With the keyless remote aimed at him, Charlie was forced to return the SIG Sauer, surrender the Walther he’d wedged into the back of his waistband, then silently precede Fielding up the stairs.
They came to a wide, dimly lit hallway lined with pastorals in oil and seven tall doors. Fielding turned with shoulders raised. Charlie pointed to the farthest door.
Fielding trod the creaky planks as gingerly as a cat. Charlie followed, just as careful to be quiet. Cooperating now was his only chance of survival.
At the door, Fielding waved Charlie ahead. Charlie gripped the crystal doorknob, twisted it without a sound, then tapped open the door. With the curtains shut, the room was nearly black, but the spill from the hallway sconces was enough to reveal, in silhouette, the man beneath the comforter on the four-poster bed, a halo of white hair against a pillow. Fielding inched past Charlie and into the room.
Charlie believed his greatest advantage was that Fielding wasn’t expecting him to try anything. Elbowing his fear aside, Charlie backed into the hall and took a silent step toward the stairs.
He heard the snap of the light switch in the wall plate back in the bedroom. No light came on. Of course. He’d yanked the fuse twenty minutes ago. Still, in a second or two, Fielding would know he had captured not Drummond but Mort.
Charlie ran for all he was worth. To the landing. Fourteen stairs in four bounds. Then into the bathroom beside the den. He jumped onto the toilet seat-he’d closed it ahead of time. He dove through the already-raised window, landing in a prickly hedge behind the house.
Bouncing to his feet, he raced to the toolshed. The open Durango sat on the structure’s far side, driver’s door open, engine idling softly, dashboard dimmed to nothing, and headlights off. Charlie flew in.
Now, conspicuous was desirable. He popped on the high beams, slammed the accelerator for maximum tire squeal, then tore into the gravel driveway.
Once the hilly driveway dipped to a point that the Durango was out of sight of the house, he swatted off the headlights and slowed to as close to a crawl as first gear would allow. He turned onto a pasture, then bobbed for about a hundred yards to a onetime hay barn, parking on the side that faced away from the house.
He opened the driver’s door, in slow motion, for fear that the sound would carry over the open fields, slipped out, then closed the door just as gingerly. With an armful of winter clothing and other provisions found in the mudroom, he stole to the barn’s side door and ducked inside.
Candicane was waiting. Drummond was dozing between a pair of horse blankets in the hayloft.