Cold Vengeance

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.”

“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 —