Free Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

to think it out. With great difficulty and many promises, he had persuaded Kranston to let him cover it. It was a curious human interest story and it could become the first real journalism clip in his book. He intended to exploit the opportunity to the max.
    Betterton sat in the cooling car, going over what he’d say, what questions he’d ask, trying to anticipate the objections he was sure to hear. After five minutes, he was ready. He recombed his limp hair and mopped the sweat off his brow. He glanced down at the Internet map he’d printed, then shifted into drive, making a U-turn and heading back down the ramshackle street toward the outskirts of town.
    Even covering the fluff, he had learned to pay attention to the slightest crumb of rumor or gossip, no matter how trivial. He’d heard rumors about the mysterious couple: about their disappearance years ago and their sudden reappearance a few months back, and a fake suicide somewhere along the way. A visit to the local parish police station earlier that morning had confirmed that the rumor was, in fact, true. And the police report, perfunctory as hell, had raised more questions than it answered.
    He glanced down at the map, then at the rows of sad-looking clapboard houses that lined both sides of the potholed street. There it was: a small bungalow, painted white and bracketed by magnolias.
    He nosed his car to the curb, killed the engine, and spent another minute psyching himself up. Then he got out, straightened his sports jacket, and marched with determined step up to the door. There was no doorbell, just a knocker, and he grasped it and gave an authoritative knock.
    Betterton could hear it echoing through the house. For a moment, nothing. Then the sound of approaching feet. The door opened and a tall, svelte woman appeared in the entrance. “Yes?”
    Betterton hadn’t known what to expect, of course, but the last thing he’d anticipated was that she would be beautiful. Not young, of course, but exceedingly handsome.
    “Mrs. Brodie? June Brodie?”
    The woman looked him up and down with cool blue eyes. “That’s correct.”
    “My name’s Betterton. I’m from the Ezerville Bee . Please, could I have a few minutes of your time?”
    “Who is it, June?” came a man’s high-pitched voice from within the house. Good , Betterton thought. They’re both in.
    “We have nothing to say to the press,” June Brodie said. She took a step back and began to close the door.
    Betterton wedged a desperate foot between the door and the sill. “Please, Mrs. Brodie,” he said. “I already know almost everything. I’ve been to the police, it’s a matter of public record. I’m going to run the story, regardless. I just thought you’d like the opportunity to have your own voice heard.”
    She looked at him a minute. Her intelligent gaze seemed to bore right through him. “What story are you talking about?”
    “About how you staged your own suicide and disappeared without a trace for a dozen years.”
    There was a brief silence. “June?” Betterton could hear the male voice call again.
    Mrs. Brodie opened the door and stepped to one side.
    Quickly, before she could change her mind, Betterton went in. Directly ahead lay a tidy living room that smelled faintly of mothballs and floor polish. The room was almost empty: a couch, two chairs, a side table on a small Persian rug. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he trod the wooden floor. It felt like a house that had just been moved into. A moment later he realized that was, in fact, the case.
    A small man, pale and slightly built, emerged from a darkened hallway, holding a plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other. “Who was that—” he began, then stopped when he caught sight of Betterton.
    June Brodie turned toward him. “This is Mr. Betterton. He’s a newspaper reporter.”
    The small man looked from his wife to Betterton and back again, face suddenly hostile. “What does he want?”
    “He’s doing a story on