But she was curious.
The killing shot that had taken the life of Pamela McGill had been a good one, fired downhill, through misty rain.
The snow fell in feathery clumps, only revealing the outline of the beached ship for a couple of seconds at a time. Nanci looked down, along the line of the rifle barrel, past the scope sight, seeing that nobody was now visible on the deck. The body of Pamela McGill had been dragged away, leaving only a dark smudge on the wet timbers.
There were patches of snow settling on the crumbled blacktop, reminding Nanci of the road signs: Bridge Freezes Before Highway. It was true.
She edged closer until she was less than eight feet away from the killer and pointed the automatic right between the shoulders.
In pulps and vids, the hero always managed to find something witty to say to the villain. Nanci knew that trying to be a smart-ass could be a sure way of getting yourself killed.
“Keep very still,” she said in a normal conversational voice. “Very still.”
The hooded figure started as though someone had applied electrodes to fingers and toes. The barrel of the rifle jerked a few inches to the right, then held motionless.
“Good,” said Nanci. “Lay the pretty rifle down and then, real slow, take the hood off and roll onto your back. Your hands come up with anything but air in them and you’re dead. Now do it.”
“I know you.” The man’s voice was deep, with a hint of the northern plains to it.
“Move first. Talk later.”
“It’s Nanci Simms. By God! If they’d told me you were involved, I’d have been one too many mornings and a thousand miles away. They didn’t tell me.”
“Wouldn’t, would they?”
“That bitch, Margaret Tabor. Done for Flagg and now she’s done for me.”
Now Nanci knew him. The voice brought back a damburst of memories. A tall, slender young man from… from where?
“Spearfish,” she said.
“Right.”
“You’re Burnette. Xavier Burnette.”
The rifle was laid in the slush, and the hands came up and tugged the dark hood back off the head, revealing a white, stubbled skull. Very slowly the man roiled over, blinking as the snow fell in his face.
“Keep the hands at your sides,” said Nanci.
The slicker was partly open, and she could see the tiny badge glittering in the poor light. A golden arrow piercing the heart of a silver sun.
“Old times, Nanci.” Something like a smile tugged at the corners of the narrow mouth.
“Not worth forgetting.”
The white colonial house on the edge of Rehoboth, sixty miles or so southwest of Petersburg, in rural Virginia. Special Forces training. Thirty years ago. Longer. Xavier had been a young man, and she had allowed him to seduce her. It was strictly forbidden by their gray-suited overlords. It had taken more ingenuity and energy to keep their affair going than it had in the classes in destabilization in Southeast Asia and bridge blowing and silent killing.
“Just a job, Nanci.”
“I don’t have the time. It was a fair shot to take out the girl. Real big threat. Girl of eighteen.”
He shook his head. “A job. Like I said.”
“Heard the gun. Knew it was someone good.” She looked at the rifle. “Nice,” she said. “Krieghoff Ulm-Primus. Double rifle, over and under. Similar to the Teck, but it’s got detachable side-locks. Three seventy-five?” Burnette nodded. “Kersten action, double underlugs. Walnut stock. Shit, you know the specs as well as me. But even a nice piece like that can’t see to fire through a buzzard, can it?”
“I’ve done all right so far. Two notches carved. It’ll please Ms. Tabor.” He corrected himself, looking into the barrel of the Heckler & Koch. “Would’ve pleased her.”
“The rowboat. How many?” Burnette started to move his hands, and she gestured with the pistol. “No.”
“Sorry, Nanci. Four. Older man. Clumsy boy. Young woman and a kid. I checked the kid out.”
“You always were one for the easy meat, Xavier. What about the others?” He didn’t answer for a moment. “Come on, you know that this can be quick and easy or it can be really rather slow and devilish painful.”