It took Maggie a moment to answer. “Turn around. We’re headed in the wrong direction.”
“Why? Where are they?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“I’ll believe you. Just tell me.”
“They’re at Quinn’s cabin.”
“Quinn? As in Sebastian J.? I don’t believe it.”
“It gets worse. Cameron’s holding a gun on Quinn. He thinks Quinn’s the one who killed Sapphire.”
Now it was Candy’s turn to look stunned. She blinked several times, shook her head, and slowed the Jeep to a crawl, then cranked the steering wheel as she expertly made a three-point turn in the middle of the road. With the Jeep pointed in the opposite direction, she gunned the gas pedal, and they headed back through the gathering darkness toward Cape Willington.
Thirty-One
The cabin Sebastian J. Quinn had rented for the summer was located at the end of a dirt road, on a high, rocky spur that jutted out into the sea. It was a rugged section of the coast, but a cluster of small wooden summer cabins clung tightly to this piece of land, as they had for decades, standing tough against the frequent onslaughts of sea and storm that could be beyond fierce. On summer days, though, when the sea was calm, the sun bright, and the breezes warm out of the south, when the gulls were impatiently wheeling high overhead and distant sails floated lazily past out on the sharp line of the horizon, when you could sit on this piece of land with your feet up and a book in your hand and forget anything or anyone else existed, you knew there was no place else like it on earth.
Quinn’s cabin was isolated and peaceful, though the place could hardly be called luxurious. It was fifty years old if it was a day, and that was probably being kind, but it was charming in a rustic way, even though it lacked any aesthetically pleasing features. It was a simple cape, with a gray clapboard exterior and white-trimmed windows that looked as if they hadn’t been washed since Eisenhower’s presidency. On the sea side — the front of the house — was a screened porch with weathered rockers, and beyond that, out at the edge of the property, just above the sea, sat a welcoming pair of Adirondack chairs, painted blue and yellow.
Candy could picture the cabin’s interior in her mind, though she had never been inside, but she knew such places well enough. It would have a camplike feel, with a linoleum floor in the kitchen and threadbare carpeting in the living area, walls of varnished pine that held the smells of the ages, big comfy chairs and perhaps a few antique lights, and a checkerboard set on a side table, waiting for someone to play. There would be a couple of bedrooms up a narrow stairway, and a single bathroom on the first floor that had been added to one side of the house sometime in the sixties or seventies.
It probably went for about fifteen hundred a week and more than likely was never empty from May through October.
A rented white sedan sat in the parking area behind the house. Next to it was Cameron’s truck.
Candy drove up slowly behind the truck, eased the Jeep to a stop, switched off the headlights, and shut off the engine.
They sat for a moment in silence, exchanging wary looks, listening to the roar of the ocean. On days when the sea was calm, you’d never know it was there if you were facing the other direction. But when a storm blew in and the sea rose in fury, it could sound like an approaching train — or perhaps a dozen of them all at once. And if the tide was high, and gray breakers pounded at the rocky coast, driving great sprays of seawater into the air — it was then you understood and respected the power of the sea.
Fortunately, the heaviest rain still held off, except for brief waves of heavy drops that sprayed the coastline. Candy leaned forward and looked up at the dark sky, then turned toward the cabin. “I guess we should go inside.”
“I guess so.”
A pause. “You go first. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Spoken like a true friend.” Maggie took a deep breath. “Okay, here I go.”
She had just reached for the Jeep’s door handle when she heard a shout to her right. Looking over, she saw the cabin’s back door swing open. Amanda ran out.
“Amanda!” Maggie cried, jumping out.
“Mom, you’re here!”
“Amanda! My baby!”
They ran into each other’s arms and hugged.
“What took you so long?” Amanda asked, looking worried.
“We got here as quickly as we could. What in the devil’s name is going on?”
Amanda hesitated, casting a glance at Candy, then looking back at her mother. She took Maggie’s arm, tugging her toward the cabin. “You’d better come inside.”
Maggie let her daughter pull her through the door, and Candy followed. They entered a small mudroom, then turned right into a narrow kitchen.
“Amanda, what... ?” Maggie began, but Amanda shushed her, then turned toward a doorway that led to the cabin’s living area. “Cam, it’s me. We’re coming in,” Amanda called out.
There was a mumbled response. Amanda led them into the room beyond.
It took Candy a few moments to make sense of all she saw.
The large, gray-carpeted room doubled as a dining area and living room, with a dining table and chairs in one corner, a big comfy sofa in the middle, and windows all along the side that looked out over the sea — an incredible view during the daytime, Candy guessed. Bookshelves lined the back wall, and a stone fireplace occupied the interior wall to her left. It was a cozy, inviting place — though tonight it looked storm tossed, as if a great wind had somehow broken into the place and swept incautiously through.
Near the center of the room, sitting in a straight-backed chair, was Sebastian J. Quinn, wearing khakis, a baggy, faded blue sweatshirt, and old-man’s slippers. His hands appeared to be tied behind his back, held in place with repeated wrappings of steel gray duct tape. A gag had been tied around his mouth. Candy shuddered when he looked at her with hateful eyes, then followed his gaze as it shifted across the room.
Candy saw him then, Cameron, the same tall, scrawny kid, standing in a darkened corner. His lopsided grin was gone, though, his shaggy hair even more disheveled, and his green eyes were narrow and intense. A hunting rifle was tucked into his shoulder. His finger rested uneasily near the trigger, the muzzle pointed straight at Sebastian J. Quinn’s chest.
Candy couldn’t help but gasp.
She noticed how stiff Cameron stood, how stoic his face had become. All the joy had gone out of him. He looked not unlike a caged animal.
“Cameron,” she said softly, her voice shaking, “what are you doing?”
Almost simultaneously, Maggie let out a shriek. “Cameron! Put that thing down before you hurt someone!” she demanded sharply.
But he barely acknowledged their presence. Sebastian J. Quinn grunted something, drawing Candy’s attention. “Why is he tied up like that?” she asked, the confusion evident in her voice. She started toward him, not sure what she planned to do, although she supposed she should free him. But she was stopped by a shout.
“Don’t move!”
“What?” Candy turned to Cameron, her brows falling, her head tilting. “Cameron, I don’t understand what’s happening. We can’t leave him like that. We have to untie him — right now.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? This is crazy. What are you doing?”
Cameron’s face shifted just slightly at Candy’s questions, as if he were being scolded by a parent. In response, he pointed with his eyes and a tilt of his head. “It’s over there.”
Both Maggie and Candy turned — and that’s when Candy saw the files.
