****
It was about two AM when a noise outside woke me up—a car door slamming down the block maybe. I lay in bed for a couple of minutes, thinking through all the details again, chasing down every possibility. Finally, I accepted that I wasn’t getting back to sleep any time soon, got up, and went down to the kitchen. Ashna was still up, sitting in front of her laptop at the breakfast bar, chin resting in one hand, narrowed eyes crinkled at the corners as she stared through her screen, working on some problem in her head. I could almost see the data streams converging and separating, looping and spinning in her eyes. I eased past and put water on, found some mint tea in a drawer, and made two cups. Ashna looked up when I placed the tea on the counter in front of her.
“This asshole’s systems admins are pretty good. His shit is well protected.”
“No luck?”
“Not yet. Growth mindset, Justin. Never say can’t. Say not yet.”
“Do you know the term hermeneutics?”
“Maybe. Biblical something or other?”
“Kind of. It refers to a protocol for interpreting communication. Not the interpretation itself, that’s exegesis. It’s just the theory of how you go about interpreting.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I feel like our problem is not that we can’t interpret the data we have, it’s that we don’t even have a good protocol for interpreting it. No idea how to even start.”
I left Ashna mulling that point, took my tea, and strolled over to the windows facing the street, thinking about the sound that had woken me. Belka, curled up on a club chair, chirped at me as I passed and I ran my hand over his head, scratching him around the ears. Outside all was quiet and dark. I stared out the window for a few minutes, thinking, until a movement caught my eye and I turned, looking up the street in the opposite direction. A black Escalade was parked in front of Jutting’s house. As I watched, a man in all black and wearing a chauffeur’s cap dropped out of the driver’s side. The front door of the house opened and a security guard came out. The pair stood in the street talking, glancing occasionally at watches, looking toward the house. Somebody came out onto the porch with a large suitcase and went back in. Jutting was going somewhere. Or maybe St. Martin? Either way, I wanted to know where, even if it was just to the airport. I ran upstairs, dumped my bag out, found what I was looking for, and bolted back down.
“Back in a minute,” I called to Ashna, opening the front door and exiting quietly. The night air was cool and the pavement was damp under my bare feet. I crouched low, staying behind parked cars on the opposite side of the street from Jutting’s house. Directly across from his front door, I stopped behind a Volvo wagon and peeked around. Another suitcase was on the porch. The guard and the driver were still in the street. They seemed to have run out of small talk. They were both standing silently, faced toward the house. The door opened and Victoria Butler came out. She rolled a third suitcase onto the porch.
“Put these in the back, please. We’ll be out in a couple of minutes,” she called then stepped back inside. The chauffeur and guard started toward the porch and I knew my opportunity had arrived. I darted out. The device I had with me was a GPS tracker with a magnet built into the case so it could be placed on the underside of a car. It was supposed to work internationally. I had used similar trackers several times before and always kept one with me when on a job. Keeping the bulk of the Escalade between me and Jutting’s porch, I quickly affixed the tracker to the bottom of the frame and slipped back around the Volvo. I waited there while they loaded the suitcases, listening in case they said anything interesting. Before long, I heard Victoria’s voice again.
“Mr. Jutting is coming. Get the car started and be ready please.” The engine roared to life. Doors opened and closed. I glanced around the back of the boxy wagon and saw Jutting, Victoria, and St. Martin walking down the steps. I waited until the last door thumped closed and the car turned the corner at the end of the road before hurrying back. Ashna met me at the door.
“What happened?”
“Jutting, St. Martin, and Victoria Butler left. They had suitcases. I put a tracker on the car.”
We went to the kitchen and sat at the breakfast bar, drinking tea and watching the blip on the map. They headed north out of London and then northwest. It quickly became clear to me what was happening.
“They’re going to Powick,” I said. “To the asylum.”
“Why?” Ashna asked.
“I don’t know. But they’re headed that direction and I have a feeling that’s where they’re going.”
“Should we follow them?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yeah. Pack enough stuff for a day or two and let’s go.”
Chapter 19
Pentimento
July 5: Powick
“Pentimento,” Ashna said, glancing over at me. We were speeding along the road to Powick, my third visit in two days. It was very dark on that country highway. My phone showed that Jutting and company had parked at the old asylum. We were twenty minutes behind them.
“What about it?” I asked.
“It’s when an artist changes a painting. Like say they paint out a person’s arm or something and put it in a different position but there’s still evidence of the original composition.”
“Yes, I know. Remember, I’m the one who paid attention in art history.”
“Well, it just popped into my head. Could be a metaphor for our situation or something.”
“Deep. I was just thinking about something I read a long time ago. Can’t even remember who wrote it. It said,
