He talked. He told her the things he needed to tell her. He listened to a few choice words that burned no less for the passage through landline and cell phone from her tongue to his ear. And then he finished packing, covering, hiding his gear, leaving it for retrieval next week or next month. If all went well.
Down through the woods, smell of damp autumn rotting leaves and old bracken taking over from the charred whiff of the house, no clear sight lines for anyone to pick up his movement even if they could actually see a Morgan in full stealth mode. He picked up a satchel he'd left there, heavy with things you never wanted to be caught carrying, rigged it over right shoulder and against left hip so his right hand and hip and holster remained free. Priorities.
He paused at the edge of the road, no tire noise, faint hum from the power transformer on the pole, crows still complaining overhead, debating whether those pesky humans had left the way clear for more mischief. They seemed to be ignoring him. He slipped across the road and into the next tree line, fading into brush. The crows flapped away, something else catching their shiny black eyes and blacker hearts.
Through the woods, through the shrubbery, to the edge of the guesthouse lawn, across the lawn, Daniel drew on those chameleon genes. Caroline's phrase that was, good description. He reached the corner of the house unchallenged and slid along the front wall until he could check the door. Silent check, no touch, status light said the security system seemed to be disarmed. Daniel decided he wouldn't bet money on that seeming.
And besides, he didn't much care if he triggered the alarms or not. It'd take at least fifteen minutes before the first volunteers hit the fire station, started a truck, and wrestled it through the twists and turns and potholes out here to Pratts Neck. Another fifteen minutes before they had a full crew on the scene. By then . . .
He remembered the layout from visits back when Pratts and Morgans visited each other without weapons in their hands. At the living room window, he lifted the flap of his satchel and pulled out a short plastic cylinder, tapered at one end, heavy, pale green with a yellow band and suitably-alarming red lettering. M-34 grenade, white phosphorus, affectionately known as Willie Pete in the trade. One of the army's more curious weapons, it had a bursting radius of 35 meters and the average GI Joe could throw it 30 . . .
He pulled the pin, smashed the living room window, and tossed the grenade inside. Spun along the wall, parlor window, repeated the procedure. Around the corner and smash the library window, and the first grenade popped behind him, a few blazing fragments finding the window and trailing arcs of heavy white smoke out into the lawn. Kitchen window, high over the counter and sink, he reached up and smashed glass and threw the fourth grenade as the second popped. Garage and the fifth, Tom Pratt used to have a bulk gasoline tank in there, five hundred gallons, plus a Mercedes or two, Daniel had high hopes for the garage.
And then he was sprinting and dodging across the lawn and into the shrubs and through them into the trees, no bullets chasing him, maybe half a minute total, and nobody was going to save that house, fire trucks or not. He kept going, distance was good, cover was good, cleared the road and a soul-satisfying whomp! followed him and told him that bulk gas tank had done its thing. Two more booms followed, car tanks probably.
Like he'd told Alice, it was a lot easier if you didn't care whether the fire investigator knew it was arson.
*~*~*
"Elvis has left the building."
Okay, that means just the spook. He didn't take the flint with him. We have to go in after it.
Ben clicked his radio, acknowledging the message. They'd debated the timing on this, who should go in first. Dan would need half an hour or so to get down the hill, through the woods, enter the danger zone. Ben could head in right now. They'd decided that he should; he'd draw attention away from the guesthouse, make that attack safer.
He turned and glared up at Gary and Jane on the Maria, rising on one wave while his dinghy sank into the next trough. Damnfool kids, thought they had to be in on everything. And Dan was backing them. And Alice, sticking her nose into Morgan family business.
Stand back and study the screenplay, though — Jane and Gary made a bit of sense. If people even noticed Gary, nobody with normal hormone levels was going to wonder why a teenaged boy takes his girlfriend out on his boat, autumn full moon, anchors in sheltered waters so nobody has to mind the helm . . .
And nobody at the town landing saw that Ben was aboard, nobody except those damned Haskell Witches even knew Ben was still alive. He didn't climb into the dinghy until they were sheltered close in under the pink granite cliffs, damn few eyes to see him here. If anyone would notice him. Morgan genes.
He glared at Gary, at that girl of his, and shook his head. Kids took chances. That was the nature of kids. He hoped it would work out. Against the odds.
"Remember the plan."
They nodded. He twisted the throttle on his electric motor and the dinghy whined away from Maria and nosed into the stone slot shimmering in front of him, past rough lichened rockweed-draped lumpy cliffs and gnarled half-dead spruce, through stone that faded as he passed it. Illusions. They worked for Morgans, this time. The Pratts' camouflage should hide Maria from eyes across the cove. They'd pulled in close enough, following the channel Pratt smugglers had used for generations.
Into darkness smelling of wet stone and rockweed, and he switched on battery lights showing
