TEN
JILL SLID THE HEAVY COPPER CREST WITH
the engraved star into its position on the diagram,
above the other three openings. It settled into place
with a light click, flush against the metal plate.
One down. . . She stepped back from the puzzle
lock, smiling triumphantly.
The crows had watched her walk through the hall of
paintings without moving from their perch, crying
out occasionally as she solved the simple puzzle.
There had been six portraits in all, cradle to grave -
- from a newborn baby to a rather stern-looking old
man. She'd assumed they were all of Lord Spencer,
though she'd never seen a photo.
The final painting had been a death scene, a pale
man lying in state and surrounded by mourners.
When she'd flipped the switch on that one, the
painting had actually fallen off the wall, pushed out
by tiny metal pegs at each corner. Behind it had been
a small, velvet-lined opening that held the copper
crest. She'd left the hall without any more trouble;
if the birds had been disappointed, she couldn't
say.
She took a final deep breath of the pleasant night air
before going back into the mansion, pulling Trent's
computer from her pack as she went. Stepping carefully
over the crumpled corpse in the dim hall, she
studied the map, deciding where to try next.
Back the way she'd come, it looked like. She went
back through the double doors that connected the
corridors, into the winding, mild, gray-green hall with
the landscape paintings. According to the map, the
single door just across from her led to a small, squareshaped
room which opened into a larger one.
Tensing, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open,
crouching and pointing her Beretta at the same time.
The small room was indeed square-shaped, and totally
empty.
Straightening, Jill stepped into the chamber, briefly
appraising its simple elegance as she walked toward
the door on her right. It had a high, light ceiling and
the walls were creamy marble flecked with gold;
beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a
vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their
grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what
real money could buy.
She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing metal
of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick
sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she
was alone.
There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath
an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern
couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange
carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall -
- a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual
hooks, shining in the light from the antique light
fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the
room, unable to believe her luck.
Please be loaded, please be loaded.
As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the
make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the
same as the S.T.A.R.S. used: a Remington M870, five
shots.
She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun
with both hands, still grinning -
- and the smile dropped away as both mounting
hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the
gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound
behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing
position.
Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it.
She turned around quickly, searching the room for
movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no
screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights,
none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no
trap.
Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and
found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it,
the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and
oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could
imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was
reassuring, the weight of power.
She searched the rest of the room and was disappointed
not to find any more shells. Still, the Remington
was a find. S.T.A.R.S. vests had a back holster for
a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot
with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could
carry it without tying up her hands.
There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill
walked to the door, excited to get back to the main
hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd
checked out every room that she could open on this
side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they
could head upstairs to finish their search for the
Bravos and their missing teammates.
And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue.
She closed the door behind her and strode across
the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room,
hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found
Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way.
The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the
small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but
wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the
door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious.
There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of
steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one;
the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only
one keyhole, and that's for the knob...
Click! Click! Click!
Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears
turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of
metal from somewhere behind the stone walls.
What?
Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach
shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat.
The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was moving,
the marble at the corners powdering into dust
with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was
coming down.
In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun
room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it
down . . .
. . . and found it locked as solidly as the first.
Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing!
Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the
other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the
lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second,
it'd hit the floor in less than a minute.
Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the
hall, trying not to think about how many shots it
would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt;
it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that
kind of lock.
The first round exploded against the door and
splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared.
The metal plate that supported the bolt extended
across half the door. Her mind raced for an answer
and came up blank. She didn't have the shells to blow
through it and the Beretta carried hollow points, they
flattened on impact.
Maybe I can weaken it, break it down.
She fired again, targeting the frame itself. The
thunderous shot tore apart wood and chipped marble,
but not enough, not even close. The ceiling continued
its clattering descent, now less than ten feet above her
head. She was going to be crushed to death.
God, don't let me die like this.
"Jill? Is that you?"
A muffled voice called from the corridor, and she
felt a sudden, desperate hope course through her at
the sound.
Barry!
"Help! Barry, break it down, now!" Jill shouted,
her voice high and shaking.
"Get back!"
Jill stumbled away as she heard a heavy blow strike
the door. The wood shuddered but held. Jill let out a
low cry of helpless frustration, her terrified gaze
jumping between the door and the ceiling.
Another solid, shaking hit to the door. Five feet
overhead.
Come on, come ON.
The third pounding blow was joined by the crunch
and splinter of wood. The door flew open, Barry
framed in the entry, his face red and sweating, his
hand reaching for hers.
Jill lunged forward and he grabbed her wrist, literally
jerking her off of her feet and into the corridor.
They crashed to the floor as behind them, the door
was crushed off its hinges. Wood and metal squealed
as the ceiling continued smoothly down, the door
snapping in a series of harsh cracks.
With a final, resonating boom of impact, the ceiling
met the floor. It was over, the house again as silent as
a tomb. They staggered to their feet, Jill staring at the
doorway. The entire frame was filled with the solid
block of stone that had been the ceiling, at least a
couple of tons of rock.
"Are you alright?" Barry asked.
Jill didn't answer for a moment. She looked down
at the shotgun she still held in her trembling hands,
remembering how confident she'd been that there'd
been no trap and for the first time, she wondered
how they were ever going to make it out of this hellish
place.
They stood in the empty front hall, Chris pacing the
carpet in front of the stairs, Rebecca standing nervously
by the banister. The massive lobby was as cold
and ominous as when Chris had first seen it, the mute
walls giving away none of their secrets; the S.T.A.R.S.
were gone, and there were no clues as to where or why.
From somewhere deep in the mansion, there was a
heavy rumbling sound, like a giant door being
slammed. They both cocked their heads, listening, but
it wasn't repeated. Chris couldn't even tell from what
direction it had come.
Terrific, that's just great. Zombies, mad scientists,
and now things that go bump in the night. Priceless.
He smiled at Rebecca, hoping that he looked less
rattled than he felt. "Well, no forwarding message. I
guess that moves us to plan B."
"What's plan B?"
Chris sighed. "Hell if I know. But we can start by
checking out that other room with the sword key.
Maybe we can dig up some more information while
we wait for the team to reassemble, a map or something."
Rebecca nodded, and they headed back through the
dining room, Chris leading the way. He didn't like the
idea of exposing her to further danger, but he didn't
want to leave her alone, either, at least not in the main
hall; it didn't feel safe.
As they passed the ticking grandfather clock, something
small and hard cracked beneath Chris's boot.
He crouched down and scooped up a dark gray chunk
of plaster. There were two or three other fragments
nearby.
"Did you notice these when we came through
before?" he asked.
Rebecca shook her head, and Chris ducked down,
looking for more of them. He didn't remember if
they'd been there before, either. On the other side of
the table was a broken pile of the fragments.
They hurried around the end of the long table past
the elaborately decorated fireplace, stopping in front
of the shattered pile. Chris nudged at the gray pieces
with the tip of his boot. From the angles and shapes, it
appeared to have been a statue of some kind.
Whatever it was, it's garbage now.
"Is it important?" Rebecca asked.
Chris shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Worth a look,
anyway. In a situation like this, you never know what
might turn out to be a clue."
The echoing tick of the old clock followed them
back to the hall door and into the smell of decay that
filled the tight corridor. Chris pulled the silver key out
of a pocket as they headed right
and stopped, quickly drawing his Beretta and
moving closer to Rebecca. The door at the end of the
hall was closed; when they'd left, it had been standing
open.
There was no sense of being watched, of movement
in the hall, but someone must have come through
while they'd been in the lobby. The thought was
disconcerting, reaffirming Chris's uneasy feeling that
secret things were happening all around them. The
dead creature to their left was in the same position as
before, its blood-filled eyes staring blindly at the low
ceiling, and Chris wondered again who had killed it.
He knew he should examine the corpse and the
unsecured area beyond it, but didn't want to go off on
his own until he got Rebecca somewhere safe.
"Come on," he whispered, and they edged to the
locked door, Chris handing the key to Rebecca so that
he could watch the hall for attackers. With a soft click,
the intricately paneled door was unlocked, and
Rebecca gently pushed it open.
Chris could feel that the room was okay even as he
did a quick check and motioned for Rebecca to step
inside. It was set up like a piano bar, a baby grand
dominating the floor across from a built-in counter,
complete with stools bolted along its length. Perhaps
it was the soft lighting or the muted colors that gave it
such an atmosphere of calm stillness. Whatever it
was, Chris decided that it was the nicest room he'd
encountered so far.
And maybe a good place for Rebecca to stay while I
try to find the others.
Rebecca perched herself on the edge of the dusty
black piano bench while Chris did a more thorough
search of the room. There were a couple of potted
plants, a small table, and a tiny alcove behind the wall
where the piano was situated, a couple of wood
bookshelves pushed in back. The only entrance was
the one they'd come through. It was an ideal spot for
Rebecca to hide.
He holstered his weapon and joined her at the
piano, trying to choose his words carefully; he didn't
want to scare her with the suggestion that she stay
behind. She smiled up at him hesitantly, looking even
younger than she was, her spiky red bangs adding to
the impression that she was only a child. . .
. . . a child who got through college in less time than
it took you to get your pilot's license; don't patronize
her, she's probably smarter than you are.
Chris sighed inwardly and smiled back at her.
"How would you feel about staying here while I take a
look around the house?"
Her smile faltered a little, but she met his gaze
evenly. "Makes sense," she said. "I don't have a gun,
and if you run into trouble, I'd just slow you
down."
She grinned wider and added, "Though if you get
your ass kicked by a mathematical theorem, don't
come crying to me."
Chris laughed, as much at his own faulty assumptions
as at her joke; she wasn't one to be underestimated.
He walked to the door, pausing as his hand
touched the knob.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Lock the
door behind me, and don't go wandering off, okay?"
Rebecca nodded, and he stepped back into the hall,
closing the door firmly behind him. He waited until
he heard the bolt drawn and drew his Beretta, the last
trace of a smile falling away as he started briskly
down the corridor.
The closer he got to the rotting creature, the worse
the smell. He took shallow sips of air as he reached
the body, stepping past it to see if the hall continued
on before he examined it for bullet holes
and he stopped cold, staring at the second corpse
stretched out in the alcove, headless and covered in
blood. Chris studied the slack, lifeless features of the
face that lay a foot away, recognizing them as Kenneth
Sullivan's and felt a surge of anger and renewed
determination sweep through him at the sight of the
dead Bravo.
This is wrong, all wrong. Joseph, Ken, probably
Billy - how many others have died? How many more
have to suffer because of a stupid accident?
He finally turned away, striding purposefully toward
the door that led back to the dining room. He'd
start from the main hall, checking every possible path
that the S.T.A.R.S. could have taken and killing every
creature that got in the way of his search.
His teammates weren't going to have died for
nothing; Chris would see to it, if it was the last thing
he ever did.
Rebecca locked the door after Chris left, silently
wishing him good luck before walking back to the
dusty piano and sitting down. She knew that he felt
responsible for her, and wondered again how she
could've been so stupid, dropping her gun.
At least if I had a gun, he wouldn't have to worry so
much. I may be inexperienced, but I went through
basic training, just like everybody else.
She traced a finger aimlessly across the dusty keys,
feeling useless. She should've taken some of those files
from the storage room. She didn't know that there
was much more to be learned from them, but at least
she'd have something to read. She wasn't very good at
sitting still, and having nothing to do only made it
worse.
You could practice, her mind suggested brightly, and
Rebecca smiled a little, gazing down at the keys. No,
thanks. She'd suffered through four long years of
lessons as a child before her mother had finally let her
quit.
She stood up, looking randomly around the silent
room for something to keep her occupied. She walked
to the bar and leaned over it, but saw only a few
shelves of glasses and a stack of napkins, all thinly
coated with dust. There were several liquor bottles,
most of them empty, and a few unopened bottles of
expensive-looking wine on the counter behind the
bar.
Rebecca dismissed the thought even as it occurred
to her. She wasn't much of a drinker, and now wasn't
exactly the best time to tie one on. Sighing, she turned
and surveyed the rest of the room.
Besides the piano, there wasn't much to see. There
was a single small painting of a woman on the wall to
her left, a bland portrait in a dark frame; a slowly
dying plant on the floor next to the piano, the leafy
kind she always saw in nice restaurants; a table that
extended out from the wall with an overturned martini
glass on top. Considering what she had to work
with, the piano was starting to look pretty interesting.
She walked past the baby grand and peered into the
small opening to her right. There were two empty
bookshelves pushed to one side, nothing interesting.
Frowning, she stepped closer to the shelves. The
smaller one on the outside was empty, but the one
behind it.
She placed her hands on either side of the end piece
and pushed, sliding the outer shelf forward. It wasn't
heavy and moved easily, leaving a track in the dust on
the wood floor.
Rebecca scanned the hidden shelves, feeling disappointed.
A dented old bugle, a dusty glass candy dish,
a couple of knickknack vases-and some piano sheet
music propped up on a tiny holder. She peered down
at the title and felt a sudden rush of warm nostalgia
for when she used to play; it was Moonlight Sonata,
one of her favorite pieces.
She picked up the yellowing sheets, remembering
the hours she'd put in trying to learn it when she was
ten or eleven. In fact, it had been this very piece of
music that had made her realize she wasn't cut out to
be a pianist. It was a beautiful, delicate tune and she'd
pretty much butchered it every time she took the
bench.
Still holding the composition, she walked back
around the corner and gazed at the piano thoughtfully.
It wasn't like she had anything better to do.
And besides, maybe one of the other team members
will hear it and come knocking, trying to track down
the source of the terrible noise.
Grinning, she dusted the bench off and sat down,
propping the sheets open on the music holder. Her
fingers found the correct positions almost automatically
as she read the opening notes, like she'd never
given it up. It was a comforting feeling, a welcome
change from the horrors inside the mansion.
Slowly, hesitantly, she started to play. As the first
melancholy sounds rose into the stillness, Rebecca
found herself relaxing, letting tension and fear slip
away. She still wasn't very good, her tempo as off as
ever-but she hit all the right notes, and the strength
of the melody more than made up for her lack of
finesse.
If only the keys weren't so stiff.
Something moved behind her.
Rebecca jumped up, knocking the bench over as she
spun around, searching wildly for the attacker. What
she saw was so unexpected that she froze for a few
seconds, unable to comprehend what her senses were
telling her.
The wall is moving.
Even as the last notes lingered in the cool air, a
three-foot panel of the bare wall to her right slid
upwards into the ceiling, rumbling to a gentle halt.
For a moment she didn't move, waiting for something
terrible to happen, but as the seconds ticked
past in silence, nothing else moved; the room was as
quiet and non-threatening as before.
Hidden sheet music. A strange stiffness to the
keys . . .
. . . like maybe they were connected to some kind of
a mechanism?
The narrow opening revealed a hidden chamber
about the size of a walk-in closet, as softly lit as the
rest of the room. Except for a bust and pedestal in the
back, it was empty.
She stepped toward the opening and then paused,
thoughts of death-traps and poison darts whirling
through her mind. What if she walked in and triggered
some kind of a catastrophe? What if the door
closed and she was trapped there, and Chris didn't
come back?
What if you were the only member of the S. T.A.R.S.
who didn't accomplish jack-shit on this entire mission?
Show some backbone.
Rebecca steeled herself against the consequences
and stepped inside, looking around cautiously. If
there was a threat here, she didn't see it. The plain
stucco walls were the color of coffee with cream, offset
by dark wood trim. The light in the small chamber
was provided by a window into a tiny greenhouse on
her right, a handful of dying plants behind the dirty
glass.
She moved closer to the pedestal at the back, noting
that the stone bust on top was of Beethoven; she
recognized the stern countenance and heavy brow of
the Moonlight Sonata's composer. The pedestal itself
boasted a thick gold emblem shaped like a shield or
coat of arms, about the size of a dinner plate.
Rebecca crouched down next to the simple pillar,
gazing at the emblem. It looked solid and thick, with a
vaguely royal design in a paler gold set across the top.
It looked familiar; she'd seen the same design somewhere
else in the house.
In the dining room, over the fireplace!
Yes, that was it, only the piece over the mantle
was made out of wood, she was sure of it. She'd
noticed it while Chris was looking at the broken
statue.
Curious, she touched the emblem, tracing the pattern
across the front-and then grasped the slightly
raised edges with both hands and lifted. The heavy
emblem came away easily, almost as if it didn't belong
there and behind her the secret door rumbled down,
sealing her inside.
Without hesitating, she turned and placed the emblem
back in its hollow-and the section of wall rose
again, sliding up smoothly on hidden tracks. Relieved,
she stared down at the heavy gold emblem,
thinking.
Someone had rigged all this up in order to keep the
medal hidden, so it had to be important-but how
was she supposed to remove it? Did the one over the
fireplace also reveal a secret passage?
Or... is the one over the fireplace the same size?
She couldn't be positive, but she thought it wasand
she knew instinctively that it was the right
answer. If she switched the two of them, using the
wood emblem to keep the door open and placing the
gold one over the mantle . . .
Rebecca headed back into the room, smiling. Chris
told her to stay put, but she wouldn't be gone more
than a minute or two-and perhaps when he got
back, she'd have something to show him, a real
contribution toward solving the secrets of the mansion.
And proof that she wasn't so useless after all.
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