The Instruments of Darkness: A Thriller

Chapter XCIII

We pulled up at the entrance to Private Road 7 with dawn still an hour off. The road was now gated, although the gate wasn’t locked.

“We could just head straight to Pinette,” said Louis.

“If we’re wrong about him, and he’s found common ground with the Michauds, we’ll have played our hand and lost,” I said. “We’ll maybe also get ourselves killed. No, I want to see what’s in there first. With luck, it’ll include Reggio.”

“Are you just going to walk in and ask where your friend is?” inquired Sabine.

“He’s not a friend,” I said, “but other than that, yes. Besides”—I checked my gun to ensure the safety was off before restoring it to its holster—“this is just a scouting mission, and there are many ways of asking.”

Angel got out of the car, checked the gate using the flashlight on his cell phone, and came back.

“It’s got a little dual-beam alert to prevent it from being opened without activating an alarm,” he said. “I could try disabling it, but it doesn’t seem worth the trouble when we can just climb over or cut through the trees. That thing is only for people too dumb or careless to know better.”

I looked at Louis, who shrugged.

“These are last season’s pants,” he said.

“Thank God for that.”

“What about me?” asked Sabine.

“You stay here. I understand your wish to help Henry Clark, but if we bring you with us you’ll be a distraction, and that could get someone shot.” I eased the car forward, to where the verge was wide enough to allow me to park off the road. “If you remain low, you won’t attract any attention from passing vehicles, but keep your phone close.”

“What should I do if someone does come along, like the police?”

Louis opened the door and prepared to join Angel.

“Lie,” said Louis. “You’re a white lady. They’ll believe you.”

Sabine watched him go.

“Is he always like that?”

“Pretty much,” I replied.

“Doesn’t it get wearing?”

“Only if you listen.”

WE SKIRTED THE GATEto enter the Michaud land, staying parallel to the road without using it. The gravel was pale, so anyone walking on it risked standing out, day or night. Something flitted through the shadows above my head. It sounded small and fast: a bat, hunting the last of the night bugs.

Gradually, the house came into view. Lamps burned behind two windows, but the thin drapes were drawn. The illumination flickered, and I could faintly hear the laughter of a TV audience: someone was up early, or late. I could see a security light positioned just above the front door, and guessed there would be another at the rear. If we stepped onto the grass or got too close to the edge of the trees, the light would bathe the yard, alerting whoever was inside.

I wasn’t being truthful with Sabine when I told her we only wanted to scout the Michaud property. I now had no doubt that Reggio had visited and never left, despite the discovery of his vehicle elsewhere. But there remained a chance that he might still be alive, which meant one of us would have to gain access to find out. Ideally, it would first be useful to get close enough to be able to see through the windows, but the perfect was the enemy of the possible.

We moved to the back of the house. As anticipated, there was another security light above the door, but on this side the rooms were dark.

“Return to the front,” I told Angel, “and set off the other light.”

It would attract the attention of anyone in the house, leaving the rear vulnerable.

“You want noise, too?” asked Angel.

“Noise would be good, but keep it low-key. I want to draw them out, but I don’t want them shooting.”

Angel moved off, leaving Louis and me alone.

“Are you going in,” he asked, “or am I?”

“Do you want to go in?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that answers the question, doesn’t it?”

“What if Reggio isn’t in there? Going to be kind of embarrassing for you.”

“Only if I’m seen, and then embarrassment will be the least of our worries. But these are the people we’re looking for. Depending on what Reggio told them or whatever they figured out for themselves, they’ll be on edge. Reggio’s arrival will have tipped them off that the net’s closing.”

The trees at the front of the house glowed brightly as the security light came on. It was followed by a clatter from the direction of the garage: Angel had gone to work. I waited until I heard the front door open before starting my run across the yard.

Which was when a woman carrying a shotgun emerged from the woods, her face and hands streaked with dirt. Her hair was longer and darker now, and the collar of her jacket was raised high against the chill of the night, but even so, I knew I was looking at Eliza Michaud, the woman who had called herself Mara Teller. She, in turn, recognized me. I could see it in her face. The time for dissembling was past. She already had the shotgun raised, and didn’t halt her advance. She just kept coming as she fired.