It was a casual, candid shot showing two people, a man and a woman, standing arm in arm at the railing of a ferry. The skyline of the city of Seattle was behind them. The woman looked rapturously happy, practically glowing. The good-looking man who had his arm around her was smiling a warm, charming smile, but there was something reptilian about his eyes.
Virginia stopped breathing.
“Cabot,” she said. “Look at this.”
He came to stand at her shoulder.
“Shit,” he said. “Quinton Zane.”
“All these years I’ve tried to remember exactly what he looked like. I could never quite describe him because I saw him with a kid’s eyes. But, yes, I’d know him anywhere.”
Cabot took a closer look. “Is that Abigail Watkins?”
“I’m almost positive that it is. She looks about sixteen or maybe seventeen in this picture. That would make her a couple of years younger than when we knew her, but I remember that glorious red-gold hair. She was a spectacularly beautiful woman. Reminds me of Botticelli’s Venus. So innocent looking.”
“An easy target for a bastard like Zane.” Cabot turned over the photograph. “This is dated a couple of years before Zane went into the cult business. I wonder what—”
A thin, muffled explosion shuddered through the old floorboards.
Jolted, Virginia looked at Cabot.
“Did you feel that?” she asked sharply. “Earthquake?”
They were common enough in the Pacific Northwest, she reminded herself. But the tremor hadn’t felt like any earthquake she had ever experienced.
“No,” Cabot said. “Stay here.”
He was already moving, gun in hand, toward the door. He did a quick survey of the hallway.
“Clear,” he said over his shoulder. “But something is wrong. We need to get out of here now.”
Virginia hesitated. There was no time to take pictures of the letters or the old photo. She scooped up the whole lot and shoved everything into her handbag. She promised herself that she would apologize to the authorities later.
She rushed out into the hall. The second muffled blast sent another shudder through the old house.
“Gunshots?” Virginia whispered.
“No,” Cabot said. “Explosions. We walked into a trap.”
They made it to the top of the stairs just as the third blast rattled the windows. Cabot stopped on the landing and looked down.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said very softly.
Virginia saw the wisps of smoke unfurling up the staircase.
A fourth blast echoed through the walls. The old house groaned as though in mortal agony.
The fire exploded first on the ground floor. The roar of the flames was horrifyingly familiar. Virginia had heard it often enough in the hellish dreamscapes of her nightmares.
CHAPTER 38
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.
CHAPTER 39
They spent the night at the only bed-and-breakfast that was open—the Harbor Inn. It overlooked the bay and the town’s small marina.
Fortunately, Cabot’s SUV had been parked several yards away from the Lost Island B and B. Some of the paint had been charred, but the car had survived the blaze, and so had the overnight bags stashed in the back. Virginia had never been more grateful for clean underwear and a change of clothes.
The owners of the Harbor Inn were a middle-aged married couple from Seattle. The two men, Barney Ricks and Dylan Crane, wore matching gold rings. There was a wedding photo on the wall behind the front desk that showed the couple dressed in elegant tuxedos, smiling with joy.
The picture of the glowing newlyweds sent a little whisper of wistfulness through Virginia. All wedding photos had that effect on her. They reminded her that her own chances of establishing a home and having a family were slim at best. She countered the sentiment the way she always did—by recalling the divorce statistics.
Barney and Dylan were solicitous and did not so much as blink when Cabot requested two rooms with a connecting door on the second floor. After a warm, comforting meal of homemade lasagna and a salad of organic greens, they offered sherry in the parlor.
The sherry was accompanied by a lot of questions and some interesting gossip.
“Word on the island is that Rose Gilbert was probably deep into the drug business,” Barney said. “The theory is that one of her competitors took her out.”
Barney was a slender man who was going bald in a sleek, elegant fashion. His husband was on the solid, well-built side, with a closely trimmed beard and a friendly, outgoing manner that was well suited to an innkeeper.
“Pretty spectacular way to get rid of the competition,” Cabot said.
“We couldn’t help but notice that whoever wired the house to explode waited until Cabot and I were inside,” Virginia added.
Barney frowned. “Good point. Any chance someone other than you two got caught in that fire?”
“There was no one else in the house,” Cabot said. “Not unless he was hiding up on the top floor, which was closed off. But I don’t think so. When we got out, we did hear someone driving away, though.”
Dylan looked intrigued. “Did you see the car?”
“No, unfortunately,” Cabot said. “Sounded like something small, though.”
“Heading toward town or the other way?” Dylan asked.
“That,” Cabot said, “is a very good question. Whoever it was did not drive away down the main road toward town. It sounded like he was going in the opposite direction. It will be interesting to see who gets on the ferry tomorrow afternoon.”
“Don’t count on seeing the car that belongs to the guy who torched the B and B,” Barney said. “This is a pretty big island and most of it is covered in forest. Plenty of places where someone could ditch a car or even push it over a cliff into the water.”
“Still, it seems likely that whoever set the fire would want to get off the island as soon as possible,” Virginia said.
“Sure. But there is another way off this island,” Dylan said.
Cabot looked at him. “By boat?”
Dylan nodded, his expression grim. “Right. A lot of people who live here have their own boats. Some of the regular visitors who come for long weekends do, too. After we heard about the explosion, Barney and I walked around the marina. Didn’t see any boats missing. But there are a lot of private docks scattered around the island. They mostly belong to people who only come here during the summer.”
Cabot nodded thoughtfully. “So you could steal or rent a boat from a marina on the mainland, bring it in to a private dock here on the island and then steal a local vehicle to drive to the Lost Island B and B to torch the place.”
“Sure,” Barney said. “Doubt if you would even need to hot-wire the vehicle. People here on the island usually leave their keys in the car.”
Virginia looked at him. “Can you tell us anything at all about Rose Gilbert?”
Barney lounged deeper into his chair, stretched out his legs and sipped his sherry. “Dylan and I had a few conversations with Rose Gilbert about the B and B business but she never seemed interested in taking our advice. We got the feeling she didn’t plan to stick around for long.”
“Did she tell you that Abigail Watkins was her half sister?” Virginia asked.
Barney and Dylan exchanged startled looks.
“No,” Barney said. “She never mentioned that. Just said she’d bought the place from Abigail and that the deal was finalized shortly before Abigail died.”
“Turns out that’s not true,” Cabot said. “From what we can tell, Rose just moved in after her half sister’s death and took over the business.”
“There wasn’t that much business to take over,” Dylan said, “not at this time of year. After Abigail got very ill, she couldn’t handle a lot of guests. Over time most of her regulars began making reservations with us.”
“Rose Gilbert did have a few guests from time to time,” Virginia pointed out. “I stayed there on a couple of occasions whenever I came to see Hannah.”
“Gilbert occasionally took in tourists off the ferry, but aside from you,
there was only one person who stayed at her B and B whenever he visited the island,” Dylan said. He paused. “Now that I think about it, he drove a small car. Nothing special. Looked like a rental.”
“How would you describe him?” Cabot asked. “Young? Old?”
“Young, early to midtwenties,” Dylan said. “Never saw him up close. He didn’t spend any time in town. When he arrived he just drove straight off the ferry and went directly to Rose’s place.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know if he was on the island the night that Hannah Brewster died, would you?” Virginia asked.
Dylan seemed surprised by the question. “He was here. In fact, he was the only guest at Rose’s that night.”
Virginia sensed the sudden stillness that had come over Cabot.
“You’re sure of that?” he asked. “Because Rose distinctly told us she had two couples staying at the B and B that night.”
“I’m sure there was just the one guest,” Dylan said. “I know that because I was part of the search team that looked for Hannah the next morning. I stopped by the Lost Island B and B to ask Rose if she had seen Hannah. She said no. She didn’t want to talk. Said she had to get back to making breakfast for her guest.”
“One guest,” Virginia said. She looked at Cabot. “A man in his early to midtwenties.”
Cabot’s mouth tightened. She knew he was thinking the same thing that she was thinking. Rose’s guest might well have been a killer, but he was far too young to be Quinton Zane.
“One thing we do know about Rose Gilbert,” Cabot said quietly. “She lied to us.”
Dylan reached for the sherry decanter. “I can give you another small fact—Rose’s one and only guest left on the ferry the day after the fire. I saw him drive his car on board.”
CHAPTER 40
Virginia didn’t expect to sleep much that night, so she was not surprised when she drifted in and out of a restless haze for a couple of hours after going to bed. What astonished her was that she did not have a panic attack. Under the circumstances, that seemed strange because every time she closed her eyes, she thought about how close she and Cabot had come to dying in the inferno. The memories should have sparked a storm of anxiety. She and Cabot had, after all, relived their worst nightmare from childhood.
Promise Not to Tell Page 18
