He was sitting in a café near the San Francisco airport, a cup of coffee in front of him, the phone to his ear. He figured there was a ninety-nine percent probability that he would be contacted by Zane in a few hours. He had to be ready with an endgame.
Cabot and Xavier were on the other end of the connection now. Max and Anson were there, too. Virginia and Charlotte were also in the room. The family had gathered together in the offices of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas to face the disaster.
“Turns out it’s not easy to unload a private island,” Cabot said. “Not a lot of buyers for that kind of property, especially when the island in question is in the cool, damp Pacific Northwest, not the sunny Caribbean. But the current owner is a shell company with so many layers we may never be able to identify the owner. The purchase occurred about five months ago.”
“Zane,” Jack said. “Ninety-eight percent probability, given the timing.”
“Max and I agree that the timing fits,” Cabot said. “The purchase took place after Jessica Pitt was divorced from Grayson Tazewell. If she went looking for Zane soon after she and Tazewell separated and if Zane decided that he really was Tazewell’s son and that he wanted a piece of family history—yeah, the timing definitely works.”
Jack closed his eyes and thought about it. “That feels right. In Zane’s view, the Azalea Island house should have been his ancestral home.”
“You think Zane took Winter and maybe Easton and Rebecca to the Azalea Island house, don’t you?” Cabot asked.
“It fits with everything I know about him,” Jack said. “And it’s a smart strategy for someone who is holding hostages. He’s on ground he believes he controls. If he decides he’s losing control he can use a boat to disappear into the San Juans.”
“With one of the hostages,” Max said, his voice very grim. “He’ll keep that hostage alive only as long as he finds it useful. He’ll get rid of the others.”
No one responded. There was no need. If there was ever a time to stay positive, Jack thought, this was it.
He focused on the logic of a strategy.
“The Azalea Island house was on the market for years,” he said. “That means it probably went through a lot of listing agents. There should be photographs of the interiors on the real estate websites. There will also be aerial views of the house and the island. We could really use a floor plan.”
“Anson told us to get moving on that angle as soon as you came up with the location of the house,” Cabot said. “Virginia and Charlotte are searching the real estate websites for interiors and any architectural details they can find. I’ve pulled the aerial views. I can tell you one thing already.”
“What?” Jack asked.
“That house must have been built for someone with a lot of money back in the day.”
“Because of the big dock?”
“No, because there’s an old helicopter pad on the roof. You can still see some of the markings.”
Jack considered that briefly. “Interesting. But I think there’s a very low probability that Zane will be using a helicopter to transport his hostages.”
It was Max who answered. “A helo would draw way too much attention out there in the San Juans. Those islands are very, very quiet. People on neighboring islands would notice.”
“There’s another reason he wouldn’t go with a helo,” Jack said. “He knows boats. Remember, he used a yacht that he stole to stage his own death years ago. And boats are much quieter and less obvious. A lot of people who live in the San Juans own a vessel of some kind. No one would notice one more.”
“I take it you’re staying down there in the Bay Area until you hear from Zane?” Max said.
“I don’t have any choice,” Jack said. “Not if we want him to be convinced that we don’t know where he’s hiding. If I head north to Seattle before he orders me to get on a plane, he may start to wonder if I’ve made the connection to Tazewell and Azalea Island.”
“There’s another reason you need to stay down there,” Cabot said. “There’s still a possibility that we might be wrong. Maybe Zane is holding the hostages somewhere in California.”
“Gotta think positive,” Jack said.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
She was swimming against the tide again, struggling to surface; dreading the weight that would soon flow through her veins and drag her down.
She was more than a little amazed when she finally got her eyes open and discovered that she was awake. Sort of. The aftereffects of the drug tugged at her senses but this time she was able to overcome the riptide of sleep. She was vaguely aware that the room was illuminated in the glare of a camp lantern.
“You’re going to be okay,” a woman said. She spoke in low tones, as if she was afraid that someone might be listening. “Here, have some water. We saved one of the sandwiches for you.”
She used both hands to hold out a bottle of water. Winter realized that was because the woman’s wrists were bound with a zip tie.
“Thanks,” Winter said. She realized that she sounded drunk. When she automatically tried to reach for the bottle she discovered that her wrists were bound as well. She swallowed some of the water. After a couple of sips she tried speech again. “Am I hallucinating? You look like a Disney princess.”
The woman was dressed in a sophisticated evening gown that rustled a little when she moved. A cashmere stole was draped around her shoulders. A delicate string of diamonds circled her throat. There were more diamonds in her ears.
“If I were a real fairy-tale princess I’d call my fairy godmother and have her wave a wand to rescue us. I’m Rebecca Tazewell. This is my husband, Easton.”
Winter scrutinized the man who moved into view. He looked good in his tux, as if he was accustomed to wearing one.
Winter hoisted the water bottle in a small salute. “You must be Prince Charming.”
“Not exactly,” Easton said. “We were on our way home from a charity event when they grabbed us. Lucan’s two bodyguards replaced our usual driver. They used some drug to knock us out. We woke up here. Sorry you got dragged into this. As far as I can tell you’re the only one who hasn’t got a connection to my crazy half brother. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“If we’re talking about Quinton Zane,” Winter said, “and I assume we are, I do have a connection to him.” Her voice seemed to be growing stronger. She swallowed some more of the water and lowered the bottle. “He tried to have me killed on at least two occasions. That makes for a unique bond, believe me.”
“Try to eat something,” Rebecca said. She held out a stale-looking cheese and bologna sandwich that looked as if it had come out of a vending machine. “It will help you get over the effects of the sedative.”
Winter examined the sandwich. It did not look particularly appetizing, but she had eaten far less appealing food during the years she and Alice had traveled to far-off research locations with Helen and Susan Riding. She needed her strength. She took a healthy bite.
“What’s the setup in this place?” she asked around a mouthful of the sandwich.
“We’re in the only house on a private island in the San Juans,” Easton said. “My parents bought it back at the start shortly after my father made his first fortune. They never used it much. Turns out most of the people my father wanted to impress weren’t interested in spending long weekends on an island where there was nothing much to do except look at the water. After Mom died he sold it. That was about thirty years ago. There’s a new owner now.”
“Your crazy half brother?”
“Good guess,” Rebecca said.
“How many people does Zane have with him?”
Easton’s brows rose. “Why do you call him Zane?”
“Once upon a time he was Quinton Zane. What’s his name now?”
“He calls himself Lucan Tazewell,” Easton said. “And
to answer your question, he’s got two so-called security people with him. Professional thugs would be a better description. They’re both seriously armed. Lucan has a gun, too, although from the way he handled it, I don’t think he’s familiar with firearms.”
“We’re on the second floor,” Rebecca added. “The door is locked and the windows have been boarded up. Easton has been trying to loosen some of the boards, but no luck so far.”
“Even if I do get a few of them free, it’s a long drop to the ground,” Easton said. “At the very least we will probably break some bones. I’m thinking we might be able to use the drapes to lower ourselves out the window but they’re pretty threadbare. Not sure they’ll hold our weight.”
“Does your half brother ever come up here to check on his hostages?” Winter asked.
“No,” Rebecca said. “Lucan or Zane, or whatever he calls himself, doesn’t seem particularly interested in us. Haven’t seen much of Knight, the male security guy, either. The woman is the one who occasionally checks on us. Her name is Sloan. Victoria Sloan. I think she’s more than a little obsessed with Lucan.”
Dreamlike memories of a conversation she had overheard while she was fighting the tide of the drug floated through Winter’s mind.
A man’s voice. “You’re fucking the client.”
And then a woman. “No, I am not fucking the client.”
The man again. “You want to fuck him.”
“I might be able to work with that,” Winter said. “But first I’ve really got to pee.”
“You’re in luck,” Rebecca said. “There’s a bathroom attached to this room.”
“Amenities are important,” Winter said.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Juggling a cell phone and a gun, Victoria shoved the ancient key into the equally ancient lock. It was a bit of a struggle. The security in the old house was a bad joke. Lucan had assured her that there was no need to worry about installing a state-of-the-art alarm system because they would not be hanging around for long. He had also told her that no one knew about the island or the house. Don’t worry, he had said.
That was exactly what he had said when she had confronted him about the other boat, the one she had discovered when she had made a foray outside to identify any potential vulnerabilities. Lucan had assured her that there was only one place on the island where a boat could be docked and that was in front of the house. The remainder of the small islet was protected by walls of rock. The place was a natural fortress, he’d said.
But in the course of doing the recon she had noticed a nearly invisible trail in the woods at the back of the house. She had followed it. When she had emerged from the trees she found herself looking down at a very small pocket beach and what was left of a dock. A sleek little cruiser bobbed gently in the water. She was a professional. She understood the meaning of what she was looking at. Lucan had a backup plan. The question, of course, was why he hadn’t mentioned it.
She had confronted him about it but she had been careful to do so in private because she knew that Devlin was already skittish about the job. It wouldn’t take much to make him abandon the client. Don’t worry, Lucan had said. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to take the risk that you would let something slip to your partner. If we have to leave under less than ideal circumstances, only you and I will be taking the boat. Knight will have to stay behind to cover us.
It bothered her a little to think that Devlin might not make it off the island. The two of them had been partners for a long time. They had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion. Still, on some level, she had always known that things would probably come to an end one day. You had to make sacrifices when you made the bold decision to adopt a whole new life. Her future was with Lucan, not Devlin.
She pushed the thought aside and opened the door. She was in charge of the hostages and it was time to take a very important picture.
She stopped abruptly on the threshold because the room was unexpectedly drenched in shadows. The only light was the small amount that slanted through the spaces between the boards that covered the windows. It took her a moment to realize that the hostages had turned off the battery-powered camp lantern.
“What the hell?” she said.
“Don’t worry, Victoria,” Winter said in a calm, soothing, oddly compelling tone. “We just wanted to conserve the battery. Night is coming on fast, isn’t it, Victoria? We did not want to be left completely in the dark. I’m sure you know how it feels to be enveloped in darkness, don’t you, Victoria?”
You won’t have to worry about facing the night without a light because you’re going to be dead in a few hours, Victoria thought. But she did not say that aloud. The first rule of hostage-taking was to convince the hostages that there was a chance they would survive as long as they did not cause trouble.
“I’ve got spare batteries,” Victoria said. “Switch on the lantern. I need to take a picture of you. Jack Lancaster will be waiting for it. He’ll want proof that you’re still alive. Unfortunately, we’ll lose some more time because my partner will have to take the boat back to the mainland to send the photo. No cell service on this damned rock.”
“All right,” Winter said. “I’ll turn on the lantern.”
The device glowed to life. Victoria realized then that the lantern had been moved from the table in the center of the room. It was now in the far corner. Automatically, she glanced in that direction and saw that Winter was holding the lamp in her bound hands. In the glare, her eyes appeared very deep and mysterious. A shiver of dread whispered through Victoria.
She was vaguely aware that the Tazewells sat in two chairs in the middle of the space, but neither of them spoke or moved. It was as if they had no interest in what was happening.
“This is the darkest place in the room,” Winter said. “But the light makes it possible to see into the shadows. It is hard to look away from the light, isn’t it, Victoria? You really don’t want to look anywhere else. You can’t look anywhere else. You need to look at the light. You want to follow it into the darkness . . .”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The photo of Winter popped up on Jack’s phone later that afternoon, some sixteen hours after she had been grabbed. Jack reminded himself that he had been anticipating it since the moment he realized she had vanished. Nevertheless, it sent a shock wave through him.
She sat in a large, ornate chair that looked as if it had once been an expensive piece of furniture. Now it was worn and faded. Her wrists were bound in front with a zip tie. Her ankles were unbound. She wore the clothes she’d had on the night she had been grabbed and a coldly composed expression that gave no hint of any emotion.
The message that accompanied the photo was simple and straightforward. A seat had been reserved for him on a flight that was scheduled to leave in ninety minutes. When he reached Seattle there would be a car equipped with a tracking device waiting for him at a rental counter. He was to drive immediately to a remote location north of Seattle. If he veered off course or if there was any indication that he had been followed, Winter would pay the price.
The only surprising thing was that the captors had sent a photo, not a video, as proof of life. Maybe Zane had been afraid that Winter would figure out how to send a message regarding her whereabouts if she were allowed to speak.
Jack studied every detail of the photograph. He could not afford to overlook even the tiniest, most insignificant bit of data. At first glance it looked as if Winter was clutching her fingers together in a show of anxiety but closer examination showed that her hands were folded together in a way that left only two fingers fully visible. Those two were ever so slightly extended.
“What are you trying to tell me, Winter?”
It seemed likely that she was sending a message about the number of captors who were holding her. But he already knew that there were three, counting Zane. Furthermore, she would know
that he knew that.
But the longer he gazed at Winter’s two fingers the more he wondered if she was sending a different message.
“Got it,” he said. “I’m on the way.”
* * *
• • •
Jack boarded the plane to Seattle a short time later. He shoved his duffel bag into the overhead and stuck the backpack containing Winter’s things under the seat.
He nudged the toe of his shoe against the backpack and kept it there, maintaining the small connection to Winter, for the entire flight.
He fastened his seat belt and focused on running scenarios.
Timing, as usual, was going to be everything.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The man who had once been Quinton Zane waited in front of the massive stone hearth that dominated the far end of the cavernous living room. A lively fire burned in the big fireplace but no amount of warmth could suppress the underlying miasma of damp and decay that permeated the atmosphere.
Some of the windows had a few panes of glass left in them, but most had been boarded up years earlier.
Drapes shredded with age pooled on the scarred hardwood floor. There were a number of area rugs scattered around the room but they were thin and threadbare. The chairs and couches were oversized to suit the grand proportions of the space but the cushions were ripped and tattered, exposing the yellowed innards.
There was no sign of electricity. The only sources of illumination in addition to the fire were a number of battery-operated camp lanterns. No one had bothered to get a generator up and running, a clear sign that Zane didn’t plan to hang around long.
Devlin Knight escorted Jack to the far end of the room and stopped a few feet in front of the blazing hearth. Quinton had one hand braced against the mantel. A pistol rested on top of the marble ledge very close to his fingers.
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