The Revengers Read Online Free PDF Page B

in mind.”
    “You mean . . . you mean like killing her?” Martha laughed heartily. “Matt, you must be kidding! I mean, really, do you think I’d go around with a gun chasing somebody down like an animal even if . . .” She stopped and made a face at me. “God, I’m such a lousy actress, and I’m so damned tired. Let me go to bed and stop making a fool of myself. You can find the guest room; it’s down the hall. Second door to the left. Bathroom, first door. Leave the dishes; I’ll get them in the morning.” She rose, and I rose, and she hesitated, facing me. “If you really . . . I wouldn’t want to think of you suffering or anything. After all, it’s not as if we’d never done it before.”
    I grinned. “Therapeutic, you mean? Thanks, I’ll survive.”
    “Don’t say that so positively. I might get the idea that I’m not irresistible. Good night, Matt.”
Chapter 4
    I carried my jacket, tie, and suitcase back to the room she’d indicated. As a pro, I like to case the terrain in advance of the operation if possible, even if the operation only involves going to bed. I laid out my pajamas for future reference and got out the file Mac had given me, for immediate study. The room was small, with a small bed, and a good-sized loom set up against one wall along with some auxiliary equipment I didn’t understand; apparently Martha had taken up weaving as a hobby. It’s a recognized Santa Fe syndrome. We’re all frustrated artists or artisans here.
    I checked out the little hall bathroom on the way back to the living room, and used it. The plumbing worked. As if in answer I heard her flush another, similar device elsewhere in the house. It gave me a cozy and companionable feeling. In the living room I laid down the file, picked up my coffee cup, carried it to the picture window and parted the curtains to look out. It was a quiet night in the moderately high-class development known as Casa Glorieta. No traffic at the moment. There were lights in the house across the road but the picture window was covered and no sleek blondes were visible. A sturdy, four-wheel-drive vehicle was now parked in the wide driveway in front of the double garage: the fancy Jeep station wagon called Wagoneer. Well, most two-car families out here have at least one tough vehicle for hunting, fishing, or just taking the kids to school on a snowy day. There was probably something more civilized in the garage for the lady of the house to drive to the grocery and bridge club when the weather was good.
    The sight of the husky vehicle reminded me of my own personal transportation, another hefty station wagon on a Chevy 4WD half-ton-truck chassis, known as a carryall. I told myself that for the sake of the government that was paying the bills I ought to get it out of storage and turn in the expensive rental job I’d grabbed for my dash up here from Albuquerque. The airlines don’t fly to Santa Fe; you have to drive the last sixty miles or take the bus. (Not even the Santa Fe Railroad goes to Santa Fe; the town is serviced by a spur from the main line at Lamy.) I soothed my conscience by telling it that I probably wouldn’t be staying long enough for Avis to break the expense account.
    I let the window drapes fall back into place, took my cup into the kitchen and refilled it. I carried it back into the living room, sat down and dumped the contents of my big envelope onto the cocktail table. The Eleanor Brand article, my copy, was on top. I’d read the piece once, hastily, on the plane, and once more here with Martha watching me; now I settled down to give it a careful study without distractions. It was a thorough job. The girl reporter had dug up a lot of stuff, more than Martha could possibly have told her about. Active or retired, well or ill, Bob would never have confided in his wife to this extent; and Mac was certainly not one to whisper state secrets into his daughter’s ear. Obviously, Martha’s information had simply been used as a