Chapter 6 - The Unwelcome Guests
Nathan stepped out of the hidden alcove, sliding the wooden panel back into a semblance of its original position just as Warrick burst through the double doors of the library.
Warrick’s heavy wool coat was soaked with rain, his silver hair plastered to his forehead, and in his right hand, he held a snub-nosed .38 revolver he usually kept locked in the glove box of the sedan.
“Who’s out there?” Nathan asked, his voice dropping into its cold, dangerous register.
“Doyle,” Warrick breathed, lowering the pistol slightly as he caught his breath. “The detective. And he brought two unmarked cruisers with him. They didn't use the front gate; they cut through the cliffside access road.”
Nathan walked calmly toward the library entrance. “Why would Detective Doyle come out here in the middle of a torrential downpour?”
“Because he didn't follow us here to congratulate you on your real estate purchase,” Warrick said, stepping aside to let Nathan see down the grand hallway.
Through the tall glass sidelights of the front entrance, two blue police cruisers sat idling in the driveway, their emergency flashers painting the dripping pillars in rhythmic strokes of crimson and blue. Detective Whitaker Doyle stood on the front porch beneath the portico, bareheaded, water streaming down his face, hammering his fist against the heavy oak door.
“He knows something,” Warrick muttered. “Or he tracked Lyle.”
“Lyle?”
“Boston investor left the hotel ten minutes after we did. His car was parked down the road near the cliff trail.”
Nathan’s mind worked with ruthless speed. Lyle hadn't just walked away at the hotel; he had been waiting to see if Nathan would actually enter the house—or if the rumors of the curse would keep him out. When Nathan walked in, Lyle had panicked, calling the one cop in Newport who refused to let the 2019 case die.
“Let him in,” Nathan said.
“Nathan—”
“Let him in, Warrick. It’s time the Newport Police Department finished the investigation they abandoned six years ago.”
Warrick hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded and walked toward the massive front door. He unlatched the heavy iron bolt and pulled it open.
Detective Doyle stepped inside instantly, his raincoat dripping onto the antique foyer rug. His hand hovered nervously near his service weapon, his eyes darting from Warrick to Nathan, who stood calmly at the entrance of the east wing corridor.
“Vance,” Doyle said, his voice tight with adrenaline. “You picked a hell of a night to move in.”
“I prefer quiet nights, Detective,” Nathan replied, walking slowly toward him. “Though your arrival is making things rather loud.”
Doyle wiped rain from his eyes, stepping further into the foyer. “I got an anonymous tip fifteen minutes ago. A call from a burner phone registered in Boston. Said there was an armed trespasser inside the Ostrander estate.”
“You drove four miles through a hurricane on an anonymous tip?” Nathan asked, a faint, cold smile touching the corner of his mouth.
“I drove out here because the tipster gave me a specific plate number,” Doyle snapped, stepping closer. “Boston plates. Belonging to Prescott Lyle. And Lyle told my dispatcher that you didn't buy this house to live in it, Vance. He said you were looking for the archive.”
The foyer fell completely silent, save for the wind howling against the leaded glass windows.
Doyle stared hard at Nathan, his chest rising and falling. “What did you find in this house, Vance?”
From the dark corridor behind Nathan, the sound of heavy, deliberate paws clicked against the floorboards.
Detective Doyle froze. His color drained instantly, his hand dropping away from his holster as his eyes widened in sheer disbelief.
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Out of the shadows stepped the massive black mastiff, its head held high, staring directly at the detective with unwavering recognition.
“My God,” Doyle whispered, taking a half-step backward. “That dog died in the fire.”
