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holes. Reacher knew that. He had heard the dogs pattering
around below him, five days ago.
He paused at the foot of the ladder. Stood as quiet as
possible. Took the ceramic knife out of his coat pocket and
shrugged the coat and suit jacket off and left them piled on the
ledge. Stepped onto the ladder. It creaked loudly under his
weight. He eased upward to the next rung. The ladder creaked
again.
He stopped. Took one hand away from the rung it was
gripping and stared at the palm. Pepper. The pepper he had
used five days ago was still on the ladder. It was smeared and
smudged on the rungs, maybe by his previous descent five days
ago, maybe by some new ascent undertaken today by the cops. Or by somebody else. He paused. Eased up another rung. The
ladder creaked again.
He paused again. Assess and evaluate. He was on a noisy
ladder eighteen feet below a trapdoor. Above the trapdoor was
an uncertain situation. He was unarmed, except for a knife with
a blade three and a half inches long. He took a breath. Opened
the knife and held it between his teeth. Reached up and grasped
the side rails of the ladder as far above his head as he could
stretch. Catapulted himself upward. He made the remaining
eighteen feet in three or four seconds. At the top he kept one
foot and one hand on the ladder and swung his body out into
open space. Stabilized himself with his fingertips spread on the
ceiling above. Felt for movement.
There was none. He reached out and poked the trapdoor
upward an inch and let it fall closed. Put his fingertips back on
the ceiling. No movement up there. No tremor, no vibration. He
waited thirty seconds. Still nothing. He swung back onto the
ladder and pushed the trapdoor all the way open and swarmed
up into the bell chamber.
He saw the bells, hanging mute in their cradles. Three of
them, with iron wheels above, driven by the ropes. The bells
were small and black and cast from iron. Nothing like the
giant bronze masterpieces that grace the ancient cathedrals of
Europe. They were just plain rural artefacts from plain rural
history. Sunlight came through the louvres and threw bars
of cold light across them. The rest of the chamber was
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empty. There was nothing up there. It looked exactly as he had
left it.
Except it didn’t.
The dust was disturbed. There were scuffs and unexplained
marks on the floor. Heels and toes, knees and elbows. They
weren’t his from five days ago. He was sure of that. And there
was a faint smell in the air, right at the edge of his consciousness.
It was the smell of sweat and tension and gun oil and
machined steel and new brass cartridge cases. He turned a slow
circle and the smell was gone like it had never been there at all.
He stood still and put his fingertips against the iron bells,
willing them to give up their secret stored vibrations.
Sound came through the louvres, as well as sunlight. He
could hear people clustered near the base of the tower seventy
feet below. He stepped over and squinted down. The louvres
were weathered wooden slats spaced apart and set into a frame
at angles of maybe thirty degrees. The fringe of the crowd was
visible. The bulk of it was not. He could see cops on the
perimeter of the field, thirty yards apart, standing easy and
facing the fences. He could see the community centre building.
He could see the motorcade waiting patiently in the lot, with the
engines running and exhaust vapour clouding white in the cold.
He could see the surrounding houses. He could see a lot of
things. It was a good firing position. Limited field, but it only
takes one shot.
He glanced upward. Saw another trapdoor in the bell
chamber ceiling, and another ladder leading up to it. Next to
the ladder there were heavy copper grounding straps coming
down from the lightning rod. They were green with age. He had
ignored the ceiling on his previous visit. He had experienced no