“Got it,” Abe said.
He disappeared back into his room.
Jack glanced at Madeline. “Remember what I said. Stay away from windows.”
She clutched the lapels of her robe, fighting the urge to beg him to stay inside, behind locked doors. But locked doors offered no protection from a crazy person who liked to start fires. Her grandmother had died behind a locked door.
“Jack, be careful,” she said instead.
“That’s the plan,” Jack said.
He did not wait for a response.
Madeline went past Abe’s room, intent on knocking on Daphne’s door.
“Never mind,” Daphne said behind her. “I’m awake.”
Madeline turned around. Daphne emerged from Abe’s room, pulling a robe around herself. She was flushed. Her short hair was wildly tousled.
“Oh,” Madeline said. She stopped with that because she could not think of anything else to say.
Daphne smiled. “Turns out Abe is also a night person.”
“Oh,” Madeline said again.
Abe emerged from the bedroom strapping on a holster. He was dressed in his cargo pants and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. He had his glasses on now, and he peered at Madeline and Daphne in turn with an air of calm authority that caught Madeline by surprise. She noticed that Daphne blinked a couple of times, too.
“You heard the boss,” Abe said. “Grab your shoes, ladies, in case we have to make a run for it. We’ll wait for Jack downstairs.”
Madeline looked at Daphne and knew that they were both experiencing the same unnatural sensation of intense focus. It was as if the world had narrowed down to encompass only the old house and the four of them.
Without a word, she went back into her bedroom. Daphne disappeared through the doorway of her own room.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
You learned a lot about people when you went into the business of stopping bad guys before they repeated their crimes, Jack thought. One of the things you figured out right away was that people who liked to do bad things were surprisingly predictable. Over time, human predators tended to stick with the classic if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it approach. They used whatever strategy had worked on previous occasions. The trick was to figure out the pattern.
Xavier liked fire. But there was one major technical problem with his style—at some point in the process he had to get very close to his target without being observed. If he was the one who had triggered the alarm tonight, it meant that he had required a car to make the five-mile drive from Cooper Cove and carry whatever fire-starting equipment he planned to use.
He probably hadn’t taken the main road around the island because of the likelihood that someone would notice the familiar vehicle. That left only one other approach—the back road that dead-ended at the thick stand of trees behind the rental house.
The moon was out, but it didn’t penetrate far into the woods. Whoever had tripped the alarm had no choice but to use a flashlight to work his way through the trees to the back of the house.
When the intruder reached his objective, he would confront the problem of the porch lights. No arsonist wanted to work under a spotlight. As it happened, there was one empty light fixture above the back porch steps.
The empty fixture was not an oversight. It was a beacon intended to invite the intruder to take advantage of the dark path it provided.
Jack waited in the shadows beside the woodshed, a few feet away from the back steps. Madeline, Daphne, and Abe were all on the first floor now. The house seemed unnaturally silent, as though it were holding its breath.
He heard the intruder before he saw the narrow beam of a flashlight snaking through the woods. It was next to impossible to prowl through heavy undergrowth without making noise. A storm would have masked the small sounds, but tonight there was only an unnatural stillness. The small creatures of the night had gone silent in response to the presence of a human predator.
Twigs and dead leaves snapped and crunched underfoot. Tree limbs rustled when they came into contact with the sleeve of a jacket. Pebbles scattered. The flashlight beam drew closer.
Abruptly it disappeared. Whoever was approaching had concluded that he could use the porch lights to navigate the rest of the way.
It was amazing how many decisions got made based on the arrangement of light and shadow, Jack thought. If you knew which one your quarry wanted or needed, all you had to do was set the stage properly to guide the way.
A thud followed by a low grunt emanated from the woods. The intruder had either run into an object or managed to slam something he was carrying into one. A can of accelerant, most likely.
A dark figure emerged from the trees. For a moment he stood silhouetted in the moonlight. He was dressed for the night’s work in black clothing and a billed cap. He carried a five-gallon fuel can in one hand.
He homed in on the shadowy path that led to the porch with the unerring instinct of an insect seeking to escape the light.
The intruder made it to the steps and quickly reached down to start removing the cap on the fuel can.
Jack stepped partway out from behind the woodshed into a position that would allow him a decent shot if he needed it. The thick logs stacked in the shed offered cover if that proved necessary.
He switched on the heavy-duty flashlight, aiming the fierce beam squarely at Xavier’s face.
“It stops here, tonight, Webster,” he said.
He spoke quietly. In such dense silence there was no need to raise his voice. He was dealing with a man who might well be flirting with insanity. The goal was to keep the situation under control. Sometimes you could do it with voice alone.
Sometimes that did not work.
“You fucking bastard.” Xavier’s voice was hoarse with rage. “You can’t stop me, Rayner. No one can stop me. I’m Xavier Webster. My father owns this island.”
He straightened and reached into the pocket of his dark jacket. The white-hot beam of the flashlight glinted on the gun that appeared in his hand.
He fired wildly, the way people always did in a firefight. The odds of striking your target on purpose were stunningly small under such conditions. But the chances of getting hit by sheer accident were uncomfortably high.
Jack crouched behind the woodshed and waited out the volley of gunfire. When it stopped, he leaned around the far end of the shed and fired a single shot, aiming for a spot on the ground several yards away from the house—going for effect, not a hit.
Xavier screamed again, his fury and disbelief piercing the night. He dropped the gun, ran down the side of the porch, and vaulted from the top step to the ground.
He fled toward the road. His thudding footsteps echoed for a time in the night.
After a moment Jack holstered his gun and took out his phone.
The kitchen door cracked open.
“All clear, boss?” Abe asked quietly.
“He’s gone.” Jack aimed the flashlight at the container of accelerant. “Careful. Don’t touch anything. With luck Xavier’s fingerprints will be all over that can.”
Abe came out onto the porch. Madeline and Daphne followed. They all looked at the can of accelerant.
“That bastard was going to torch the place with all of us in it,” Daphne said. “Did he really think he’d get away with it?”
“Yes,” Madeline said. She glanced at the container and then looked at Jack. “He assumed he would get away with it. You heard what he screamed there at the end. ‘I’m Xavier Webster. My father owns this island.’”
“If his plan had worked, there wouldn’t have been any witnesses,” Daphne said. “He probably would have gotten away with it.”
Abe glanced toward the road. “He’s on the run.”
He spoke in a neutral tone, but Jack knew what he was thinking; what they were all thinking.
The 911 operator answered.
“. . . the nature of your emergency . . .”
“Attempted arson,” Jack said. “Shots fired. Suspect fleeing south on Loop Road.”
“. . . Do you know the identity of the suspect?”
“Xavier Webster. Lots of witnesses this time. He’ll either head for his family’s compound or try to get off the island in a boat.”
He ended the connection before the operator could demand more details.
“What now?” Madeline asked.
“I don’t think that Xavier Webster will be a problem for much longer,” Jack said. “His family can no longer afford to keep him around. He’s causing too much damage.”
“Do you think they’ll force him to go to a psychiatric institution?” Madeline asked.
“It would seem to be the obvious solution,” Jack said. “But there is another, simpler way out of this if someone wants to take it.”
Madeline looked at him. “You’re predicting again, aren’t you?”
“Can’t help it,” he said. “It’s what I do.”
He looked at Madeline because he did not want to look anywhere else.
Without a word she came down the steps and wrapped her arms around him, holding on as though afraid he might try to leave.
But he had no intention of going anywhere without her. Not tonight.
The four of them stood quietly, listening to the distant wail of sirens on Loop Road.
“I really don’t like this island,” Madeline said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Xavier huddled in the shadows of the boathouse, struggling to control the racking chills that swept over him in waves. Part of him wondered if he was coming down with the flu. But the other part—the part that spoke to him from the fringes of his mind—had concluded that this was what real fear felt like. Maybe this was the kind of terror that he sometimes saw in the eyes of others who came to know him too well.
He’d had occasional brushes with the spiderweb strands of fear in the past. He’d felt real panic the first time his parents had shipped him off to the Institute. But he had soon discovered that the doctors and therapists were as easy to deceive as everyone else. Nevertheless, each time he had been sent back to the Institute, he had known some anxiety. There was always the chance that this time would be different—this time he would not be able to pull off the illusion.
But in the end, he was always successful in the role of The Healed Patient because the doctors and therapists were so eager to believe that they could work magic. They were also very enthusiastic about collecting the huge sums that Egan and Louisa paid for each miraculous recovery. Should have gotten a commission from the Institute every time I allowed myself to get cured, he thought. After all, he was the one who had to do all the hard acting work.
He had experienced a few other anxiety-inducing situations over the years, but in the end his father had always come to the rescue. The folks Egan could not intimidate were invariably happy to accept money in exchange for their silence.
What no one understood was that he didn’t have an anger-management problem. Other people provoked him. Other people caused him to lose it once in a while. None of the incidents had been his fault.
Over the years he had met a few individuals who could see his true nature, but they were rarely a problem because most of them had the common sense to fear him.
The only people he had ever really worried about were the bastards who did not fear him; did not respect him; did not realize how powerful he was—the ones who could not be scared off or bought off.
Bastards like Jack Rayner.
The memories of the debacle that night seared him. He would find a way to even the score. Rayner was a walking dead man. Just a matter of time.
The low rumble of the boat engines interrupted his fevered imaginings. He scrambled to his feet. Help was here. In a few minutes he would be safely away from the damned island.
Once he was clear, his father would take care of any legal problems that came out of the incident tonight. He was, after all, the golden boy, Egan’s true son and heir.
The high-powered boat cruised almost silently out of the darkness. It glided to a halt at the dock. Xavier grabbed the rope.
“What took you so long? The cops will be searching for me by now.”
He stepped into the boat and took over the wheel. His rescuer climbed out onto the dock.
Xavier eased the boat away from shore and headed toward open water. He had been piloting boats since he was a kid.
Elation slammed through him, driving out the last vestiges of fear. Within minutes he would be lost in the jumble of islands, large and small, that constituted the San Juans. He would spend the night in a sheltered bay off one of the uninhabited chunks of rock. At dawn he would head for the mainland. There were plenty of places where he could ditch the boat.
He would survive the incident tonight. That was what he was, a survivor.
He would take his time preparing his revenge.
He was still within sight of Cooper Island when the boat exploded into flames. The blast could be heard in town. The fireball lit up the night with a dazzling display of hellish light.
The watcher onshore waited until all that was left was the burning hulk of the boat.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Madeline was at the kitchen table with Daphne and Jack, drinking orange juice because they had run out of coffee and checking the latest news reports on her computer, when Abe banged into the kitchen. He carried a large sack of groceries in his arms. His expression said he had news.
“Well?” she asked before anyone else could speak. “Inquiring minds and all that. What are the locals saying?”
“They pulled the body out of the water this morning,” Abe said. He set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and adjusted his glasses on his nose. “No question but that it was Xavier Webster. There are currently three working theories about the cause of the explosion. Number one is the theory being pushed by the Webster family. And I quote, It was a terrible accident.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Jack said. “A leak in the fuel tank, maybe?”
“Yep.” Abe took a package of coffee out of the sack. “Turns out there are a lot of ways that a boat can go up in flames. All that fuel on board, you know. And so many things that can ignite it, including an electrical failure, signal flares that are unintentionally ignited, et cetera, et cetera.”
Daphne leaned back in her chair and looked thoughtful. “What are some of the other theories?”
“Theory number two is being spoken in what you might call hushed tones,” Abe said. “A few brave souls are wondering if someone did the world a favor and murdered the golden boy of the Webster clan. But no one is speculating very loudly about that possibility because there are way too many suspects.”
Madeline drummed her fingers on the table. “Starting with most of the longtime residents of Cooper Island.”
“I suppose the four of us are on that list,” Daphne said. “Talk about motive. It was this house that Xavier tried to torch last night.”
Jack picked up the coffee and went to the counter. “Don’t worry. We are the only ones they can’t put on the suspect list, at least not with any degree of credibility.”
They all looked at him.
“The four of us were right here, explaining the situation to the cops, when the boat explosion occurred, remember?” he said. “And there are all those spent shell casings in the woodpile that will be shown to have come from the gun that will have Xavier’s fingerprints on it. It’s very likely there will be some of his fingerprints on the can of accelerant, too.”
“Assuming some or all of those items don’t disappear from the evidence locker of the local police department,” Daphne said.
“Assuming that,” Jack agreed. “But I think Chief Dunbar will
do his job. I got the impression that he is as relieved as everyone else to know that Xavier will no longer be a problem.”
Madeline looked at Abe. “Any other theories?”
“One more,” Abe said. “Suicide.”
Daphne stared at him. “By boat explosion? Don’t tell me anyone actually believes that.”
“I doubt it,” Abe said. “Hey, don’t look at me. I just report the news. I don’t make it.”
“The accident theory will prevail,” Jack said quietly. “Xavier Webster, a man who, it turns out, had a history of mental illness, suffered a complete breakdown last night. For reasons that are unclear, he set out to torch a local house. When he was discovered in the act, he fled the scene, took one of the family boats, and tried to escape. The boat exploded by accident. Xavier was killed. His brother, an aspiring senatorial candidate, will make a statement about how he intends to seek better funding for mental health issues when he gets to the other Washington.”
Madeline watched him measure heaping scoops of coffee into the machine.
“Someone killed Xavier.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jack said. He ran water into the coffeepot. “Xavier was set up last night. I think he was the intended victim all along. The only question is, who involved in this thing had the technical expertise to pull off two rather sophisticated explosions?”
“Two explosions?” Madeline frowned. “You mean, it wasn’t Xavier who tried to kill us in the maintenance building?”
“I doubt it,” Jack said. “Got a feeling that whoever set that trap wanted Xavier to get the blame.” He finished pouring water into the coffeemaker and hit the on switch. “Several birds with one stone, I think. Someone is trying to clean up the Webster family history.”
“So that it won’t come back to haunt the bright, shiny candidate,” Daphne said. Her eyes widened. “Step one, find the briefcase and whatever it is inside that is dangerous. Step two, get rid of the people who know about the briefcase. Step three, get rid of the psycho on the family tree.”