Chapter 5 - The Narrow Shaft
The iron latch of the dumbwaiter door gave way with a dry, metallic click that sounded entirely too loud in the stillness of the pantry. I held my breath, listening for any answering scrape of boot leather against the hardwood floors of the kitchen above. Nothing stirred except the steady, low hum of the walk-in refrigerator across the room. I pressed my palms against the grimy wooden walls of the small compartment, tested the frayed hemp ropes with a cautious tug, and hoisted myself up onto the narrow ledge.
The air inside the shaft smelled of ancient dust, dry rot, and the metallic tang of old copper wiring. It was pitch black, save for a thin sliver of amber light filtering up from a floor seam near the ground level. I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the cold steel barrel of the heavy iron flashlight Damian had given me. I didn't click it on yet; a beam of light cutting through the vertical darkness would act as a beacon to anyone moving through the corridors outside the service panels.
Slowly, methodically, I began to climb. My gray housekeeping scrub top caught on a protruding splinter of pine, but I twisted free without making a sound, my muscles aching with the sustained effort. Each foot of vertical ascent brought me closer to the second-floor linen chute that opened directly into the western wing. Down in the bunker, Damian would be sitting at his curved wall of sixteen monitors, his fingers flying across the console to lock down the electronic keypads and blind the intruder's communication relays. I was his proxy in the dark, the one pair of eyes he couldn't reach from behind his screens.
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A muffled thud echoed from somewhere above me, vibrating through the structural beams of the mansion. It wasn't the heavy, deliberate tread of the estate's regular security guards. It was light, hurried, and purposeful—the sound of someone moving with malicious intent toward Beatrice's bedroom. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I forced my breathing to slow, channeling the cold, sharp focus I had seen in Damian's eyes back in the security bunker.
I reached the top of the shaft, my hand brushing the spring-loaded metal flap of the linen chute. Pressing my ear against the cool metal, I strained to catch the cadence of footsteps pacing the hallway outside. The house was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.
