Revolver by Marcus Sedgwick Read Free Book Online

window, measured out a good handful into its feeder, and began to wind the little handle. The smell of the beans immediately filled the room, a reassuring smell that gave Sig no comfort now.
    â€œWhy the boots?” Wolff asked, almost casually.
    God damn me, the man misses nothing, thought Sig.
    â€œMy … my feet were cold,” he offered as an explanation. He hurried on before he could be challenged. “It’s been a long, cold winter, everything frozen up, even the work at the Bergman mine was stopped when the winch gear stuck. The lake froze solid, and—”
    â€œBut not solid enough.”

    Wolff dropped the words onto the floor like little spiders, which scuttled over to Sig and crawled up his legs, his back, his neck. He stopped grinding the coffee briefly but then determined that he would not let the man rile him.
    â€œI’m afraid so,” he said simply.
    Sig finished grinding the beans and took a mug down from the shelf. Opening the drawer of the grinder, he stuck a spoon into the lovely dark coffee grounds and lifted out a large rounded heap, placing it in the mug, as carefully as if it had been the gold dust his father used to weigh in Nome.
    He poured the water onto the grounds, which floated to the top, then began to stir for a while, letting them settle to the bottom of the mug again. Warily he walked over to Wolff and handed him the drink.
    Sig cursed himself. His hand was shaking.
    â€œStill cold?” Wolff said, and smiled. Again, Sig felt sick.
    Wolff sipped at the coffee in an almost laughable way, Sig thought, like an old lady sipping at her tea. He blew on it and took another sip.
    â€œWhat?” Wolff said.
    Sig shook his head.
    â€œSorry, nothing.”
    Wolff put down the mug.
    â€œNo. What do they mine?”
    â€œOh. Oh. Iron. They mine iron. It’s an iron mine.”

    â€œYes, I understand,” Wolff said, his lips grinning but his eyes flat, unreadable.
    â€œMy father was the assayist.”
    â€œYes,” said Wolff. “Like in Nome.”
    â€œI suppose so. Yes.”
    â€œOnly there,” Wolff said, leaning forward in his chair, “it was something else we were mining, was it not?”
    Sig nodded.
    â€œMy father says iron is a better thing to mine. He says—said—you can trust iron, that it’s a reliable thing to mine, not like gold. Nobody gets killed over iron mining, that’s what my father says.”
    Sig had been trying to lift the tone, to see if Wolff was actually not as frightening as he seemed, but he knew as soon as he’d uttered the words they’d been a mistake. Wolff just stared back at him, a gaze that stabbed, pinning him to the wall as if he’d been run through with a lance.
    â€œAnd what would you know about that?” Wolff drawled.
    â€œNothing,” Sig said. “Nothing. I only meant …”
    He didn’t finish his sentence because he couldn’t think what to say.
    â€œYes,” said Wolff. He took another sip of coffee. “Where the hell am I anyway? This town—Giron? No. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. I know I came through Finland. Is this still Finland? And before that was Russia.
My God! Russia. How big is that place? Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me?”
    Sig stood watching Wolff. He said nothing. He didn’t think the man really wanted him to say anything, and his tongue had suddenly loosened.
    â€œYes, you do. I suppose you made that journey too. Ten years. It’s taken me ten years to get here. But then I had a few false starts on the way …”
    He looked around the cabin.
    â€œLooks like it took you a few less. But then I didn’t know where I was going. Always looking, always looking. For a man and two children. Here. There. Asking, always asking … But now I’ve found you. How long have you been here? Three years, I think. Yes. And do you know why I came?”
    Sig shook