dock. It was a classic teak and mahogany runabout with twin inboard motors about twenty feet in length. When the driver fired it up, they skimmed across the quarter mile to the island in what felt like a matter of moments. They put in at a long extended dock that was visible from the opposite shore, part of an elaborate landing complex near where Haxley’s seaplane was moored.
Two men in black security guard uniforms escorted him from the lake toward the castle. Getting a closer look at the Crag in broad daylight than he had during their nocturnal escape from the island last fall, Will saw that the grounds were extensively gardened and meticulously maintained. At close range the overwhelming size and scale of the castle was much more apparent, by far the largest private residence Will had ever seen. Built with square roughhewn blocks of granite of a shade Will had seen in the surrounding hills. It must’ve been quarried locally. Decorative fingers of ivy scaled many of the walls. His escorts led him down a path around the side to a separate entrance, the one Will guessed they reserved for the help.
The door led into a kitchen, or the section of it reserved for staff use, a vast working space designed to handle large numbers of guests, bustling with a dozen people hard at work preparing a meal. The escorts handed him off there to a sturdy man Will assumed was a butler, although he wore a plain black suit, shirt, and tie instead of the uniform Will had seen butlers wear in the movies. The man looked at him with a sneer, oozing contempt, and Will felt an instant dislike for him. The butler didn’t say a word as he beckoned him to follow, leading him out through a sequence of impressive rooms—dining room, living room, billiards room—and into a private study.
Bookshelves lined walls that rose to a twenty-foot ceiling and a huge stone fireplace leaned over the room. Buttery leather couches, thick Persian rugs, dark hardwood furniture, and a mighty slab of a desk in the corner. A giant globe sat on a massive, curved wooden stand in the corner. The air smelled faintly of spicy aftershave and expensive cigars. It might’ve been the office of a member of Congress or a nineteenth-century explorer.
The butler backed out and closed the sliding panel doors behind him, leaving Will alone. He glanced around, afraid to touch or even look too closely at anything. He couldn’t see a camera anywhere, but felt like somebody might be watching him on video.
Another door on the opposite side of the room opened and Stan Haxley strode in, smoking a cigar and wearing dress pants, suspenders, and a white tuxedo shirt with an undone bow tie around his neck. He seemed animated with a kind of salesman’s vitality that Will hadn’t seen yesterday.
“You’re right on time, Will, and I’m not,” said Haxley with a broad smile and a handshake. “Hope you don’t mind the cigar. It’s the one room in the house where I can indulge.”
Will didn’t know what to say to that. No, dude, you can’t fire up a Cubano heater in your own office.
“My dear wife, Patricia, neglected to tell me we were hosting a dinner party tonight,” said Haxley, pouring himself a drink at a bar behind his desk. “So I’m afraid we’ll have to be brief.”
Haxley took his drink—single-malt Scotch, according to the bottle—and perched on one of the couches. He gestured with his cigar for Will to sit across from him, then studied him with a slight half-smile as if amused by some private joke.
Will said nothing.
RULE #12: LET THE OTHER GUY DO THE TALKING.
“I’ve asked around about you, Will.”
Will said nothing.
“There is definite interest here in finding you some work this summer,” Haxley continued.
Will nodded but kept quiet. Haxley took a leisurely pull off his cigar and blew a fat smoke ring that hung lazily in the air.
“In fact, I believe I may have a suitable job for you right now. How quickly would you be able to jump in,
Two men in black security guard uniforms escorted him from the lake toward the castle. Getting a closer look at the Crag in broad daylight than he had during their nocturnal escape from the island last fall, Will saw that the grounds were extensively gardened and meticulously maintained. At close range the overwhelming size and scale of the castle was much more apparent, by far the largest private residence Will had ever seen. Built with square roughhewn blocks of granite of a shade Will had seen in the surrounding hills. It must’ve been quarried locally. Decorative fingers of ivy scaled many of the walls. His escorts led him down a path around the side to a separate entrance, the one Will guessed they reserved for the help.
The door led into a kitchen, or the section of it reserved for staff use, a vast working space designed to handle large numbers of guests, bustling with a dozen people hard at work preparing a meal. The escorts handed him off there to a sturdy man Will assumed was a butler, although he wore a plain black suit, shirt, and tie instead of the uniform Will had seen butlers wear in the movies. The man looked at him with a sneer, oozing contempt, and Will felt an instant dislike for him. The butler didn’t say a word as he beckoned him to follow, leading him out through a sequence of impressive rooms—dining room, living room, billiards room—and into a private study.
Bookshelves lined walls that rose to a twenty-foot ceiling and a huge stone fireplace leaned over the room. Buttery leather couches, thick Persian rugs, dark hardwood furniture, and a mighty slab of a desk in the corner. A giant globe sat on a massive, curved wooden stand in the corner. The air smelled faintly of spicy aftershave and expensive cigars. It might’ve been the office of a member of Congress or a nineteenth-century explorer.
The butler backed out and closed the sliding panel doors behind him, leaving Will alone. He glanced around, afraid to touch or even look too closely at anything. He couldn’t see a camera anywhere, but felt like somebody might be watching him on video.
Another door on the opposite side of the room opened and Stan Haxley strode in, smoking a cigar and wearing dress pants, suspenders, and a white tuxedo shirt with an undone bow tie around his neck. He seemed animated with a kind of salesman’s vitality that Will hadn’t seen yesterday.
“You’re right on time, Will, and I’m not,” said Haxley with a broad smile and a handshake. “Hope you don’t mind the cigar. It’s the one room in the house where I can indulge.”
Will didn’t know what to say to that. No, dude, you can’t fire up a Cubano heater in your own office.
“My dear wife, Patricia, neglected to tell me we were hosting a dinner party tonight,” said Haxley, pouring himself a drink at a bar behind his desk. “So I’m afraid we’ll have to be brief.”
Haxley took his drink—single-malt Scotch, according to the bottle—and perched on one of the couches. He gestured with his cigar for Will to sit across from him, then studied him with a slight half-smile as if amused by some private joke.
Will said nothing.
RULE #12: LET THE OTHER GUY DO THE TALKING.
“I’ve asked around about you, Will.”
Will said nothing.
“There is definite interest here in finding you some work this summer,” Haxley continued.
Will nodded but kept quiet. Haxley took a leisurely pull off his cigar and blew a fat smoke ring that hung lazily in the air.
“In fact, I believe I may have a suitable job for you right now. How quickly would you be able to jump in,
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