The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,3
armoire, shoving the heavy chest to one side, wedging it tight against a stack of stained boxes. Sure enough, the seam was the outline of a small door cut into the bricks.
He just had to figure out how to open it. He had no more keys, no crowbar, but as he shined his light over the seam in the bricks, he ran the tips of his fingers over the rough edges of the mortar.
No knob.
No pull.
No handle of any kind.
Damn.
There had to be a way.
More carefully he touched the edges of the seam again but . . . nothing. “Come on, come on,” he muttered in frustration.
No one said it would be easy, but he could use an effin’ break.
Thump, thump, thump, thump!
The noise thundered through the basement.
Bronco froze.
What the hell?
Oh, shit! Someone was running across the porch!
No!
Had he closed the outside door? Locked it behind him?
Hell, no!
Crap!
Why was anyone out here after the damned storm?
In one motion, he ducked, dimmed his flashlight and raised his gun, his eyes trained laser-sharp on the foot of the stairs, where only the faintest shaft of illumination was visible. Sweat drizzled into his eyes.
Could he really do it?
Kill a man? Or a woman? Or a damned kid?
Crap, crap, crap!
Heavy breathing, more thumping as whoever it was rounded that final landing.
Oh, Jesus. Someone heard the shot! That’s what it was!
Bronco’s finger tightened over the trigger.
In a blur of motion a shadow leaped from the final steps.
He fired—Bang!—and caught a glimpse of shiny fur as an animal yelped as if in pain, or scared and out of his mind.
No! His stupid dog! Jesus Christ, he’d just killed his damned dog!
The shot was still ringing in his ears but still, he heard a pitiful whine and scrambling paws. “Boy . . . here, boy.”
The heeler was at his side in an instant, unhurt, just scared and shaking, brown eyes bulging. But no blood. Bronco checked with his flashlight, running the beam over the dog’s mottled coat. “You idiot,” Bronco muttered, but gave the shivering animal a quick scratch behind his ears. “I coulda killed . . . oh, hell . . .” There was no time for this. Now there had been two shots fired. No telling who might’ve heard them. One could have been dismissed, but two? Nope. No way. He had to work fast. To the dog, he whispered, “You stay. You hear me? Don’t move a muscle.”
Fender whined, his tail tucked between his legs, his body trembling.
Shit!
Bronco couldn’t worry about it. He had less time than ever. He had to find the release for the door. And fast.
He swept the light over the beams, searching for electrical wires that would lead him to a switch for the small brick portal, even though, if that were the case, if the catch on the door was electrically controlled, he was screwed. The power to the house had been shut off long ago.
Think, Bronco, think. This has to be simple. Something you’re missing! What had Gramps said? Something about a combination?
He returned to the door, crouched beside it, ran the flashlight’s beam over the dirty bricks once more.
From the corner of his eye he saw the dog nosing around again, but ignored him. Right now he had to concentrate. Crouching low, Bronco took a step backward, ran the flashlight over the door again and . . . he saw it. A chip on one of the lower bricks that was slightly different from the others. Smoother. A long shot, but he knelt in the muck, placed his finger in the small divot and waited for a click.
Nothing.
Yet . . . then he spied another, similar notch on the brick above. He touched it. Again, zilch.
Get in.
Get out.
Fender crept up to him. Curious. Nosing around.
Bronco ignored the dog and tried several times to open the latch. But nothing happened.
This had to be it. Right?
The dog whined, the hackles on the back of his neck bristling, but Bronco was deep in concentration before he noticed the third notch on a brick that abutted the other two.
Tentatively, sweat dripping from his nose, he placed a finger on the notch. Still nothing. Damn. Maybe he was way off base with this.
Fender, muscles tense, let out a low growl.
“Hush!” Bronco muttered. He couldn’t be bothered with the dog right now. He rocked back on his heels holding the beam steady on the small door. No more notches. Just the three in those abutting bricks. That had to mean something. Had to.