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.
