Free Fire - C. J. Box [129]
Joe nodded, clipped the radio to his jacket breast pocket, and put the earpiece in.
As they climbed the stairs into the absolute darkness of the inn, Joe could hear the assault team checking in with one another.It was pure business, he noted. He wondered again what they’d been discussing among themselves earlier.
Nate led joe up set after set of ancient, twisted knotty pine staircases into the upper reaches of the inn. The only light as they climbed was from Nate’s bobbing headlamp and his own. It got slightly warmer as they rose, but never warm enough that their breath didn’t escape in clouds of condensation. They stepped over or ducked under the chain barriers on each floor to prevent visitors from using the staircases. Joe didn’t like the way the old wooden steps creaked, and he felt a wave of sweat break over him when one of the steps cracked sharply under his boot but didn’t give way.
They paused to rest on the top landing. The ancient weather-stainedboards of the ceiling were right above them. Joe looked around by rotating his head so his headlamp would throw light. At the end of the landing to their left was one of the bizarre Old Faithful crow’s nests that extended perilously over the expanse of the lobby. It looked rickety and diabolical, something designedin a fever dream. He took a step toward the crow’s nest, felt the planks of the walkway sag, and stepped back. Below them, what seemed like a mile down, was the muted orange light from the fireplace. The combination of fear, darkness, and height made Joe swoon and lose his balance, and he bumped into Nate.
“Careful,” Nate cautioned.
Joe grunted. He didn’t realize he had a fear of heights and had never experienced this feeling before.
To their right was a heavily varnished door with a painted sign on it reading NO ENTRANCE.
Nate said, “Look.” The orb of his headlamp illuminated the rusted steel doorknob and lock. The lock looked rusted shut and wouldn’t give when Nate gently rattled it.
“I wonder where we can get a key,” Joe said. “Do you want me to call down to see if Ashby has one?”
Nate shook his head, examining the lock more closely. He ran his finger down the lock plate.
“See these gouges?” Nate whispered. “They’re new.”
Joe leaned over and could see them, a series of horizontal scratches that revealed bare metal. “Try this,” Joe said, handing Nate his pocketknife.
Nate thrust the three-inch blade between the edge of the door and the jamb, levered it down, and pulled back sharply. There was a click and the door opened an inch.
“Somebody’s oiled it recently,” Nate said, handing the knife back to Joe.
Before they opened the door and continued, Joe turned the volume down on his radio and unsnapped his holster. Nate alreadyhad his .454 out, loose at his side. The last thing Nate said before opening the door was, “Don’t shoot me.”
The hallway was narrow, twisted, completely dark. Joe’s shoulders almost touched both walls in places. The ceiling was low and the floor uneven. This was Bat’s Alley, the mysterious passageway built for no apparent reason by the architect of the inn at the turn of the last century. Nate dimmed his headlamp and Joe did the same.
Joe followed Nate twenty yards until the hallway took a forty-five-degree turn to the left and the floor rose slightly. There were several closed doors on either side now, the openingsmisshapen and heights uneven. A single small porthole alloweda blue-tinged shaft to fill the hallway with just enough light to create dark shadows. As they passed the porthole, Joe stopped to stick his head into the opening and look out through an oval of thick, mottled glass.
The scene outside was dark and haunting. The snow on the ground far below was tinted blue, the timber black and melded with the black sky. There wasn’t a single light outside, only the falling snow. In the distance, in the geyser basin, rolls of steam punched their way into the night like fists.
Another turn of the hallway, and then a