44
ANSON
I found Twill crouching on the side of the cottage, partially hidden behind an air conditioning unit, her back against one of the cottage’s support pillars, holding the wrench in her left hand.
When I knelt beside her, she whispered inches from my ear, her breath warm, “A knife is messy. It’s dangerous.
There are three of them and only two of us, and I learned long ago you should never underestimate the strength or stupidity of a drunk male.
We’re not going to risk waking them. We’re not even going inside.
” She nodded at the tube of superglue in my hand.
“I want you to circle the outside and glue every door and window shut. You don’t need much, just a drop on each.
If they do wake up, I don’t want to risk them getting out. I don’t think they’ll wake up, though.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The kitchen stove is fueled by propane. The tank is out back—I saw it through a window,” she explained. “I’m going to find the pipe under the cottage and open it up so the gas leaks inside and fills that whole goddamn place up.”
“You’ll need a flame to . . .”
Then I remembered what she had said, the flickering light—Keith had filled the bedroom with candles.
“If we’re lucky,” she added, “we’ll be halfway back to the Quick before the place goes up.”