Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [42]
Then something gave Esterhazy pause: the man’s gnarly old hands. He stared in the dim light at the man’s lower body, his spindly legs, the parchment skin, the varicose veins. There was no mistaking it—this was the body of an old man. Nobody could create such an effective disguise. But more than that was the absolute lack of bandages, scar, or anything remotely like a month-old gunshot wound on the heaving torso.
His mind worked furiously to overcome the shock and rage. He had been so sure, so very sure…
He quickly released the pillow, exposing the old man’s distorted face, his tongue protruding, his eyes popping with terror. He coughed once, twice, gasping for breath, his sunken chest heaving with the effort.
In a blind panic, Esterhazy threw the pillow aside and stumbled down the stairs; the old crone was just staggering into the back door, blood running down her face.
“You devil!” she shrieked, grasping at him with bony fingers as he ran past, flinging open the front door and running back over the wide, empty moorlands.
CHAPTER 22
Malfourche
THE MILD NIGHT AIR, SIGHING IN THROUGH the open window, stirred the muslin curtains of the living room. Feeling the breeze on her face, June Brodie looked up from the Mississippi Board of Nursing forms she was filling out. Except for the low susurrus of wind, the night was quiet. She glanced at her watch: nearly two in the morning. Faintly, from the den, she could hear the sound of a deep-voiced narrator droning from the television: no doubt Carlton was watching one of the military history shows he was so passionate about.
She took a sip from the bottle of Coke that sat at her elbow. She had always loved Coke out of glass bottles; it reminded her of her childhood and the old-fashioned vending machines where you opened the narrow glass window and pulled the bottles out by their necks. She was convinced it tasted different in a bottle. But for the last decade, out in the swamp, she’d had to content herself with aluminum cans. Charles Slade hadn’t been able to bear the way that light glinted off glass, and almost no exposed glass had been allowed on Spanish Island. Even the syringe barrels had been plastic.
She replaced the bottle on its coaster. There were other benefits of returning to a normal life. Carlton could watch his television programs without having to wear headphones. Blinds could be opened wide, allowing light and fresh air. She could decorate the house with fresh flowers—roses and gardenias and her favorite, calla lilies—without fear that their scent would provoke a desperate protest. She’d kept herself trim, she liked fine clothes and fashionable hairstyles; now she would have a chance to wear them where others could see. It’s true, they’d had to endure more than their share of stares from neighboring townsfolk—some suspicious, some merely curious—but already people were getting used to their being back. The police investigation was over and done with. The annoying reporter from the Ezerville Bee hadn’t returned. And while his story had been picked up as a small item in a Houston paper, it didn’t seem to have spread any farther. After Slade’s death, they had taken their time—almost five months—to make sure nobody would ever know how they had been living, what they had been doing. Only then had they made a public reappearance. The secret of their lives in the swamp would remain just that—a secret.
June Brodie shook her head a little wistfully. Despite telling herself all this, there were still times—times like this, in the quiet of the night—when she missed Charles Slade so much it was almost a physical pain. It’s true, all those years of tending to his wasted body, to a mind ravaged by disease and a toxic sensitivity to any kind of sensory stimulus, had dulled her love. And yet she had once