The old house was locked in the deep shadows of the surrounding woods.
Cabot stood in the shelter of the trees and contemplated his strategy. The wind was picking up. He remembered how the old structure had wailed and moaned whenever a storm had struck. He and the other kids had huddled under the covers and imagined ghosts howling in the basement.
The noise of the gusting wind would be useful, he thought. He and the others had been frightened by the storms of their childhood, but now the wind was his ally. With luck it would partially mask any sounds he made when he gained access to the house.
He had left his car on an unpaved side road and made his way through the heavily forested area behind the big house. The sight of the vehicle parked in the front drive had been somewhat reassuring. It was a good indication that he had come to the right place. Now he could only hope that Fleming had not yet murdered Xavier.
The problem with dead bodies was the issue of disposal. Fleming might be in a panic, but surely he was thinking clearly enough to realize that it would be risky to kill his victim inside the house. There would be a lot of evidence left behind.
But Fleming had to be seriously wired, running flat out on adrenaline and desperation. Xavier was a huge problem for him. He would act quickly.
Cabot knew he could not wait any longer. He had to make his move. The one advantage he had was that he knew his way around the old house.
He took his gun out of the holster, slipped out of the woods and went swiftly toward the long rear porch. For a few tense seconds he was in the open. If Fleming happened to glance through one of the few windows that were not boarded up on that side of the house, he would have a clear shot.
Judging by the results of the first shootout at the old mansion, Fleming was a lousy shot unless he was very close to his target. But even if he missed, Cabot knew the element of surprise would be lost. Fleming would have time to grab Xavier and use him as a human shield.
There were no shots.
He made it up onto the porch and flattened himself against the side of the large wood-storage shed. The outer door sagged on its hinges. He opened it wider, exerting great care, and let himself into the shadowed space. He could make out a jumble of old, rotted logs and kindling. No one had built a fire in the house in a very long time.
He moved toward the inner door in the shed, the one that had been installed to allow firewood to be brought into the house without the necessity of going outside into the teeth of a winter storm.
It opened onto a room that had been used to store muddy boots, wet rain gear and assorted household cleaning supplies. He hoped the door would be unlocked. If it wasn’t, he would have to take the risk of forcing it.
Very little light seeped into the shed via the sagging outside door, but his memory of the layout proved accurate. He crossed the space and put out a hand to feel for the knob on the inner door.
He found it almost immediately. He tested it gently. It turned easily in his hand. He forced himself to wait until another gust rattled the remaining windows and whistled through cracks in the wooden walls. When he got his cue – a wailing wind accompanied by the first blast of rain – he raised the gun, crouched, opened the door and went into the old mudroom.
He winced when he heard the squeak of rusty hinges, but there were no running footsteps, no shots.
Now that he was inside he could hear another sound – footsteps on the floor above. Fleming was upstairs. It seemed logical that he would have left his captive downstairs.
Cabot pulled up memories of the layout of the big house. There were a lot of rooms upstairs but not many on the ground floor. Most of the space was taken up by a large kitchen and pantry, a sizable dining area and a vast living room.
He moved quickly but methodically from one room to the next.
Xavier was half propped up against the stone hearth of the big fireplace. There was a storm lantern on the floor beside him. He stared at Cabot, first in shock and then in overwhelming relief. Then he jerked his head upward and mouthed the words, “He’s up there.”
Cabot nodded once, reached down and took the knife out of his ankle sheath. Fleming either had no experience with taking people captive or he had been in too much of a rush to think about technique. Regardless of the reason, he had bound Xavier’s wrists in front, not in back. That meant that the kid had not lost feeling in his hands and arms. He would be able to move quickly once he was free.
Cabot crossed the room and used the blade to slice through the duct tape that bound Xavier’s hands and feet.
He hauled Xavier upright and put his mouth to Xavier’s ear.
“We’re going out through the kitchen. Anything happens to me, you keep going, understand? I tell you to run, you run. Get out of the house and don’t stop.”
Xavier swallowed hard and nodded in a jerky manner. He was clearly scared and disoriented, but he was trying to focus on the orders.
Cabot started to give him a push toward the kitchen, but at that moment he heard the purposeful footsteps at the top of the stairs. Time had run out. In the next second or two Fleming would appear on the staircase. When he did, he would have a clear view of what was going down in the living room.
There was no point trying to keep silent now. Cabot yanked Xavier back and shoved him up against one side of the massive stone fireplace.
Fleming froze at the top of the staircase, gun in hand. He was clearly trying to make sense out of the fact that his captive was no longer lying on the floor in front of the hearth.
Then he saw Cabot.
“What the fuck?” he said.
“Drop the gun,” Cabot ordered. “Now.”
But Fleming scrambled backward, firing wildly to cover his retreat.
The shots were all over the place, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous. Cabot moved next to Xavier and flattened his back against the side of the fireplace.
He squeezed off a couple of shots but Fleming was already disappearing into the hallway at the top of the staircase.
“That money is mine, Sutter,” he screamed. “Do you hear me? That money is my inheritance. I’m Quinton Zane’s son.”
Cabot kept his attention on the staircase. He heard pounding footsteps overhead. It sounded like Fleming was fleeing along the upstairs hall. He was intent on escape. He would go down the back stairs and most likely make a run for his vehicle, which was parked at the front of the house.
“Change of plans,” Cabot said to Xavier. “We wait until he’s gone. Then we leave.”
“Okay, but I think there may be a problem.”
“What?”
“The guy is full-on crazy,” Xavier gasped. “I think he was wiring this place to explode. He said something about a blast from the past.”
“We need to leave. Now.”
The muffled whoosh of the explosion rumbled through the house. The fire exploded around them.
“How far did he get setting the explosive devices?” Cabot asked.
“He did the downstairs first. Then he went upstairs.”
Cabot thought about the woodshed.
“It’s a big house,” he said. “And he was in a hurry. He didn’t have time to cover every exit point. Let’s go.”
He ran for the mudroom, Xavier hard on his heels.