The Umbrella Conspiracy

Chapter Ten

 

  Jill slid the heavy copper crest with the engraved star into its position on the diagram, above the other three openings. It settled into place with a light click, flush against the metal plate.

  One down. . . She stepped back from the puzzle lock, smiling triumphantly.

  The crows had watched her walk through the hall of paintings without moving from their perch, crying out occasionally as she solved the simple puzzle.

  There had been six portraits in all, cradle to grave - - from a newborn baby to a rather stern-looking old man. She'd assumed they were all of Lord Spencer, though she'd never seen a photo.

  The final painting had been a death scene, a pale man lying in state and surrounded by mourners.

  When she'd flipped the switch on that one, the painting had actually fallen off the wall, pushed out by tiny metal pegs at each corner. Behind it had been a small, velvet-lined opening that held the copper crest. She'd left the hall without any more trouble; if the birds had been disappointed, she couldn't say.

  She took a final deep breath of the pleasant night air before going back into the mansion, pulling Trent's computer from her pack as she went. Stepping carefully over the crumpled corpse in the dim hall, she studied the map, deciding where to try next.

  Back the way she'd come, it looked like. She went back through the double doors that connected the corridors, into the winding, mild, gray-green hall with the landscape paintings. According to the map, the single door just across from her led to a small, squareshaped room which opened into a larger one.

  Tensing, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open, crouching and pointing her Beretta at the same time.

  The small room was indeed square-shaped, and totally empty.

  Straightening, Jill stepped into the chamber, briefly appraising its simple elegance as she walked toward the door on her right. It had a high, light ceiling and the walls were creamy marble flecked with gold; beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what real money could buy.

  She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing metal of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she was alone.

  There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall - - a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual hooks, shining in the light from the antique light fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the room, unable to believe her luck.

  Please be loaded, please be loaded.

  As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the same as the S. T. A. R. S. used: a Remington M870, five shots.

  She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun with both hands, still grinning - - and the smile dropped away as both mounting hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing position.

  Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it.

  She turned around quickly, searching the room for movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights, none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no trap.

  Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it, the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was reassuring, the weight of power.

  She searched the rest of the room and was disappointed not to find any more shells. Still, the Remington was a find. S. T. A. R. S. vests had a back holster for a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could carry it without tying up her hands.

  There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill walked to the door, excited to get back to the main hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd checked out every room that she could open on this side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they could head upstairs to finish their search for the Bravos and their missing teammates.

  And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue.

  She closed the door behind her and strode across the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room, hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way.

  The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious.

  There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one; the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only one keyhole, and that's for the knob. . .

  Click! Click! Click!

  Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of metal from somewhere behind the stone walls.

  What?

  Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat.

  The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was moving, the marble at the corners powdering into dust with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was coming down.

  In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it down. . . . . . and found it locked as solidly as the first.

  Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing!

  Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second, it'd hit the floor in less than a minute.

  Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the hall, trying not to think about how many shots it would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt; it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that kind of lock.

  The first round exploded against the door and splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared.

  The metal plate that supported the bolt extended across half the door. Her mind raced for an answer and came up blank. She didn't have the shells to blow through it and the Beretta carried hollow points, they flattened on impact.

  Maybe I can weaken it, break it down.

  She fired again, targeting the frame itself. The thunderous shot tore apart wood and chipped marble, but not enough, not even close. The ceiling continued its clattering descent, now less than ten feet above her head. She was going to be crushed to death.

  God, don't let me die like this.

  Jill? Is that you?

  A muffled voice called from the corridor, and she felt a sudden, desperate hope course through her at the sound.

  Barry!

  Help! Barry, break it down, now! Jill shouted, her voice high and shaking.

  Get back!

  Jill stumbled away as she heard a heavy blow strike the door. The wood shuddered but held. Jill let out a low cry of helpless frustration, her terrified gaze jumping between the door and the ceiling.

  Another solid, shaking hit to the door. Five feet overhead.

  Come on, come ON.

  The third pounding blow was joined by the crunch and splinter of wood. The door flew open, Barry framed in the entry, his face red and sweating, his hand reaching for hers.

  Jill lunged forward and he grabbed her wrist, literally jerking her off of her feet and into the corridor.

  They crashed to the floor as behind them, the door was crushed off its hinges. Wood and metal squealed as the ceiling continued smoothly down, the door snapping in a series of harsh cracks.

  With a final, resonating boom of impact, the ceiling met the floor. It was over, the house again as silent as a tomb. They staggered to their feet, Jill
staring at the doorway. The entire frame was filled with the solid block of stone that had been the ceiling, at least a couple of tons of rock.

  Are you alright? Barry asked.

  Jill didn't answer for a moment. She looked down at the shotgun she still held in her trembling hands, remembering how confident she'd been that there'd been no trap and for the first time, she wondered how they were ever going to make it out of this hellish place.

  They stood in the empty front hall, Chris pacing the carpet in front of the stairs, Rebecca standing nervously by the banister. The massive lobby was as cold and ominous as when Chris had first seen it, the mute walls giving away none of their secrets; the S. T. A. R. S. were gone, and there were no clues as to where or why.

  From somewhere deep in the mansion, there was a heavy rumbling sound, like a giant door being slammed. They both cocked their heads, listening, but it wasn't repeated. Chris couldn't even tell from what direction it had come.

  Terrific, that's just great. Zombies, mad scientists, and now things that go bump in the night. Priceless.

  He smiled at Rebecca, hoping that he looked less rattled than he felt. Well, no forwarding message. I guess that moves us to plan B.

  What's plan B?

  Chris sighed. Hell if I know. But we can start by checking out that other room with the sword key.

  Maybe we can dig up some more information while we wait for the team to reassemble, a map or something.

  Rebecca nodded, and they headed back through the dining room, Chris leading the way. He didn't like the idea of exposing her to further danger, but he didn't want to leave her alone, either, at least not in the main hall; it didn't feel safe.

  As they passed the ticking grandfather clock, something small and hard cracked beneath Chris's boot.

  He crouched down and scooped up a dark gray chunk of plaster. There were two or three other fragments nearby.

  Did you notice these when we came through before? he asked.

  Rebecca shook her head, and Chris ducked down, looking for more of them. He didn't remember if they'd been there before, either. On the other side of the table was a broken pile of the fragments.

  They hurried around the end of the long table past the elaborately decorated fireplace, stopping in front of the shattered pile. Chris nudged at the gray pieces with the tip of his boot. From the angles and shapes, it appeared to have been a statue of some kind.

  Whatever it was, it's garbage now.

  Is it important? Rebecca asked.

  Chris shrugged. Maybe, maybe not. Worth a look, anyway. In a situation like this, you never know what might turn out to be a clue.

  The echoing tick of the old clock followed them back to the hall door and into the smell of decay that filled the tight corridor. Chris pulled the silver key out of a pocket as they headed right and stopped, quickly drawing his Beretta and moving closer to Rebecca. The door at the end of the hall was closed; when they'd left, it had been standing open.

  There was no sense of being watched, of movement in the hall, but someone must have come through while they'd been in the lobby. The thought was disconcerting, reaffirming Chris's uneasy feeling that secret things were happening all around them. The dead creature to their left was in the same position as before, its blood-filled eyes staring blindly at the low ceiling, and Chris wondered again who had killed it.

  He knew he should examine the corpse and the unsecured area beyond it, but didn't want to go off on his own until he got Rebecca somewhere safe.

  Come on, he whispered, and they edged to the locked door, Chris handing the key to Rebecca so that he could watch the hall for attackers. With a soft click, the intricately paneled door was unlocked, and Rebecca gently pushed it open.

  Chris could feel that the room was okay even as he did a quick check and motioned for Rebecca to step inside. It was set up like a piano bar, a baby grand dominating the floor across from a built-in counter, complete with stools bolted along its length. Perhaps it was the soft lighting or the muted colors that gave it such an atmosphere of calm stillness. Whatever it was, Chris decided that it was the nicest room he'd encountered so far.

  And maybe a good place for Rebecca to stay while I try to find the others.

  Rebecca perched herself on the edge of the dusty black piano bench while Chris did a more thorough search of the room. There were a couple of potted plants, a small table, and a tiny alcove behind the wall where the piano was situated, a couple of wood bookshelves pushed in back. The only entrance was the one they'd come through. It was an ideal spot for Rebecca to hide.

  He holstered his weapon and joined her at the piano, trying to choose his words carefully; he didn't want to scare her with the suggestion that she stay behind. She smiled up at him hesitantly, looking even younger than she was, her spiky red bangs adding to the impression that she was only a child. . . . . . a child who got through college in less time than it took you to get your pilot's license; don't patronize her, she's probably smarter than you are.

  Chris sighed inwardly and smiled back at her.

  How would you feel about staying here while I take a look around the house?

  Her smile faltered a little, but she met his gaze evenly. Makes sense, she said. I don't have a gun, and if you run into trouble, I'd just slow you down.

  She grinned wider and added, Though if you get your ass kicked by a mathematical theorem, don't come crying to me.

  Chris laughed, as much at his own faulty assumptions as at her joke; she wasn't one to be underestimated. He walked to the door, pausing as his hand touched the knob.

  I'll be back as soon as I can, he said. Lock the door behind me, and don't go wandering off, okay?

  Rebecca nodded, and he stepped back into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He waited until he heard the bolt drawn and drew his Beretta, the last trace of a smile falling away as he started briskly down the corridor.

  The closer he got to the rotting creature, the worse the smell. He took shallow sips of air as he reached the body, stepping past it to see if the hall continued on before he examined it for bullet holes and he stopped cold, staring at the second corpse stretched out in the alcove, headless and covered in blood. Chris studied the slack, lifeless features of the face that lay a foot away, recognizing them as Kenneth Sullivan's and felt a surge of anger and renewed determination sweep through him at the sight of the dead Bravo.

  This is wrong, all wrong. Joseph, Ken, probably Billy - how many others have died? How many more have to suffer because of a stupid accident?

  He finally turned away, striding purposefully toward the door that led back to the dining room. He'd start from the main hall, checking every possible path that the S. T. A. R. S. could have taken and killing every creature that got in the way of his search.

  His teammates weren't going to have died for nothing; Chris would see to it, if it was the last thing he ever did.

  Rebecca locked the door after Chris left, silently wishing him good luck before walking back to the dusty piano and sitting down. She knew that he felt responsible for her, and wondered again how she could've been so stupid, dropping her gun.

  At least if I had a gun, he wouldn't have to worry so much. I may be inexperienced, but I went through basic training, just like everybody else.

  She traced a finger aimlessly across the dusty keys, feeling useless. She should've taken some of those files from the storage room. She didn't know that there was much more to be learned from them, but at least she'd have something to read. She wasn't very good at sitting still, and having nothing to do only made it worse.

  You could practice, her mind suggested brightly, and Rebecca smiled a little, gazing down at the keys. No, thanks. She'd suffered through four long years of lessons as a child before her mother had finally let her quit.

  She stood up, looking randomly around the silent room for something to keep her occupied. She walked to the bar and leaned over i
t, but saw only a few shelves of glasses and a stack of napkins, all thinly coated with dust. There were several liquor bottles, most of them empty, and a few unopened bottles of expensive-looking wine on the counter behind the bar.

  Rebecca dismissed the thought even as it occurred to her. She wasn't much of a drinker, and now wasn't exactly the best time to tie one on. Sighing, she turned and surveyed the rest of the room.

  Besides the piano, there wasn't much to see. There was a single small painting of a woman on the wall to her left, a bland portrait in a dark frame; a slowly dying plant on the floor next to the piano, the leafy kind she always saw in nice restaurants; a table that extended out from the wall with an overturned martini glass on top. Considering what she had to work with, the piano was starting to look pretty interesting.

  She walked past the baby grand and peered into the small opening to her right. There were two empty bookshelves pushed to one side, nothing interesting.

  Frowning, she stepped closer to the shelves. The smaller one on the outside was empty, but the one behind it.

  She placed her hands on either side of the end piece and pushed, sliding the outer shelf forward. It wasn't heavy and moved easily, leaving a track in the dust on the wood floor.

  Rebecca scanned the hidden shelves, feeling disappointed. A dented old bugle, a dusty glass candy dish, a couple of knickknack vases-and some piano sheet music propped up on a tiny holder. She peered down at the title and felt a sudden rush of warm nostalgia for when she used to play; it was Moonlight Sonata, one of her favorite pieces.

  She picked up the yellowing sheets, remembering the hours she'd put in trying to learn it when she was ten or eleven. In fact, it had been this very piece of music that had made her realize she wasn't cut out to be a pianist. It was a beautiful, delicate tune and she'd pretty much butchered it every time she took the bench.

  Still holding the composition, she walked back around the corner and gazed at the piano thoughtfully. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

  And besides, maybe one of the other team members will hear it and come knocking, trying to track down the source of the terrible noise.

  Grinning, she dusted the bench off and sat down, propping the sheets open on the music holder. Her fingers found the correct positions almost automatically as she read the opening notes, like she'd never given it up. It was a comforting feeling, a welcome change from the horrors inside the mansion.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she started to play. As the first melancholy sounds rose into the stillness, Rebecca found herself relaxing, letting tension and fear slip away. She still wasn't very good, her tempo as off as ever-but she hit all the right notes, and the strength of the melody more than made up for her lack of finesse.

  If only the keys weren't so stiff.

  Something moved behind her.

  Rebecca jumped up, knocking the bench over as she spun around, searching wildly for the attacker. What she saw was so unexpected that she froze for a few seconds, unable to comprehend what her senses were telling her.

  The wall is moving.

  Even as the last notes lingered in the cool air, a three-foot panel of the bare wall to her right slid upwards into the ceiling, rumbling to a gentle halt.

  For a moment she didn't move, waiting for something terrible to happen, but as the seconds ticked past in silence, nothing else moved; the room was as quiet and non-threatening as before.

  Hidden sheet music. A strange stiffness to the keys. . . . . . like maybe they were connected to some kind of a mechanism?

  The narrow opening revealed a hidden chamber about the size of a walk-in closet, as softly lit as the rest of the room. Except for a bust and pedestal in the back, it was empty.

  She stepped toward the opening and then paused, thoughts of death-traps and poison darts whirling through her mind. What if she walked in and triggered some kind of a catastrophe? What if the door closed and she was trapped there, and Chris didn't come back?

  What if you were the only member of the S. T. A. R. S. who didn't accomplish jack-shit on this entire mission?

  Show some backbone.

  Rebecca steeled herself against the consequences and stepped inside, looking around cautiously. If there was a threat here, she didn't see it. The plain stucco walls were the color of coffee with cream, offset by dark wood trim. The light in the small chamber was provided by a window into a tiny greenhouse on her right, a handful of dying plants behind the dirty glass.

  She moved closer to the pedestal at the back, noting that the stone bust on top was of Beethoven; she recognized the stern countenance and heavy brow of the Moonlight Sonata's composer. The pedestal itself boasted a thick gold emblem shaped like a shield or coat of arms, about the size of a dinner plate.

  Rebecca crouched down next to the simple pillar, gazing at the emblem. It looked solid and thick, with a vaguely royal design in a paler gold set across the top.

  It looked familiar; she'd seen the same design somewhere else in the house.

  In the dining room, over the fireplace!

  Yes, that was it, only the piece over the mantle was made out of wood, she was sure of it. She'd noticed it while Chris was looking at the broken statue.

  Curious, she touched the emblem, tracing the pattern across the front-and then grasped the slightly raised edges with both hands and lifted. The heavy emblem came away easily, almost as if it didn't belong there and behind her the secret door rumbled down, sealing her inside.

  Without hesitating, she turned and placed the emblem back in its hollow-and the section of wall rose again, sliding up smoothly on hidden tracks. Relieved, she stared down at the heavy gold emblem, thinking.

  Someone had rigged all this up in order to keep the medal hidden, so it had to be important-but how was she supposed to remove it? Did the one over the fireplace also reveal a secret passage?

  Or. . . is the one over the fireplace the same size?

  She couldn't be positive, but she thought it wasand she knew instinctively that it was the right answer. If she switched the two of them, using the wood emblem to keep the door open and placing the gold one over the mantle. . .

  Rebecca headed back into the room, smiling. Chris told her to stay put, but she wouldn't be gone more than a minute or two-and perhaps when he got back, she'd have something to show him, a real contribution toward solving the secrets of the mansion.

  And proof that she wasn't so useless after all.