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 newspaper public.”
Brodie chuckled. “You’re giving the Ezerville Bee too 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. They can’t know we’re alive. They would 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.
CHAPTER 15
Cairn Barrow
D’AGOSTA SAT IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT of the rented Ford, looking disconsolately out at the endless gray-green moorlands. From the height of land on which he’d parked, they seemed to stretch into a misty infinity. And for all the luck he’d had, they might as well go on forever, cloaking their dark secrets for all time to come.
He was wearier than he’d ever been in his life. Even now, seven months later, the gunshot wound was still kicking his ass: here he was, winded by something as simple as climbing a set of stairs or walking through an airport terminal. These last three days in Scotland had driven it home with a vengeance. Thanks to a solicitous and competent Chief Inspector Balfour, he’d seen everything there was to see. He’d read all the official transcripts, depositions, evidence reports. He’d been to the scene of the shooting. He’d spoken to the employees of Kilchurn Lodge. He’d visited all the houses, farms, barns, stone huts, mires, tors, dingles, dells, and every other damn thing within a twenty-mile radius of this godforsaken place — all without success. It had proven exhausting. Beyond exhausting.
And the cold, drizzly Scottish environment hadn’t exactly helped. He knew the British Isles could be damp, but he hadn’t seen the sun since he left New York. The food was lousy, not a plate of pasta within a hundred miles. He’d been persuaded to eat a dish called haggis the evening he’d arrived and his digestive system hadn’t been the same since. Kilchurn Lodge itself was elegant enough, but it was drafty, and the cold worked its way into his bones and caused his old wound to ache.
He took another glance out the window, fetched a sigh. The last thing he felt like doing was going out onto that moor again. But in the pub the evening before, he’d heard by chance of an old couple — mad, or just a little touched, depending on whom you talked to — who lived in a stone house out in the Mire, not far from the Inish Marshes; they raised their own sheep and grew much of their own food, and almost never came into town. There was no road to their place, he was told, only a small footpath marked by rock cairns. It was in the middle of nowhere, well off the road and twelve miles from where the shooting had taken place. It was impossible, D’Agosta knew, that a gravely wounded Pendergast could have reached it across all that distance. But nevertheless he owed it to both himself and his old friend to check this one last lead before heading back to New York.
He took a last look at the topographic map he had bought, folded it up, and shoved it in his pocket. He’d better get started — the sky was lowering, and threatening clouds were gathering in the west. He hesitated a moment longer. Then, with a grunt of effort, he opened the door and heaved himself out of the car. He pulled the waterproof tight around himself and started out.
The trail was clear enough: a gravelly path that wound among tussocks of grass and patches of heather. He spied the first cairn — not the usual pile of rocks but a tall, narrow slab of granite sunk into the ground. As he approached, he noticed that something had been carved into its face:
GLIMS HOLM
4 MI.
That was it, the name of the cottage they’d mentioned in the pub. He grunted with satisfaction. Four miles. It would take maybe two hours if he took it easy. He set off, his newly purchased walking shoes crunching on the gravel, the keen edge of the wind in his face. But he was well bundled against the cold, and he had a good seven hours of daylight.
For the first mile or so, the trail remained on solid ground, following a faint elevation that extended into the Mire. D’Agosta breathed deeply, surprised and more than a little pleased that all his traipsing around these past few days seemed to have left him a bit stronger, despite his weariness and the ache of his injury. The trail was well marked, with long, narrow pieces of granite stuck into the ground like pikes to guide the way.
Deeper into the Mire the trail itself grew fainter, but the markers were still visible for hundr
eds of yards; at each one he paused, searched the landscape ahead, located the next, and continued on. Even though the ground seemed relatively flat and open, as he proceeded he realized there were many folds and gentle rises that made it difficult and deceptive to get the lay of the land and maintain a straight course.
As eleven o’clock neared, the trail began to descend, ever so slightly, toward lower, more boggy moorlands. In the vast distance on his right, he could see a dark line that, according to his map, marked the border of the Inish Marshes. The air became still, the wind dying to nothing, the mists collecting in the hollows and rising in tendrils over dark bogs. The sky darkened and clouds rolled in.
Hell, thought D’Agosta, looking upward. That damn Scottish drizzle was starting. Again.
He soldiered on. Suddenly the drizzle was interrupted by a terrific gust of wind. He heard it coming before it arrived — a humming noise across the moors, the heather flattened in its wake — and then it buffeted him, flapping his raincoat and tugging at his hat. And now heavier drops of rain began to patter over the ground. The mists that had settled in the low areas seemed to jump out and become clouds tumbling across the moors, or maybe the leaden sky itself had lowered to the ground.
D’Agosta checked his watch. Almost noon.
He stopped to rest on a boulder. There had been no more signs for Glims Holm, but he figured he’d gone at least three miles. One more to go. He searched the landscape ahead; he could see nothing that might be a distant cottage. Another gust of wind swept across him, the cold raindrops stinging his face.
Son of a bitch. He heaved himself up, checked his map, but it was pretty much useless as there weren’t any distinct landmarks visible by which he could measure his progress.
Ridiculous that someone lived way out here. They were clearly more than “touched”—they must be stark raving mad. And this was a fool’s errand: no way in hell Pendergast could have gotten as far as the cottage.
The rain continued, hard and steady. It kept growing darker, to the point that it almost felt as if night were coming on. The trail became fainter, the bogs pressing in on either side, and in places the trail crossed watery areas on corduroys or lines of flat stones. With the mists, rain, and darkness, D’Agosta began finding it difficult to locate each next cairn, peering into the murk for a long time before spying it.
How much farther? He checked his watch. Twelve thirty. He’d been walking two and a half hours. He should be practically on top of the cottage. But ahead he could see only gray moorlands emerging helter-skelter from mist and rain.
He hoped to hell he would find someone at the cottage and that there would be a fire going and hot coffee, or at least tea. He was starting to feel a cold, penetrating chill as the water worked its way into his clothing. This had been a mistake; the ache of the injury was now joined by the occasional shooting pain down his leg. He wondered if he should rest again, decided against it now that he was almost there. A rest might stiffen him up and make him even colder.
He stopped. The trail had ended in a broad, quaking pool of muck. He looked around for cairns that might lead through it and saw none. Hell, he hadn’t been paying attention. He turned, looking back over the trail on which he had come. Now that he looked at it, it didn’t look like a trail — more a linked series of dirt patches. He started to retrace his steps, then stopped: there seemed to be two ways he could have come in, two wandering paths. Examining them both closely, he couldn’t see his footprints in the hard surface, now puddled with rain. He straightened up and scanned the horizon, looking for a telltale spike of granite. But no matter how hard he stared, he could see nothing but gray boggy swamp and tatters of mist.
He took a deep breath. The cairns were placed a couple of hundred yards apart. He couldn’t be more than a hundred yards from the last. All he had to do was go slow, take it easy, stay calm, and get his ass back to the previous cairn.
He took the right-hand path and moved slowly, stopping every now and then to peer ahead for the cairn. After going about fifty yards, he concluded that this could not be the way he’d come — the cairn would have been visible by now. Fine; he would take the other path. He turned back and retraced his steps about fifty yards, but for some reason it didn’t return to the fork in the trail that had puzzled him previously. He went a little farther, thinking he had misjudged the distance — only to find the trail dead-ending at another bog.
He stopped, controlled his breathing. All right: he was lost. But he wasn’t that lost. He still couldn’t be more than one or two hundred yards from the last cairn. What he had to do was look around. He would not move until he had oriented himself and knew where he was going.
The rain gusted, and he could feel a cold trickle down his back. Ignoring the sensation, he took stock. He seemed to be in a bowl-like depression. The horizon was perhaps a mile away on all sides, but it was hard to tell with the incessantly moving mists. He started to take out his map and then shoved it back into his pocket. What good would that do? He cursed himself for not bringing a compass. At least with a compass, he could have known his general direction. He looked at his watch: one thirty. About three hours to sunset.
“Damn,” he said aloud, and then, louder: “Damn!”
That made him feel better. He picked a point on the horizon and began to scrutinize it for a cairn. And there it was — a distant vertical scratch in the shifting mists.
He worked his way toward it, stepping from one gravelly patch to the next. But the bogs conspired to block his every turn: he kept having to go first one way, then another, and then retrace, until it seemed he was stuck on some sort of snake-like island in the middle of the bogs. Christ, he could see the stupid cairn not two hundred yards away!
Coming to a narrow stretch of bog, he spied the trail itself running along the other side, a sandy piece of ground winding off toward the cairn. He experienced a huge feeling of relief. Probing this way and that, he looked for a way across the narrow bog. At first, he could find no clear passage. But then he noticed that at one point the bog was interspersed with hillocks, close enough together to allow him to step across. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out onto the first hillock, tested it, put his weight down, and brought his other foot over. Doing the same with the next, he stepped across the bog from hillock to hillock, the black muck quaking below, sometimes bubbling up with marsh gas disturbed by the vibrations of his footfalls.
He was almost there. He reached his foot across one large gap, placed it on a hillock, pushed off with the other foot — and lost his balance. With an involuntary yell he tried to leap over the last piece of mire to hard ground, came up short, and landed in the bog with a heavy smack.
As the clammy muck settled around his thighs, pure, hysterical panic took over. With another yell he tried to wrench one leg free, but the movement only pulled the rest of him in deeper. His panic spiked. Yanking the other leg had the same effect; struggling just sucked his body deeper into the icy pressure of the mud, the effort releasing bursts of bubbles that broke all around him, enveloping him in the stench of swamp rot.
“Help!” he cried, the small part of his brain not yet in panic mode registering how stupid the cry was. “Help me!” The muck was now above his waist; his arms flailed instinctively, trying to push himself out, but this merely anchored both his arms and drew him in deeper. It was as if he were fastened in a straitjacket. He thrashed, trying to get at least one arm free, but he was powerless, like a fly in honey, sinking slowly and helplessly into the mire.
“Help me, for God’s sake!” D’Agosta screamed, his voice echoing over the empty moors.
You idiot, that small rational part of his brain told him, stop moving. Every movement was driving him farther under. With a superhuman effort, he willed his panic into submission.
Take a deep breath. Wait. Don’t move.
It was hard to breathe with the pressure of the mud encircling his chest. It was up to the tops of his shoulders, but by not moving, by remaining absolutely still, he al
most seemed to have stopped sinking. He waited, trying to overcome the panicky sensation of the mud creeping up toward his neck, slower now. Finally it stopped. He waited in the driving rain until he realized that he had, in fact, stopped sinking; he was stable, in equilibrium.
Not only that, he now realized he was only five feet from the trail on the other side.
With exquisite slowness he began to raise one arm, keeping his fingers straight, extracting it slowly from the muck, avoiding any suction, giving the mud time to flow around it as he drew it out.
A miracle. His arm was free. Keeping it buoyed above the surface, he ever so slowly leaned forward. There was a huge moment of panic as he felt the mud creep up his neck, but by immersing more of his upper body he could feel a buoyancy effect on his lower extremities, and his feet felt like they might have risen just a little. As he leaned forward more, his feet rose in response. Gingerly, he immersed part of his head in the muck, which increased the effect and brought his legs up still more, tilting his body toward the embankment of the bog. Keeping as relaxed as possible, moving with agonizing slowness, he continued leaning forward and — just as the mud came up to his nose — he managed to reach out and grasp a branch of heather.
With slow, easy pressure, he drew his body toward the embankment until his chin rested on the grass. Then he extracted his other arm — slowly, very slowly — and reached out with it as well, grasping another bush and pulling himself out onto firm ground.
He lay there, feeling a wash of infinite relief. Slowly the pounding of his heart subsided. The heavy rain began to rinse the mud from him.
After a minute or two, he managed to stand up. He was chilled to the very bone, dripping with foul-smelling mud, his teeth chattering. He held up his wrist and let the rain wash the mud from his watch: four o’clock.
Four o’clock! No wonder it was getting so dark. The sun set early in October in these northern climes.
Cold Vengeance p-11 Page 7
