The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [6]
He was such an asshole.
Ellis heard the watchman finally move on, oblivious to their presence.
“That was cool,” Mel whispered.
Slowly, fearful of jarring the slightest object, Ellis raised his hand and wiped his glistening face with an open palm.
Jesus.
Mel eased the panel back on its flimsy hinges and stepped back into the corridor they’d been creeping along when first surprised by the watchman. The place smelled of Sheetrock dust and damp joint compound. The top floor of the armory was being remodeled, allowing, from appearances, for some updated wiring and new computer hookups. Which explained their hiding place: a triangular nook wedged under the staircase to the attic, otherwise jammed with metal racks, a spaghetti-like tangle of cables, and two servers with beady green glow lights that reminded Ellis of malevolent robots. Not that he hadn’t been grateful for their company—the unfinished closet had afforded them their only harbor when the watchman had suddenly come clomping up the stairs.
“Fifteen minutes, tops, before he comes back,” Mel whispered confidently, already moving up the last flight of steps to the attic. He added, “Assuming he doesn’t have someplace to sack out.”
Ellis rolled his eyes. With their luck, that would wind up being right under the window they’d used to break in.
There was a sealed metal door facing the top step. Mel pulled a thin, flexible putty knife from his pocket.
“Give me some light.”
Ellis took out a small flashlight and held it steady on the door’s lock.
“Move it over a little . . . so I can see into the gap.”
Mel positioned the blade in between the jamb and the door and began working to push back the lock’s spring bolt.
Minutes passed. Ellis kept thinking he could hear the watchman returning.
“Hurry up,” he urged.
Mel straightened, momentarily abandoning his work. Ellis’s heart sank at the all-too-familiar reaction.
“What did you say?” Mel asked, looking down at him from the top step.
Ellis closed his eyes briefly. “I’m nervous,” he explained. “Give me a break.”
“You give me a break, numbnuts. And don’t tell me what to do.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t,” Ellis pleaded. “I promise.”
Mel seemed to consider that, weighing its value. “All right,” he finally conceded, and bent back to his task.
But it wasn’t going to work, not with one blade alone.
“You got a knife?” Mel finally asked.
Ellis felt as if he’d been standing there for hours. He fought back his initial one-word reaction, substituting instead “No.”
Mel grunted. “Me neither.”
“Maybe we should leave it. Come back another night,” Ellis suggested.
Mel gave him that look again. “Look around, dipwad. What’s it look like they’re doing here?”
Clearly, he expected an answer.
“Remodeling,” Ellis answered tiredly, unsure if being caught right now might not be preferable to this tiresome song and dance.
“Right. And what did I tell you might happen because of that?”
“They might find what you hid?”
“Very good. You still wanna come back later?”
Ellis almost answered truthfully, especially since he had no idea what they were after, and was beginning to care less.
But he didn’t—as usual. “No.”
“Give me your belt,” Mel said suddenly, looking down at Ellis’s waist.
“What?”
“Your belt buckle. That’ll probably work.”
Suddenly hopeful himself, if for totally different reasons, Ellis went along, tucking the flashlight under his damp chin and struggling to free the belt.
Mel grabbed it and went back to jimmying the lock. In a couple of minutes, there was a click, just as—for real this time—Ellis heard the watchman returning.
Both men eased open the attic door and stepped inside, closing it behind them with a snap that seemed like a hammer blow.
Whereas the closet below had been hot, this place was a cauldron—a holding tank for the summer’s daily heat. Ellis went back to breathing through his mouth, this time to keep from passing out. He barely heard the heavy footsteps pass below without pause.
“Okay,