Page 7 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“I’ll take the first floor,” he said, then nodded toward the stairs. “You take the second.”

Devin nodded and took off.

Benji ran into the dining room and searched the walls. No dice. He made a quick pass through the kitchen, doubtful it would be there, but checking just in case. It wasn’t.

As he rushed to the hallway that led to the other side of the house, he clicked on his mic. “Devin, anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Sticks, how’s it going?” He was outside, placing the devices that would set the house’s exterior on fire.

“I’m busy. Don’t bother me.”

If Sticks wasn’t so damn good at setting fires, Benji would have cut him from his crew a long time ago. “We’ve talked about this. Answer the question.”

Sticks huffed, then said, “Everything’s fine. Okay?”

“That’s all I wanted to know.”

The first room Benji reached was a bedroom. On its walls were several expensive-looking illustrations, but none was the piece he wanted.

The damn thing wasn’t in the next bedroom, either.

Frustrated, he moved to the third room and shoved the door open so hard it bounced against the wall and closed again. Swearing under his breath, he opened it with a little less force and moved inside.

Instead of a bedroom, he found himself in a well-appointed home office. And there it was, the painting he was hunting, hanging on the wall behind the desk. The artist was Andrew something. Wyatt? Wayland?

Wyeth. That was it.

He compared it to a photo he had of it on his phone so that there was no mistake, then grinned.

“Found it,” he said. “First floor. Office.”

“On my way,” Devin said.

Benji lifted the painting off the wall and set it on the floor, picture side down. A quick examination revealed how the frame was attached.

“Devin, I need the pliers!”

Feet pounded down the hallway. “Where are you?” Devin called.

“In here.”

Devin rushed in huffing and puffing and set the small canvas bag that held their tools next to Benji. Benji set to work and soon removed the brackets holding the picture to the frame.

“Sticks, if you’re done out there, we need you here now.”

“Two minutes,” Sticks said.

Benji lifted the painting out of the frame and placed it against the wall, out of the way. He then leaned the frame against the desk and held out a hand.

“Ashes.”

Devin handed Benji a Ziploc bag filled with the ashes of a similarly sized canvas that had been created during the same era as the painting.

Benji spilled the contents on the floor, directly below wherethe painting had hung. He then moved the frame to the same area and laid it on the floor. The empty Ziploc went back into the duffel.

“Sticks, where are you?”

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