As he’d told Viktór, the hatch was indeed too narrow for László’s wide shoulders to fit through. He’d been right about that.
At last, the panel was free. Viktór lowered it down and placed it beside him. But there was a problem: the opening was filled with ancient pink fiberglass insulation. He clawed at it until he could see the underside of a similar square panel above. If it was screwed down from the inside, there would be nothing he could do.
He reached up and put pressure on the square and it shifted. When it did, he could hear the muted sounds of a television blaring in another room. He was grateful that he wasn’t coming up right next to her.
Viktór folded the multi-tool and slipped it back into his pocket. Using both hands, he pushed up on the inside hatch until it was free of its frame. He slid it to the right side until it butted up against something solid.
There wasn’t yet enough room in the opening for him to climb up. So he worked the hatch across the opening the other way. It slid left until he could see the dark ceiling of the room above him and an unlit light fixture. The room smelled like an old person, he thought. Which was odd, because the librarian looked to be much younger when they’d seen her earlier that day.
He tried not to grunt as he grasped both sides of the frame and lifted himself upward into a sitting position. Only his head was inside the room, and he looked around. He was thankful for the glow of a night-light plugged into an outlet near the floorboards.
It was a bathroom. There were towels on racks and a light pink shower curtain. The reason he hadn’t been able to slide the panel to the right was because it was blocked by a toilet.
The door was open into a narrow hallway. The sound of the television came from the end of the house to his left.
Viktór shinnied up through the opening and sat on the edge of it with his legs dangling into the space until he could make sure he wasn’t breathing hard from the effort. Then he swung his boots up and used the edge of the sink to pull himself to full height.
He removed the hay hook from where he’d tucked it through his belt and fitted his fingers through the triangle. It felt substantial in his grip. He let it hang down as he bent forward to peer down the hall to where the librarian was watching television. He was careful not to let the hook clank against the doorframe.
He couldn’t see much of her except the top of her head over the back of the couch. There was a small table between her and the television with a bottle of clear liquid in it and a small paper cup. And, just as László had described, the bag with the library logo printed on the side of it was right there on the floor next to the couch. The bag bulged with its contents.
The librarian was still. Was she sleeping?
Could he pad down the hallway, grab the bag, and get clear without waking her? He envisioned himself scuttling back down the hallway, dropping through the opening, and rolling across the ground until he could fit himself under the trailer skirt and escape. He also envisioned a scenario where she heard him coming and screamed. Or grabbed a gun to protect herself. Or ran for the phone to call the police.
By far the simplest and easiest thing to do would be to sneak up on her and bury the hay hook into the top of her head, grab the photo album, and walk out the front door.
He wished he could consult with László, who was waiting for him outside.
But Viktór didn’t want to hurt her. He’d already had enough of that for the day, or maybe for the rest of his life. She was just a librarian, after all.
Just reach down and take the bag and back away. That was his plan.
He took in a deep long breath and moved out into the hallway. He pulled his balaclava down to obscure his face. The hay hook was still hanging along his thigh, just in case he needed to threaten her.
* * *
—
Viktór was within six meters of the library bag when a cat appeared from nowhere and yowled and ran down the length of the hallway from behind him. It shot through his legs and leaped on the top of the couch behind the woman, arching its back and hissing at him.
The librarian was startled and woke up flailing. She said, “Cricket, damn you.”
Then she turned and looked over her shoulder and saw his face and screamed.
Viktór had never killed a woman before. Especially an old woman who looked like a bird. Especially the wrong woman.
But when she got to her feet and crossed the room and picked up a cowboy-type rifle from where it had been placed next to the front door, glaring at him with wild eyes as she worked the lever action, he had no choice.