Page 151 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Voices follow, low enough that I cannot understand individual words but unmistakably male and unmistakably inside my house.

There are at least two, perhaps three.

I slip my phone into my pocket and begin to move without the light.

I know every meter of this estate. I know where the floorboards complain beneath weight and which hall contains a slight dip near the eastern archway because the foundation settled decades before I purchased the property. I know which doors swing inward, which open outward, where the furniture narrows a passage enough to force a person closer to one wall. I know where the security controls are, where spare keys are stored, and where I could wait unseen if I had time to prepare.

What I do not know is how much they know.

The power loss was intentional. The cameras failed in sequence rather than simultaneously, which means someone either understood the system well enough to interfere with it or had spent sufficient time watching to learn its vulnerabilities. They may have blueprints. They may have information from a contractor. They may just be very competent.

Henri, if he is behind this, has had more than twenty years to become very good at employing competent people, I imagine.

I reach the junction near the library and stop when a thin beam of white light passes across the far wall.

Someone is coming.

I step backward into the shadow beside the built-in shelving and remain perfectly still as footsteps approach. A man appears a few seconds later, moving slowly, one hand holding a compact flashlight while the other remains close to his body.

There is something in that second hand.

A gun.

So Ryan was right to be frightened, and, more importantly, I was right to put him behind the laboratory door.

The man passes within several metres of me.

He wears dark clothing without any identifying markings, and moves not like a burglar but a professional.

My first instinct is to move toward the exterior door and leave the house myself, draw whoever is inside away from the laboratory wing and toward the grounds. If Ryan remains hidden and these men believe I have escaped, perhaps they will follow.

Then a cool, authoritative voice rolls down the polished hallway from the front entrance. “Moreau.”

I freeze, every nerve alive.

“Docteur Moreau.” The voice continues as though we’re sharing tea instead of bullets. “Vous pouvez nous faciliter la tâche.” You can make this easier.

A bitter laugh rises in my throat.

Footsteps scuff softly behind me. They’re spreading out. If I let them fan the corridors unchecked, one will reach the laboratory door. It’s reinforced steel, but not impenetrable.

I need to stay their focus.

“J’imagine que c’est moi que vous cherchez.” I assume you’re looking for me.

A flashlight beam snaps up, blinding me momentarily. I lift both hands slowly.

At the far end of the hall, a man—broad-shouldered, perhaps forty, with a bland face that curiosity won’t easily conjure later—trains his weapon on me. “Les mains bien en vue,” he orders. Hands where I can see them.

“Vous avez un problème de vue ? Elles sont déjà levées.” Do you have a problem with your eyesight? They’re already up.

“Plus haut,” the man says coldly, unamused. Higher.

I comply, raising my hands until they’re fully above my head.

Another silhouette glides forward behind him, then a third emerges from an open door to my left. Three of them now, tightening the circle. Perfect.

The first man strides toward me. “Le téléphone.” Phone.