The Revengers Read Free

her reactions correctly. She is feeling guilty because in a way she is probably at least somewhat responsible for Amos’s death; there are clear indications that she told too much to the wrong person. And betrayed because that person was somebody she considered a friend, somebody with whom she went to college, somebody she trusted implicitly and talked with freely, as girl to girl or woman to woman. Somebody who then made profitable use of the information Martha let slip. . . . Well, you will see how when you read the file I’m about to give you.” He patted an envelope on his desk. “You will also see why, if my daughter is considering any kind of vengeful action, she must be stopped. So get out there right away; the funeral is tomorrow. The young lady downstairs has your tickets ready.” He shoved the envelope toward me. “You can examine this on the plane. When you have read it, you will undoubtedly see further steps that should be taken to protect us, after you’ve prevented Martha from creating problems for us. Use your judgment. Good luck.”
Chapter 2
    The grave was modestly concealed by a large plywood box covered with indoor-outdoor carpeting in a shade of green that was, I suppose, intended to blend with the grassy surroundings. But enough raw dirt showed around it to hint at the waiting hole underneath. The box was apparently designed to support a full-sized casket—it was the right size and shape—but today there was only a small receptacle placed on top of it, containing the cre-mains, as the funeral director had called them. It had taken me a moment to realize that by this term—cremains, for God’s sake!—he was referring to the cremated remains, ashes to you, of the dear departed, who was now being described by the minister in very flattering terms.
    I did not recognize my tough, reliable, ruthless, but somewhat oversexed, partner on a number of long-ago assignments in the description I was hearing. However, I suppose this was hardly a suitable place to boast—if the minister was even aware of these facts, which I doubted— that the late Robert Devine had been acceptable with a rifle, passable with a pistol, moderately good with automatic weapons, tops with knife and club, great at unarmed combat, and hell on wheels with women. Although, come to think of it, maybe Big Bob would have liked it better that way.
    I felt a hand find my arm and squeeze it hard. I glanced at the black-clad young widow beside me and saw that her head was reverently bowed. A wing of her hair had fallen between us like a curtain, but I knew her features as well as I knew her father’s, which was odd, I realized, since I saw Mac fairly often, but it had been some years since I’d last seen Martha, until this morning. But I guess I’d never really forgotten the tomboy face with the slightly upturned nose, the intelligent gray eyes and the heavy dark eyebrows.
    I’d had some uneasy moments when I’d approached the house earlier—would I really recognize the damned girl after all this time?—and I’d been prepared to proceed cautiously rather than make an embarrassing mistake if one of the cars parked in front had been driven there by a helpful female of approximately the right size and age. However, when she opened the door herself, I knew her at once and was surprised that I’d had any doubt. She recognized me, too, although that was not very surprising. Mac’s office had let her know I’d be there in time for the ceremony, if only barely—the girl downstairs had had to scramble, she’d said, to get me the right connections or any connections at all—and bony gents six feet four aren’t all that common. Now Martha was gripping my arm fiercely and I realized that she was having a hard time holding back the hysterical laughter. I covered her hand with mine and pressed it in a conspiratorial way. We stood there studying our shoes soberly and listening to the man of God describing a hilariously saintly citizen