Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

And with spelunking, it's all about the journey, the thrill of knowing every move you make could land you in a crevasse, that you can try your damnedest to control every variable, but you still leave something to chance. The goal is the simple satisfaction of survival. Here, there was more. Not just increased stakes, but an actual prize. A name that could rip the mask from the Helter Skelter killer.

Crawling through this ceiling was the ultimate extreme sport. Or, perhaps, only the precursor to it.

As I moved, the clatter of coins gave way to slurping, interspersed with moans set to a sound track of "yeah, baby, that's right, baby, uh-huh." I listened for the familiar wocka-wocka music of a seventies porn movie. Yes, I knew what porn movies sounded like. When you've worked in a testosterone-dominated occupation, you have two choices: lecture the guys on the political incorrectness of watching porn with a female co-worker or laugh it off with cracks like, "Hey, how come my pizza delivery boys are never hung like that?"

As I shimmied forward, being careful not to disturb the video watchers below, a shaft of light glimmered up through a fist-sized hole in the ceiling tile. Below it, I could see a balding head. The rafters on either side had pipes running over them. No detours possible. Damn. I eased back onto my haunches, took the flashlight from my mouth, turned it off and tucked it into my pocket. Then forward again, relying on the hole for light. I inched to the edge and peered down.

Below was a middle-aged man, his hands wrapped around a bleach blond head bobbing in his lap. He continued his porn star dialogue and she continued slurping, making way more noise than was necessary for the act--at least, as far as I remembered it. I was tempted to look around for the video camera. The man groaned and exhorted the woman to "Take it in. Take it all in," which, from my vantage point, didn't look very difficult. I crawled over the hole. Not like either of them was going to look up anytime soon.

As the live porn sound track faded, I put the penlight back in my mouth and pushed on. Only a few more rooms to cross now. In spite of the racket from the distant casino and the filth of seriously overlooked housecleaning chores, more than once a sudden grin almost sent my flashlight tumbling to the ceiling tiles below.

"Spelunking," I'd said when Jack had expressed some doubts about the wisdom of rafter-crawling. When his look demanded an interpretation, I'd said, "You know. Exploring caverns, caves, natural tunnel systems, that sort of thing."

His look didn't change.

"It's a sport," I'd said.

He'd shaken his head, as if unable to believe anyone would voluntarily do such a thing.

"What about getting down?" he'd said. "Long jump. You fall? He'll hear."

I'd rolled my eyes. "I'm not planning to fall...or jump. I'm going to abseil."

The look again. When I'd opened my mouth to explain, he'd lifted his hand and shaken his head. "You can do it? Good enough. Just be careful."

I paused for another compass check, realized I'd veered off at the last turn and backed up a few steps. Then there it was: the final marker--a tangle of wires that snaked the feed of every security camera into Gallagher's room. He'd be alone. Both Evelyn and Jack had sworn there was little question of that. Seemed Gallagher was antisocial as well as agoraphobic. He spent his nights locked in his control room, watching his money roll in.

Despite their assurances, I wasn't taking anything on faith. I stretched out across two rafters, grabbed a third with one hand, then lowered my head down as close to the ceiling tiles as I could get without slipping. A moment's pause, to double-check my balance, then I reached down with my free hand, hooked my fingertips around a tile edge and eased it to the side. It moved less than a half-inch, just enough to open a crack to the room below. And there sat Maurice Gallagher.

"He's a big guy," Jack had said.

He wasn't kidding. Evelyn had called Gallagher a spider, and I couldn't imagine a better metaphor. Gallagher was obese, at least four hundred pounds, with sticklike arms and legs, and a too-small, round head. He wore his dyed red hair slicked to each side, the part a blazing white stripe of pasty flesh that made his two patches of hair look like giant arachnid eyes. A spider, perched in his lair, watching his prey buzz about in the casino, entangling themselves in his web.

I wriggled back onto my main rafter, being careful not to make any noise, then crawled to the east side, where I'd find the bathroom. Next I took off my belt. It was a blue rope wrapped three times around my jeans, plus a length of chain and a ring clasp. A very practical fashion statement. I wrapped the chain around the rafter, attached the abseil ring, then looped the nylon cord through, and knotted it.

Again I braced myself on three parallel rafters and leaned down, tugging the tile up and out of the way. The whole time, I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on sound--how much I was making, and how much was coming from the adjacent room. One squeak of Gallagher's chair and I was out of there.

Once the tile was moved aside, I took hold of the cord and lowered myself through the hole. I aimed for the toilet seat, which, thankfully, Gallaher's mother had taught him to keep down. My sneakers made contact, but I kept rappelling down until my full weight was on the seat and I had my balance. Then I slid to the floor, leaving the rope dangling in case I needed to make an emergency exit.

* * *

THIRTY-SEVEN

The bathroom door was closed. I eased it open and used my makeup compact to scout the room, keeping it tilted down so a stray reflection off the mirror wouldn't give me away. Jack had said the call button for security was on Gallagher's right. I located it, then turned my attention to Gallagher. He had his back to me as he scanned the bank of screens, his head swiveling from left to right, then back again.

His gaze moved at such a constant rate that if it wasn't for the measured breathing, I'd have suspected Gallagher had indeed croaked, and I was looking at an automated version of him. I could even time his visual scan. Eleven seconds from one side to the other.

I waited until he began the right to left scan, counted off five seconds and slid forward, moving between him and his call button. Then I waited. It wasn't until he scanned all the way back from left to right that he saw me "Hi," I said.

He didn't jump. Didn't dive for the call button. Didn't even blink. Just looked at me, gaze moving from my head to my feet, as slow and impassive as if I was a row of security screens. Then he eased back in his chair.

"If you've come to rob me, young lady, you've made a very serious mistake." His voice was high pitched, almost squeaky. "There is no money here and you will not get anything from me but a one-way ticket to jail."

"Jail?" I said.

"I was being polite."

"Ah. Well, if I was here to rob you, I'm very unprepared." I lifted my hands, stood and turned around. "No money bags, no cans of mace, not even a gun."