Old Bones - Douglas Preston Page 0,3

himself in a spare, cool reception hall smelling of dust and old wood. The place had been cleared of valuables, but some worthless broken-down furniture remained. He did a quick search of the downstairs—the salon, kitchen, courtyard, dining room, servants’ quarters, pantries, and closets—and found nothing. He was not concerned by that; he did not expect what he was searching for would be there.

He quickly mounted the decaying stone staircase to the second floor. He paused to look out the window and was dismayed to see the four workmen bulling their way down through the shrubbery to the house. He should have come earlier. It was five o’clock, and he’d assumed they would have gone home for the day by now.

A search of the second floor revealed nothing of interest, either. The old chests that remained fell apart in his hands, the closets were empty, and a few rotting bureaus held nothing more than blankets and clothes chewed up into rats’ nests. A few chromolithographs adorned the walls or lay broken on the floor, stained and foxed.

He knew an attic sat under the Moorish dome, but he couldn’t seem to find the stairs up to it. As he moved about, he suddenly heard voices echoing downstairs, accompanied by coarse laughter.

Would the workmen come upstairs? Of course they would. They would have been told to make a final sweep of the house, looking for anything of value and making sure no squatters were living inside. Which meant they’d look everywhere.

He moved into the center corridor of the second floor, walking slowly, examining the walls. These old haciendas often had hidden doorways. And there it was: a recessed bookcase, holding just a handful of wormy books. Its empty state made the seam along its outer edge all the more obvious. He gave a heave on the side of the case with his shoulder, and as he hoped, it pivoted out, exposing a staircase leading upward. He slipped through and carefully turned the bookcase back into place, hoping—expecting—that the workmen would not notice it. Surely they wouldn’t realize the dome held an attic room…would they?

He mounted the steep circular stairs, sending a surprised mouse scurrying away with a squeak. The staircase brought him to a plank ceiling with a trapdoor, which he forced open. The rusty hinges made a loud creaking noise and he paused to listen. The tromping of the men continued downstairs, their laughter suggesting they had heard nothing.

The attic space was small and, surprisingly, still packed with furniture, boxes, armoires, broken mirrors, steamer trunks, an eight-sided poker table, and other bric-a-brac. As Benton pulled himself up and began to move around, a roost of pigeons, living in the belfry atop the dome, flew off with a great beating of wings. There were pieces here with at least some value; this area must have been missed by the movers. Unfortunately, all this stuff meant he could have a longer search. And with the creaky wooden floor, a search might make noise. He’d better wait for the men to leave.

He listened as the voices came up to the second floor. More tromping about and the creeping smell of cigarette smoke. They surely would not find the door.

But they did. He sat up, straining to hear. One of them was exclaiming loudly, and he could hear them heaving on the bookcase and the sliding sound as it pivoted.

His heart suddenly pounding, Benton looked around for a hiding place. There was a large armoire he could hide in—but no, it would likely be opened. He pulled open the lid of a trunk, but it was full of junk. He realized there was no good place to hide. He was trapped.

Now the voices were booming up the stairs. They had not started climbing, apparently egging each other on to see who was going to be first.

There were four of them and one of him. He spied a heavy chest next to the trapdoor. Yes. That’s it. He seized the corner of the chest and shouldered it across the door, making a loud scraping noise.

There was sudden silence from below.

It might not be heavy enough. He pushed another chest over, and piled several heavy pieces of furniture on top. The silence below told him the men could hear everything he was doing. When Benton had piled as much weight as he could on the trapdoor, he sat back and waited.

“Hey!” one of the men called up. “Who’s up there?”

Benton tried not to breathe.

“Who the hell is