PART I

Except for a wedge of mottled sunlight, muddied with floating dust, it was dark. The thin shaft broke through a torn section of ceiling, creating a lopsided puddle of light on the landing at the top of the stairs, but illuminating little. Even the breath of air the hole allowed into the close interior was fetid, heavy with the powder of disintegrating plaster and the scent of rotting garbage.

Steve unconsciously held his breath, trying to keep the cloying powder from his lungs and the scent from his nostrils. It was as instinctive a gesture as it was a futile one. He shifted his shoulders slightly against the wall, listening, grimaced as a cobweb tickled his face.

Nothing. Not a sound.

But the whirl of the plaster powder in the broken beam of light told another story - someone had been by here, and recently. And there was only one other point of egress from this old building. Cheryl had it covered.

He eased himself carefully up one more step, jaw tense, listening for the telltale creak that could give him away. The step sagged, but took his weight. He stood poised. It was safer here around this corner, but he might need to surrender this scrap of cover. Gun at the ready, he took a deep breath, coughing as he choked on a mouthful of dust.

"All right, Drummond! I know you're there and there's no way for you to get out - we've got the exits covered." The rickety fire escape on the crumbling wall outside didn't reach as high as the attic. Of course, pieces of the wall could be easily torn away, but it was a suicidal drop from here, and he was blocking the stairs. No way to get down to a safer level without going past him. He peered carefully around the corner, up the last flight of the steep and narrow attic stairs.

These old places are firetraps. Not enough exits, dry and rotting timber just waiting for a random flash of lightning or some vagrant's carelessly dropped cigarette. They should be pulled down.

Maybe he'd recommend it. He directed his voice around the corner again. "Come on - let's not take all day. I've got better things to do and so do you. Come nice and peaceful and I'll even put in a good word for you. You can't hide out here forever - it's just a matter of time."

This silence was really starting to get on his nerves. Shouldn't the guy make at least some sound - a rustle - something? He couldn't have actually gotten out, could he? Could there be some means of exit that they hadn't considered? Steve paused. Going around that corner left him out in the open - completely vulnerable to attack, without much room to maneuver in the narrow confines of the staircase. But if Drummond had found another way out and past Cheryl…

"Come on, Drummond - we can do this easy, or we can do this hard." He waited, swore silently as the silence stretched.

Evidently Drummond had his heart set on doing it hard.

Hugging the wall with his back and keeping his gun high, he slid cautiously around the corner, found the first step with one foot and stepped up. The silence seemed to deepen, waiting, and a spot between his shoulder blades itched a warning. Damn, he'd give a lot for some hint of sound - even some of that scary music that always accompanied this sort of scene in those old horror movies he used to watch as a kid. He climbed onto the next step, the itch between his shoulder blades growing to a quiver.

Then again, maybe not.

His dad had been right - those darned things did stick with you through the years. Polluted your imagination. Maybe after he'd processed Drummond and made his way home for the evening he'd let him know that - as a special treat. His dad did love to hear that he was right. But of course, first he had to apprehend Drummond.

He glanced ahead at the attic door, yawning half off its hinges, hinting at, but not really revealing, the shadowy aperture beyond. Something cold quivered deep in his abdomen and he clicked his tongue softly in disgust. Don't let your imagination run away with you, Sloan - there's nothing behind that door except a pubescent felon robbery suspect and a whole lot of dust. He slid his foot onto the next step, eyes on the door, gun poised, slowly shifting his weight to minimize any accompanying sound. A sound came, but not the one he was expecting.

There was a violent flutter of movement, an angry flapping, shocking in the portentous silence, a flurry of motion just past his face. Startled, Steve jumped, spinning his gun in that direction and skittering to find his balance, even as one mocking corner of his brain catalogued his attackers as pigeons. He bumped the wall, teetering dangerously on the steps for an instant before his weight landed hard and sure on the right foot poised on the upper step. There was a dry, cracking sound, an explosion of powdered air, and the foot disappeared beneath him, dropping him abruptly so that both his knees barked against the stairs. His gun jumped from his hand. He heard it land with a hollow bonk on the step behind him, slide over the warped wooden landing, repeat the echoing bonk a couple of other times, then stop. For a wonder, it didn't fire.

Stunned, he stayed on his knees for a second, choking on the newly clotted air, coughing to clear his lungs and waving to dissipate the cloud that hung about him. He had landed in some skewed way, and for a minute the odd imbalance left him disoriented, his right leg unsupported, freely dangling in space. As the air cleared, he got a better look at what had happened - his foot had gone right through the stair.

Wonderful.

Pushing off with his left leg and using the wall for support, he got himself standing again, balancing on one foot, tugging carefully to free the foot from the broken stair. The violent shock of pain tore a cry from him that reverberated through the empty walls and down the rickety staircase.

He reeled back against the wall, trying to maintain his balance, perspiration drenching his scalp. The splintered stair shredded his leg, chewing into it like the teeth of some horrible carnivore. Something lanced deep into his calf muscle and he stumbled, slapping a hand hard against the wall to keep from dropping to his knees again. He saw blood well up around the jagged hole in the stair, felt it soak his pant leg, run into his shoe. A hot wave of sickness poured over him and he tugged at his foot again, more gently this time, frantic to have it free. The pain came in dizzying waves and the surrounding world bleached away.

Tilting precariously between consciousness and unconsciousness, he had a sudden glimmer of reason and fumbled for his phone to contact Cheryl for help. His nerveless fingers were still trying to close around it when he became aware of another sound - the shuffle of footsteps. He went cold all over.

Drummond.

No doubt he had heard him cry out and was curious to see what all the noise was about.

He saw a dark figure silhouetted against the off-kilter door, the door panel swinging slightly on its single hinge behind it. Steve glanced nervously back over his shoulder and down the stairs, hoping to spot his gun. It had fallen around the corner and out of reach.

With a measured, almost casual tread, Drummond moved down a step, taking in the scene. The anemic shaft of sunlight through the broken ceiling illuminated his face. It was wreathed with a broad, almost beatific, smile.

Steve reached down the staircase behind him, straining to feel around the corner, to find his gun and grasp it. The ragged wooden teeth razored themselves deeper into his leg, clinging to him, the pain almost sending him under. The staircase groaned warningly.

Drummond glanced around, nonchalant, moved lightly down another step to nudge something with his feet, then bent to pick it up. When he straightened, he was holding a broken piece of 2 x 4, dusty and splintered with age, probably a remnant from the hole in the ceiling. He studied it thoughtfully, swinging it slightly, making sure that Steve was watching.

Steve felt his heart trying to push its way out of his chest, wondering what he could do to save himself. He couldn't get to his gun. He couldn't even see it. His leg was well and truly caught and if he moved too much he could go through the rotten stairs altogether, hurtling four stories below to a near certain death. But depending on what Drummond planned with that 2 x 4...or if Drummond got his hands on his gun…

He remembered the phone almost in his chilly grasp. His thumb found one of the buttons and he pressed it, not sure what it would do, not sure how it could help, but feeling better for doing something.

Drummond took a sudden, decisive step closer, swinging the board in front of him, firmly this time, clasped in a two-handed grip.

Steve lifted an arm to block the blow. The shock of the hit vibrated down his arm, numbing it. It dropped nervelessly to his side, this new pain startling and distracting. Before he could collect himself or assess the latest damage, he saw the board rise again. He heard something whistle through the air, felt a thin rush of wind by his cheek. The sound was a dull thud this time, disconnected for a minute from any feeling.

And then the white lights exploded in his head.

TBC