The Revengers Read Free Page A

named Robert Devine whom neither of us had ever known.
    Then there was a moment of silence and a sudden crash of sound that caught us both by surprise: that damned military salute. I heard Martha gasp. Her fingers dug into me convulsively and I felt her sway. I knew she was remembering a time not long ago when she’d been subjected to a similar loud noise and the weapon involved had not been aimed at the sky.
    “Easy,” I whispered without turning my head.
    “I’m all right. Can we go now?”
    “Slowly. You’re supposed to drag it out just a little for the condolences, if you can manage.”
    “God! All right, coach. Gotta win this one for ole daddy in Washington, right? And . . . and the poor guy in that crazy can over there. Matt.”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t go away, damn you. Stick around for a change.”
    “I’m right here.”
    Then it was over and, shortly, I drove my rental car into the driveway, now empty, that looped up to the house through a bit of tricky desert-type landscaping involving rocks and gravel and cacti, and back down to the street again—actually a gracefully curving development-type road. This was one of the new mushroom suburban heavens with which I was not acquainted, moderately expensive, set in the rolling arid ranch country outside Santa Fe, where lots were measured in acres—well, at least fractional acres—instead of square feet. We do collect substantial danger pay and apparently Bob had saved a reasonable percentage of his and spent some of it to house his young bride and himself.
    The lot was okay, with a spectacular view down the Rio Grande valley. The house itself, however, was fairly small and not very imaginative; a low, brown, flat-roofed, two-bedroom, cinderblock dwelling done in the pseudo-adobe style common out here in the dry southwest where the mud-brick hut is the ancient standard of architecture by which everything else is judged. There was the usual stylistic confusion between the old-fashioned round vigas, roof timbers to you, that stuck out picturesquely in true pioneer fashion, and the big modem picture window that would have given a true pioneer the shakes—think of trying to defend a window like that in an Indian raid!
    Out here there was pretty good separation between the houses; and what with the hilly terrain and the winding road, or street, only a few of the neighboring residences were visible from where I parked the car directly in front. Getting out, I was aware that a tall blond woman in a pale green, long-sleeved blouse and well-fitted green slacks was watching us from the front door of a house directly opposite that seemed to be almost a duplicate of the Devine domicile. She did not wave a greeting; she simply watched. I couldn’t quite make out her face at the distance, but her drawn-back hair was smooth and bright and her figure was adult and interesting. I went around to help Martha out. She stood for a moment beside the car, breathing deeply as if she’d just come up for air after a long dive into cold water.
    “Well, I guess that’s that,” she said. “Where are your things?”
    “I’ve got a suitcase in the trunk,” I said. “I figured the timing was going to be close so I wore my one dark suit and didn’t take time to find a motel.”
    “Bring your bag inside.”
    I glanced at her quickly. “Is that such a good idea?”
    “You don’t want to spoil her whole day, do you?” Martha’s head did not turn and her voice was quite even. “If you don’t give her something to gossip about, she might bite herself and come down with rabies. Bring it in.”
    I said carefully, “Sure. If you know what you’re doing.” “I know what I’m doing; I’m doing her a favor. She’s been looking for a good reason to despise me and I’m giving it to her, okay?”
    “Why should she want to despise you?” I asked as I opened the trunk of the car.
    “That way she doesn’t have to despise herself.” Martha glanced across the street at last, and