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 some-
thing."
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, some- thing 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 assump-
tions as at her joke; she wasn't one to be underesti-
mated. 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 to-
ward 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 marti-
