remembered a few of the more colorful hiding places—the statue of the tiger with mismatched eyes came to mind, as did the armor display room with the gas and the secret room in the library. . . .
But I don’t have time to go through all of them, not by myself. . . .
Wesker grinned suddenly and stood up, amazed that he hadn’t thought of it already. Who said he had to be by himself? He’d ditched the S.T.A.R.S. to map out a new plan and search for the crests, but there was no reason that he had to do everything. Chris wasn’t viable, he was too gung-ho, and Jill was still an unknown quantity . . . Barry, though . . . Barry Bur-ton was a family man. And both Jill and Chris trusted him.
And while they’re all still fumbling around in the house, I can get to the triggering system and then get the hell out, mission complete.
Still grinning, Wesker walked to the door that led to the dining room balcony, surprised to find that he was looking forward to his little adventure. It was a chance to test his skills against the rest of the team and against the accidental test subjects that were surely still lurching around—not to mention, oF Spencer himself. And if he pulled it off, he was going to be a very rich man.
This might actually turn out to be fun.
CAW!
Jill whipped her Beretta toward the sound, the mournful shriek echoing all around as the door slipped closed behind her. Then she saw the source of the noise and relaxed, smiling nervously. What the hell are they doing in here?
She was still in the back part of the house, and had decided to check out a few of the other rooms before heading back to the main hall. The first door she’d tried had been locked, a carving of a helmet on the key plate. Her picks had been useless, the lock a type she’d never encountered, so she’d decided to try her luck on the door across the hall. It had opened easily enough, and she’d gone in ready for anything—though about the last thing she’d expected to see was a riinE flock of crows, perched along the support bar for the track lighting that ran the length of the room. Another of the large black birds let out its morose shriek, and Jill shivered at the sound. There were at least a dozen of them, ruffling their shiny feathers and watching her with bright, beady eyes as she quickly surveyed the room for threats; it was clear. The U-shaped chamber she’d entered was as cold as the rest of the house, perhaps colder, and empty of furniture. It was a viewing hall, nothing but portraits and paintings lining the inner wall. Black feathers lay scattered across the worn wooden floor amidst dried mounds of bird droppings, and Jill wondered again how the crows had gotten inside, and how long they’d been there. There was definitely something strange about their appearance; they seemed much larger than normal crows, and they studied her with an intensity that seemed almost—unnatural. Jill shivered again, turning back toward the door. There wasn’t anything important in the room, and the birds were giving her the creeps. Time to move on. She glanced at a few of the paintings on her way out, mostly portraits, noticing that there were switches beneath the heavy frames—she assumed they were for the track lighting, though she couldn’t imagine why anyone had bothered setting up such an elaborate gallery for such mediocre art. A baby, a young man . . . the paintings weren’t awful, but they weren’t exactly inspired, either.
She stopped as she touched the cold metal handle of the door, frowning. There was a small, inset control panel set at eye level to the right of the door, labeled “spots.” She punched one of the buttons and the room dimmed as a single directional light went out. Several of the crows barked their disapproval, flutter-ing ebony wings, and Jill turned the light back on, thinking.
So if these are the light switches, what are the controls beneath the paintings for?
Perhaps there was more to the room than she’d thought. She walked to the first picture across from the door, a large painting of flying angels and clouds shot with sunbeams. The title was, From Cradle to Grave. There wasn’t a switch below it, and Jill moved to the next.
It was a portrait of a middle-aged man, his lined features sagging with exhaustion, standing next to an elaborate fireplace. From the cut of his suit and his slicked back hair, it looked to have been painted in the late 1940s or early ‘50s. There was a simple on/off switch underneath, unlabeled. Jill flicked it from left to right and heard an electrical snap—
• and behind her, the crows exploded into scream-ing motion, rising as one from their brooding perch. All she could hear was the beat of their dark wings and the sudden, manic ferocity of their cries as they swarmed toward her—
• and Jill ran, the door seeming a million miles away, her heart pounding. The first of the crows reached her as she grabbed for the handle, its claws finding the soft skin at the back of her neck. There was a sharp stab of pain just behind her right ear and Jill flailed at the rustling feathers that brushed her cheeks, moaning as the furious shrieks enveloped her. She slapped at the air behind her and was rewarded with a startled squawk of surprise. The bird let go of her, reeling away.
• too many, out out OUT—
She jerked the door open and fell into the hallway, kicking the door closed even as she hit the floor. She lay there a moment, catching her breath, relishing the cool silence of the corridor in spite of the zombie stench. None of the crows had gotten out. As her heartbeat returned to something approach-ing normal, she sat up and carefully touched the wound behind her ear. Her fingers came away wet, but it wasn’t too bad, the blood was already clotting; she’d been lucky. When she thought of what could have happened if she’d tripped and fallen . . . Why had they attacked, what had the control switch done? She remembered the snap of electricity when she’d flipped it, the sound of a spark—
• the perch!
She felt a sudden rush of grudging admiration for whoever had set up the simple trap. When she’d hit the switch, she must have sent a current through the metal bar they’d been perched on. She’d never heard of attack-trained crows, but could think of no other explanation—which meant that someone had gone through a lot of trouble to keep whatever was in that room a secret. To get to the answer, she’d have to go back in.
/ can stand in the doorway, take them out one at a time. . . . She didn’t much like the idea, she didn’t trust her aim and would certainly waste a lot of ammunition.
Only fools accept the obvious and go no further; use your brain, Jilly.
Jill smiled a little; it was her father talking, remind-ing her of the training she’d had before the S.T.A.R.S. One of her earliest memories was of hiding in the bushes outside the rickety old house in Massachusetts that her father had rented for them, studying the dark, empty windows as he explained how to properly “case a prospect.” Dick had made it into a game, teaching her over the next ten years all the finer points of breaking and entering, everything from how to re-move panes of glass without damaging them to walk-ing on stairs so they didn’t creak—and he’d also taught her, again and again, that every riddle had