Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [43]
The den had gone silent. Carlton must have turned off the TV in favor of his other passion: crossword puzzles from the London Times.
She sighed, glanced down at the papers in her lap. Speaking of her job, she’d better get these things filled 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