Paula Sutton's gambit made real the rule of unintended consequences. Gina must have panicked, Mason theorized, believing that her past was going to catch up to her, and gone to Nix, perhaps to warn him, perhaps to ask his help. Mason doubted Nix killed Gina. It was more likely that Nix would slip away under cover of darkness, content to set up shop somewhere else. Centurion would have had a different solution, equally pragmatic but deadly. He had too much invested in Sanctuary to walk away. Car-jacking Mason to find out what he'd done with the baby ledger was proof enough of that.
Though he was satisfied with his analysis, Mason still couldn't make Trent part of Nix's equation. It was time to talk with Terry Nix. First, he called Blues.
"Are you and Centurion still playing Me and My Shadow?" Mason asked him.
"Gave it up. Samantha's got the cops covering him so close, every time he farts, they gotta roll down a window."
Mason said, "Centurion must know he's being watched."
"They ain't keeping it a secret," Blues replied.
"Where was Centurion when you last saw him?"
"Holed up in a big house in Sunset Hills, belongs to one of Sanctuary's sponsors. He doesn't want to give the cops any reason to go sniffing around Sanctuary."
"Perfect. I'm going to have a chat with Terry Nix."
"You need any help putting that dog in a mellow mood, you let me know."
Mason pulled into the center drive at Sanctuary just after seven o'clock. The grounds were deserted, the main house dark, except for a light over the porch, the only other illumination from October's first moon. A lone girl was climbing into a Jeep as he got out of his car.
"Where is everybody?" Mason asked.
"Sent home," she said. "I'm the last."
"What happened?"
"Something about insurance coverage. That's all I know."
"How about Terry Nix? Is he still here?"
"Yeah," the girl said. "He was packing until some woman showed up. Last I saw, they were headed downstairs."
Mason's cell phone rang as the girl drove away.
"Lou, it's Samantha. Where are you?"
"In the front yard of Sanctuary. I came out here to talk to Terry Nix. All the kids are gone. The place is shut down."
"My people followed Centurion to a house in Sunset Hills that belongs to Kelsey Bond, one of his big contributors. He made Bond smuggle him out in the back of his car and drive to Sanctuary, but Bond jumped out when they got off I-70, made it to a gas station, and called us."
Mason looked at his watch. It was 7:05. "How long since Bond jumped out of the car?"
Samantha said, "An hour, give or take."
"What kind of car?" Mason asked, walking toward the garage.
"A Lexus sedan. Lou, I'm on the way. Get out of there," Samantha said.
Mason opened the side door to the four-car garage. A Lexus, its hood still warm, was parked next to Abby's BMW. "Can't do it, Sam. Abby is inside," he said, hanging up.
Mason searched the garage for a weapon, finding a box cutter hidden under a pile of oily rags. Slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket, he circled the grounds, looking for signs of life. He crossed a brick patio with a liquid-propane barbecue grill next to the barn, which smelled of hay and machine oil. Hoping to find a better weapon, he was disappointed when there was nothing there except for a tractor, three ATVs, an assortment of tools, and a heater already in service used to warm the barn during cold weather.
Back outside, he jogged along the perimeter of the house, the first and second floors silent and dark. Lights were on in a third-floor room on the back where, from Jordan's description, Centurion had his apartment. Mason moved on, skirting the evergreen hedge that hugged the house, coming to a break in the hedge for a pair of daylight windows cut into Terry Nix's basement office.
Though the night air was cool, Mason was sweating, his breathing accelerating when he saw Centurion, Nix, and Abby in Nix's office. Abby was strapped into a chair, duct tape holding her arms and legs in place, a small swatch over her mouth, her eyes stretched wide with fear. A syringe lay on Nix's desk next to two open gym bags partially stuffed with cash, another tall stack of currency on Nix's desk. A third bag lay open, its cargo neatly piled plastic bags of white powder.
Though he couldn't hear what they were saying, Mason could tell that Centurion and Nix were arguing. Nix's face was red and he was gesturing wildly, clutching the baby ledger, while Centurion listened, his hands planted at his sides, his head down. Judging from the body language, Nix was chewing out Centurion, an indulgence Mason expected Centurion would soon end with his fist. The argument had to be about how to divide the cash and the drugs, a dispute complicated by Abby, though Mason was worried that they were in agreement about her.
Centurion had raced back to Sanctuary to pick up the money and drugs before Nix could skip out with them. Nix was obviously on the same schedule, though Mason doubted that they were using the same travel agent. Neither one could have been happy that Abby showed up, and both were desperate enough not to leave her as a loose end.
Mason didn't like the odds of getting Abby out by tapping on the window and asking if she could come out and play any better than he liked the odds of walking in and telling Centurion and Nix that he'd dropped by to pick Abby up for dinner. Samantha was at least half an hour away, and the arrival of an army of cops would, at best, make Abby a hostage of two men with nothing to lose. More bad odds, Mason decided. He needed to get Centurion and Nix out of the office without giving them a reason to kill Abby before they left.
Mason retraced his steps, not risking being seen passing the windows, running to the patio next to the barn, almost tripping over the barbecue grill. He disconnected the twenty-pound propane tank from the grill and carried it inside the barn, setting it down about thirty feet from the heater. Pulling off the front panel of the heater, he found the pilot light, an orange and blue finger of flame barely illuminating the inside of the heater, but powerful enough for what he had in mind.
From a case he'd once handled, Mason knew propane gas escaping from a tank would pool along the ground because it was heavier than air, eventually exploding if it mixed with the right amount of oxygen and found an ignition source. Mason opened the barn door, letting cool air pour in from the outside, feeding the furnace that was designed to suck it in, warming and recirculating it. The combination, Mason hoped, would draw the propane to the pilot light, generating a rich enough mixture of propane and oxygen to turn the barn into a one-shot Roman candle. The one variable Mason couldn't account for was how long it would take before the propane ignited. When it did, he hoped Centurion and Nix would take it as a sign from God to hit the road.
Mason opened the valve on the propane tank and ran without looking back. He slipped into the garage, following the covered walkway that connected it to the house. The door into the house was unlocked and the security alarm was off. Centurion and Nix were obviously more concerned about getting out than about who might get in.
Mason walked quickly through a room lined with empty coat hooks and built-in boot baskets, then a laundry room with three washers and dryers, and a pantry stocked with food for a small army. The barn exploded as he entered the kitchen, the shock wave shattering windows, shards of glass rifling the air as he dove for cover, sliding across the hardwood floor into the dining room, its walls bathed in the incandescent glow of the fireball that poured out of the barn.