the counters, greasy burgers, orders conveyed full throat, and strong fresh coffee.

He was the first in his family to graduate high school, not to mention college. A small and scrappy child, he’d been raised by his mother, just the two of them, his father doing time for robbing a Coca-Cola bottling plant. Twenty years, thanks to a careerist prosecutor and pitiless judge. His father died of cancer in the slammer, and Betterton knew it was despair that caused the cancer that killed him. And in turn, his father’s death had killed his mother.

As a result, Betterton was inclined to assume that anyone in a position of authority was a lying, self-interested son of a bitch. For that reason he’d gravitated toward journalism, where he figured he could fight those people with real weapons. Problem was, with his state college degree in communications all he could land was a job at the Ezerville Bee, and he’d been there for the past five years, trying to move up to a bigger paper. The Beewas a throwaway, an excuse for advertising mailed free to all residents and stacked a foot high at gas stations and supermarkets. The owner, editor, and publisher, Zeke Kranston, was mortally afraid of offending anyone if there was even a microscopic chance of hustling them for ad space. So: no investigative stories, no exposés, no hard-hitting political pieces. “The job of the Ezerville Beeis to sell advertising,” Kranston would say, after removing the sodden toothpick that always seemed to be hanging from his lower lip. “Don’t try to dig up another Watergate. You’ll only alienate readers – and businesses.” As a result, Betterton’s clipping book looked like something out of Woman’s World: all service pieces, rescued dogs, and reports from church bake sales, high-school football games, and ice-cream socials. With a book like that, no wonder he couldn’t get an interview at a real newspaper.

Betterton shook his head. He sure as hell wasn’t going to stay in Ezerville the rest of his life, and the only way to get out of Ezerville was to find that scoop. It didn’t matter if it was crime, a public interest story, or aliens with ray guns. One story with legs – that’s all he needed.

He drained his cup, paid, then stepped out into the morning sunlight. There was a breeze coming in off the Black Brake swamp, uncomfortably warm and malodorous. Betterton got into the car and started the engine, putting the A/C on full blast. But he didn’t go anywhere – not yet. Before he got into this story, he wanted to think it out. With great difficulty and many promises, he had persuaded Kranston to let him cover it. It was a curious human interest story and it could become the first real journalism clip in his book. He intended to exploit the opportunity to the max.

Betterton sat in the cooling car, going over what he’d say, what questions he’d ask, trying to anticipate the objections he was sure to hear. After five minutes, he was ready. He recombed his limp hair and mopped the sweat off his brow. He glanced down at the Internet map he’d printed, then shifted into drive, making a U-turn and heading back down the ramshackle street toward the outskirts of town.

Even covering the fluff, he had learned to pay attention to the slightest crumb of rumor or gossip, no matter how trivial. He’d heard rumors about the mysterious couple: about their disappearance years ago and their sudden reappearance a few months back, and a fake suicide somewhere along the way. A visit to the local parish police station earlier that morning had confirmed that the rumor was, in fact, true. And the police report, perfunctory as hell, had raised more questions than it answered.

He glanced down at the map, then at the rows of sad-looking clapboard houses that lined both sides of the potholed street. There it was: a small bungalow, painted white and bracketed by magnolias.

He nosed his car to the curb, killed the engine, and spent another minute psyching himself up. Then he got out, straightened his sports jacket, and marched with determined step up to the door. There was no doorbell, just a knocker, and he grasped it and gave an authoritative knock.

Betterton could hear it echoing through the house. For a moment, nothing. Then the sound of approaching feet. The door opened and a tall, svelte woman appeared in the entrance. “Yes?”

Betterton hadn’t known what to expect, of course, but the last thing he’d anticipated was that she would be beautiful. Not young, of course, but exceedingly handsome.

“Mrs. Brodie? June Brodie?”

The woman looked him up and down with cool blue eyes. “That’s correct.”

“My name’s Betterton. I’m from the Ezerville Bee. Please, could I have a few minutes of your time?”

“Who is it, June?” came a man’s high-pitched voice from within the house. Good, Betterton thought. They’re both in.

“We have nothing to say to the press,” June Brodie said. She took a step back and began to close the door.

Betterton wedged a desperate foot between the door and the sill. “Please, Mrs. Brodie,” he said. “I already know almost everything. I’ve been to the police, it’s a matter of public record. I’m going to run the story, regardless. I just thought you’d like the opportunity to have your own voice heard.”

She looked at him a minute. Her intelligent gaze seemed to bore right through him. “What story are you talking about?”

“About how you staged your own suicide and disappeared without a trace for a dozen years.”

There was a brief silence. “June?” Betterton could hear the male voice call again.

Mrs. Brodie opened the door and stepped to one side.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, Betterton went in. Directly ahead lay a tidy living room that smelled faintly of mothballs and floor polish. The room was almost empty: a couch, two chairs, a side table on a small Persian rug. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he trod the wooden floor. It felt like a house that had just been moved into. A moment later he realized that was, in fact, the case.

A small man, pale and slightly built, emerged from a darkened hallway, holding a plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other. “Who was that—” he began, then stopped when he caught sight of Betterton.

June Brodie turned toward him. “This is Mr. Betterton. He’s a newspaper reporter.”

The small man looked from his wife to Betterton and back again, face suddenly hostile. “What does he want?”

“He’s doing a story on us. On our return.” There was an edge of something – not quite scorn, not quite irony – in her voice that made Betterton a little nervous.

Carefully, the man set the plate down on the side table. He was as frumpy as his wife was elegant.

“You’re Carlton Brodie?” Betterton asked.

The man nodded.

“Why don’t you tell us what you know – or think you know?” June Brodie said. She had pointedly not offered him a seat or refreshment of any kind.

Betterton licked his lips. “I know that your vehicle was left on the Archer Bridge more than twelve years ago. Inside was a suicide note in your handwriting that read: Can’t take it anymore. All my fault. Forgive me.The river was dragged but no body was ever found. A few weeks later, the police paid a follow-up visit to your husband, Carlton, only to find that he had left on a trip of indefinite duration to an unknown location. That was the last anyone ever heard of the Brodies – until you suddenly reappeared here, out of nowhere, a few months ago.”

“That would seem to sum things up,” June Brodie said. “Not much of a story, is it?”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Brodie – it’s a fascinating story, and I think the readers of the Beewould feel the same way. What would lead a woman to do such a thing? Where has she been all this time? And why – after more than a decade – would she return?”

June Brodie frowned but said nothing. There was a brief, frosty silence.

After a moment, Mr. Brodie sighed. “Look, young man. I’m afraid it isn’t as interesting as you think.”

“Carlton, don’t bother to humor him,” June Brodie said.

“No, dear, I think it’s better if we get it said,” Mr. Brodie told her. “Say it once, then refuse to speak of it again. We’ll only prolong the story if we don’t cooperate.” He turned to Betterton. “We were going through a difficult time with our marriage.”

Betterton nodded.

“Things were bad,” Mr. Brodie went on. “Then June’s employer died in a fire and she lost her job with Longitude Pharmaceuticals when the company went bankrupt. She was at her wit’s end, half crazy. She had to get away – away from everything. And so did I. It was a foolish thing for her to do, staging a suicide, but at the time there seemed like no other choice. Later I went to her. We decided to travel. Stopped at a B and B, loved it at first sight, found it was up for sale, bought it and ran it for years. But… well, we’re older and wiser now, and things are less raw, so we decided to come home. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Betterton repeated, hollowly.

“If you read the police report, you know that already. There was an investigation, naturally. Everything happened a long time ago; no fraud was involved; there was no escape from debt, no insurance scam, no laws broken. So the matter was dropped. And now we just want to live here, in peace and quiet.”

Betterton considered this for a moment. The police report had mentioned the B&B but included no details. “Where was this B and B?”

“Mexico.”

“Where in Mexico?”

A brief hesitation. “San Miguel de Allende. We fell in love with the place at first sight. It’s a city of artists in the mountains of Central Mexico.”

“What was the name of the B and B?”

“Casa Magnolia. A beautiful place. Within walking distance of the Mercado de Artesanias.”

Betterton took a deep breath. He could think of no other questions. And the man’s frank ingenuousness left him with nothing to follow up on. “Well, I thank you for being candid.”

In reply, Brodie nodded, picked up the dish and the dish towel.

“May I call you? If I have any further questions, that is?”

“You may not,” June Brodie said crisply. “Good morning.”

Outside, walking to his car, Betterton’s step grew jauntier. It was still a good story. All right, not the scoop of a lifetime, but it would make people sit up and take notice and it would look good among his clips. A woman who faked her suicide, got her husband to join her in exile, then returned home after a dozen years: a human interest story with a twist. With a little bit of luck, the wire services might get wind of it.

“Ned, you rascal,” he said as he opened the car door. “Okay, so it isn’t Watergate, but it just might get your sorry ass out of Ezerville.”

June Brodie watched through the window, face impassive, cold blue eyes unblinking, until the car receded into the distance. Then she turned toward her husband. “Do you think he bought it?”

Carlton Brodie was polishing the china plate. “The police bought it – didn’t they?”

“We had no choice about that. But now it’s public.”

“It was already public.”

“Not newspaperpublic.”

Brodie chuckled. “You’re giving the Ezerville Beetoo much credit.” Then he stopped and looked at her. “What is it?”

“Don’t you remember what Charles said? How frightened he always was? ‘We must stay hidden,’ he’d insist. ‘Stay secret. Theycan’t know we’re alive. Theywould come for us.’ ”

“So?”

“So what if ‘they’ read the paper?”

Brodie chuckled again. “June, please. There is no ‘they.’ Slade was old. Old, sick, mentally ill, and paranoid as hell. Trust me, this is for the better. Get it said, and said our way – without a lot of rumor and speculation. Nip it in the bud.” And he walked back toward the kitchen, still wiping the plate.