Flashover by Dana Mentink Page B

so the tires had only gravel for traction as they climbed the steep, tree-lined slope. The lush green canopy bathed the trail in a delicious coolness. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the open car window.
    He wrestled the steering wheel as they rattled across a hole. “Sorry, Ivy. Is it hard on your shoulder?”
    â€œNo,” she said, sounding as though she was gritting her teeth.
    Tim concentrated on the structure that came into view around the last curve. It was a two-story, wood-frame building. The wide spaces where the picture windows should be were boarded up. A once-grand half-circle drive was sprinkled with weeds and the front veranda littered with broken pieces of wood and plaster. The whole lot was home to sprawling shrubs and clusters of thistle.
    â€œToo bad.” Tim shook his head. “It must have been a really fine hotel in its day.” He parked a good distance from the structure, under the concealing branches of a massive oak. “I don’t see any cars around, but I’m not sure Cyril owns one anyway.”
    They watched for several minutes, the only sign of movement coming from a squirrel that darted across the old shingled roof.
    â€œWe should take a look while we’re here.”
    Tim nodded. “I think we might be able to see through the slats in the side window there.” He leaned across her and pointed, trying to ignore the sweet smell of her shampoo.
    They picked their way quietly over the rocky ground.
    A crow squawked his displeasure at being disturbed. He flapped away with a rush of heavy wings.
    Tim stepped up on the wooden porch and helped Ivy up behind him. He whispered in her ear. “Hang on a second. I think I can see through that gap if I get a little higher.”
    He climbed onto a stack of cracked red bricks that he surmised had been intended to trim the chimney. He hoisted himself up to the edge of a boarded-up window.
    As his fingers cleared the edge, the pile shifted.
    He fell with a loud crash.

ELEVEN
    N ick started at the sound of a crash outside. Through the crack in the upstairs shutter he could see the man with the still-bruised eye lying in a pile of bricks and the girl firefighter talking quietly to him.
    Nick let go of Cyril’s neck with a disgusted sigh as he took a breath to control his rage. Cyril had made the mistake of angering Nick with his refusal to provide the goods. Anger wasn’t a good thing in Nick’s line of work, as Cyril’s snapped neck proved. His boss wasn’t going to like it. Cyril dead and still no merchandise recovered. He’d already searched the hotel from top to bottom before the scrawny man showed up, so he knew it wasn’t there. Cyril had come in with a backpack, probably left it in the downstairs mess. It was unlikely, but it bore checking out.
    Nick crept downstairs, avoiding the squeaky floorboards he’d noted on his way up earlier. The two outside seemed to be talking. He made it to the main floor before he saw the handle turn. He’d just enough time to snatch the backpack and squeeze back out through the loose shutter before they entered.
    Holding the backpack and keeping his head down, Nick retreated, vanishing into the leafy screen where he’d hidden his motorbike. Once again, he settled down to watch and wait.
    Â 
    Ivy barely avoided the tumbling bricks. She scrambled over to where Tim lay on his back. “Are you okay?”
    He blinked. “Yeah. Got a few more bruises to go with my eye, but nothing serious.”
    She brushed a cobweb off his cheek. “And you say I’m a trouble magnet.” Her joke didn’t elicit a smile. Instead he sat up and grabbed his cell phone.
    â€œWho are you calling?”
    â€œDetective Greenly.” His forehead creased into a frown. “I saw a red backpack in there before I fell.”
    Ivy inhaled sharply, all her senses on fire. “Cyril.”
    He nodded. After a moment he hung up with a frown.