Snowbound - Crouch Blake (мир книг .TXT) 📗

A set of stone steps descended underground to a wooden door, and she followed them down, put her gloved hand on the door handle, turned it slowly, but not slowly enough to prevent the horrendous squeaking from the accumulation of rust. She pushed and the door swung open, creaking on hinges that should have been replaced decades ago.

The smell of stale air overwhelmed her. She had no flashlight, so she opened the door as far as it would go, now smelling other things, including the acrid, sharp stench of urine. What light fell through the open doorway did little to illuminate the cellar. There were old tools hanging on one of the walls—scythes and machetes, a pitchfork—and cracked leather saddles, grinning bear traps with giant metal teeth. A wrought-iron staircase spiraled up out of the center, disappearing into the darkness above. Glancing at the far left corner, Devlin spotted something that gave her pause—large metal cages, their doors thrown open, water bowls inside, and pieces of bone lying on the moldy straw.

Devlin proceeded into the cellar, still trembling with cold as she stopped at the foot of the spiral staircase, put her hands on the railing, and gave it a little shake. Seemed sturdy enough.

She took the steps one at a time, ascending out of the cold, rank filth of the cellar. Soon she was climbing in total darkness, enveloped in a silence beyond anything she’d known, the humming in her head like transformers in the middle of nowhere.

The stairs spiraled up and up, farther than she’d anticipated. Then she walked into something, reached out, ran her hands along the rough surface of a door. She groped around, finally got her hands on the doorknob.

That it wasn’t locked surprised her.

FORTY-THREE

Devlin stepped into a study, let the cellar door close softly behind her. The room was gloriously warm, a fire burning in the hearth. The ceiling must’ve been fifteen feet high, and there were bookshelves built into the walls and filled with leather-bound volumes, the spines lettered in small gold calligraphy. Leather chairs and ottomans stood grouped around the fireplace. An Elie Bleu Medaille humidor occupied an end table.

The fire was low, only a few logs remaining. Devlin sat on the hearth, removed her gloves, and held her hands to the heat. Her heartbeat had finally slowed.

She glanced around the room. A door led out of the study, presumably into the rest of the lodge. French doors lined the back wall, and looking through the glass, she glimpsed the veranda, its surface buried in snow.

Her snow pants and parka made too much noise, so she stood up and took them off, left them in a pile beside the cellar door. She was finally warm, and the urge to cough seemed to have dissipated.

Devlin walked to the door leading out of the study, stood for a moment with her ear against it, listening. There was only silence, and the occasional snap as sap boiled off in the fire. She put her hand on the doorknob, turned it quietly, pulled the door open.

The room she stepped into was an enormous lobby, fifty feet high from floor to ceiling, with a freestanding fireplace rising up the middle of it. Its floor was made of polished stone, and open staircases ascended on either side, giving access to the north and south wings.

Her footsteps echoed as she crossed to the other end and stood gazing up the staircase, then down the first-floor corridor of the north wing, which glowed with points of candlelight. Something echoed above and behind her on the third or fourth level of the south wing—footfalls perhaps.

She walked around to the stairs and started to climb, the creak of the steps reverberating through the cavernous lobby.

The fourth-floor corridor was empty and quiet as death, two dozen globes of firelight dancing through the tops of iron sconces. She walked into the corridor, its floor plushly carpeted, passed closed doors with brass numbers.

Halfway down the corridor, she noticed a peephole below the number designation on each door, and one in particular drew her attention, because she could see light coming through it. She stopped walking, crept up to the door of 413, and put her ear to the wood. She could hear something coming from inside, but it was soft, indiscernible. She was at the level of the peephole, and when she looked through it, she gasped.

It was installed backward, the room all shadowy blue save for the orange coils of a kerosene heater and the candle sitting on the windowsill, its flame restless, flickering. Shapes and details came into focus—a bed and dresser, a desk by the window. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she realized there was someone lying under the bedcovers. The body was turned away from her, but she could see the person’s breath pluming in the cold.

Something crackled above Devlin’s head, and the entire lodge seemed to rumble.

Up and down the corridor, recessed ceiling lights flickered to life, one after another, and the warm breath of central heating pushed up into her face through a large vent in the floor.

She proceeded to the end of the corridor, just an empty alcove with a big window and a doorway leading to a set of stairs.

Starting down the stairs, she heard a noise coming from the lobby. It sounded like footsteps creaking on wood. She continued down, emerged from the stairwell into the third-floor alcove, and peered around the corner.

Something was moving toward her down the corridor, and as it passed under the illumination of a ceiling light, she saw it was a man in a black jumpsuit. He had a red bandanna tied around his left bicep and held a pump-action shotgun, its strap dangling from his shoulder. He was tall and blade-thin, wore a Stetson, and had long hair flowing down over his shoulders.

She ducked back into the stairwell, went down to the first floor, and ran up the corridor and back into the lobby.

Beside the library was an archway she hadn’t noticed before. She headed toward it, and as she went through it, she passed an opening on her right that led to another staircase.

Thirty feet on, the passage terminated at a thick wooden door, and just ahead, it opened to the left.

She stopped, glanced around the corner into a high-ceilinged dining room, in the center of which stood a table expansive enough to seat ten comfortably on each side and two at each end. Its centerpiece was an exploding bouquet of greenery—native flora. An immense candelabra stood near each end, the candles burning. The set of chairs looked terribly expensive, and a chandelier hung down from high above, fifteen feet above the table.

At the far end of the dining room was another massive fireplace, big logs roasting within.

Light filtered in from windows twenty feet up, the wall below adorned with numerous trophy mounts—moose and caribou with cartoonishly huge racks, a pair of wolverines, Dall sheep, a grizzly bear.

Out in the lobby, a bell tolled—the light, rapid announcement of a meal.

She retreated from the dining room and entered the passage just in time to hear footsteps on the nearby staircase, accompanied by the voices of men.

Devlin turned and slipped back into the dining room, realizing as she did that sound was now emanating from the double doors to the left of the fireplace.

Running water, dishes clanking—kitchen noise.

She scanned the dining room, saw no place to hide. A long dry sink was pushed flush against the west wall, the kitchen was occupied, and there was nothing larger than a potted spruce tree behind which to take cover.

People were coming, and her legs had begun to weaken. She felt a deep shuddering behind her knees.

Devlin did the only thing she could.

FORTY-FOUR

Through the forest of chair legs, she watched them come—disembodied feet and legs, at least half a dozen pairs, strolling into the dining room. They didn’t immediately take seats at the table, congregating instead at the dry sink, beckoned by the constellation of exotic glass bottles.