Promise Not To Tell(75)

He stopped in the doorway. There was another large-screen TV on the wall and some more electronics on the bedside table and on top of the dresser.

Fleming was not a complete slob but he was not the neatest person in the world. A shirt and a pair of jeans hung over the back of a chair. There was a single athletic shoe on the floor. The hamper was overflowing.

The closet was long and narrow and fitted with sliding doors. Cabot opened one of the doors and took a quick look around. More jumbled clothes hung on the rod. There were several pairs of shoes tumbled on the floor.

It occurred to him that the second bedroom had been much neater. Clearly it had gone largely unused. But that seemed odd, given the general clutter in the bungalow. In his experience most people allowed stuff to accumulate to fill the space available. It took self-discipline to maintain a well-ordered household.

He went back down the hall and into the other bedroom. Why so neat and orderly in this room, Fleming? You’ve been living in this house for a while and you’ve filled up most of it with your stuff. There isn’t even a TV. You haven’t emptied the garbage in the kitchen for at least a couple of days, yet this room is so clean and tidy.

He crossed the bedroom and slid open the closet doors.

There were no clothes inside, no shoes on the floor. The interior walls were covered with scenes from his old nightmares.

Press clippings of the fire at the California compound papered one side wall. There were some pictures of the small handful of the dazed survivors who had agreed to talk to the reporters. There were no images of the children. Anson had refused to allow any of them to be interviewed by the journalists who had covered the story.

A framed picture of Quinton Zane hung in a place of prominence. It was discolored with age. In the picture Zane looked to be in his early twenties. Cabot decided that it had probably been taken around the same time as the photo of Zane and Abigail Watkins on the ferry. Zane had a warm, open smile for the camera. You had to look closely to see that his eyes were ice-cold.

Most of the images and articles dated back twenty-two years but there were some recent additions – full-color printouts of Hannah Brewster’s Visions series. It looked like the photos had been taken with a cell phone.

There was also a printout of a picture of the Lost Island B and B going up in flames.

There was a small filing cabinet on the floor of the closet. Cabot opened the drawer and saw two folders. The first contained a well-worn leather-bound journal. The handwriting was the same as that on the photocopies that Virginia had found in Rose Gilbert’s nightstand.

The second folder contained a lot of paperwork relating to a recent real estate deal. The property that had been purchased was the old house outside of Wallerton – a location where a panicked Tucker Fleming would feel safe and in control, a place where he could get rid of a witness.

Cabot ran for the door, Abigail Watkins’s journal in his hand.

Outside he got into the SUV, shoved the journal under the passenger seat and fired up the engine.

When he was rolling, he used a new disposable phone to call the office landline.

Anson answered halfway through the first ring.

“Fleming has Xavier,” Cabot said. “Can’t be positive but I think it’s a good bet that he took him to the Wallerton house.”

“I’ll call the local cops,” Anson said.

“No. If they show up at the front door of the first compound, we’ll probably be looking at a hostage situation. I think Fleming may be more than a little crazy, Anson. He’s obsessed with Zane. Constructed a shrine to the bastard. No telling what he’ll do if he’s cornered.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to the first compound outside of Wallerton.”

Cabot ended the connection and concentrated on his driving.

CHAPTER 54

It was Xavier’s first experience with real, gut-level fear. He didn’t think he was handling it very well.

He was also cold. He was still wearing his sweatshirt but it provided only limited protection against the chill that gripped the old house. Tucker Fleming hadn’t bothered to build a fire in the big stone fireplace in the huge living room. Xavier figured that was not a good sign.

He was on the floor in front of the darkened hearth. Fleming had used duct tape to bind his wrists and ankles. After arriving at their destination, Fleming had cut the tape that secured his feet, and forced him to walk into the old house before once again taping his ankles together.

He had expected an interrogation of some kind. It seemed likely that Fleming would want to know if the others were on his trail. Xavier had concocted what he hoped was a believable story designed to make his kidnapper think that Anson and Cabot would descend at any moment. But so far he hadn’t had an opportunity to try out the lie.

After dumping him in the living room, Fleming had returned to the SUV to collect a bulging duffel bag. He had rigged up some kind of explosive devices at various points on the ground floor and then hauled the bag upstairs. Xavier could hear him moving around on the floor above the living room.

Xavier struggled to a sitting position and propped himself up against the stone hearth. He tried to imagine what Cabot would do in such a situation. Probably pull a knife out of a hidden sheath strapped to his ankle.

Cabot would use the knife to slice through the duct tape, and then he would wait for Fleming to return to the ground floor. True, Fleming had a gun, but Cabot had one, too. Fleming wouldn’t stand a chance.