He passed a closed door on his right-the entrance to the elevator he'd told Jamie about-reached the end of the corridor, and scanned a kitchen that included a brick fireplace and a modern stove that imitated an old-fashioned cast-iron one. Turning to a door on his left, he stayed out of the line of fire, twisted the knob (hating the slight scrape of metal), and pulled.
The house became quiet again.
Remaining to the side, Cavanaugh inhaled-one, two, three-held his breath-one, two, three-and exhaled-one, two, three-working to control his heartbeat and his breath rate.
At once, he pivoted into view and pointed his weapon down the stairs to the basement. The shadows below were darker than in the kitchen but seemed to remain constant.
Knowing that Karen kept a flashlight in a drawer to the right of the corridor, Cavanaugh quietly pulled it out. He crouched and used his left hand to raise the flashlight above his head, pointing it down the stairs. When he turned on the light, anyone down there would be tempted to fire at its beam, assuming it was center of mass. Meanwhile, Cavanaugh would be able to shoot at the muzzle flash.
But no one fired.
Again, he listened. Again, the house became silent.
When he started down, he made a step creak. The sound sent a spark along his nerves. Inhale-one, two, three. Hold it-one, two, three. Exhale-one, two, three.
He continued down.
Unexpectedly, Cavanaugh's leg felt unsteady. Then his stomach began to feel jittery. Just athletic reflexes, getting ready for action, he told himself. Just my heart pounding out more blood.
But at the same time, a vaguely pungent smell pinched Cavanaugh's nostrils, seeming to make his heart race even faster. It was somehow familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd encountered it before, and he didn't dare distract himself by trying to jog his memory. He had to concentrate on whatever he might find beyond his flashlight beam at the bottom of the stairs.
Halfway down, moving with greater care to keep his balance, he felt his legs become more rubbery. The pungent smell was a little stronger. His hands shook, making it difficult to sight along his weapon.
Adrenaline's my friend, he told himself. My legs are jittery because they're ready to spring into action. My heart's racing so my muscles will have plenty of blood. My stomach's hot because of all the chemical changes my body's going through, the glucose and fatty acids my liver's working to produce so I'll have instant energy. My lungs are heaving so I'll have plenty of oxygen when I need it.
He knew that what he felt was a so-called fight or flight response. But flight meant panic, and never once in his life, especially when he'd been in combat, had he ever felt the urge to flee.
Except now.
What's happening to me? Cavanaugh thought, reaching the bottom of the stairs. As the pungent smell made his nostrils contract even harder, a deep part of his mind squirmed and shouted, urging him to race back up the stairs, to get out of the house before…
Before what?
Inhale-one, two, three. Hold it-one, two, three. Exhale- one, two, three.
But Cavanaugh couldn't maintain the rhythm. No matter how strongly he tried, his breath rate became so rapid that it verged on being out of control. He felt light-headed. Flashlight wavering, he aimed it and his pistol along the dark corridor that matched the one above him. He remembered a light switch on his left, but he didn't turn it on, wanting the flashlight to blind anyone he might confront in the darkness. His wounded shoulder ached while he kept his left hand, the one with the flashlight, outstretched from his body so that if anyone shot at it, he wouldn't take the bullet in a vital area. Because his position was reversed relative to the upstairs corridor, his unsteady flashlight revealed that the closed elevator door was now on his left. Another closed door awaited beyond it-and two closed doors on his right.
The pungent smell increased with each unwilling step he took along the corridor. His stomach now felt so jittery that he feared he would vomit. His legs wanted to buckle. His body threatened to sink to the floor, his back to the wall, his knees to his chest, his arms around them, trembling.
Appalled by how his emotions wanted to betray him, he mentally cursed himself. Sweat soaking his clothes, he strained to remember every insult his instructors had barked at him, every command, every painfully acquired lesson.
Damn it, adrenaline's my friend!
Forcing his mind to focus on Karen, on the promise he'd made, Cavanaugh took another hesitant step along the dark corridor. Abruptly, he recalled why the pungent smell was vaguely familiar to him. The warehouse. He'd come across a less noticeable form of it in the abandoned building where Prescott had been hiding. When he'd sensed it on the stairs leading up to Prescott's hidey-hole, misgivings had tempted him not to go any farther and to return to his car instead. His uneasiness had been modest compared to the apprehension with which he now struggled. If not for his training and willpower, he wouldn't have been able to continue up the warehouse stairs.
Prescott!
The bastard's been here!
Cavanaugh smelled something else. Searching for its source, he angled his trembling flashlight toward the floor ahead of him. The farther door on the left led to a storage room. On the right, the farther door led to a bathroom. The one immediately on his right led to Karen's workroom, where she kept her digital cameras, her computers and special printers.
It was toward the bottom of the latter door that Cavanaugh tilted the flashlight, sickened by the sight of smoke leaking from its bottom and a slight flicker beyond it. He touched the doorknob, which felt slightly warm. A panicked part of his mind screamed, Run! But another part shouted, Karen! and made him shove the door in.
The fire almost blinded him. But that wasn't what Cavanaugh stared at. Flanked by flames that leapt among photographic equipment, computers, and printers, Karen faced him. Slumped in her wheelchair, the once pixielike redhead was motionless, her hands to her chest, her eyes as wide as any Cavanaugh had ever seen, her features contorted in horror. Her cheeks were so pale that her freckles appeared scarlet. She was only forty years old, but the twisted expression on her face made her look twice that.
Cavanaugh shoved the flashlight into a sport-coat pocket and rushed toward her, but the flames reached her before he could get near enough to pull her away. Not that it would have mattered if he'd reached her. Karen remained motionless in her wheelchair, unresponsive to the blaze that consumed her.
Dead.
But how? Cavanaugh thought, backing from the fire. He'd seen no injuries, no traumas to her face, no blood from a bullet wound, no bruising or swelling at her throat from having been choked. The fierce way she clutched her chest, it was as if she'd had a heart attack.
The flames strengthened. Stumbling back into the corridor, Cavanaugh saw that the strongest part of them came from a corner behind the photographic equipment, from the bottom of the wall, as if a short circuit had started a small fire that had accumulated behind the wall, until the flames gained enough power to burst through and fill the room. Prescott must have rigged something in a wall socket to make it seem that the fire had broken out accidentally. Cavanaugh hadn't smelled smoke when he'd entered the house because it had taken a while for the blaze to erupt from the wall. How Prescott loved to use fire as a weapon.
Lungs irritated by smoke, Cavanaugh raced along the corridor and charged up the stairs. Inexplicably, he felt an overwhelming urge to stop. The apprehension that had seized him earlier gripped him even more powerfully. His heart pounded faster than he'd ever felt it. His chest heaved so quickly that he feared his lungs would burst.