The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,3
long fingers were tipped with gleaming black nail polish. They gathered and gaped at him through an opening that had been a window. They watched him cross the farmyard, ankle deep in splintered wood.
Martin took great pleasure at the sight. There were two boys, one a teenager and the other probably not yet twelve. The bigger boy wore a T-shirt printed with a picture of a rock band, and the little one’s hair was really too long for a male child. Farmer Jones didn’t disappoint him either; he sat moaning and sniveling on the steps of what had been the front porch. Martin saw the bottle of water, the chocolate bars, and the revolver Jones had put down. The man held his head in his hands, a picture of impotence. An elderly woman seated beside him, probably his mother, consoled him and rocked him in her arms like a baby. A woman in her forties stood nearby, her bold gaze directed at Martin. Young Mrs. Jones, no doubt. Slim and pretty, with her hair dyed an unnatural scarlet. She had one of those stupid little dogs in her arms. It squirmed, yapped, and whimpered.
Martin made sure his badge was clearly displayed. Glad to see him, they all dropped what they had salvaged and instinctively gathered where the front door had been, even though the wall on that side of the house was gone. Mrs. Jones was the first to move forward. She adjusted her low-cut blouse and fluffed up her hair without letting go of the dog, then started down the steps. She favored Martin with her best smile. He smiled back, despising her with all his soul for being the font of evil, horror, and steaming corruption that had called down the wrath of Almighty God. He offered her his hand and knew exactly what he was going to do. He usually started with the old women, but this time, he was going to kill young Mrs. Jones first.
Albert heard the shouts and the shots. His eyes widened in astonishment and he forgot his tears.
Maybe, just maybe, this really was his lucky day after all.
2
THE CHARACTER OF MOUNTAIN FOLK
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Amaia Salazar shifted uncomfortably in her seat in the second row. She’d been among the first to enter the large hall for today’s lecture, knowing this room might well prove to be too small because there was so much interest. This morning’s presentation was different from the classes for the group of European police officers; today’s event was a lecture open to all FBI agents and trainees at Quantico. She’d denied the adjacent seats to two agents in suits by projecting a profoundly unfriendly look and frozen out a couple of grinning trainees in their distinctive blue polo shirts. She didn’t want company.
Special Agent Dupree’s lecture was of far greater interest to her than anything else in the exchange program. The speed with which the room filled was evidence she wasn’t the only one who felt that way. A middle-aged German police inspector greeted her with a smile and settled at her side. Gertha was the only other woman in the Europol delegation. Considering the chilly reception both officers had received from their male counterparts, it was hardly surprising she’d stuck close by Amaia’s side. Amaia had been somewhat standoffish at first. Gertha had seemed pleasant, but she’d been entirely too chatty for Amaia’s taste. Not that the German officer was one of those who bores you to death or badgers you with questions. Still, in the course of two meals and the bus trip from the airport, Gertha had related practically her whole life story.
“Mountain folk,” Gertha said. “They are different.”
“Excuse me?”
“I think you come from the mountains, like my husband. It’s hard to get him to talk.”
“Actually, I’m from a valley!”
They’d both laughed at that. In the four days since then, Gertha had gotten more than just a few words out of her. Perhaps it was due to the reassurance of opening up to someone she’d probably never see again, or because Inspector Gertha Schneider knew how to listen. Gertha had become a sympathetic ear for confidences and revelations Amaia had never shared with anyone. They’d talked until the wee hours of the night more than once. Gertha headed up a homicide investigation team of forty-five officers, thirty-eight of whom were men. She’d had her share of conflicts when she took charge, but she was singularly free of resentments.