Last Gasp полностью

Nick pointed out the vehicles parked in the back lot. There was a Dodge pickup that looked in reasonable shape. He leaned close and murmured in Chase's ear, "We'll check the roof first. The outhouse is at the far end."

A jumble of packing crates made it easy to climb onto the lean-to roof. Stepping like cats, they moved along the roof searching with their outspread fingers against the rough timber wall of the main building. Chase strangled an oath as he caught a splinter under his thumbnail. His throat stung. Dan was only yards away, the thickness of a timber wall separating them, and he had to fight an impulse to smash his fist through, infected with the mad idea that he could reach inside and pluck his son to freedom.

Nick's hand tightened on his shoulder, and in the almost total darkness Chase saw that his bearded mouth was split in a grin. Chase strained to see and made out a small recessed hatch, at about knee height, fastened by a bent nail through a hasp. There was no padlock.

Nick put the nail in his pocket, opened the hasp, and pushed gently. The door resisted and Chase's heart sank at the thought that it might be barred on the inside. Nick pushed harder and the door suddenly gave and flew back on its hinges. The two men held a collective breath at the expected crash, but none came. A faint creak of timber, a squeak of metal, that was all.

Crouching down, Chase followed Nick inside, feeling a bead of sweat rolling down between his buttocks. Inside it was black and stifling. He waited 011 all fours until the pencil beam of Nick's flashlight pierced the blackness and flicked across the massive crossbeams supporting the roof and settled on the floor of the loft. At once Nick found the trapdoor and he began edging his way along one of the rafters, flashlight in one hand, rifle in the other.

Waiting until he had safely made it, Chase followed, guided by the thin light. They knelt together, like fellow penitents, and listened. Chase counted the passage of time with the beats of his heart, and after several moments of absolute and unearthly silence, he took the Browning from his pocket and released the safety, then held the flashlight while Nick drew back the bolt on his rifle with infinite care.

No voices or sounds from below, so there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Nick pried his fingers around the edge of the trapdoor, and as soon as it began to move Chase switched the flashlight off.

An oblong of light appeared, the corner of a sink unit, a scuffed pine floor. The kitchen was empty.

Chase went first. Heaving himself through and hanging at arm's length, he dropped lightly to the floor, which gave a slight groan under his weight. He took the rifle while Nick climbed down. The kitchen was tiny, narrow, with a fluorescent light that buzzed like a fly trapped in a jam jar. Chase pointed to a Formica-topped table alongside the wall, and at Nick's understanding nod they lifted it together and positioned it under the trapdoor: their quick escape route. Chase was even beginning to hope that Dan's disappearance wouldn't be discovered till morning, by which time they'd be miles away--even if they had to shoot everyone in that road patrol, he thought with grim resolution.

Chase hefted the automatic and mouthed Where? to Nick, who jerked his thumb, indicating the room along the passage to the left. Pressing close to the wall, Chase eased the door open a crack, saw that it was clear, and sidled out into the passage, the gun held near his chest. As Nick followed, the floorboards creaked under their combined weight. Chase could feel his shirt clinging to him like a second skin, and when he stole a glance over his shoulder saw that Nick's face, like his own, was running with sweat.

The door of the stock room was at the end of the passage. Opposite were a pair of double doors that led presumably into the main body of the hall. Was that where Baz had posted his guards? He couldn't hear voices, music, anything; but that didn't mean there was no one there. He and Nick were going to have to be as quiet as church mice.

There was a heavy padlock on the stock room door, recently fitted judging by the film of grease still on it. That made things very awkward. They couldn't break the padlock without making enough noise to wake the dead . . . and then his eye fell on something and he grinned exultantly. Next to the door, on a nail, hung a key.

Chase fitted the key, which turned easily, and the padlock sprang open. He removed the padlock and placed it on the floor and turned the handle with a firm, steady pressure, Nick's breathing audible in his right ear as he pushed the door open and took a step into the room.

He sensed at once that something was wrong. They had made a dreadful mistake.