“Last night after you went back to bed, I did some research on Night Watch, the tech company where Sandra Porter worked,” Cabot said.
He was behind the wheel of his gunmetal-gray SUV. Virginia was in the passenger seat. They were forty minutes into the roughly one-hour drive to Wallerton and the site of Quinton Zane’s first compound. He had exited Interstate 5 a while back and now they were on a two-lane road and deep into rural country. Tiny towns, farms and small ranches dotted the landscape.
Thus far conversation in the front seat of the SUV had been polite but stilted. He figured he now knew the precise meaning of the phrase walking on eggshells.
He knew he couldn’t blame all of the brittle tension in the front seat on the searing late-night kiss. It was the sight of the holstered gun he had picked up at his place on the way out of town that had made Virginia’s eyes narrow.
“We may be dealing with a killer,” he had said.
“I know,” she said.
That was pretty much all she had said for the past several miles.
Virginia took her attention off the road long enough to give him a quick, curious glance. “You mentioned that Night Watch was a tech company.”
“It is in the sense that it’s selling products online and has no brick-and-mortar presence, but as far as I can tell, it’s just a straight retail operation.”
“What do they market?”
“According to the website, they offer a variety of personalized sleeping aids. Herbal products, guided meditations that are supposed to help insomniacs get to sleep, one-on-one online sleep therapy sessions, special music designed to help you sleep – that kind of thing.”
Virginia thought about that. “Zane’s cult sold a program that he claimed would allow people to control their dreams and channel the latent powers of the mind.”
“Zane’s operation was your basic pyramid scheme. It had several tiers. Customers had to keep buying their way up to the next level. In addition, they only made progress if they brought in new customers.”
“It sounds somewhat similar to selling insomnia therapies.”
“Night Watch may be selling junk cures for insomnia, but from what I can tell, the business is not a pyramid scheme.”
“Well, it’s probably all bogus, but given the number of people with sleep disorders who are desperate for a good night’s rest, I’m guessing that business is brisk.”
“It was doing well enough to catch the attention of a venture capital firm a year ago,” Cabot said. “Night Watch burned through that first round of funding and is rumored to be getting ready to go out for another.”
“I assume you checked out the people who are running Night Watch?”
“I did. Like most start-ups, it’s still a small organization. The founder and CEO is Josh Preston, a former wunderkind tech whiz who made his first fortune before he was thirty. He designed a social media app that was hugely successful. Got bought out by one of the big companies. Looks like he kicked around for a while, enjoying his money, and then decided to reinvent himself with Night Watch.”
“He wants to see if he can catch lightning in a jar twice?”
“Probably. But here’s the bottom line: according to the business media, Preston is only in his midthirties and none of his employees are over thirty.”
“In other words, there’s no one involved with the company who might be Quinton Zane,” Virginia said.
“No.”
“I suppose that would have been too easy.”
“Yes. That’s why we’re going back to the beginning again.”
Virginia gave him another searching look. “Because you’re sure there must be some connection between Hannah Brewster, Sandra Porter and the past.”
“I think so, yes.”
They stopped for coffee at a small restaurant in Wallerton and then Cabot drove the last few miles up into the heavily wooded foothills. The closer they got to the old house, the more tense Virginia became. She wasn’t the only one, he thought. He was on edge, too.
The last stretch of road was a strip of badly weathered pavement that was barely wide enough for the SUV.
The big house was a three-story stone-and-wood monstrosity that had been built back in the previous century. It sat at the end of a long, mostly-washed-out drive. It was a structure that, thanks to its location in a long valley, never saw much daylight even in high summer. Now, at the end of a Pacific Northwest winter, it existed in shades of twilight.
Virginia studied the house with a grim expression. “It looks like something out of a horror movie.”
“One with a bad ending,” Cabot said.
He drove between the twin stone pillars that marked the front of the drive. The remains of the old gate sagged on rusted-out hinges.
“I remember the gate was always locked and guarded,” Virginia said. “Zane told us it was for our own protection.”
“The first rule in establishing a cult is to isolate your followers,” Cabot said.
“He was a total sociopath.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Cabot brought the SUV to a halt in the clearing. He and Virginia sat silently for a moment, contemplating the ugly house.
“This is where it all started,” Cabot said. “Hard to believe so many people fell for his lies.”
“You’re hoping to find some clue to the identity of the new owner, aren’t you?”
“That would definitely be interesting.”
He grabbed his windbreaker and the holstered gun off the back seat, opened the door and got out.
Virginia collected her parka and joined him at the front of the big SUV.
“I don’t want to tell you your business,” she said, “but this is technically private property.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to break in. I just want to take a look around. But if someone does happen to show up, we are a couple of city people who got lost out here in the country. Our GPS isn’t working so we stopped to ask for directions.”
“Okay, I guess that sounds sort of reasonable. Do you do this kind of thing a lot?”
“No, but I’m still new at the private investigation business. Did it a lot in my last job, though.”
“That would be when you were a police chief?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you really get fired from that position?”
“Long story.”
“Which means you’re not going to tell me, right?”
“Maybe some other time.”
He walked across the weed-covered clearing to the front door of the old house. Virginia trailed after him.
He went up the steps and rapped several times on the front door. Not surprisingly, there was no response. The gleam of untarnished metal caught his eye. He looked down at the door handle.
“New lock,” he said.
“The new owner probably had new locks installed to discourage transients and squatters from moving in.”
“Either that or he’s planning on spending some time here.”
“I doubt he’s doing that yet,” Victoria said. “If this place has been standing empty for several years, it can’t possibly be fit for habitation. The new owner will have to do a lot of work. Probably needs new wiring, for starters. The kitchen and bathrooms will have to be renovated.”
“Depends on what the new owner intends to do with the place,” Cabot said.
She watched him come down the front steps and go to the nearest window.
“You’re really suspicious about the new owner, aren’t you?” she said.
“It’s the timing that bothers me. Why, after years of sitting in foreclosure, did someone decide to buy it now?”
“We have to allow for the possibility that someone figured it was a steal and picked it up with the idea of remodeling it and selling it at a profit.” She looked past him toward the main house. “I hate this place.”
“I’m not real fond of it myself.”
“I wonder if the new owner knows that it once housed a murderous sociopath and his cult,” Virginia said.
“Good question,” Cabot said.
The windows were all shrouded by faded curtains. He could see very little of the interior.
“I’m going to take a look around back,” he said. “Why don’t you wait in the car? It will be warmer.”
“All right.”
She went back to the SUV, opened the passenger-side door and angled herself onto the seat. She left the door open and watched him with a brooding, anxious look.
It occurred to Cabot that it might have been a big mistake to bring her with him today. On the other hand, he doubted that he could have talked her into staying in Seattle. She was in this thing with him. They had only been in each other’s company for a very short time, but he already knew her well enough to know she was going to stick with him until it was finished.
He rounded the back of the house and went cautiously up the rotting steps of the rear porch. The sight of the outside door of the covered woodshed made his stomach knot. One of the duties that he and the other boys had been assigned was stacking logs and hauling them into the house through the door inside the shed that opened onto a mudroom.
He went down the length of the porch to the kitchen door. There were no curtains on the window. There was no indication that any remodeling had been started.
The old-fashioned kitchen was in serious disrepair. But there was a small pile of empty energy drink cans on the counter near the sink. The new owner had evidently been visiting his property.
The lock on the kitchen door was new, like the one on the front door. Cabot tried the knob. It did not turn.
He glanced back at the woodshed. There was no lock on it. Maybe the new owner didn’t know about the inner door.
He started back across the porch. The small flicker of movement deep in the trees stopped him cold. He had just enough time to think not a deer and drop to his belly before the first bullets slammed into the wall of the house a couple feet above his head.
Handgun. Not a rifle.
He yanked his pistol out from under his windbreaker and fired into the trees, aiming high because he could not see his target.
The return fire had the effect of startling the shooter in the woods. There was a lot of thrashing around in the undergrowth.
Cabot used the opportunity to roll off the far end of the porch, slipping under the railing. He ran for the cover of the side of the house.
There were more shots behind him but they went wild.
He rounded the corner to the front of the house and saw Virginia. She was still in the passenger seat, looking stunned.
There was a lot of open ground between him and the vehicle. He could make a run for it, but that would put Virginia at risk.
“Key is in the ignition,” he shouted. “Get out of here.”
The order broke the spell that seemed to have transfixed her. Jolted, she scrambled into the front seat of the SUV.
Cabot heard another staccato series of shots. He turned and fired into the trees again, hoping to distract the shooter long enough for Virginia to get to safety.