Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [54]
He turned back to her. “Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Pendergast?”
“You bet I am. I worked with him out in Kansas. The Still Life killings.”
“Then you must be Corrie Swanson.”
She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “So you know me, anyway. Good. What’s this about Pendergast being dead?”
“I regret to say he—”
“Don’t give me any more bullshit!” Corrie cried. “I’ve been thinking about it, and that hunting accident story stinks worse than Brad Hazen’s jockstraps. You tell me the truth or I can just feel that disturbance of the peace coming on.”
“There’s no need to get excited, Miss Swanson. Just what is your purpose in wanting to contact—”
“Enough!” Corrie removed the ball-peen hammer she had been carrying in the McDonald’s bag and raised it above the windshield.
“Miss Swanson,” said Proctor, “don’t do anything rash.” He began to take a step toward her.
“Halt!” She raised her arm.
“This is no way to go about getting information—”
She brought the hammer down smartly on the windshield. A star pattern of cracks burst into the sunlight.
“My God,” Proctor said in disbelief, “do you have any idea how—?”
“Is he alive or dead?” She raised her arm again. As Proctor tensed to approach her, she yelled, “Touch me and I’ll scream rape.”
Charles stood in his pillbox, bug-eyed.
Proctor froze in position. “Just a minute. I’ll have an answer for you—but you’ll have to be patient. Any more violence and you’ll get nothing.”
There was a brief moment of stasis. Then, slowly, Corrie lowered the hammer.
Proctor took out a cell phone, held it up so she could see. Then he began to dial.
“You’d better be quick. Maybe Charles is calling the cops.”
“I doubt it.” Proctor spoke into the phone, in a low voice, for about a minute. Then he held it out to her.
“Who is it?”
Instead of replying, Proctor simply continued to hold out the phone, looking at her through narrowed eyes.
She took it. “Yeah?”
“My dear Corrie,” came the silky voice she knew so well, “I’m terribly sorry to have missed our lunch at Le Bernardin.”
“They’re saying you’re dead!” Corrie gasped, chagrined at feeling tears spring into her eyes. “They—”
“The reports of my death,” came the droll voice, “are greatly exaggerated. I’ve just emerged from deep cover. This ruckus you’re causing is rather inconvenient.”
“Jesus, you could have told me. I’ve been worried sick.” Her flood of relief began to turn to anger.
“Perhaps I should have. I’d forgotten how resourceful you are. Poor Proctor, he had no idea what he was up against. You’ll have a very difficult time getting back into his good graces, I fear. Did you have to break the windscreen on my Rolls to get his attention?”
“Sorry. It was the only way.” She felt her face flush. “You let me think you were dead! How could you?”
“Corrie, I’m under no obligation to account to you for my whereabouts.”
“So what’s this case?”
“I can’t speak of it. It’s strictly private, unofficial, and—if you’ll pardon the jargon—freelance. I’m alive, I’ve just returned to the United States, but I’m operating on my own and I need no help. None whatsoever. You can rest assured I will make good on our lunch, but it may not be for some time. Until then, please continue with your studies. This is an exceedingly dangerous case and you must not become involved in any way. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Thank you. By the way, I was touched by what you wrote on your website. A rather nice eulogy, I thought. Like Alfred Nobel, I have had the curious experience of reading my own obituary. Now: do I have a solemn promise from you to do absolutely nothing?”
Corrie hesitated. “Yes. But are you supposed to be dead? What should I say?”
“The need for that fiction has recently passed. I’m back in circulation—although I’m maintaining a low profile. Once again, my apologies for any discomfort you’ve experienced.”
The phone went dead even as she was saying good-bye. She stared at it for a moment and then handed it back to Proctor, who pocketed it, eyeing her