Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [109]
“And what kind of vessel do you have?” Falkoner asked.
“It’s, ah, it’s a Chris-Craft. Eighty feet.”
“An eighty-foot Chris-Craft. Does it have decent range?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Such as?”
“Eight hundred nautical miles.”
Falkoner seemed to consider this. Then he took Betterton by the arm. “Come on. We’ll show you one of the staterooms.”
They left the bridge and descended two levels to the living quarters on the lower deck. But Falkoner did not stop here, instead descending another staircase to the mechanical region of the vessel. He led the way down a hallway to an unmarked door. “I’m curious,” he said as he opened the door. “What kind of engine does your yacht have? And what’s your hailing port?”
They stepped into, not a stateroom, but a spartan-looking storage area. “Oh, I’m not really all that nautical,” Betterton said, with a chuckle and a wave of his hand. “I leave all that to my captain and staff.”
“Funny,” Falkoner replied as he raised the cover of a sail locker. “I myself prefer to leave nothing to others.” He pulled a large sailcloth tarp from the locker and unrolled it over the floor.
“This is a stateroom?” Betterton asked.
“No,” Falkoner replied, closing the door. He glanced at Esterhazy, and there was something chilling in his look.
Betterton glanced at his watch. “Well, thanks for the tour. I think I’d better be getting back—”
He paused when he saw the double-edged combat knife in Falkoner’s hand.
“Who are you?” Falkoner said in a low voice. “And what do you want?”
Betterton swallowed. He looked from Falkoner to the knife and back again. “I told you. My yacht is moored just down from—”
As quickly as a striking snake, Falkoner grabbed one of Betterton’s hands and jabbed the point of his knife into the webbing between the index and middle fingers.
Betterton cried out in pain, tried to jerk his hand free. But Falkoner just took a tighter hold, pulling the man forward so that he stood on the sailcloth.
“We’re wasting time,” he said. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Judson, cover me.”
Esterhazy removed his pistol and stepped back. He felt sick. This seemed unnecessary. And Falkoner’s obvious eagerness made it worse.
“You’re making a serious mistake,” Betterton began, his voice suddenly low, threatening. But before he could continue Falkoner took a fresh grip on the knife and then pushed it even deeper, this time into the flesh between the middle and ring fingers.
“I’ll kill you,” Betterton gasped.
As Esterhazy looked on with growing horror, Falkoner held the stranger’s wrist in a grip of iron while he dug with the knife, twisting and probing.
Betterton staggered over the tarp, grunting but not saying anything.
“Tell me why you’re here.” And Falkoner twisted the knife deeper.
“I’m a thief,” Betterton gasped.
“Interesting story,” said Falkoner. “But I don’t believe it.”
“I—” Betterton began, but with a sudden explosion of violence Falkoner kneed him in the groin, then head-butted the man as he doubled over. Betterton toppled back onto the tarp, groaning, blood streaming from a broken nose.
Falkoner pulled one corner of the tarp over Betterton, like a sheet, then knelt on it, pinning Betterton’s chest. He took the knife and let it trace a line up the soft underside of the man’s chin. Betterton, unable to rise and half stunned, rocked his head from side to side, moaning incoherently.
Falkoner sighed, whether with regret or impatience Esterhazy couldn’t guess, and then stuck the knife into the soft flesh just above the neck, below the chin, sinking it an inch into the man’s palate.
Now Betterton finally screamed and struggled wildly. After a moment, Falkoner removed the blade.
Betterton coughed, spat blood. “Reporter,” he said after a moment. The voice was a wet gargle, hard to understand.
“A reporter? Investigating what?”
“Death… June and Carlton Brodie.”
“How did you find me?” Falkoner asked.
“Locals… Car rental… Airline.”
“That sounds more credible,” Falkoner said. “Have you told anyone about me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You have to let me go… Man waiting for me… in the boat