In darkness he located a fresh bulb from the closet and replaced the dead one. Illumination returned. Shaking the old bulb, he tossed it into the trash, where it landed with an implosive pop.
The room went dark. Then light. Dark. Light. Dark. A cricket chirped.
“Son of a bitch.”
He flipped the switch several times in a row, and finally the light remained on. Stevenson retrieved a half-empty bottle of scotch from the cabinet, poured himself a sizeable portion, and lit a cigarette. “Would you like something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I’d like to sleep.” And get the hell out of there, not in that order.
Stevenson leaned against the counter and downed the scotch. “Yeah, it’s been a long day.” He checked his cell phone. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why your father hasn’t called.”
Or a really bad one, Hazel decided.
Stevenson guided Hazel up a narrow flight of stairs leading from the kitchen to the bedrooms, of which she had a choice. All were furnished with sheet-draped antiques, from the large, grand rooms to the smaller servant’s quarters, and all were unoccupied, save one.
“My room.” Stevenson pointed to a door at the far end of the hall, just off the main staircase. “I’ll have the TV on. If it’s too loud, let me know. I can’t sleep when it’s quiet, but I’ll probably be out cold. You need me, just knock.”
“No one else lives here?”
“Just me and the crickets.”
I’M HAVING FUN NOW
“According to NOAA Weather,” Annabel said, “warm, unstable air over coastal waters will produce scattered thunderstorms and small craft advisories.”
Hammon switched the VHF back to Channel 16. “Small craft suggestions.” He eased Revenge away from the dock. The boat was designed specifically to handle pounding waves and high winds, and Hammon found the conditions entertaining. Annabel manned the helm for the first hour, keeping them on an accurate, steady course. When things really began to kick up, Hammon took over, but Annabel stayed above with him and watched the towering anvil clouds off the west flash spectacularly.
Hammon maintained a love/hate relationship with lightning. On the positive side, it thoroughly screwed up low-grade radio waves, disrupting their invisible messages. However, he knew firsthand that being on the receiving end of a direct hit wasn’t amusing, and he’d equipped Revenge with the best lightning protection money could buy. Annabel’s navigation steered them clear of the thunderheads as they moved north.
01:15 SUNDAY, JUNE 27
41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W
PIERMONT, NY
For twenty minutes Hazel waited in the darkness, anxiously following the luminous hands on her watch. Her father had twenty minutes to call and tell her Micah was safe and they were coming for her. That was all she would wait, not a minute longer. Twenty unbearable minutes that passed without a word.
Enough was enough; it was time to move. Heart pounding, she slipped into the hall. Blue light flickered beneath Stevenson’s door, TV voices chattered happily, and a single cricket serenaded, but Hazel heard no human movement. Cautiously she turned the knob, easing the door open the slightest bit and peeking inside. Still dressed, Stevenson lay sprawled across the bed, breathing steady and slow. A cigarette burned down to a smoldering stub in the ashtray on the nightstand while a commercial touted exercise equipment.
“Mr. Stevenson…?” Hazel held her breath, waiting. There was no response.
Guided by slivers of moonlight, she padded down to the kitchen, grabbed a flashlight, all the keys, and cash from Stevenson’s wallet for fuel and emergencies. She made her way to the carriage house and inspected the cars. The Viper was a manual, but too conspicuous. The Mercedes and Chevelle were automatics. The faded Mustang convertible was the odd one out: a bottom-of-the-line six-cylinder base model, but with a manual
The room went dark. Then light. Dark. Light. Dark. A cricket chirped.
“Son of a bitch.”
He flipped the switch several times in a row, and finally the light remained on. Stevenson retrieved a half-empty bottle of scotch from the cabinet, poured himself a sizeable portion, and lit a cigarette. “Would you like something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” she lied. “I’d like to sleep.” And get the hell out of there, not in that order.
Stevenson leaned against the counter and downed the scotch. “Yeah, it’s been a long day.” He checked his cell phone. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why your father hasn’t called.”
Or a really bad one, Hazel decided.
Stevenson guided Hazel up a narrow flight of stairs leading from the kitchen to the bedrooms, of which she had a choice. All were furnished with sheet-draped antiques, from the large, grand rooms to the smaller servant’s quarters, and all were unoccupied, save one.
“My room.” Stevenson pointed to a door at the far end of the hall, just off the main staircase. “I’ll have the TV on. If it’s too loud, let me know. I can’t sleep when it’s quiet, but I’ll probably be out cold. You need me, just knock.”
“No one else lives here?”
“Just me and the crickets.”
I’M HAVING FUN NOW
“According to NOAA Weather,” Annabel said, “warm, unstable air over coastal waters will produce scattered thunderstorms and small craft advisories.”
Hammon switched the VHF back to Channel 16. “Small craft suggestions.” He eased Revenge away from the dock. The boat was designed specifically to handle pounding waves and high winds, and Hammon found the conditions entertaining. Annabel manned the helm for the first hour, keeping them on an accurate, steady course. When things really began to kick up, Hammon took over, but Annabel stayed above with him and watched the towering anvil clouds off the west flash spectacularly.
Hammon maintained a love/hate relationship with lightning. On the positive side, it thoroughly screwed up low-grade radio waves, disrupting their invisible messages. However, he knew firsthand that being on the receiving end of a direct hit wasn’t amusing, and he’d equipped Revenge with the best lightning protection money could buy. Annabel’s navigation steered them clear of the thunderheads as they moved north.
01:15 SUNDAY, JUNE 27
41°01’48.76”N/73°55’09.91”W
PIERMONT, NY
For twenty minutes Hazel waited in the darkness, anxiously following the luminous hands on her watch. Her father had twenty minutes to call and tell her Micah was safe and they were coming for her. That was all she would wait, not a minute longer. Twenty unbearable minutes that passed without a word.
Enough was enough; it was time to move. Heart pounding, she slipped into the hall. Blue light flickered beneath Stevenson’s door, TV voices chattered happily, and a single cricket serenaded, but Hazel heard no human movement. Cautiously she turned the knob, easing the door open the slightest bit and peeking inside. Still dressed, Stevenson lay sprawled across the bed, breathing steady and slow. A cigarette burned down to a smoldering stub in the ashtray on the nightstand while a commercial touted exercise equipment.
“Mr. Stevenson…?” Hazel held her breath, waiting. There was no response.
Guided by slivers of moonlight, she padded down to the kitchen, grabbed a flashlight, all the keys, and cash from Stevenson’s wallet for fuel and emergencies. She made her way to the carriage house and inspected the cars. The Viper was a manual, but too conspicuous. The Mercedes and Chevelle were automatics. The faded Mustang convertible was the odd one out: a bottom-of-the-line six-cylinder base model, but with a manual
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