“I knew you’d have a knife,” Xavier said.
Cabot glanced at him. “You did?”
He and Xavier were in the front seats of his SUV, watching the fire crew deal with the remnants of the blaze that had destroyed the big house. The rain was falling steadily now, soaking the surrounding area and ensuring that the fire would not spread.
He had called Anson immediately after he contacted the local authorities. Anson had put Virginia on the phone.
“You’re sure you’re both okay?” she had asked.
“Xavier is a little shaken up, but yes, we’re both all right,” he said.
“You saved his life, Cabot.”
“It’s my fault he got into trouble.”
“No,” she had said.
“Yes,” he said.
He’d ended the call before she could pursue the argument because a detective from the Wallerton Police Department had arrived. Meanwhile the search for Tucker Fleming was under way.
“I kept thinking that if I’d had a knife, I would have been able to cut the duct tape,” Xavier said. “I told myself that you would have had one.”
Cabot did not take his eyes off the smoldering ruins of the first compound.
“Fleming would have found a knife when he wrapped the tape around your ankles.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“The lantern?”
“It was sitting on a table at the end of the couch,” Xavier said. “I rolled across the floor until I could sit up and reach it. Probably wouldn’t have done me any good but I couldn’t see anything else that looked useful.”
“Smart move,” Cabot said.
Xavier gazed morosely through the windshield. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“I should have kept an eye on you.”
“It’s not your fault. Not Mr. Salinas’s fault, either. I fucked up.”
“You found Tucker Fleming. That was good work.”
Xavier brightened a little at that. “I followed his trail. Reversed the app he’d installed on Ms. Troy’s phone.”
“So, there was a tracking app on Virginia’s phone?”
“Oh, yeah. He hid it in a subfolder so she never saw it. By enabling it he opened the door for me to track him.”
“Nice job. But at Cutler, Sutter and Salinas we’re a team. Going off on your own the way you did not only puts you in danger, it puts other people in harm’s way as well. Next time keep your team members informed of your findings at every step.”
“Yeah, sure,” Xavier said. “A team. I get it.” He paused. Cleared his throat. “Next time?”
“Forget I said that. There won’t be a next time because when your mother finds out what happened, she’ll make sure you’re on the next plane back to San Francisco, even if she has to come to Seattle to put you on it.”
Xavier groaned. “We don’t have to tell her.”
“Yes,” Cabot said, “we do have to tell her. And what’s more, we have to do it soon, before the cops get in touch with her. She’s going to be mad as hell at me and she’ll have every right.”
“But it wasn’t your fault Fleming grabbed me.”
Cabot exhaled slowly. “Yes, it was my fault. Forget that part. Let’s get back to the case.”
Xavier frowned in confusion. “The case?”
“We’re working a murder and arson case,” Cabot said. “Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Xavier perked up again. He went so far as to straighten in his seat. “Right. The case.”
“I heard what you told the detective a while ago. Before this is over he’ll want both of us to go through it again in more detail. But right now I want you to tell me every single thing that happened from the time Fleming opened his door until you saw me arrive.”
“Okay,” Xavier said.
He started to talk.
Cabot listened. From time to time he asked questions but, for the most part, Xavier did a good job of recounting the ordeal. He had a keen eye for detail – much better than the vast majority of witnesses that Cabot had interviewed.
“What was your overall impression of Tucker Fleming?” he asked when Xavier reached the end of his tale.
Xavier thought for a moment. “Like I told the detective, he didn’t talk much, but when he did, he sounded scary-crazy most of the time. I figured he might be on drugs.”
“What, exactly, did Fleming say that made you believe he was on drugs?”
“It was like he heard voices or something.”
“Voices?”
“You know, like those crazy people on the street who talk to themselves.”
Cabot turned to meet Xavier’s eyes. “Fleming talked to someone only he could hear?”
“Not exactly. He said something about getting messages from his dad on his phone. But if we’re right, Fleming’s father is that old cult guy, right?”
“Quinton Zane.”
“Yeah. Him. But you told me that Zane is dead.”
“Welcome to the wonderland of conspiracy theories, kid.”