But those shots hadn't been muted by a sound suppressor.
The neighbors would have heard them and phoned the police, Cavanaugh thought.
It was the first mistake Prescott had made. Even if there hadn't been a fire, Prescott couldn't take the risk of staying much longer. With the fire, he had to leave immediately or be trapped. The neighbors had probably seen smoke coming from the house and called the fire department. Despite the noise from the fire, Cavanaugh thought he heard faintly approaching sirens: another reason for Prescott to want to leave as fast as he could.
Lying on the dusty floor, rubbing his back where he'd banged it, Cavanaugh gulped smoke-free air, although the air would soon change, he knew. To slow that from happening, he shut the elevator door, cutting off the flickering light in the shaft. He'd become so accustomed to the glare of the flames that he wasn't prepared for the almost-total darkness of the attic. At each end, the gray of dusk struggled through tiny windows. He couldn't possibly squeeze through them. The only way out was the attic door.
But would Prescott be waiting for him down there, ready to shoot? Beyond the windows, the distant sirens seemed closer. I've got to believe he decided he'd killed me and left, Cavanaugh thought. If I stay up here any longer, the fire'll trap me.
His night vision improved sufficiently for him to see bulky shapes that he guessed were large boxes. A human silhouette was a dressmaker's mannequin. He knew that the entrance to the attic was a swing-down door at the top of the second-floor stairs. Orienting himself, he calculated where that door would be. As smoke seeped from cracks in the elevator's wall, he crept around it. Feeling his way through dust, he suddenly touched folded-up wooden stairs that rested on the hinged door. Now all he had to do was push down and-
What about Prescott? What if I'm wrong and he's waiting for me?
Cavanaugh sweated. Behind him, he felt heat. He turned and saw flames through the cracks in the elevator's wall. He heard the approaching sirens.
Prescott's gone! He has to be gone!
Cavanaugh shoved down on the trapdoor.
Nothing happened.
He shoved harder. No result.
I must be pushing the wrong end, he thought. I'm pushing where the hinges are.
He scuttled to the other end and shoved down harder.
The door continued to remain in place.
Almost choking on dust that he'd dislodged, he stared from one end of the door to the other. The flames through the elevator walls were now bright enough to reveal that the first end of the door that he'd tried to shove down had in fact been the one without hinges. Those hinges showed clearly, mounted on parallel beams. Panicked, he scurried to the end without hinges and pressed down with all his strength, but the door refused to budge. There had to be a latch on the other side that prevented it from opening accidentally.
Smoke drifted over it.
He stomped down, trying to smash a hole in the trapdoor so he could reach down and free the latch.
The thick wood remained in place.
He spun and scanned the boxes, the mannequin, another trunk, anything that might help him. He bent over, coughing. Maybe 1 can unscrew the hinges, he thought. How? Where am I going to find a screwdriver or something to…
His eyes watered. Smoke from the shaft obscured the light from the flames in the elevator's compartment. I could fumble around up here until I drop, he thought.
Already, he was off balance from the lack of oxygen. No matter how much strength panic had given him, his body had reached a limit. If he inhaled more smoke…
Then don't breathe, he told himself.
His lungs protesting when he held his breath, he drew his handgun and aimed toward the wood next to a hinge. The barrel was five inches away from it, tilted so the bullet would plow under the hinge and damage the screws.
To keep flying splinters from his eyes, he turned his head before he pulled the trigger. The roar blasted his eardrums. Continuing to hold his breath, he readjusted his aim, this time toward another spot next to the hinge, and again looked away as he pulled the trigger. The recoil jerked his unsteady hands up. The roar made his ears ring.
His pistol held eight rounds in the magazine, one in the firing chamber. Afraid he'd pass out, he kept pulling the trigger, chunks of wood flying. He emptied the magazine, replaced it with a full one from the pouch on his belt, and fired eight more bullets, this time into the wood next to the other hinge. He replaced that magazine with the remaining full one on his pouch and continued to shoot at the hinges.
Saving his last round in case Prescott had stayed down there despite the fire, Cavanaugh holstered his pistol and stomped on the door. He heard wood protest… stomped again, heard wood shriek, the hinges separating from it… stomped it a third time, and fell, the trapdoor giving way, he and it plummeting toward the landing.
Dropping, he grabbed the edge of the opening, dangled, saw flames eating through the elevator door below him, and released his grip. Hitting the smoke-filled landing, he rolled. The impact sent a shock wave through him that punched air from his protesting lungs and compelled him to inhale smoke.
He wanted to reach a bedroom at the top of the stairs, but; when he pawed across the floor, he felt only open space and realized that he was headed in the wrong direction, about to tumble down stairs toward flames that blocked the front door. His eyes stinging, he turned to make his way on hands and knees through thick smoke toward the bedroom.
But his arms didn't want to work. His knees wouldn't push him forward. Lack of oxygen made him feel paralyzed. A blanket seemed to float down over him, smothering him.
Abruptly, hands grabbed him. He felt himself being dragged into shadows, away from the blaze consuming the elevator door. Something slammed: a door behind him, blocking the smoke. The hands grabbed him again, pulling him past a murky something that was probably a bed, toward an open door, onto the balcony that he'd been struggling to reach.
Outside, the glare of flames at ground-floor windows showed him the tense face above the hands that dragged him. Jamie. Her green eyes fiercely reflected the fire as she pulled him to the left side of the balcony, onto a railed-in, motorized platform that had allowed Karen to lower her wheelchair into the backyard.
He heard Jamie's strident breathing, then the sound of a motor as the platform descended. Sirens wailed.
The platform jerked to a stop. The fire must have burned the electrical wires, Cavanaugh realized. He peered over the edge, seeing ripples of reflected flames on the lawn five feet below him.
Jamie opened the platform's gate, squirmed over the side, and let go. She landed, then braced herself and reached up as Cavanaugh squirmed over. She grabbed him as he dropped, the two of them sprawling on the lawn.
The fire reached the back windows as the sirens wailed louder.
Jamie pulled Cavanaugh to his feet and tried to keep a distance from the burning house, guiding him along the right side.
"No," Cavanaugh murmured. "The back."
"What?"
"Backyard. Gate."
The relatively clear air chased the grogginess from his mind while he stumbled away from the house, heading through the backyard. Jamie kept pace with him, holding him up.
At the front of the house, firefighters shouted. Engines roared. Ladders and other equipment banged and rattled.
The backyard was spacious. Past two hulking trees, the shadows were thicker. The glare from the flames would soon reach this far, but for the moment, they had the cover of darkness as they came to a gap in a hedge. A high white wooden gate filled the space.