Snowbound - Blake Crouch [59]
“Don’t embarrass me, Sean.”
“Dad, there are women—”
“Lower your fucking voice. Nobody’s making you do anything. Go sit in your room the whole time, for all I—”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Me?” Devlin remembered the older man’s name—Ken. “I don’t know.” Ken walked out of Devlin’s line of site and Sean followed, the two just voices now, operating at scarcely more than a whisper. “Listen to me. You heard what Ethan said at breakfast, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“So deal with it.”
“I can’t be here for five days, Dad.”
“Hey, I twisted some major arms to get you on this trip. You know how many of my guys would kill—”
“Yeah, thanks so much for that.”
“Now wait just a doggone minute. I didn’t know it was gonna be, you know. . . .”
“What’d you think when they loaded us into floatplanes with blacked-out windows? Wouldn’t tell us where we were going?”
“Look, Sean, you’re here. You aren’t leaving early. So make the best of it.”
“How?”
“I don’t care, just . . . don’t embarrass me.”
“Fuck you.”
Footsteps tracked across the library, and Devlin heard the door open.
“Sean, come back. Sean!”
His father went after him, the library quiet again, just the fire crackling.
Devlin waited two minutes, straining to pick out the slightest patter of returning footsteps, but the men were gone.
She eased the cellar door open, moving carefully through the library, then into the lobby, where she stood holding her parka and snow pants, listening to distant voices, the clatter of door slams traveling up and down the corridors above.
She wandered into the south wing, quiet here and empty, just the ceiling lights humming above her.
There were peepholes in these doors as well, and she stopped at each to look inside, saw women behind three of the doors, sitting up in bed in skimpy lingerie, waiting.
At the end of the corridor, she turned the doorknob of an empty room, 119.
The door opened. She stepped inside, shut it.
She stashed her pants and parka in a chest of drawers across from the bed, then, taking out the .357, crouched under the peephole for five long minutes, willing back the fear, the tears.
FORTY-SIX
She slipped back into the corridor, then into the alcove and up the stairwell to the second floor. She hadn’t gone five steps before she heard voices up ahead. Devlin slowed, inching her way into the alcove, glancing around the corner. The corridor was empty.
She looked back through the alcove window, saw that it was still snowing, spruce trees loaded with powder. Even from inside, she could hear branches creaking, snapping under the weight.
She eased out into the corridor, stopping at each door she passed to glance through the peephole—more women, half-naked, lying in bed and staring absently into space.
Ten steps into the corridor, someone groaned behind the door of 215.
Devlin stopped, felt a knot in her stomach, thought she might be sick.
She stepped forward, put her ear to the door.
Zig’s voice: “You like that, don’t you, you naughty girl?”
“Yes.”
“Convince me.”
Through the door, Devlin heard the woman moan.
Zig: “Yeah, that’s . . . oh . . . that’s better, oh God.”
Footsteps were ascending the stairs at the lobby end of the corridor.
She turned back, hurried into the alcove, ducked around the corner, and glanced back in time to see someone emerge into the corridor.
As the person drew closer, she saw it was a man—short, wide, pit-bull jaw, cropped blond hair, shotgun hanging from a strap around his neck.
Every few doors, he’d stop to look through a peephole, lingering a little longer at 215.
Devlin turned and started up the steps.
The fifth cracked under her weight, footsteps audible now in the corridor below, the man definitely coming.
She moved quickly into the third-floor corridor, passing the brass-numbered doors: 314, 312, 310. She tried 308, but it was locked.
The man with the shotgun must have hit the noisy step, because a loud crack resounded through the corridor.
The doorknob to 306 turned. She slipped inside, her heart pounding in her chest. Out of instinct, she peered through the