She had not let her mother see her unlock the combo safe located at the top of her bedroom closet or put the gun in her belt clip. Her mom had never wanted her daughter to be a cop. One in the family was enough, she had often said. However, Gibson had wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps. As the oldest child, with two brothers coming in behind her, she had held her uniformed father in awe. But, initially, bowing to the will of her mother, Gibson had joined the force as a forensics tech. That had mollified her mom, since Gibson would show up at the crime scene only after all the danger had passed.
When she secretly took and passed the written and physical exams to enter the police academy, her mother had thrown a fit. It wasn’t until her father, Rick Rogers, stepped in that she was allowed to pursue her dream. Her old man was proud of her, Gibson knew, though he rarely showed it. Public displays of affection were not in the DNA of the Rogers family. Gibson could count on one hand the number of times her mother had hugged or kissed her. And she could count those times on one finger with her father — that was the day of her graduation from the police academy.
He hadn’t done it at her wedding, for reasons he had made clear to his daughter prior to Gibson’s walking down the aisle.
She turned off the road she was on and started down another. The property was just up ahead on the right.
And maybe I’ll find some British ghosts living in the old mansion.
She slowed as she saw the stone monuments on either side of a driveway. The plaque on one of the monuments read: STORMFIELD.
Arlene Robinson hadn’t told her the name of the place, not that it mattered.
There was a wrought iron gate but it hung open. Farther down and partially concealed by some overgrown bushes stood a mailbox. She drove up the cobblestone lane and swung around a bend in the road. Revealed was a sprawling old manor house that looked as though it hadn’t changed a jot since it had been built. Rutger Novak’s renovation must have all been on the interior.
She could only describe the architecture as an unruly blend of baronial, feudal, and gothic with a bit of Versailles thrown in for no apparent reason. It sat in front of her, stained and discolored after a long residence next to the unforgiving elements of an estuary reeking of equal parts saltwater and freshwater.
She parked in front and got out. The only sound was the breeze and the occasional bird opening its beak in anticipation of the dawning springtime. The tree canopies were still relatively bare, and the gloomy sky did not provide much light in the afternoon. She figured when it turned dark it would be difficult to see anything. And then she decided to hurry because it had just occurred to her that the place might not have electricity.
She snagged a flashlight from her van, because, as large as the house was, it would be dark in some places, regardless of the light outside.
Gibson made her way up to the front doors, which were each twelve feet tall and constructed of solid oak. She found the cat statue and the key underneath. As she set the statue back in place, it seemed to her that the feline was warning her to flee from here before it was too late.
When she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the musty air abruptly hit her. That was strange, she thought, because the place, supposedly, had been recently inhabited. Yet maybe it always smelled like this.
She suddenly looked around for an alarm pad. A bit panicked, Gibson listened for the sound of beeping prompting the inputting of a code before it was too late. She saw the alarm pad to the left of the doors, but its panel was dark.
That’s also odd.
But it was also lucky for her, since she had not been given the alarm code.
Gibson took out her iPad from her bag and turned on the video feature. She had no idea of the floor plan here, but since the place was nearly as large as a small shopping mall, this was not going to be a single afternoon’s worth of work. She started in the foyer, where there were two suits of armor standing about eight feet tall and still looking dwarfed by the immense space.
There was a large dining room fully, if incompatibly, outfitted with Baroque pieces and a Chippendale sideboard. Gibson had become something of an expert about such things while hunting the assets of the rich and shifty over the last couple years. On the walls were oil paintings mostly consisting of colonial scenery and waterfront landscapes. She didn’t think they were originals, or if they were, she doubted they were worth much. There was a nineteenth-century-era bar set up in a massive, hinged globe on rollers, and some nice Oriental rugs. Those might bring in decent bucks.
She walked down hallways and into other rooms, taking video and dictating pertinent information to the extent she could find any from either the objects themselves or her own expertise. She could Google everything later. She passed by a broad window and looked out at the dying sun. The rear grounds gazed out upon the James River, which looked dark and slick as it slid slowly past Newport News, turned to the east, and emptied into the Chesapeake Bay between Hampton and Norfolk. Beyond that was the unnervingly long Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. After that, was the Atlantic.
Gibson had been across the Bay Bridge-Tunnel a few times and had never cared for the experience. It was over seventeen miles long, with artificial islands built along the route, and the bridge seemed to disappear right into the middle of the bay where the road entered the tunnels. It was like the highway was executing a suicidal dive into the water, taking all traffic with it.
Along the shoreline she spotted an old boathouse with an attached dock. There was a covered cabin cruiser there that might fetch some dollars. She decided to check on it while it was still light outside. She had already confirmed that there was no electricity turned on, which probably accounted for the musty smell, what with no air circulation.
Gibson headed down a slippery stone path to the shoreline of the James River. The boat was a Formula cabin cruiser, the hull white with blue and red accents. She estimated it was about forty feet in length and seemed to be in good shape, though it still had its winter cover on, so her views were limited. She took video of it and then tried the door of the boathouse, but it was locked. She peered in the window but couldn’t see much.
She trekked back to the house and entered the library. The shelves were mostly empty, so it appeared Novak had either cleared it out or wasn’t much of a reader.
Gibson walked over to one section of shelves to look at a large vase placed there when she felt something on her ankles.
She stopped and eyed the wall. It didn’t precisely meet the adjacent section of wood. There was about an inch sticking out. She set her iPad down, curled her fingers around the wood, and pulled. The wall swung open on a pivot pin set in the floor, revealing a darkened space. She could now hear something whirring close by. And there was the same sensation of airflow she had felt on her ankles when the wall was mostly closed.
She punched her flashlight on and adjusted the beam so it was concentrated. Her other hand rested on the butt of her Beretta. Four steps in she saw the source of the sound and airflow. A battery powered fan had been set on the floor within feet of the opening. She kept going.
And then the smell hit her.
Damn, I recognize that.
The hallway curved and she curved with it. She shone her light on walls that were damp stone; they probably dated back to the original construction.
She directed the beam back and forth in front of her as she walked along.
And then Gibson stopped and kept the beam on one spot. From out of the darkness, a slash of white and twin pops of color representing a toothy mouth and bulging eyes.