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But just when he’d ripped it out and opened it, spying what he knew to be twenty thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills, he’d heard the click of locks, the creak of a door open and then the scrape of footsteps over whispered voices.
Shit, shit, shit!
He couldn’t believe it.
Who would be here?
Why would anyone come here?
Of all the luck!
Of all the damned luck!
The only way out of the attic was down the narrow stairs to the upper hallway. He’d had the presence of mind to close that narrow door, but now he was trapped. He glanced skyward to the single window mounted high near the rafters, where he could see evidence of an owl roosting, whitewash droppings staining the crossbeams, pellets amassed on the floor below. The window was ajar and if push came to shove he might be able to squeeze through it and . . . what? Drop three floors to the ground below? Would the two feet of snow that had drifted around the house be enough to break his fall?
He doubted it.
The voices grew louder.
Damn it!
He strained to hear what they were saying as he considered sneaking out of the attic and into one of the bedrooms on the second floor. From Kara’s old room at the other end of the hallway, he could lower himself onto the back porch roof, slide across it and drop the eight feet to the ground. Then he could make his getaway.
Otherwise he’d be found out.
Otherwise he’d . . .
Creaaak!
A floorboard protested and it sounded close.
Not two floors down.
Here in the attic.
But that was impossible.
His blood turned to ice.
He kept his breathing shallow. Listened hard.
Nothing over the sudden thudding of his heart.
Slow down. You’re losing it. You’ve been in much more difficult situations than this. Remember Banhoff? The other cons? The guards? The fights? Hold it together, McIntyre, just fucking hold it together.
He considered praying and decided there was time enough for that later. Right now he had a problem he had to deal with and . . .
Crap!
Did the air in the attic just shift slightly?
The owl. He glanced up expecting to see the wide wingspan of a barn owl, but no bird of prey was roosting.
His imagination.
No, wait!
Did he smell something over the scents of dust and owl feces? The familiar scent of human sweat? Acrid and close? For a second he remembered the prison and the odor of men exercising and the distinct smell of men hyped up on adrenaline and fear.
