“Over there,” Clay whispered when he spotted the vehicles up ahead. Then they saw Maggie sitting on the ground, blood pouring from a gash on the side of her head.
“Maggie!” Newt called out, racing to the back of the vehicle.
“I’m okay,” Maggie said, touching the side of her head where blood was trickling down her face. “The son of a bitch got my gun.”
“Which way did he go?” Clay asked.
Maggie shook her head. “I think he went back toward the house, but I’m not sure. I had him and then—”
“Just relax,” Newt said.
“Relax? This is the second time someone got my gun from me. Son of a bitch!”
“You two stay here,” Clay said, snatching the binoculars from the ground. “Don’t move.”
Clay took off for the lighthouse, and Maggie looked around her on the ground. “Goddamn it.”
“What is it?” Newt asked.
“He got the walkie-talkie too.”
Stan Lee raced through the trees as fast as his prosthetics would carry him, across the clearing and up the stairs into the lighthouse—which he figured had to be the safer choice since it had virtually no windows.
If the woman knew he was there, then others probably did too. Probably FBI. Maybe an entire SWAT team. He couldn’t be sure. Maybe snipers with rifles trained on the building at that very moment.
Why didn’t he listen to his gut? Stan Lee wondered. He should have packed up and hit the road within minutes of strangling the woman. What had he been thinking?
“Idiot,” Stan Lee said aloud to the empty room.
At least he had the woman’s gun. Better still, he had her radio.
SWAT leader Bennington was livid—not that he had two plain-clothes agents running around in the woods, but because he’d allowed them to go. Not that he could have stopped them anyway.
The problem was the possibility that a trigger-happy member of his team might accidently mistake a friendly for the suspect.
Bennington grabbed a radio from one of his guys. “This is Team Leader,” Bennington said into the radio. “Be aware that we have two agents in the woods in civilian clothes, and a local sheriff in uniform. Do not fire unless given an order from me. We are to take him alive. I repeat, do not fire unless ordered.”
“How very nice of you,” a voice came over the radio.
It was a voice Bennington did not recognize, and he felt a chill run up his spine.
“Who is this?” Bennington said into the radio.
“This is the man with a radio and a gun.”
Clay made his way through the woods to the edge of the clearing and crouched down behind one of the headstones. He raised the binoculars and looked through them, turning the lens knob until the caretaker’s house came into focus.
The door to the caretaker’s house was open, but he couldn’t tell if anyone was inside. He redirected his focus to the lighthouse. The door was closed tight.
Which meant absolutely nothing.
Until he saw movement, he’d just have to stay put.
Stan Lee stood in the foyer of the lighthouse, the panic overwhelming him again, his thighs weak and shaking. He walked over to the piano and sat down on the bench, holding the radio in one hand and the gun in the other.
Stan Lee gave himself credit for his fast action in swinging the suitcase the moment he saw the radio on the ground and assuming the agent was behind him. He’d swung his arm and the suitcase caught her flush on the side of her head, and she went down like a sack of potatoes. He had the gun out of her hand before she could get her wits about her.
He grabbed the radio too.
Those were the good things. But then there were the mistakes. First, he’d made the mistake of not leaving four days earlier. Second, he should have shot her.
“You’re forgetting mistake number three,” Kara said from the opposite side of the lighthouse foyer.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Stan Lee said.
“Coming in here instead of the caretaker’s house.”
Stan Lee glanced around the curved concrete walls that surrounded him and realized Kara was right. He’d trapped himself inside the lighthouse. There was nowhere to go but up the stairs to the top, or out the front door where he’d be a sitting duck if a sniper wanted to take him out.
Neither choice was a good one.
If he stayed here, it would only be a matter of time before he got hungry or thirsty and walked out the front door with his hands over his head.
There was only one thing to do. He had to make a run for the caretaker’s house and hope the order to hold fire was still in effect.
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
FEBRUARY 25, 2011 – 10:10 P.M. (EST)
WATCH YOUR STEP,” Jemmy said as he led Koda and Krissy down the narrow wooden stairs to the basement, using an old oil lamp to light the way.
At the bottom of the stairs, Koda could see the room was empty. “What was in here?” Koda asked.
“Over here,” Jemmy said, ignoring the question. “Here, hold the lamp, and I’ll get the door.”
Koda took the lamp and held it up as Jemmy stepped over to the wall and pressed his hands against the wood and pushed.
The door swung open.
“That’s cool,” Krissy said.
“Be careful,” Jemmy said. “Ground is covered with tree roots and loose rock.”
“Aren’t you coming?” Krissy asked.
Jemmy shook his head.
At the far end of the tunnel, Koda and Krissy entered another empty room.
“What do you think was here?” Krissy asked.
Koda had a pretty good idea but didn’t answer.
“Oh,” Krissy said finally.
“The doorway is over here,” Koda said, holding up the lamp. “Come on.”
As expected, the inside of the mansion was completely empty, the furniture removed weeks earlier.
“You grew up in this house, didn’t you?” Krissy asked as they made their way down the hall toward Declan’s study.
“Yeah,” Koda said.
“This has got to feel pretty weird then,” Krissy said.
Koda nodded.
“Are you okay with it being torn down?” Krissy asked. “You could try to stop your dad from—”
“No, I’m glad he’s doing it,” Koda said. “I wish I’d had a bit more warning maybe, but it’s the best thing for everyone. The study is up here on the left.”
Koda and Krissy entered the room and—as with the rest of the mansion—it was completely stripped of furniture. The bookcases were empty, as were the walls. Everything was gone.
“Where did they take it all?” Krissy said.
“Storage somewhere,” Koda said. “Here—hold the lamp.”
Koda handed the oil lamp to Krissy and went to the section of the wall where the drawer was hidden.
Koda took a deep breath and pushed on the panel.
It opened.
The Fabergé eggs were there—all five of them, sitting on the shelf in a row, gleaming in the light of the lantern.
“God, they’re beautiful,” Krissy said from behind Koda. “What are we going to carry them in?”
“Good question,” Koda said. “Our pockets, I guess.”
Krissy released a loud laugh.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Krissy said. “It’s funny. The two of us sneaking through a haunted house—holding an oil lamp given to us by a ghost—with like $100 million worth of Fabergé eggs in our pockets.”
“$100 million?” Koda repeated.
“I Googled it,” Krissy said. “If they’re what I think they are, they’re part of a collection that went missing in the 1940s when the Nazis invaded Russia.”
“And they’re worth $100 million?”
Krissy nodded. “At least.”
“God,” Koda said. “That’s a lot of money, even for us.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
FEBRUARY 25, 2011 – 7:19 P.M.
(PST)
CLAY CROUCHED BEHIND the headstone, still peering through the binoculars—first at the caretaker’s house, then over to the lighthouse, then back again—when Newt raced up and knelt next to him.
“What’s happening? Anything?” Newt asked.
“He’s in one of the two buildings, but I don’t know which,” Clay said and passed the binoculars to Newt. “How is Maggie?”
“Two of Bennington’s guys came and got her,” Newt said. “She’ll be okay. I think she’s more embarrassed that he got the drop on her than anything.”
“It was a pretty nasty gash, though,” Clay said. “Might leave a scar.”
Newt peered through the binoculars.
“You see anything?” Clay asked.
“No, nothing,” Newt said. “Wait, wait—I think the door to the lighthouse is opening. Yes—damn it. He’s making a run for the caretaker’s house. Yep, he just went inside.”
“Good,” Clay said. “Radio Bennington. Tell him to make sure his guys hold their fire.”
“What? Why?”
“I know every inch of that house,” Clay said, standing up and taking his weapon out of its holster.
“I don’t know, Clay,” Newt said. “Maybe we’re better off if we just let the SWAT team do their—”
Newt didn’t bother finishing the sentence. Clay was already making his way across the clearing toward the lighthouse.
Stan Lee paced the hallway of the caretaker’s house, being careful not to pass in front of the windows. He clutched the gun in one hand and the radio in the other.
Sunset was about twenty minutes away. When it finally got dark, maybe he’d make a run for it. It was his only chance. If he could just get to—
Suddenly the radio crackled, and he heard a man’s voice. Not the same man from earlier, but a younger, softer voice.
“Stanton Lee Mungehr,” the man said.
Stan Lee froze, the sound of his name catching him off guard. His full name. His real name.
“Sergent Elton Nahum,” the man continued. “Glenn Oren Mattheus. Glenna Thomsen True. What name are you using now? Elga Mortensen Hunt? What name do you want me to use?”
Stan Lee knew who it was now.
It was Spider Boy.
Stan Lee pushed the button on the side of the walkie-talkie. “Well, well. If it isn’t Special Agent Newt Drystad. Nice to speak at last.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Newt said. “What should I call you today? The Leg Collector maybe?”
Stan Lee pressed the button. “How about we go with Southern Gentleman.”
Clay crossed the clearing toward the caretaker’s house on a straight line. He assumed the man in the caretaker’s house was afraid to be near a window, which meant he wouldn’t be looking out one either.
So far, so good.
Then Clay reached the front of the house, forgetting about the rose bushes Noah planted.
Clay worked his way through the bushes, gun in hand, as the thorns tore at his legs. Once free of the bushes, he neared one of the windows and heard voices.
Clay stopped and stilled himself.
The guy was talking to Newt over the radio.
Whether Newt intended to provide a distraction or not, Clay would use it to his advantage.
“So, what do you want to talk about?” Newt said over the radio.
“Me? Nothing,” Stan Lee said. “You initiated the contact. What do you want to talk about?” Stan Lee released the button and waited.
Silence.
Thirty seconds passed, and still nothing.
Then Stan Lee understood. It was a game, and there was only one rule. Whoever spoke first was the loser.
Well, it sure in hell wasn’t going to be him.
Another thirty seconds went by, and Stan Lee began to pace. Thirty seconds after that, he pushed the button. “Okay, Spider Boy, you win. You want to talk, let’s talk. How about we talk about you and your pathetic excuse of a career?”
Stan Lee released the button and waited. Again, he was greeted by silence. So that’s how it was going to be, huh?
Then Stan Lee heard the click of a gun behind him and froze.
“Don’t move,” a man said from behind him. Stan Lee had no idea who the man was—only that it wasn’t Spider Boy.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere,” Stan Lee said, remaining completely still.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” Clay said. “You’re going to lower your hands and drop the gun and the radio on the floor. Then you’re going to turn around very slowly. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Stan Lee said in a calm voice.
“Okay, do it now.”
Stan Lee lowered his hands and dropped both items on the floor. Then he slowly turned around until he could see the local sheriff with his gun drawn and trained on Stan Lee’s chest. “Where’s Tara?” Clay said.
“Tara?”
“Yes,” Clay said. “The woman whose car is parked in the woods.”
“You can’t shoot me, you know?” Stan Lee said, taking a step backward toward the front door. “You heard the FBI’s orders. They want me alive.”
“Take another step and find out just how much I don’t care,” Clay said. “Now answer me. Where’s Tara?”
“Oh, Tara?” Stan Lee said, taking another step backward. “Come with me, and I’ll show—”
Then, without warning, Stan Lee spun around and bolted for the door.
Newt stood up and tossed his radio on the ground, having no intention of engaging in conversation with the man inside the caretaker’s house. He knew the silence would drive him crazy—then send him into a rage.
Which would give him plenty of time to cross the clearing.
As Newt got nearer to the house, he noticed the shed.
There, just inside the door, was a shovel.
Perfect.
Newt grabbed the shovel and made his way to the front of the house and waited just outside the door.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Three seconds later, the door flew open and the Leg Collector came running out.
Newt swung the shovel, which caught the man full force directly in the chest—so hard that it literally knocked Stan Lee out of his prosthetics and sent him flying back into the house.
Clay appeared in the doorway just as six members of the SWAT team came racing across the clearing, guns drawn, and a helicopter appeared overhead—spotlight shining down on the front of the building.
“Wow,” Clay said. “Just like in the movies.”
“That’s the FBI for you,” Newt said. “Not always on time to solve the crime, but always there to take the credit.”
“Do you want me to read him his rights?” Clay asked.
“No,” Newt said. “But it would be great if you could cuff him.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
FEBRUARY 28, 2011
YOU’RE BACK ALREADY?” Clay said, surprised to hear Noah’s voice on the other end of the line. “I thought you said you and Alec were going to be gone for two months or something.”
“The plan changed,” Noah said.
“Plans tend to do that sometimes,” Clay said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m standing outside the lighthouse, looking at a sea of yellow police tape that says Do Not Enter all over it. I asked you to watch the place, not seal it closed.”
“Not my doing,” Clay said. “The FBI did that.”
“The FBI?” Noah said.
“Meet me at the restaurant in twenty minutes, and I’ll explain everything,” Clay said. “No, better yet, why don’t you come here to the station.”
Noah sat in a hard metal seat in Clay’s office, opposite Clay, who was sitting behind the desk.
“Well?” Noah said, clearly agitated. “What the hell is going on?”
“Well, there’s been a bit of excitement since you’ve been gone,” Clay said. “A guy discovered the lighthouse was empty, and he decided to call it h
ome for a couple of weeks.”
“I thought you were going to look after the place,” Noah said, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing.
“I did,” Clay said. “That’s how I discovered he was hiding out there.”
“Hiding out? What do you mean, ‘hiding out’?”
“The guy was a murderer,” Clay said. “He killed Tara.”
“Wait, what? Tara’s dead?”
Clay nodded.
“Oh, my God. Jesus, Clay. I’m sorry.”
Clay nodded. “FBI says the guy was a serial killer. Someone they’d been after since the early 1980s. Cut off their legs and kept them as trophies.”
“Are you talking about the Leg Collector?”
“Yep, that’s the one,” Clay said. “His real name was Stanton Lee Mungehr. Went around the South as some kind of Colonel Sanders lookalike. Called himself—”
“—the Southern Gentleman.” Noah closed his eyes and shook his head, and then leaned back in his chair. “Jesus, Clay. You remember that thing I went to in Charleston just before Christmas?”
“You mean that party where everyone died from the carbon monoxide leak?” Clay said.
“Yeah,” Noah said. “I was there with him at the party.”
“You’re shitting me?” Clay said. “Now that’s just plain weird. I mean, what are the chances, huh? You fly to a party where the guy happens to be, and then—a few months later, the same guy ends up out here hiding in your lighthouse.”
“What are you suggesting, Clay? That—?
Clay held up his hand. “Noah, I’m not suggesting anything. But you do have to admit, the likelihood of those two things happening—we just entered Twilight Zone stuff here.”
Noah leaned back and went silent.
“What else aren’t you telling me?” Clay asked. “I feel like there’s something missing.”
Noah shrugged his shoulders. “No, that’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s all you know, or that’s all you can tell me?” Clay said. “Big difference.”
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