Cabot holstered his gun, wrapped a hand around Virginia’s upper arm and steered her toward the nearest bedroom.
“We can use sheets to get down to the ground,” he said. “And just hope like hell that there is only one person out there. He can’t watch all four sides of the house at once. Odds are he’ll focus on the front door or the back door. Human nature.”
Cabot opened the door of the nearest bedroom. Virginia saw the flames leaping up the windows.
Panic threatened to choke her.
“Not that way,” she gasped.
Cabot hurried to the end of the hall and tried another room. He shut the door almost immediately.
“No good,” he reported. “The bastard rigged explosions around the perimeter of the house. The ground floor is engulfed.”
Virginia was vaguely aware that her heart was beating much too fast and she could scarcely catch her breath. Not because of the smoke, she thought. It wasn’t that bad on the second floor – not yet. It was smoke that killed you in a fire, and they still had a little time before they faced that death sentence.
No, it was raw fear that was roiling her senses. She and Cabot were trapped, just as they had been all those years ago when they were locked up in the barn that Quinton Zane had torched. But this time there was no Anson Salinas to come to their rescue.
“The fire is burning up through the house,” Cabot said. “There’s no way out from here or the third floor. Our only option is to go down to the basement.”
“Down?” Virginia gasped. “But that’s where the fire is.”
“It’s on the first floor, not the basement. Odds are he wouldn’t have tried to set the fire from down there. It’s concrete. There should be some sort of exit from there.”
“The old coal bunker,” Virginia said. “There are steps there now. But how do we get down to the basement? The staircase is functioning like a chimney.”
“The laundry chute.” Cabot grabbed her wrist and went swiftly back down the hall. He shoved open the door of the linen room. “It’s our only chance.”
Virginia followed him inside and slammed the door shut. She whirled around, grabbed some towels off the shelves and shoved them up against the bottom of the door in hopes of temporarily blocking the smoke that was now drifting down the second-floor hallway.
Cabot went straight to the big soaking sink and turned on both faucets full blast. He yanked two large sheets off a shelf, whipped them open and plunged them into the rapidly filling tub.
“Wet sheets are stronger,” he explained. “Check the chute. See if it’s clear.”
Virginia yanked open the door of the large, old-fashioned laundry chute. Relief overcame some of her fear when she realized there was no smoke billowing out of the wide chase.
“I don’t see any signs of fire,” she said.
Cabot hauled one of the soaked sheets out of the sink. Virginia found a corner while he fished out the second sheet.
“They’re king-sized sheets,” he said. “Two should do it.”
He found one of the corners of the second sheet and tied it to Virginia’s sheet with a tight, square knot.
“You’re going first,” he said. “I’ll lower you down.”
“What about you?” she said.
He angled his chin toward the small table near the sink. “I’ll tie off one end to that table. It’s a lot bigger than the chute. It’ll catch at the entrance. All right, time to move.”
She hurried to the entrance of the laundry chute. The thought of going down into the darkness with no idea of what was waiting at the bottom was terrifying – but not as terrifying as the fire that was eating the house. She could smell the smoke now. It was seeping around the edges of the doorframe.
At the last moment she realized she still had her handbag. It was attached to her by the cross-body strap. She yanked off the bag and tossed it into the chute. There was no sound when it hit the bottom.
“Good sign,” Cabot said. “With luck there’s a laundry cart filled with dirty towels and sheets down there.”
“It would certainly beat landing on a concrete basement floor.”
Cabot helped her scramble through the wide entrance of the chute, gripping one of her wrists to secure her while she got oriented. She clung to the edge of the chute with both hands, dangling above the unknown, terrified of falling into the deep darkness at the bottom of the chase.
Cabot wrapped a corner of the sheet around her wrist and held her while she got a secure grip.
He did not give her time to let the fear build any higher.
“Hang on, and whatever you do, don’t let go,” he said.
He lowered her rapidly down the chase. Instinctively she closed her eyes. The trip did not last long, probably no more than a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity.
The interior of the chute was surprisingly spacious; the sides had been polished by several decades of laundry. Nevertheless, it felt close and airless. Like a coffin, Virginia thought. No, damn it, like an escape hatch. Got to think positive.
Her shoulders and hips bumped against the sides of the chute from time to time, but she did not get stuck.
And then, without any warning, her feet touched a mound of bed linens and towels.
She released her grip on the knotted sheets.
“I’m down,” she shouted. “No fire here. Not yet.”
“On my way.”
She groped around, found her handbag and clambered out of the laundry cart. The basement was not completely dark. The weak light of the waning day was dimmed by years of accumulated grime on the narrow ground-level windows, but there was enough to illuminate the concrete space.
She heard a muffled thud from the second floor. At first she thought Cabot had not been able to escape. The panic returned in a sickening wave.
Then she heard more thumps and thuds. She forced herself to breathe again. Cabot was making his way down the chase. With his bigger frame and broader shoulders, he did not fit inside as easily as she had.
Seconds later he landed in the heap of sheets and towels that filled the cart. He climbed out quickly.
“The coal bunker,” he said.
The old bunker that had once been used to store coal had been empty for years. Somewhere in the distant past, a previous owner had installed wooden steps designed to allow gardeners and handymen access to the basement without having to tromp through the house.
“I’ll go first,” Cabot said.
He took out his gun again, went up the steps and cautiously opened one side of the slanting doors.
Virginia smelled smoke but there were no flames in sight. The coal bunker doors were set a few feet away from the house, concealed by a badly overgrown garden.
She covered her nose and mouth with the edge of her parka. Cabot covered his lower face with his windbreaker.
He went through the door first. She rushed up after him.
“Head for the trees,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She ran for the safety of the nearby woods, expecting to get slammed to the ground by a bullet in the back. But there was only the furious roar of the fire beast as it devoured the house.
Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard the muffled spatter of gravel spitting out from under tires. She was vaguely aware that a vehicle was speeding away from the scene.
She stopped to catch her breath. Cabot caught up with her. Together they turned around to look at the burning house. The B and B was nearly engulfed now.
Eventually Virginia became aware of a siren in the distance. The island’s volunteer fire department was on the way.