tom of the steps, she saw that the door connecting one
hall to the next was standing open. She could hear
crickets singing faintly, feel the fresh night air wafting
toward her through the frigid mustiness of the house.
She hurried to the darker corridor and hooked a
right, trying not to get her hopes up. Another sharp
right and she could see the door that led to the
covered walkway standing open.
Maybe that's all it is, it doesn't mean the puzzle's
solved.
Jill broke into a run, feeling the clean warmth of
summer air against her skin as she rounded the corner
in the stone path and let out a short, triumphant laugh as she saw the four placed crests next to the open door. A warm
breeze was flowing through the room that the puzzle
had unlocked, a small storage shed for gardening
tools. The metal door on the wall opposite was
standing open, and Jill could see moonlight playing
across a brick wall just past the rusted hinges.
Barry had been right, the door led outside. They'd
be able to get help now, find a safe route through the
woods or at least signal.
But if Barry found the missing pieces, why didn't he
come looking for me?
Jill's grin faded as she stepped into the shed,
absently taking in the dusty boxes and barrels that
lined the gray stone walls. Barry had known where she
was, had suggested himself that she take the second
floor of the west wing. . .
So maybe it wasn 't Barry who opened the door.
True, it could've been Chris or Wesker or one of the
Bravos. If that was the case, she should probably go
back in and look for Barry.
Or investigate a little first, make sure it's worth the
effort.
It was a bit of a rationalization, but she had to
admit to herself that the thought of returning to the
mansion with a possible escape in front of her wasn't
all that enticing. She unholstered her Beretta and walked toward the outer door, her decision made.
The first thing she noticed was the sound of rushing
water over the soft forest noises that filled the cooling
air, like a waterfall. The second and third were the
bodies of the two dogs that lay across the irregular
stone path, shot to death.
Pretty safe bet that one of the S.T.A.R.S. came this
way. . .
Jill edged out into a high-walled courtyard, low
hedges set into brick planters on either side. Dark
clouds hung oppressively low overhead. Across the
open space was a barred iron gate just past an island
of shrubs; to her left, a straight path overshadowed by
the ten-foot-high brick walls that bordered it. The
gentle waterfall sound seemed to come from that
direction, though the path ended abruptly in a metal
gate a few feet high.
Stairs going down maybe?
Jill hesitated, looked back at the arched, rusty gate
in front of her and then at the curled bodies of the
mutant dogs. They were both closer to the gate than
the walkway, and assuming they'd been killed while
attacking, the shooter would have been headed in that
direction.
There was a sudden sound of water splashing
wildly, making the decision for her. Jill turned and
ran down the moonlit walk, hoping to catch a glimpse
of whatever was making the noise.
She reached the end of the stone path and leaned
over the gate, then drew back a little, surprised by
the sudden drop off. There were no stairs, the gate
opened to a tiny platform elevator and a huge, open
courtyard, twenty feet below.
The splashing was off to the right, and Jill looked
down and across the wide yard just in time to see a
shadowy figure walk through the waterfall she'd
heard, disappearing behind the curtain of water that
cascaded down the west wall.
What the hell?
She stared at the small waterfall, blinking, not sure
if her eyes were playing tricks on her. The splashing
had stopped as soon as the person disappeared, and
she was fairly certain that she wasn't hearing things-
which meant that the rushing water concealed a secret
passage.
Great, that's just what this place needs. Lord knows I
didn't get enough of that inside.
The controls for the one-man lift were on a metal
bar next to the rusting gate, the platform itself down
in the courtyard. Jill toggled the power switch, but
nothing happened. She'd have to get down another way, wasting time while the mysterious splasher got
farther away.
Unless. . .
Jill looked down the narrow elevator shaft, an inset
square only three feet across and open on the side
facing the yard. Coming up would be a bitch, but
descending? Cake. She could crouch her way down in
a minute or less, using her back and legs to support
her weight.
As she unstrapped the shotgun from her back in
preparation for the climb, a disturbing thought oc-
curred to her - if the person who'd gone through the waterfall was one of the S.T.A.R.S., how had they
known that the passage was even there?
Good question, and not one she wanted to linger
over. Holding the shotgun tightly, Jill pushed the gate
open and carefully started down the shaft.
They'd given Barry a full fifteen minutes before
heading through the winding halls of the west wing
and finding the open back door.
They stood therenow, looking at the slab of copper
and its four engraved crests.
Chris stared at the crescent moon that Barry had
taken, feeling confused and more than a little worried.
Barry was one of the most honest, straightforward guys
that he had ever known. If he said that he was going to
look for Jill and then come back for them, then that's
what he meant to do.
But he didn't come back. And if he ran into trouble,
how did the piece I gave him end up here?
He didn't like any of the explanations his mind was
giving him to work with. Someone could have taken it
from him, he could've placed it himself and then been
injured somehow ... the possibilities seemed end-
less, and none of them good.
Sighing, he turned away from the diagram and
looked at Rebecca. "Whatever happened to Barry, we should go ahead. This may be the only way off the
estate."
Rebecca smiled a little. "Fine by me. It just feels good to get out of there, you know?"
"Yeah, no kidding," he said, with feeling. He hadn't even realized how accustomed he'd grown to the cold,
oppressive atmosphere of the house until they'd left
it. The difference was truly amazing.
They walked through the tidy storage room and
stopped at the back door, both of them breathing
deeply. Rebecca checked her Beretta for about the
hundredth time since they'd left the main hall, chew-
ing at her lower lip nervously. Chris could see how tightly wound she was and tried to think if there was
anything she needed to know, anything that would
help her if they were forced into a combat situation.
S.T.A.R.S. training covered all the basics, but shoot-
ing at a video screen with a toy gun was a far cry from
the real thing.
He grinned suddenly, remembering the words of
wisdom he'd gotten on his first operation, a stand-off
with a small group of whacked-out survivalists in
upstate New York. He'd been terrified, and trying
desperately not to show it. The captain for the mis-
sion had been a tough-as-nails explosives expert, an
extremely short woman named Kaylor. She'd pulled
him aside just before they went in, looked him up and
down, and given him the single best piece of advice
he'd ever received.
"Son," she'd said, "no matter what happens when the shooting starts, try not to wet your pants."
It had surprised him out of his nervousness, the
statement so totally weird that he'd literally been
forced to let go of the worst of his fear to make room
for it.
"What are you grinning about?"
Chris shook his head, the smile fading. Somehow,
he didn't think it would work on Rebecca and the
dangers they faced didn't shoot back. "Long story. Come on, let's go."
They moved out into the calm night air, crickets
and cicadas buzzing sleepily in the surrounding
woods. They were in a kind of courtyard, high brick
walls on either side, an offshoot walkway to their left.
Chris could hear rushing water nearby and the
mournful cry of a dog or coyote in the distance, a
lonely, faraway sound.
Speaking of dogs . . .
There were a couple of them sprawled out across
the stones, soft moonlight glistening against their wet,
sinewy bodies. Chris edged up to one of them and
crouched down, touching its flank. He quickly pulled
his hand back, scowling; the mutant dog was sticky
and warm, like it had been sheathed in a thick layer of
mucous.
He stood up, wiping his hand on his pants. "Hasn't been dead long," he said quietly. "Less than an hour, anyway."
There was a rusted iron gate just past some hedges
in front of them. Chris nodded at Rebecca and as they
walked toward it, the sound of rushing water in-
creased to a dull roar.
Chris pushed at the gate and it swung open on
violently squealing hinges, revealing a huge, cut stone reservoir, easily the size of a couple of swimming
pools put together. Deep shadows draped and hung at
every side, caused by the seemingly solid walls of
murky green trees and lush vegetation that threatened
to break through the bordering rails.
They moved forward, stopping at the edge of the
massive pool. It was apparently in the slow process of
being drained, the turbulent noise caused by the
narrow flow of water through a raised gate on the east
side. There wasn't a complete path around the reser-
voir, but Chris saw that there was a walkway bisecting
the pool itself, about five feet below water level. There
were bolted ladders at both sides, and the path had
obviously been submerged until quite recently, the
stones dark with dripping algae.
Chris studied the unusual setup for a moment,
wondering how anyone got across when it wasn't
being drained. Another mystery to add to the growing
list.
Without speaking, they climbed down and hurried
across, boots squelching against the slimy stones, a
clammy humidity enveloping them. Chris quickly
scaled the second ladder, reaching down to help
Rebecca up.
The heavily shaded path was littered with branches
and pine needles and appeared to border the east end
of the reservoir, passing over the open floodgate. They
started toward the forced waterfall and had only
gotten a few feet when it started to rain.
Plop. Plop, plop.
