Chapter 93 - Cold Kettle, Warm Barrel
The kitchen clock ticked with heavy, indifferent rhythm. Outside, the freezing wind rattled the storm windows, sending a shudder through the century-old timber framing of the farmhouse.
"You think thirty years gives you the right to walk into my house and make demands?" I asked, keeping my hands resting flat on the counter. Right beneath the lip of the butcher block, concealed inside a shallow notch Arthur had carved decades ago, sat an old .38 snub-nosed revolver. My fingers were less than six inches from the grip.
Alistair didn't miss the direction of my gaze. He didn't raise his cane, but his jaw hardened under his weathered gray beard. "I don't care about rights, Myrna. I care about survival. You think you won because Vance’s front men got rounded up at the border crossing? You think your spineless son and his loud-mouthed wife are the only collateral here? Vance was just the bank teller. The men who actually funded the northern run in eighty-eight are still alive, and they don't leave loose ends."
"The northern run ended when the shipyard went under," I replied. "Arthur burned the manifests."
"Arthur told you he burned them because he wanted you to sleep at night," Alistair sneered. "He kept duplicate microfilm in the base of the grandfather clock in the hall. That's why you came back here instead of staying in Portugal, isn't it? You came back to burn the one thing that connects Arthur to the dead boys in Halifax."
May you like
My breath hitched slightly, though I gave no visible reaction. Arthur had spent forty years building a life of quiet granite and church pews, convincing me—and perhaps himself—that his youth had been clean. But Lisbon had shattered that illusion, and now Alistair Bennett was standing in my kitchen trying to tear down whatever was left of the foundation.
"Step back toward the parlor, Alistair," I said, slipping my hand beneath the butcher block. The cold steel of the .38 settled into my palm with familiar precision. I brought it up smoothly, leveling it at the center of his chest. "You died in ninety-four. If you die again tonight, nobody will come looking for you."
