Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 17

The Foulmire, Scotland

D’AGOSTA SEEMED TO BE SHROUDED IN GREAT DEPTHS of comfort, drifting on a tide of warmth. But even as he was suspended in a quasi-dream-state, that small, rational part of his brain spoke again. A single word: hypothermia.

What did he care?

You’re dying.

The voice was like an annoying person who wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t let you change the subject. But it was just loud enough, and scary enough, that he felt himself swimming back to reality. Hypothermia. He had all the symptoms: extreme cold followed by unexpected warmth, irresistible desire to sleep, lack of caring.

Christ, he was just accepting it.

You’re dying, idiot.

With an inarticulate roar and an almost superhuman effort, he staggered to his feet, slapping, almost beating his body. He whacked his face twice, hard, and felt a tingle of cold. He hit himself so hard he staggered and fell, rose again, thrashing about like a wounded animal.

He could hardly stand, he was so weak. Pain shot up his legs. His head practically exploded with pain, his injured shoulder throbbing. He started stamping around in circles, alternately hugging himself and smacking his arms against his trunk, shedding snow, yelling as loud as he could, hollering, welcoming the pain. Pain meant survival. Clarity of mind began to return, bit by bit. He jumped, jumped again. All the while he kept his eyes on that yellow light, wavering in the darkness. How to get there? He staggered forward and fell yet again, his face inches from the edge of a bog.

He cupped his hands and yelled. “Help! Help me!”

His voice echoed over the dead moorlands.

“I’m lost! I’m trying to find Glims Holm!”

The yelling helped tremendously. He felt the blood recirculating, his heart pumping.

“Please help me!”

And then he saw it: a second light beside the first, brighter. It seemed to be moving in the darkness, coming his way.

“Over here!” he cried.

The light moved toward him. He realized it was farther off than he’d initially thought: it wandered about, sometimes disappearing and then reappearing. Then it disappeared again and D’Agosta waited.

“Over here!” he cried in a panic. Had they heard him or was it coincidence? Was he seeing things?

“I’m over here!” Why hadn’t they called back? Had they gone down in the mire?

And suddenly there was the light, directly in front of him. The person carrying the light shone it in his face, then placed it on the ground, and in its glow he saw a strange woman with pendulous lips, bundled up in a mackintosh and boots, scarf, gloves, and hat, with a nest of white hair peeking out, a hooked nose, and two wild blue eyes. In the mist and swirling dark, she looked like an apparition.

“What in the devil’s name…?” she asked in a sharp voice.

“I’m looking for Glims Holm.”

“Ye found it,” she said, and then added, sarcastically, “almost.” She picked up the lamp and turned around. “Watch your step.”

D’Agosta stumbled after her. Ten minutes later, the lamp disclosed the dim outlines of a cottage, its mortared stones once whitewashed but now almost completely covered with lichen and moss, with a gray slate roof and chimney.

She pushed open the door and D’Agosta followed into the astonishing warmth of a cozy cottage, with a fire blazing on a giant hearth, an old-fashioned enameled stove, comfortable sofas and chairs, braided rugs on the floor, walls covered with books and odd pictures, along with a row of mounted stags’ antlers, all illuminated by kerosene lanterns.

The heat was the most wonderful thing D’Agosta had felt in his entire life.

“Strip,” the white-haired woman said sharply, moving to the fire.

“I—”

“Strip, blast your eyes.” She went into a corner and dragged out a big wicker basket. “Clothes in there.”

D’Agosta removed his raincoat, dropped it into the basket. This was followed by his sodden sweater, shoes, socks, shirt, tank top, and pants. He stood there in muddy boxers.

“Breeks as well,” said the woman. She busied herself at the stove, removing a large kettle from the hob, pouring water into a galvanized washbasin and setting it near the fire, placing a washcloth and towel beside it.

D’Agosta waited until her back was turned before taking off his boxers. The heat from the fire was exquisite.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“D’Agosta. Vincent D’Agosta.”

“Wash. I’ll bring ye some fresh clothes. Yer a bit stout to fit into the mister’s clothes but we’ll find something.” She disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs, and he heard her moving about. He heard coughing and the querulous voice of an old man, who did not sound pleased.

She returned with an armful of clothes while he was sponging himself off. He tried to turn and found her staring at him, her eyes not on his face. “Now that’s a sight for an old woman’s eyes.” With a cackle she placed the clothes down and turned back to the fire, dropping a few pieces of wood on it, and then busied herself at the stove again.

Feeling sheepish, D’Agosta finished washing off the mud, toweled himself dry, then put on the clothes. They were for a taller, thinner man, but he managed to get them on fairly well, except he wasn’t able to button the pants. He used a belt to keep them up. The old woman had been stirring a pot, and the unbearably delicious smell of lamb stew reached his nostrils.

“Sit down.” She brought over a large bowl of the stew, tore a few pieces of bread from a rough loaf, and put the stew and bread before him. “Eat.”

D’Agosta took a greedy spoonful, burned his mouth. “This stew is wonderful,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank—”

She cut him off. “You found Glims Holm. What’s your business, then?”

“I’m looking for a friend.”

She stared at him keenly.

“Almost four weeks ago, a good friend of mine disappeared down by the Inish Marshes, over by what they call the Coombe Hut. You know that area?”

“Aye.”

“My friend’s American, like me. He was on a stalk from Kilchurn Lodge when he disappeared. He was injured — accidentally shot. They dragged the Mire for his body but couldn’t find it, and, knowing him, I thought he might have somehow gotten away.”

Her face creased with suspicion. The old woman might be touched, but nevertheless she obviously had plenty of innate cunning.

“Coombe Hut is twelve mile off, across the marshes.”

“I know — but this was my last hope.”

“Hain’t seen him nor anyone else.”

Even though he had known it was a long shot, D’Agosta felt almost crushed by disappointment. “Perhaps your husband might have seen—?”

“Nowt goes out. Invalid.”

“Maybe you’ve seen someone in the distance, someone moving—”

“Hain’t seen a soul these many weeks now.”

He heard a quavering, irritated voice calling from upstairs, with such a thick brogue he couldn’t quite make out the words. The woman scowled and trudged back up the stairs. He heard the old man’s muffled, complaining voice and her sharp retorts. She came back down, still scowling. “Time for bed. I sleep down by the stove. You’ll have to sleep in the loft with the mister. Blanket’s on the floor.”

“Thank you, I’m grateful for the help.”

“Don’t disturb the mister, he’s poorly.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

A sharp nod. “Well, good night now.”

D’Agosta mounted the creaking staircase, so steep it was almost a ladder. He came into a low room with a peaked ceiling, illuminated by a small kerosene lantern. A wooden bed stood at the far end, under the eaves, and in it he could see the rumpled form of the husband, a scarecrow with a bulbous red nose and bushy white hair. He stared at D’Agosta with a single good eye, which contained a certain malevolence.

“Um, hello,” said D’Agosta, unsure of what to say. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Aye, me too,” came the growled reply. “Dinnae make noise.” The old man turned over roughly, showing D’Agosta his back.

Relieved, D’Agosta took off the borrowed shirt and pants and crawled under a blanket that had been set out on a primitive wooden cot. He blew out the kerosene lantern and lay in the dark. It was wonderfully warm in the loft, and the sounds of the storm outside, the howling wind, were oddly comforting. He fell asleep almost immediately.

An indeterminate time later, he awoke. It was pitch black and he’d been so sound asleep that it took him a moment of fright to remember where he was. When he did, he realized the storm had died down and the cottage was very, very silent. His heart was pounding. He had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was standing over him in the dark.

He lay there in utter darkness, trying to calm himself. It had just been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that some person was standing, maybe even leaning, over him.

The floor beside his cot creaked softly.

Jesus. Should he shout out? Who could it be? Surely not the old man. Had someone come in the night?

The floor creaked again — and then he felt a hand grasp his arm in a grip of steel.