On Harrow Hill

Again in single file, but this time on foot, they came back around to the front of the house and up the wide marble steps while removing their helmets—six burly men with backwoods beards, followed by a smaller, clean-shaven man with a silvery pompadour.

The front door opened. As they went into the house, Gurney caught a glimpse of Lorinda in the foyer light, wearing a cream-colored jacket.

Again, all was peaceful on the tablet screen. A few birds flew by, heading for their evening roosts.

“Okay, Sherlock, I guess that’s it. You see what you wanted to see?”

“I think so. Lorinda was threatened with blackmail by someone who claimed to have incriminating photos of Aspern’s death, and she called Gant instead of the police. And Gant arrived with muscle to spare.”

“You figure that means she and Gant killed Aspern?”

“I’d say there’s an awfully good chance. You don’t think so?”

“Suppose she doesn’t trust cops. Just wants to handle the situation her own way. Keep control of the outcome. Attitude like that is fucking genetic, you know what I mean?”

“I do. But I think we can agree that what we saw on that screen was not a major indicator of innocence.”

Hardwick spit over the railing of the porch. “Fine. Can we get out of here now? I’m getting eaten alive by the goddamn gnats.”

Gurney nodded. “Bring the drone down, pack it up, and we’re done.”

Hardwick picked up the controller, checked the settings, and—

“Whoa!” cried Gurney, pointing at the tablet.

Hardwick leaned closer to the screen. “What the fuck?”

A dark vehicle, barely visible through the trees, had just come to a stop at the open entry gate.

“Can you reposition the drone for a better view?” asked Gurney.

Keeping an eye on the screen, Hardwick began adjusting the levers and dials on the controller. As the drone moved, its field of view changed, but none of the new perspectives offered a clearer view of the vehicle.

“Who the hell is that?” said Hardwick.

A dark figure emerged from the vehicle and started to move through the allée toward the house. Although the allée trees were in the way, the view here was less obstructed, and when the figure emerged into the open area beneath the portico, there was no obstruction at all. The screen showed an individual in a black, hooded, ankle-length poncho, standing perfectly still, approximately twenty feet from the steps leading up to the front door. Gurney was reminded of the Grim Reaper—this figure lacked only the scythe.

The door opened, and a big man in black leathers came out onto the steps, followed by another, and another, until six in all had arrayed themselves in a wide semicircle facing the motionless figure in the poncho. All six were carrying assault rifles. A seventh man then emerged and stood in front of the open doorway. A warm glow from the foyer behind him highlighted his silver-gray hair.

“It’s Gant, no doubt about it,” said Hardwick, “but what the fuck’s going on?”

Gurney had a sinking feeling about what was going on. A disaster that he’d failed to anticipate.

Gant appeared to be speaking—almost certainly to the figure in the poncho. Because of the hood, it was impossible to see if there was any response.

Gant spoke again, and his six companions began to raise their weapons.

There was a sudden movement under the poncho as the individual crouched, swiveling rapidly from left to right and back again, the poncho vibrating along with the movement, as one after another of the big men were knocked backward onto the marble steps.

Gurney heard the sound of an automatic weapon firing steadily for four or five seconds, the sound coming not via the drone, which wasn’t equipped for audio transmission, but directly through the half mile of forest that separated the Russell house from Aspern’s.

On the screen, Gant was now returning fire with a pistol.

The figure in the poncho staggered sideways—dropping what looked to Gurney like an Uzi with an extended magazine—and sank to his knees.

Gant took a step forward, raising his pistol slowly in a two-handed grip. As he was leveling it on his kneeling target, the side of the poncho flew up, revealing something that looked like a narrow-tubed leaf-blower. A stream of flame shot out of it, reaching Gant and instantly engulfing him.

Gant staggered backward, dropping the pistol, waving his arms wildly, falling through the open doorway behind him, pursued by that stream of flame, now reaching into the center hall of the house.

The wounded figure in the poncho struggled to an upright position. Stumbling forward, he turned the blast of fire on each of the men sprawled on the steps, then collapsed backward like a felled tree. The weapon was now pointing straight up, its long tongue of flame igniting the underside of the portico roof and cascading back down on the immobile figure in the poncho.

Seven burning bodies lay outside the Russell mansion. Inside, the fire was rapidly taking hold.