Текст книги "The Naked Edge"

Автор книги: David Morrell

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"Duncan gave it to you in his will," William said.

Again, Cavanaugh was overwhelmed by memories. Tall and wiry, with a mustache, Duncan had been Cavanaugh's Delta Force instructor. After leaving the military, Duncan had founded an international security agency that flourished, thanks to the quality of the personnel Duncan hired, all of them from special-operations units around the world, many of them having been Duncan's students. When Duncan had been killed on an assignment, there were Global Protective Services branches in New York, London, Rome, and Hong Kong, with another planned for Tokyo.

"His will?" Cavanaugh subdued the anger he suddenly felt. "You're telling me about this five months after he died?"

"There were reasons."

"What reasons? Jesus, we could have talked about this at Duncan's funeral. We could have–"

"No," William said, "we couldn't have."

Cavanaugh noticed Jamie looking at him with concern.

"I'm sorry," he told William. "I didn't mean to sound like I was criticizing you."

"Of course not. Anyway, you're in mourning. You're allowed. One of the reasons you didn't hear about this until now is that it was difficult to verify Duncan's death so that the probate process could begin."

"Verify his . . ." Then Cavanaugh understood. The bullets had mutilated Duncan's face so completely that his teeth couldn't be used to establish his identity. What the bullets hadn't accomplished, a fire had. "God help him."

"There were indications of healed broken ribs and a similarly healed broken collarbone."

"Occupational injuries." Cavanaugh felt sympathetic twinges in his own healed bones.

"Unfortunately, there weren't any recent x-rays of those areas of his body, so I still couldn't prove the remains were his. Finally, I went to the Pentagon and asked to see Duncan's medical file. The Army was as protective of him in death as if he'd continued to be a Delta Force instructor. It took a phone call from a former client, a ranking member of the current administration, before the file was released to me. My concern was that the injuries occurred after Duncan left the military, in which case the x-ray films would have been valueless. But in fact, the broken ribs and collarbone were visible. I was able to make my case."

"You said ' one of the reasons' I didn't hear about this until now."

"Another is that Duncan was a better protector than he was a corporate executive. Without consulting me, he made a number of business decisions that brought the continuing existence of Global Protective Services into doubt. There almost weren't any assets for anyone to inherit. Fortunately, I've been able to disentangle those problems. But still another reason that I didn't pay you this visit until now is . . ." William held up a sheet of paper. "Duncan willed Global Protective Services to a man named Aaron Stoddard."

As Jamie gave Cavanaugh another look of concern, he sat straighter, his back hardening.

"The problem is, nobody at GPS ever heard of a man with that name. Duncan didn't have any surviving family, so it wasn't possible to seek that avenue of help."

"You could have asked me ," Cavanaugh said.

"You made clear you didn't want to be contacted. But what would you have answered if I had come to you and asked if you knew Aaron Stoddard? Would you have told me, or would you have remained determined to separate yourself from your former life?"

Cavanaugh didn't reply.

"In the end, the Pentagon complied with another of my requests. Aaron Stoddard, it turns out, once belonged to Delta Force also. In fact, he was one of Duncan's students. Then Duncan hired him for Global Protective Services, but by then, for security reasons, Aaron Stoddard was using another name. Your name."

Conscious of his heartbeat, Cavanaugh leaned back. He needed a few moments before he could respond.

"Back then, my mother was still alive. My stepfather. My half-sister. My friends. When I joined GPS, I realized that one of the weaknesses in the system was that predators might target a protective agent as much as a client. They could grab a protector's family and friends and try to use them as leverage to get the protector to betray the client. I decided that I couldn't put my family and friends at risk. I needed to look out for their safety just as I did a client's, and the easiest way to do that was to assume a false name and identity that would keep predators from discovering my background."

"Well, you certainly succeeded. I believed 'Cavanaugh' was your true name. I've never heard you supply a first one, so I was surprised that in GPS's personnel files, you list a first name of 'James.'"

"Which I never use when I'm working."

"Establishing a mystique as a protective agent with only one name. Do you agree?"

"That I'm Aaron Stoddard? Yes." He looked over at Jamie, to whom he'd long ago confided the truth about his identity. "Now that I'm no longer a protector, it doesn't matter if anybody knows who I really am. My mother's dead now. My stepfather has a heart condition. He'll probably be gone soon, also. My half-sister is the only relative I need to worry about. And you , of course," he told Jamie. "I'll never stop protecting you ."

"What I meant was," William said, "do you agree to abide by Duncan's wishes and accept ownership of Global Protective Services?"

"William, did anybody ever tell you you've got a pushy manner?"

"My second and third wives. But I tried not to take it personally."

"Really, I'm sorry you came all this way."

"You won't accept?"

"I made a promise, and I'm keeping it. From now on, Jamie's all I care about."

"Duncan didn't indicate a second choice. GPS isn't a publicly traded company. There's no board of directors. No one except Duncan's heir can make decisions. If your refusal is absolute, ultimately the company will need to be dissolved."

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that," Cavanaugh said.

"Perhaps you should take a couple of days to consider the implications."

"No," Cavanaugh insisted.

"Can we speak privately?" Jamie interrupted.

Cavanaugh looked at her.

"Outside," she told him.

Chapter 11.

Behind boulders on the ridge, the spotter studied the lodge through binoculars that were shielded to keep the sun from reflecting off their lenses.

"They could be inside for hours," the sniper said.

"The backup team's in position now. The moment you're sure you've got the target in your sights, I'll tell them to cut the telephone line. The timing has to be right. If we do it sooner than we need to, he might try to use the phone, wonder why it doesn't work, and realize he's being set up."

"In that case, tell them to get ready." The sniper peered through his scope. "The target's on the back porch."

Chapter 12.

Jamie closed the screen door after she and Cavanaugh stepped outside. "I want you to own Global Protective Services."

"But I promised you I was out of the business."

"I'm freeing you from that promise."

Chapter 13.

"Beta, get ready to cut the phone line," the spotter said into the radio.

"On your signal," a voice replied.

"Stand by." The spotter turned toward his partner. "Can you get the shot?

The man lay on his stomach, his left hand gripping the rifle's stock, his left forearm resting on his knapsack. His right hand clutched the rifle's grip, his finger at the trigger. The bolt-action Remington 700 was one of the most accurate sniper rifles. A favorite of the U.S. military as well as law-enforcement SWAT teams, it accurately delivered a .308 bullet up to 900 yards. The sights had one-minute-of-angle accuracy. The trigger was adjusted to a gentle two-pound pull. The powerful scope had a holographic sight with a red dot that indicated exactly where the bullet would strike the target. The state-of-the-art sound suppressor prevented the sniper from disclosing his position and drawing return fire.

But precise equipment was only one element of accurate long-distance shooting. Training, experience, steadiness, the ability to craft handmade ammunition and adjust sights based on conclusions about distance, temperature, altitude, and wind, the Zen control of breathing, temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate, the focus of a lifetime into one steady confident pull on the trigger–the accumulation of all these and more were what made a great shooter.

"I said, Can you make the shot?" Receiving no answer, the spotter peered through his binoculars and inhaled with annoyance when he saw the problem. "Damn it, the woman's in the way."

Chapter 14.

"Sometimes, you don't listen to yourself," Jamie said.

"That's because I don't enjoy one-sided conversations."

"Angelo was talking about his llamas and his ostriches, and he made you laugh so hard, you said you missed him."

"Just a figure of speech. Hey, we aren't going to start shopping for furniture or anything."

"You do miss him. You miss all the agents you used to work with. You miss Global Protective Services and–"

"How can you be sure? I've never said anything about that."

"Sometimes, I see a far-away look in your eyes, as if your mind's somewhere else, doing things in places a lot more exciting than here."

"No."

"You do have that look." Jamie's hands were on her hips, her back to the sun-bright pasture and the aspen-covered eastern slope of the canyon. "It reminds me of tigers and lions in cages in zoos. The look in their eyes. The controlled frustration. It's like they know there has to be a better way, but they also know there's nothing they can do about it. Well, this is your chance to do something about it."

"There's no place else I'd rather be, and no other person I'd rather be with."

"You gave up a huge portion of your life for me," Jamie said.

"But look at what I got in return." Cavanaugh gestured toward the stream flowing through the pasture, sunlight glinting off it, the horses leaning down to drink.

"You still wear a gun and a knife."

"The world's a dangerous neighborhood."

"You still drive an armored Taurus."

"A sturdy, dependable car. The far-away look you see in my eyes isn't longing. It's nervous relief that I don't live that way anymore. It's amazement that I ever did."

"I don't understand."

"Risking my life for people I didn't know and often didn't like. I used to say I had my professional standards. I wouldn't protect child molesters or drug traffickers, anyone who's an obvious monster. But what about the monsters who aren't as obvious? That stock analyst Angelo and I protected. He was in bed with the companies he was supposed to be making judgments about. He let greed mean more to him than the trust investors put in him. A lot of people counted on him for the security of their pensions, and all he had was contempt for them. I hated that man. Part of me was delighted when a ruined investor tried to attack him. Oh, Angelo and I made sure the analyst wasn't injured, but he sure was scared, and I was glad to see him scared. But that was wrong. A protector needs to be absolutely committed to his client. He needs to be willing, if necessary, to die for that client."

Jamie's eyes reacted.

"Now that I'm away from it all," Cavanaugh told her, "I realize how many of my clients weren't worth risking my life for. They were special only because they were rich or powerful or uncommonly attractive. What made them unique poisoned them."

"Not all of them," Jamie said. "You told me some clients were remarkable. 'Saints,' you called a few of them."

For a moment, Cavanaugh did long for his former life. "There was one politician I thought could have made a difference. Unfortunately, his party chose somebody who looked good on TV. There was a billionaire who told me, 'All my life I've been taking money out of the system. Now I'm putting it back.' He had exciting plans for ways to use his money to improve education. But then he got cancer and died, and his heirs fought over his estate. There was an entertainer who spent significant portions of his time performing benefit concerts for children's hospitals."

"What's the downside to that story?"

"Actually, there isn't one. The entertainer still performs benefit concerts, and the children's hospitals keep getting money."

"Who'd want to hurt a man like that?"

"He has several obsessed fans. Plus, he had a manager who was furious because the entertainer fired the guy after discovering how much money was being skimmed from the hospital fund. In Mexico City, where the entertainer was performing one of his concerts, kidnappers tried to grab him for a ten-million dollar ransom."

"You're right. The world is a dangerous neighborhood." Jamie took a deep breath. "But maybe you're being given an uncommon opportunity to make things better. Maybe you could be the equivalent of that billionaire you mentioned."

"I don't understand."

"Maybe you could change the way Global Protective Services does business. Take from the rich. Give to the poor. By which I mean, hold your nose and protect people you dislike so the company can afford to protect people who deserve to be alive."

Cavanaugh studied her. "It would mean the end of all this." He gestured toward the canyon. He tried not to look at the helicopter and all it symbolized.

"We could come back whenever we wanted."

"'We'?"

"You don't think I'd let you go by yourself."

"Maybe you're the one who's feeling restless."

"Not for somebody else, believe me, lover. But maybe happiness isn't enough. Maybe human beings need to be useful."

Chapter 15.

"She isn't moving." The spotter stared through his binoculars at where the woman stood on the porch, her back to him.

"I can see his head."

"Behind her? Bullshit. All I see are his hands gesturing to one side of her or the other. His head? No way. From this angle, the porch roof interferes."

"I'm telling you, I see about an inch or so of his head."

"A guaranteed kill?"

"No."

"What about shooting through her?"

"Remember the JFK assassination?" the sniper asked.

"How the hell old do you think I am?"

"One bullet boomeranged all over the place, in several impossible directions, hitting Kennedy and Governor Connally."

"Yeah, the magic, slip-sliding bullet–if somebody's dumb enough to believe Oswald was the only shooter."

"What I'm saying is, I can hit her square in the neck on an angle that I think will go down and out the soft tissue and into his chest. But that bullet might just as easily hit the top of her spine and shatter or change angle, blast along a rib, and slam into the post beside her."

"So you can't guarantee a kill."

"Not even if the bullet does go through her neck and into his chest."

"But he'd be down, and you've got other ammunition in that rifle. How fast can you chamber a fresh round?"

"A lot faster than that dick Oswald. Wait. She's stepping out of the way. I've got a shot. This'll be just like that time in Rome."

"Beta," the spotter said into the radio. "Cut the phone line."

Chapter 16.

In the office, William pressed buttons on his cell phone, waited, but didn't get a response. Impatient, he stood, left the office, and crossed the communal room to enter the kitchen.

Mrs. Patterson was removing the pie from the oven. Angelo watched her.

"Smells like Thanksgiving," Angelo said.

The phone rang.

William, who disliked pumpkin pie, glanced around at the stainless steel appliances in the otherwise rustic kitchen.

"Get your business done?" Mrs. Patterson asked.

"They're discussing it." William turned his attention to the security monitors on the counter next to him.

The phone rang a second time.

Mrs. Patterson went to the wall next to the refrigerator and lifted the phone off its mount. "Hello? . . . Hi, Tina. How's little Brian's cold? I've been worried it'll turn into . . . Hello? . . . Tina?"

"Problem?" Angelo asked.

"The line went dead."

"Are these men supposed to be on the property?" William inquired.

" What men?" Angelo turned.

"The ones on this television monitor."

Chapter 17.

Three shots made Cavanaugh flinch. From behind him. From the opposite end of the porch. From the kitchen was all he had time to think as his startle reflex engaged. Even the most seasoned operators, accustomed to bullets being fired near them, couldn't control that reflex. He grabbed Jamie and lunged sideways, seeking the only available cover: the lodge's wall. Simultaneously, he felt something snap past him and wallop onto the porch's floor, tearing up splinters.

Two shooters. One in the kitchen. One on the ridge.

He kept lunging, holding Jamie tightly, turning so his back led the way as they crashed through the screen that covered his office window. The window was raised. His head grazed past the wooden frame. He fell, holding Jamie, banging onto the floor.

"Cavanaugh!" Angelo yelled. Then William and Mrs. Patterson also shouted his name. He heard footsteps rushing toward the office.

But all he cared about was Jamie. " Are you all right? "

She didn't answer.

"Jamie!"

"I'm okay. Got the wind knocked out of me."

Cavanaugh rolled from under her, scanning her body, looking for blood.

"What happened?" she wanted to know.

Angelo and the others charged into the office. "Cavanaugh?"

He drew his pistol from under his shirt. "The kitchen? Who shot–"

" I did. Three bullets into the wall." Angelo's pistol was in his hand. "Men on the grounds. The phone line's been cut. I didn't know how else to warn you in time."

"The eastern slope. Sniper," Cavanaugh said.

"I didn't hear any shots from up there."

"He must be using a sound suppressor. William, I hope you know how to handle a gun."

"Not even in my worst nightmares."

"You're about to learn."

Chapter 18.

"You dumb bastard. After all your bragging, you missed!" the spotter said.

"Hey, it wasn't my fault! How was I to know somebody'd start shooting down there? How was I to know the target would–"

"Quit making excuses! How are you going to fix this? "

"Wait for another shot."

"Now that he knows he's a target, you think he's just going to waltz outside and show himself?" the spotter demanded.

"To get to the car maybe. Or the helicopter. Hell, he's got to do something. He knows he's stuck. He can't phone for help. Sooner or later–"

"He's got food. Water. He can stay there for days . But we didn't come prepared for a damned siege."

"So you make mistakes, too, huh?"

"And you're one of them. Do this right!"

With a sigh of impatience, the shooter reached into his backpack and selected a box of ammunition. He worked the Remington's bolt and ejected the two remaining rounds from the rifle. Then he inserted four rounds from the fresh box of ammunition. Each cartridge had a red tip.

"Tracers?"

"Incendiaries. I brought them in case this turned out to be a night shoot. For the same reason, I also brought an infrared scope. If he tries to leave when it's dark, I'll get him."

"But it won't be dark for another four hours!"

"Doesn't matter." The shooter steadied his aim toward a large white tank beside a shed about fifty yards from the lodge. "I'll get the target out of the lodge if I shoot one of these babies into that propane tank. Hell, the explosion will probably level the place."

"No. Don't. " The spotter was appalled.

"What's the matter?"

"The neighbors in the other valleys are used to hearing shots on this property. But an explosion would attract every police officer and emergency crew from here to Jackson."

"Yeah, there's that, I suppose. Okay, I've got another way." The shooter switched his aim toward the lodge. "Tell Beta the target'll be outside in fifteen minutes."

Chapter 19.

Heart pounding, Cavanaugh raced across the communal room and tugged open a door next to the battered upright piano. He pulled out an AR-15, the semi-automatic civilian version of the M-16.

He gave it to Angelo, along with a loaded thirty-round magazine. "Watch the front."

"Got it."

"Wait. Take this." Cavanaugh grabbed a walkie-talkie off a shelf and tossed it to him.

As Angelo hurried toward the front windows, Cavanaugh took out another AR-15. "I'll watch the east and try to locate the sniper. Mrs. Patterson, get down in the basement."

"No. Tell me how to help."

"Stay out of sight."

"I'm not going to hide." Fear made her voice tremble. "There's a revolver in a kitchen drawer. You taught me how to use it."

"Stay behind cover!" Cavanaugh yelled as she ran toward the kitchen. "Keep your walkie-talkie close! Jamie? "

"I'll take the back," she said.

With no AR-15s remaining, Cavanaugh gave her a Ruger Mini-14, a streamlined semi-automatic rifle favored by ranchers. He stared into her eyes, praying she wouldn't be killed.

"You can count on me," she said.

He touched her hand. "I know." He felt his throat tighten as she grabbed a box of ammunition and hurried away.

"William, come with me."

Cavanaugh tugged the attorney back into the office.

"The good news is, the log walls of this building are so thick, we don't need to worry about bullets coming through."

"You're implying that in most houses bullets can come through walls? Dear God, what's the bad news?"

"The windows are the only target the sniper now has. He'll focus on them."

"Then how are we supposed to look out there and see if anybody's attacking?"

"Stay to the side. Keep your face from the opening. Peer out at an angle." Cavanaugh spoke those words into his walkie-talkie. "Mrs. Patterson, did you hear that?"

Her voice was staticky. "Yes."

"Angelo, see anything?"

" Nada ." His voice came from the walkie-talkie.

"Jamie?"

"Clear."

"Mrs. Patterson?"

"Nothing."

"What about the security monitors?"

"All I see are bushes and trees."

"Maybe it's finished." Breathing loudly, William crouched near Cavanaugh against a wall in the office. "The sniper that fired at you. Now that he missed, maybe he's gone."

Cavanaugh inched toward the undamaged eastern window, the one behind his desk, trying to get a glimpse of where the shooter might be hiding on the aspen-covered ridge. He eased closer to the window.

Its screen bulged inward. Something snapped through the room and struck the leather chair that William had earlier sat in. The glowing object plowed through the chair and hit the wall. Smoke rose.

Cavanaugh yelled into the walkie-talkie, "The shooter's using incendiaries!"

Crawling in a direction that didn't make him a target through the window, he reached a closet, tugged at its door, and took out a fire extinguisher. As flames writhed from the chair and the wall, he aimed the nozzle and pulled the trigger. A pungent cloud spewed toward the fire, smothering it.

"Still nothing." Angelo's voice crackled from the walkie-talkie.

"Same here," Mrs. Patterson's voice said.

"Nobody," Jamie's voice reported.

"He's definitely using a suppressor!" Cavanaugh told them. "I can't place where the shots are coming from!"

With a snap as from a whip, another tracer tore through the screen, this one shattering a lamp. More smoke rose. Flames wavered. Cavanaugh pressed the extinguisher's trigger, another cloud of retardant gushing over the fire.

William coughed from the assault to his throat and lungs.

"Mrs. Patterson," Cavanaugh said into the walkie-talkie. "There's a fire extinguisher in the kitchen. Get it ready."

Chapter 20.

On the ridge, the sniper worked the bolt on his rifle, chambering another round.

"Clever," the spotter said, peering through binoculars at the haze in a ground-level room down there.

"I'm just getting started. Check the attic window on this side." The sniper shifted his aim toward the top of the building. With practiced ease, he pulled the trigger and absorbed the recoil as the rifle's sound suppressor made a noise similar to a fist hitting a pillow. Keeping his eye on the powerful scope, he saw a hole appear in the attic window. "Keep handing me ammunition."

"Still incendiaries?" the spotter asked.

"What else? When you were a kid, didn't you like to play with fire?"

"No, I just tortured animals."

"Tortured . . .? That's a joke, right?"

"Of course."

"Man, sometimes you worry me." The shooter squeezed off another round, then quickly reloaded.

In an amazingly smooth, fast series, he pumped incendiary bullets through every window on the eastern side of the lodge's second level.

Chapter 21.

As the haze from the fire retardant settled, Cavanaugh said, "He's concentrating on this window. I can't take the chance of looking out. Let's go." He tugged William toward the door.

Entering the communal room, he saw Jamie crouched next to a screen door at the back, a log wall protecting her as she scanned the meadow and the ridge to the north. He noticed that she now wore her pistol in a holster on her right hip.

"Even if the horses can't hear the shots, they sense what's going on," Jamie said.

"He'd better not hurt them." Cavanaugh heard them whinnying in alarm. Then he realized that hurting the horses was exactly the right tactic for the shooter to use. Wound, but not kill. Make the horses scream in pain. Make Cavanaugh's rage get the better of him. Force him to do something foolish.

No . He strained to channel his adrenaline, to make his body do what was necessary, to shut out every thought and emotion that didn't contribute to survival.

"Come on, William." Cavanaugh passed the long table and reached the staircase.

"I'm going to try to get a shot from an upper window," he told Angelo, who was braced next to the front screen door, staring toward the pine trees to the south.

"We know the shooter's got friends. William saw them on the monitor," Angelo said. "Why don't they make a move? What are they waiting for?"

Cavanaugh paused on the stairway. From above, he heard faint thumps, a muffled crackle, as if somebody were crumpling newspapers.

"William, run back to the office and get the fire extinguisher."

"But what if he keeps shooting into that room?"

"He won't. Then get the extinguisher from the kitchen."

"But how do you know he won't shoot into the office?"

Cavanaugh heard several more thumps above him. The crackle became louder. Smoke appeared at the head of the stairs.

"Because he's shooting through the upstairs windows now!" Cavanaugh charged up. "Get the extinguishers! The bedrooms are on fire!"

Sweating, he heard the horses galloping out of control past the front of the house. They snorted in terror. He raced to the top of the stairs and saw smoke drifting from the four bedrooms along the eastern side of the house.

A frenzied sound on the staircase came from William charging onto the landing with two fire extinguishers. The attorney's perfect shoes, suit, teeth, and hair looked absurd amid the chaos.

"We'll each take a bedroom!" Cavanaugh set down his rifle and grabbed one of the extinguishers.

To the right, debris burst from a wall at the end of the corridor. A tracer bullet had come through a bedroom's window, hit the inside wall (which was of ordinary construction, unlike the log exterior), and rammed through into the corridor, bringing wood and plaster with it, striking a farther wall.

Another bullet burst through a closer wall.

"Jesus, we'll be hit!" William said.

"Get down!" Cavanaugh warned.

As they sprawled on the floor, a bullet slammed through the wall above them, plaster and splinters spraying them.

"Something's burning me!" William said.

Cavanaugh saw an ember on the back of William's neck, another in his hair, smoke starting to dance. He flicked them off as a bullet hit the bedroom to their left, sending debris through the wall into the corridor.

"He's moving his aim back and forth along the side of the building," Cavanaugh said.

Whack! Another bullet erupted through the wall above them. The smoke thickened.

The moment a bullet burst through a wall to the right, Cavanaugh scrambled to his feet. "Hurry before his shots come back in this direction!"

As William took the bedroom on the left, Cavanaugh ducked into the one in front of him. Choking from the smoke, he pushed the trigger on the extinguisher. With a hiss , the retardant's haze surrounded the fire. He saw the flames weaken and kept squeezing the extinguisher's trigger. He heard a bullet wallop into the farthest bedroom on the right. Continuing to spray the retardant, he heard the next bullet hit the bedroom immediately to the right. He released the trigger, shouted to the bedroom on the left, "William, get down!" and dove to the floor. A tracer cracked through the air above his head.

"William!"

"I'm down! I'm down!" came the reply as an incendiary hit the bedroom on the left.

Cavanaugh tensed, waiting for more bullets to march back and forth along the building. But what had been a steady sequence faltered. One second became two, then three, the pause lengthening. Four. Five.

"Maybe he's out of ammunition," William said.

"Or else he hopes we'll get careless."

Cavanaugh sprayed retardant against the wall, then coughed so hard that he needed to get away from the smoke. He staggered into the corridor, where he was stunned to see William, his hair mussed, his face smudged, his suit rumpled, spraying retardant into the bedroom on the left.

"What are you staring at?" William wanted to know. "Don't you realize attorneys feel at home in hell?"

Cavanaugh started to grin, but the impulse faded as he glanced up toward the ceiling and noticed smoke seeping from it.

"No."

"What's wrong?" William aimed his fire extinguisher.

"The attic's on fire!"

He raced to a trap door in the ceiling, reached for a short rope dangling from it, and pulled. As stairs unfolded, he lurched back from flames that blocked the entrance to the attic. Coughing, he and William sprayed retardant. For a moment, through a gap in the haze, he saw the flames retreating. Yelling, he started up the steps, aiming the extinguisher. The flames kept retreating.