Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [41]
Esterhazy’s heart quickened. Digging his walking stick into the soft ground, he made a circuit of the cottage, ending up on the far side. There was a small back door, of rough wood, that connected to a small kitchen garden; a shed; and a stone sheep pen. There were no windows on the back side of the house.
He glanced around carefully. Nobody was to be seen; the infinitude of moor and mire on all sides was devoid of life. He pulled the small handgun from his pocket, ensured there was a round in the chamber. With great care, he approached the cottage from its blind side.
Soon he was crouched by the back door. With a single finger he made a small scratching noise on the wood and waited.
Sure enough, the sharp-eared old crone heard it; he listened to her footsteps and unintelligible imprecations as she approached. A bolt shot back and the door opened. The woman looked out.
A muttered oath.
With one swift, economical movement Esterhazy rose, clamped his hand over her mouth, and dragged her one-armed from the doorway. He gave her a solid tap on the back of the head with the butt of the gun, then laid her unconscious body on the turf. A moment later he had noiselessly slipped into the cottage. The ground floor was a single large room; he looked around quickly, taking in the enameled stove, the worn chairs, the antlers on the walls, the steep staircase rising to the loft overhead. A loud, stertorous breathing could be heard coming from above. It continued undisturbed.
He moved around the small room with infinite care, placing each foot with fanatical caution, checking the commode, the single closet, satisfying himself that nobody was in hiding. Then, keeping tight hold of the gun, he moved over to the staircase. It was built of thick pegged planks, which might or might not creak.
He waited at the bottom of the stairs, listening. The breathing continued, somewhat labored, and once he heard the man upstairs shift in his bed and grunt with what sounded like discomfort. Esterhazy waited, letting a full five minutes pass. All seemed normal.
He raised a leg and placed one foot on the lower stair, began to put pressure on it, bit by bit, until his full weight was applied. No creak of wood. He placed his next foot on the higher tread, performing the same excruciating operation, and again there was no creak. With maddening slowness he ascended the staircase in this fashion, consuming minutes of time, until he was almost at the top. The foot of a primitive bed was visible five feet away. He raised himself ever so slowly and peered over the top into the bed. A figure lay in it: back to him, covered, sleeping, his breathing labored but regular. He was a gaunt old man in a heavy nightdress, with white hair almost as wild and rumpled as the crone’s. Or so it appeared.
Esterhazy knew better.
An extra pillow had been draped over the headboard. Putting his gun away, Esterhazy took hold of the pillow and, keeping his eyes fixed on the man in the bed, picked it up. Tensing, gripping the pillow in both hands, he crouched like a tiger—then suddenly pounced, landing on the bed, bringing the pillow down on the man’s face and leaning into it with all his strength.
A muffled cry came from below and a hand flew up, scratching and flailing at Esterhazy, but there was no weapon in the hand and he knew his attack had been a complete and total surprise. He drove the pillow down even harder, the muffled sounds cut off, and now the weakened man struggled silently, his flapping hands plucking at his shirt. The body heaved below him, surprisingly strong for one so recently gravely wounded. One large spidery