Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [44]
June Brodie stared at him. Her heart was now beating painfully in her breast. On the love seat, her husband moaned and shivered, clutching his ruined knee.
“Not too long ago—shortly before you reappeared—a man named Michael Ventura was found dead in the swamp, shot, not far from Spanish Island. He was once chief of security for Longitude Pharmaceuticals. He is a person of interest to us. Would you know anything about that?”
We know, he’d said. Of interest to us. June Brodie thought of the words the invalid Slade used to whisper, so often, with such apparent urgency: Stay secret. They can’t know we’re alive. They would come for us. Was it possible—was it remotely possible—that those weren’t, after all, the ravings of a paranoid, half-lunatic man?
She swallowed. “No, we don’t,” she said aloud. “Spanish Island went bankrupt decades ago, it’s been shuttered and vacant since—”
The man raised the handgun again and casually shot Carlton Brodie in the groin. Blood, matter, and body fluids gushed over the love seat. Brodie howled in agony, doubled over again, fell out of his chair and writhed on the ground.
“All right!” June cried. “All right, all right, for the love of God stop it, please!” The words tumbled out.
“Shut him up,” the man said, “or I’ll have to.”
June rose and rushed over to her husband, doubled up and crying out in pain. She put a hand over his shoulder. Blood was running freely from his knee, between his legs. With an ugly gushing noise he vomited all over his trousers and shoes.
“Talk,” said the man, still casual.
“We were out there,” she said, almost spitting the words in her fright. “Out in the swamp. At Spanish Island.”
“For how long?”
“Since the fire.”
The man frowned. “The fire at Longitude?”
She nodded almost eagerly.
“What were you doing out there in the swamp?”
“Taking care of him.”
“Him?”
“Charles. Charles Slade.”
For the first time, the man’s mask of calm unconcern fell away. Surprise and disbelief bloomed on his fine features. “Impossible. Slade died in the fire…” He stopped talking and his eyes widened slightly, gleaming as if in comprehension.
“No. That fire was a setup.”
The man looked at her and spoke sharply. “Why? To destroy evidence of the lab?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know why. Most of the lab work was done at Spanish Island.”
Another look of surprise. June stared at her husband, who was moaning and shivering uncontrollably. He seemed to be passing out. Maybe dying. She sobbed, choked, tried to control herself. “Please…”
“Why were you hiding there?” the man asked. His tone was disinterested, but the gleam had not left his eyes.
“Charles got sick. He caught the avian flu. It… changed him.”
The man nodded. “And he kept you and your husband on to look after him?”
“Yes. Out in the swamp. Where he wouldn’t be found. Where he could work and then—when his disease got worse—where he could be taken care of.” She was almost choking with terror. The man was brutal—but if she told him everything, everything, maybe he would let them go. And she could get her husband to the hospital.
“Who else knew about Spanish Island?”
“Just Mike. Mike Ventura. He brought supplies, made sure we had everything we needed.”
The man hesitated. “But Ventura is dead.”
“He killed him,” June Brodie said.
“Who? Who killed him?”
“Agent Pendergast. FBI.”
“The FBI?” For the first time, the man raised his voice perceptibly.
“Yes. Along with a captain in the NYPD. A woman. Hayward.”
“What did they want?”
“The FBI agent was looking for the person who killed his wife. It had something to do with Project Aves—the secret avian flu team at Longitude… Slade had her killed. Years ago.”
“Ah,” the man said, as if understanding something new. He paused