Patch was silent for a moment. "Right," he finally said.

The tone in Patch's voice stung Nick. They were supposed to be friends, best friends; now they were supposed to be brothers, or half brothers, at least. And yet everything they had been through had only alienated them from each other. Nick knew it wasn't permanent, but it felt like he and Patch were walking this delicate line between trust and betrayal. Now, after yesterday's revelation, Nick was nervous about talking to Patch. Nick was supposed to tell his best friend everything, and once again, he had failed.

Nick turned around to look at Patch in the backseat. "You haven't been here before, have you?"

Patch shook his head. "Nope. I mean, I've driven by while staying with you, but I always a.s.sumed it belonged to some banker or something."

The three of them walked up to the front door and stood there, unsure of what to do.

"We can't just ring the doorbell," Nick said. "'Um, hi, we're here to try out a key on a few locks.'"

"Should we go to a back door or something?" Patch asked. "This house looks like it has about ten different entrances on the first floor."

At that moment, the giant oak door opened, its knocker clattering ominously. The three of them were startled, and Phoebe grabbed Nick's arm.

They stared in amazement. It couldn't be, but it was.

"Horatio?" Nick finally asked. "What on earth are you doing here?" Nick finally asked. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Chapter Forty-Five.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the library of Eaton House, which was almost cozy, considering that it was an estate with no personal effects in it whatsoever. The room they were in was filled with books, objects, and paintings, but it lacked any specific touches: no family photos, no alb.u.ms, no libraries of worn-out paperbacks. Horatio had lit a fire and was serving the three of them hot apple cider.

"There was a stipulation in your grandfather's will," he explained. "A private agreement that he and I had together. Not something the lawyers would have read to you yesterday."

Nick was amazed at how much of the Bell family business Horatio was aware of. He warned himself to be on guard. As they sat there drinking cider, Nick was reminded for a moment of their time at the Great Cottage on Isis Island. He and all the other Initiates were dulled into submission with a steady dose of mouthwatering food, the best drinks, music, and good conversation. It had all concealed the fact that the Society was responsible for some truly evil deeds.

Was Horatio a member? An employee of the Bradford Trust a.s.sociation? Nick had no idea.

"The stipulation was that your grandfather asked that if you did not reach your goal by the time of his death, I was to help you. I was about to visit you in Manhattan and bring you here, but I was informed this morning that you had already left. I think your grandfather would have been very pleased."

"What is this goal exactly?" Nick asked. "It would help if you could be a bit more specific."

"I can't be any more specific than your grandfather was," Horatio said. "I am an employee of his estate."

"Come on, can't you just give it up and tell us what's going on?" Patch said.

Horatio looked at them blankly. "Gentlemen, my life's purpose was to serve your grandfather. I can't leave him now, particularly when he has no say in the matter."

"But that's exactly the point!" Nick said. "He has no say in the matter. Can you at least tell us what we're looking for? What's he going to do? Fire you from the grave?"

"Master Bell, I can't bear to hear your grandfather spoken of that way. I am sorry if my vocation doesn't agree with you. I am only here to serve."

Nick sighed. The guy was like a robot.

Phoebe stepped in, and Nick was grateful.

"Horatio, why don't you show us what Mr. Bell wanted us to see? I think that's what he would have liked, right?"

Horatio pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He unfolded it carefully, and read it as if declaiming poetry: "'You must go to the beach, you must go down below. Below the surface of things.'"

"That's what my grandfather told us," Nick said.

"Wait a second," Phoebe said. "It's obvious."

"What's obvious?" Nick asked. "Do we have to start digging or something?"

"No," Phoebe said. "The key will open up a door in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

Chapter Forty-Six.

Horatio led the three of them to the bas.e.m.e.nt. They walked down a narrow staircase and through a series of rooms that were partially finished with brick walls and exposed timbers and had a dank, musty smell. It was an old-school bas.e.m.e.nt, with a no-frills wine cellar, a root cellar for vegetables, and storage for furniture and odds and ends. All the clutter must have come with the house, Phoebe figured, since no one lived here, or so it seemed.

This was the type of bas.e.m.e.nt where secrets were buried.

"I am to leave you here," Horatio said, a little too smoothly.

"Wait a second," Phoebe said. "I don't think so. Patch, you go with him." Phoebe had seen enough of the Society's maneuvers to know that she wasn't going to step into a strange bas.e.m.e.nt without anyone aboveground knowing where she was.

"As you wish," Horatio said.

Patch followed him. "This was all getting a bit too Edgar Allan Poe for me anyway," Patch said. He was right. It was very "Cask of Amontillado," the story where one man leaves another to die in a catacomb. Phoebe shivered.

"If you don't hear from us in twenty minutes, call the police," Phoebe said.

Nick laughed at her, though she wondered if it was for Horatio's benefit. "We'll be fine. Pheeb, your imagination is far too vivid."

Phoebe glared at Nick. How could he be so nonchalant about all this? Maybe it was merely a front for the terror he was feeling. Horatio and Patch were soon upstairs again; she could hear their footsteps above her.

After going through several more doors, all of which were unlocked with nothing behind them, they approached an old steel door.

"Do you think..." Nick's voice trailed off as he held up the key. It seemed like their last chance.

"Go ahead," Phoebe said. She bit her lip as Nick removed the tiny key from around his neck. He inserted it into the bra.s.s lock and gave it a turn. To their astonishment, the door opened, as if it were controlled electronically.

The two of them stepped inside.

Nick fumbled for a light switch and finally found one. Just as the lights flickered on, the metal door closed behind them.

"Oh my G.o.d," Phoebe said. She fumbled frantically at the door. Were they trapped?

"Relax," Nick said. He pushed a b.u.t.ton below the light switch, and the door opened again.

"We'd better get out of here," Phoebe said. "This is way too creepy. What if there's no oxygen in the room or something?"

"Come on, don't you want to find out what this is all about?"

He was right. Phoebe blinked as she looked around. The door closed again. She noticed one difference already, as the door closed. Not only were the walls of this enormous room a clean, pure white, with properly finished surfaces, but the humidity was much lower, not the dank moisture of the bas.e.m.e.nt, but an even, steady level of cool air. Not too dry, not too wet. And the lights were not too bright, not too dark.

Like a museum.

Phoebe looked around and Nick followed her. There were at least a dozen enormous wooden packing crates. She was suddenly drawn back to her time at the Schrader Gallery, when she had been allowed to browse the artist collections that were stored in the back room. She now realized that this was the same thing.

Inside all of these boxes were artworks.

Three paintings were on easels at the back of the room. She didn't recognize the first two, but when she looked at the third, she realized it was the Pollock that belonged to Nick's parents. She pointed it out to Nick, and he shook his head in dismay.

She looked at some of the names on the crates. Each was meticulously labeled with the name of an artist: Vermeer, Rembrandt, Degas, Cezanne.

Phoebe gasped as she read the t.i.tle of each piece. "Do you know what these are?" she asked Nick.

"No, I don't." He seemed frustrated with her.

"They are only some of the most famous stolen paintings in the world. I mean, holy c.r.a.p, was your grandfather really part of this? Do you know how much jail time he could have done if he was ever caught?"

They looked around the room, walking by each boxed work, as well as the few that were on easels. There were more famous names: Brueghel, Watteau, Manet.

"Okay, this has got to be a joke." Nick pointed to one box.

Phoebe read aloud. "The Mona Lisa Mona Lisa."

"You're kidding me," Nick said. "The Mona Lisa Mona Lisa isn't a stolen artwork." isn't a stolen artwork."

"No," Phoebe said. "It's not. But it was stolen from the Louvre in the early 1900s. My mom read a book about it. At that time, they actually made copies, and then thieves would return either the copy or the original back to the museum, depending on how they were playing it."

"So you're telling me that the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa in the Louvre is a copy, and this is the original?" in the Louvre is a copy, and this is the original?"

"No," Phoebe shook her head. "The Mona Lisa Mona Lisa in the Louvre has been authenticated. Your grandfather had a copy there." in the Louvre has been authenticated. Your grandfather had a copy there."

"But he had to have known that. Why would he keep a copy?"

"I think he probably did. Maybe it thrilled him to have a little piece of the history of art. Or, rather, the history of art theft theft."

"Okay, this is all getting too weird," Nick said. "I say we go back up."

Phoebe followed Nick through the door and back through the dank bas.e.m.e.nt pa.s.sageway.

"What do you think we should do?" Phoebe said, her voice echoing slightly in the bas.e.m.e.nt. "I mean, these pieces have to be returned, don't you think? Some of those works have been missing for decades!"

Did Nick realize the enormity of what they had uncovered? The discovery of these paintings would shake up not only the art world, but quite possibly, the global economy. It would be in the news for months. Books would be written about it, films would be made, the parties involved would be interviewed- If the Society knew about their discovery, none of that would happen.

Nick and Phoebe reached the staircase leading up to the first floor and were grateful when they found themselves in the kitchen of the enormous house. Patch was waiting there, sitting at the antique farm table while Horatio read a copy of the Financial Times Financial Times.

As Nick and Phoebe told Patch what they had seen, he shook his head in amazement.

"Give me your car service account number," Patch said to Nick. "There's only one person who can help us figure this out."

Chapter Forty-Seven.

It took Patch fifteen minutes on the phone before he could cajole Genie into joining them in Southampton. She had come back late that morning from her vacation in the Catskills, and it was everything he could do to convince her that traveling two hours out to the beach would be a worthwhile pursuit. He promised her that a town car would meet her outside the apartment in twenty minutes. She fussed and complained, but ultimately, Patch told her she didn't have a choice.

With those words, she joined them.

The next few hours pa.s.sed strangely, as Horatio began to prepare an elaborate lunch for the three of them. Nick insisted that he not go to any trouble, but they were hungry after their trip and the anguish of trying to figure out what was going on.

The three of them roamed around the house, but there wasn't a single personal artifact, not even a single clue, that led them to know its story.

"I don't think anyone actually lives here," Phoebe said, as they poked around one of the bedrooms.

"Why do you say that?" Nick asked.

"I just looked at one of the bathrooms. There are no toiletries, no personal items. Even a guesthouse would have certain amenities."

"Maybe the Bradford Trust keeps it as an investment, and the Society uses it for meetings," Patch said.

Nick nodded. "I think you're probably right."

"What I want to know," Phoebe said, "is where does the money come from to pay for all this?"

"Maybe we just saw it all downstairs," Nick said. "Maybe they sell off the artwork, bit by bit."

"It's possible," Patch said. "But I think it's a bit more aboveground. If they started with a certain amount of capital and they invested it wisely, they would have hundreds of millions of dollars by now. I mean, the older members pay dues, right? Like, ten thousand a year or something?"

"I think so," Nick said.

"Think about it-that's more than enough to pay for it all. Let's say they have two hundred dues-paying members-that would be two million dollars a year. Invest that, year after year, and you've got more than enough to finance all this."

Horatio rang a bell downstairs in the kitchen, which meant they were being summoned for lunch. The smells of cooking had already started wafting up to the second floor. Once they had started their meal, Patch had to admit that Horatio's cooking was even better than that of Gertie, Nick's family's cook in the city. Horatio had prepared them a lunch of tomato fennel soup, grilled cheese sandwiches with truffle oil, a winter salad of apples and pecans, and a steaming pot of tea to go along with fresh lemon-glazed scones for dessert.

The three of them ate cautiously in the breakfast area on the sunporch.