123

The trapdoor to the attic was sealed. Windermere tried not to stare at it as Leland Hurley pushed her up the stairs ahead of him. Tried not to fixate on it, give away the game. But the trapdoor was closed. She wondered what that meant.

Where were the hostages? Where was the rescue party? As Windermere reached the top of the stairs, she stole a glance down the hall toward the master bedroom and couldn’t see anyone there, either. For a moment, she dared to imagine that the whole crew had come and gone—hostages, Mounties, the works. Then she realized that if they’d left her here, she was alone in the house with a madman. And Windermere figured her chances of escaping up here, with Hurley already on alert, were suddenly much lower.

Hurley was muttering behind her. Variations on a theme, the same All women are animals crap he’d been spouting since she’d arrived, and probably much longer. Heck, Windermere figured the guy had probably been spitting that Poor me, I’m an entitled baby bullshit since he was a teenager, figured maybe that had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t ever get laid.

Maybe it’s not the women, bro, she thought. Maybe it’s you.

But Windermere had things to worry about other than why some maniac had never found true love. Namely, the fact that the maniac in question was pushing her at a rapid clip down the hallway toward Mona Fontaine’s master bedroom, and Windermere really didn’t want to find out what was waiting in there. So she stalled, as much as she could, but Hurley wasn’t having it.

“Move it,” he told her, prodding her with the pistol as she dawdled ahead of him. “Or I’ll cut you down right here and trample your body on my way to kill those girls.”

Always the charmer, Windermere thought. Gee, Leland, why don’t we go out?

—

Stevens heard Hurley and Windermere reach the top of the stairs. Heard their footsteps suddenly muffle as they reached carpet. Heard Hurley mutter something at Windermere as they walked down the hall. Couldn’t make out the words, but that didn’t matter.

He pulled the trapdoor up from its mount again. Slid it aside and peered down into the hallway. Caught sight of Hurley’s backside; he’d just reached the telephone table. Could just make out Windermere ahead of him. Hurley wasn’t holding on to her, just shoving her forward with the barrel of the pistol. That was a positive. That gave Windermere some room to maneuver.

Okay.

Corporals Pelletier and Buckley had Shae and Mona Fontaine out of the house and on their way to safety. Meant job one was accomplished, but it left Stevens alone up here, at least until the tactical teams showed up.

Stevens couldn’t afford to wait for help. As soon as Hurley discovered the women were gone, the game was over—and Windermere was probably dead.

No time to waste. Stevens pushed the trapdoor completely open. Searched the attic for something handy, came back with someone’s half-deflated basketball. It would do.

He took the ball, held it over the hole in the attic floor. Sent up a prayer that Hurley’s trigger finger wasn’t faster than Windermere’s reflexes. Then he dropped the ball through the hole.

The ball hit the carpet with a whump. And for a moment, the whole farmhouse went still.