Fire Sign

by M. A. Petterson

  I must venture deeper inside. Find where my little lost angel will start her last fire.

  And then I spot him, facing away from me, watching the side door, unlocked still, where he figures I will sneak in.

  Detective Gil Dolan is here to detain me. He believes I am the arsonist, a copycat, not unheard of in my profession.

  I have no time for this misguided nonsense.

  I glide in his direction as quietly as fog. If he turns now, all is lost.

  Blue flames crackle out as I hold the stun gun tight against Dolan’s back. He falls like a dropped brick, spasming, limbs twitching. When he grows still I find his shoulder holster and remove his service revolver. I pat his ankles, but he carries no backup gun.

  For a moment all is quiet. Then, I clearly hear footsteps running off. A door slams shut.

  I am discovered.

  Somewhere in the distance an alarm clock rings.

  There is no time to lose.

  I set off like the wind. But this church is huge, colossal. As I race past the baptismal font, I chunk in Dolan’s weapon.

  I try and put myself in the girl’s mind. She is thinking crazy, but with terrible purpose. No one has answered her pleas for help. If only I can find her soon.

  Where would she be? I wonder. Everywhere. I remember the four hotspots in the other church. I have no doubt there will be dozens here. All bursting into flame within moments of each other. All spreading out with fury and purpose.

  The church is probably doomed.

  But, she is not.

  It is then that I smell it, the first faint whisper of smoke.

  I let my nose guide me down a long carpeted hallway. When another hall intersects I pause to orient myself. But as the spoor of smoke grows, I realize it approaches from all directions.

  I quickly retrace my steps. I throw the door open, back into the vast nave and almost collide with someone.

  “Who are you?” I bark.

  “Caretaker,” he says, looking wildly around, ready to bolt.

  I grab his arm. “What’s beyond those doors?”

  “Refectory. Nursery. Classrooms. Which floor you talking about?”

  Wispy gray tendrils of smoke, delicate as spider webs float past us. By the sharp odor there is much more smoke nearby. “Find a fire alarm,” I yell. “Then get the hell out.”

  I rush down the ambulatory. The smoky stench thickens.

  I turn a corner and race by a classroom. All the curtain hems blaze as if someone had just trailed a match along the bottom length of them.

  I sweep past the library and see a burning pyre of bibles, piled high against one wall. Directly above the paint blisters and curls, soon to ignite.

  The nursery is next. I see gaily-colored stuffed animals everywhere, each one engulfed in flames.

  I pass a closed door. Intense light glows out from underneath. I touch the wood and it scorches me. I know better than to open the door.

  Each room from there on is a nightmare echo of the one before: the chapel, auditorium, thrift shop, refectory, cloister, side galleries. The flames run rampant beyond my wildest imagination. Everything has spread faster than I thought possible.

  I find the stairwell. Steps lead down to a basement, I assume. I make a choice and stampede upward.

  I reach the second floor and sprint down the hall, throwing doors open as I pass. All are offices. All are still blessedly dark.

  I race back into the stairwell and jog up again. My lungs ache from the growing tang of char.

  More offices. I sprint along, throwing open doors. Looking for what, I don’t know.

  Then I reach the rector’s office. Unlike the other offices, the lights inside are all ablaze. I immediately see that the computer monitor has been turned to the door. I approach it and read what’s on the screen:

  Sin not against the child

  Genesis 42:22

  A terrible scream shatters the night.

  I spin around and rush out, spot the door marked CHOIR LOFT, and burst through it.

  I instantly throw my arms up to shield against the incredible heat of the conflagration below. The entire main floor of the church is ablaze. Flames bend hungrily over the balcony.

  Before me I see Absalom. I was right, but I was wrong. The victim was not a young girl, but a young boy. He turns a tormented face to look at me.

  “Second Samuel 14:30,” he says. “From the Book of Kings, Old Testament.”

  A column of beautiful sparks rushes heavenward.

  “And he said unto his servants, I would see the king were it not for Jacob.”

  Father Jake, yes.

  “This night, then, we will set fire to his fields and all he owns.”

  Black spots begin charring at the front of his robe, wisping gray smoke.

  “So they made preparations,” the young man says. “Waiting half the length before dawn, then set out with torch and tinder. And the servants did as Absalom commanded.”

  “Did he touch you?” I ask.

  He nods faintly.

  “Did he touch your friend?”

  “Nobody cared,” he chokes.

  “I care,” I say.

  Absalom looks out at the flames. “I’m going to hell.”

  “No. You’ve served your time.”

  He looks at me again. I see his tears. I feel his tears. I am his tears.

  “Father Jake knew, didn’t he?”

  “As long as he was alive, I was safe.” Absalom says.

  “It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to feel angry.” I hold out my hands. “Come to me.”

  I stare into his terrified eyes. I command my heart to reach out to his.

  The entire front rail of the choir loft dances with fire. A low runner of flames separates us.

  He tries to speak again, but cannot.

  I step over the flickering barrier between us. I feel nothing. I wrap my arms around Absalom and feel everything.

  “What are you doing?” someone shouts from the balcony door. It is Dolan. He uses his arms to shield himself from the terrible heat. “Hurry!” He holds out a hand. “Hurry!”

  “Save yourself,” I shout back.

  Scorching tendrils of flame pluck at us. All around the air shimmers, vibrating madly. Loud poppings and dull boomings counterpoint the strident roar. Something twists beneath me.

  With a juddering moan, the loft folds in on itself, collapsing.

  Hands suddenly grab me, dragging me back.

  I clutch Absalom. He shrieks. My hands are fierce as iron claws, welded to his robe.

  Abruptly, my feet slide out from under me. Dolan jerks me back, jerks too hard. Suddenly all I hold are two scraps of cloth.

  Then all I can do is watch the boy’s lost eyes as he plummets into the boiling cauldron.

  “You bastard,” I shriek at Dolan, kicking him, scratching him, forcing him back down the hall with my fists and teeth and all my might.

  I could’ve saved the boy. I should’ve saved the boy. Like no one had ever saved me.

  Then I turn and run off, crazed with guilt like I once was, buried in grief like I have been ever since.

  *****

  My thoughts are an explosion of jagged splinters which I cannot control. All that’s left is some wild thing, fueled by pure adrenaline.

  Thick smoke surrounds me, choking, blinding. I hold my blouse over my nose and mouth. It hardly matters.

  I find my way back to the stairs. All below is an angry orange glow. Nothing to do but rush up.

  I make it two more flights before the steps end. The stairwell acts like a wind tunnel, sucking the fire up, chasing me relentlessly.

  Flames dance brightly at either end of the hall, chewing along the carpet in a slow march.

  I sink to my belly to breathe easier, an entirely futile act.

  I suspect this last hallway means the end of me.

  Then the heated draft rushing up from the stairwell pushes aside the black smoke for a brief instant.

  Direct
ly in front of me the door reads BELL TOWER.

  I crawl to it, reach up and pull the door open.

  As the fresh welcome air surrounds me, I spy the brown string attached to the inside knob. I hear the metal clang above me and then the telltale chug of liquid emptying from a container.

  I can guess what the liquid is. No one is meant to escape from this place.

  I understand, then pull myself up and take to the stairs with all the determination I have left.

  The old wooden steps follow the walls, winding up, and I know they will make for a fine fuel load. Especially soaked with gasoline. The thick bell rope dangles down through the hollow center.

  I don’t look behind me, I don’t want to see what might be gaining.

  I reach the top landing and stumble over the empty gas can. I kick it back down the steps. Then I close the door behind me in a pointless gesture of defiance.

  I am out in the open now and suck in lungful after lungful of cool precious air.

  Before me is a huge bell taller than I am. I duck under it and find myself perched on the highest point of the cathedral. Below me dozens of fire engines and police cars swarm about, moving like frantic toys.

  I have reached as far up as possible. Now it is time to go down.

  I grab the thick bell rope and haul at it, hand over hand, dropping what I’ve pulled up over the outer edge. It seems quite long and raises my hopes.

  Then I clutch the rope tightly, sit for a moment on the edge, and gently ease off.

  My heart wrenches as I immediately drop several feet. I pull up sharply at the same time as the mighty bell tolls out a single mournful note.

  Below me, apparatus and emergency vehicles continue rolling up in a steady stream. Firefighters rush about, police herd back the crowds, emergency personnel set up aid stations.

  I have seen the drill before. But never from this vantage point.

  There is no need for emergency lighting down below as the cathedral is fully involved, radiating out immense waves of heat and brilliance.

  At this height no one is likely to notice me as I scale down the highest spire, inch by slow inch. My only company are the occasional gargoyles, mocking my small desperate struggle.

  At one point I find myself bracketed by two beautiful stained glass windows lit brightly from within. Suddenly they explode out, vomiting flame and smoke.

  My muscles ache beyond agony. How much farther can I descend before my strength leaves me, I do not know. Then I run out of rope.

  I do not think I have the will to pull myself back and look up to see how far that might be. The rope above me is now on fire.

  Below I see a first responder pointing up at me. But no aerial will ascend this high.

  My final hope is a nearby stone parapet.

  I push out with my legs, swing a few feet, then swing back. I do it again. Like a pendulum.

  With each swing I approach a little closer to the parapet.

  One last swing should bring me close enough.

  Once more I push out, using all my strength. I swing just far enough to hook three fingers over the retainer wall. Behind me the rope resembles a long ribbon of flame.

  My strength ebbs. The effort is too much. My fingers slowly slip their precarious hold.

  I am strangely calm.

  Then, without warning, two hands clamp over my wrist. I look up into the wild eyes of Gil Dolan.

  Behind me the heavy bell rope severs from the flames and jerks roughly out of my other hand. It almost carries us both down.

  But somehow Dolan maintains his grip and slowly drags me up the rough stone surface and over the parapet.

  His clothes are ripped, smudged, streaked black in places. His hair mats wetly to his head and the whites of his eyes stare out from behind a mask of grime and fear.

  “Just like the drill,” I rasp out. “Two ways out.”

  We rush to the other side of the parapet and look down. My worst fears are confirmed. No way down from here and still too high for any rescue.

  Then I notice a commercial-sized exhaust duct jutting out from the wall, maybe six feet below us.

  Dolan lowers me to the top of the duct. I kick and stomp at the cover, trying to dislodge it.

  Suddenly the duct tears away and I hurtle down. My feet land on a carved stone angel just two feet below. I balance precariously

  Then I look up.

  Dolan is nowhere to be seen. I call out his name with a throat torn raw from breathing smoke. I hope he has a guardian angel.

  There is no time to waste.

  I carefully push myself into the duct. It is coated with thick rank kitchen grease. I squirm ahead, pushing through the sludge.

  The smell of smoke grows stronger as I reach the end of the duct. I look down through a square grill. I am over an industrial-sized range. I pound down with my fists until the louvered vent breaks free. Then I lower myself down into the kitchen.

  Wisps of angry smoke coil around hanging pots and pans as I rush to the swinging kitchen door. On the other side of the window bright flames dance.

  I touch the metal, just to be sure. It burns my flesh.

  Rushing to the sink, I wrench the faucet on full. Then I gather up nearby aprons, soak them and cram them under the door jamb.

  I fling open another door, but it is only the pantry. I glance behind me and see the aprons crisping to black.

  Then a square opening in the wall catches my attention. It is a dumbwaiter.

  When I slide open the door, I spot a double rope hanging down.

  The window to the kitchen door shatters and flames curl hungrily in.

  I frantically hoist on the dumbwaiter rope and when the top of the delivery box arrives, I crawl into the shaft and lower myself down.

  The smoke is less dense here. That will change soon.

  I pass by a door on the floor below me and gingerly touch it. Burning hot. I watch as the paint blisters and peels.

  I continue lowering myself floor by floor. No escape anywhere. Sparks sprinkle down around me. I look up and see orange flames licking in from the doors above.

  With a dull thud, the dumbwaiter halts. End of the line.

  The sprinkle of hot sparks around me turns into a shower.

  I pull myself to my feet and stomp down. Again. Then again. I pull myself up the rope several feet and then drop, hoping not to break any bones.

  What breaks instead is the wood.

  I lower myself part way into the box and kick at the wooden door. Then, I remember it slides. I open it, then squirm and wriggle and worm through, tumbling out.

  I am in the basement.

  At one end, I see steps leading up. Fierce flames reflect violently down from above. The roar of the fire deafens me. Dirty water cascades down the steps like a river from the hoses outside.

  Without warning the subfloor at the other end of the basement collapses, leaving a clear view of hell.

  Behind me the dumbwaiter shaft blazes like a furnace stokehole.

  I stand in the middle of the basement, ankle deep in filthy water, listening to my future thunder closer.

  Then I hear a hacking, rasping cough.

  But, the room is empty. All I see is an old dirty mattress in the corner. The hacking cough sounds again. From under the mattress.

  I grab the edge and haul it off Gil Dolan. He clutches a fire ax tightly to his chest.

  “How did… how?...” is all I can manage.

  He points up to a corner of the ceiling, to a ragged hole. Incredibly, he has chopped his way down through floor after floor.

  Dolan stares at me, his eyes growing dull. He is losing his will. Soon he will pull the mattress back over him in one last, vain, helpless gesture.

  I double over from a violent spasm of choking and coughing, then collapse to my hands and knees.

  My end approaches, slithering, roaring, raging red, down from above.

  There is nothing else to see but the river of water cascading down the steps and rushing ma
dly past my hands and knees.

  And then I comprehend.

  I leap to my feet and wrench the fire ax from Dolan’s weakening grip. I follow the river of water to find where it all drains down through the floor. Then I jam the point of the fire ax in between metal and concrete and lever up the big iron grating.

  Beneath me the huge underground storm drain surges black, choked to capacity with frothing, thrashing, churning water from the deluge outside.

  I look over at Dolan, gazing back at me with a flat, blank expression. The mattress half covering him chars and smokes, flaming around the edges.

  “The world’s full of martyrs,” I scream at him. “Get up and live.”

  Then I leap down.

  *****

  The rain patters gently, soothing and restful. I sit on a stone bench in the courtyard of a chapel I visit occasionally. Along the horizon, dirty gray clouds build in the distance and scud this way.

  The courtyard is needy, unkempt. Few ever visit. Weeds clot the grass. Tendrils of faded green ivy droop along the stone arch leading within.

  The dressings on my forearms, parts of my face and legs, grow damp and then cool from the light drizzle. The doctor insisted that I stay in the burn ward, but I left this morning.

  Of all my professional colleagues only Creighton came to visit, bringing a cheerful card and bright balloon. He wore a new tie to show off, bold as a signal flare.

  He informed me that the Monsignor was still missing.

  Gil Dolan recuperated across the hall. A steady stream of his cop friends showed up, many with flowers, one even snuck in a six pack.

  His wife visited every evening, usually accompanied by their daughter. Sometimes their stay would be brief, sometimes longer.

  Busy with living their lives, I guess.

  The patter of rain grows heavier, matting my hair, drenching my clothes, rivering chills across my flesh.

  I need the chills, the cold. I need the cooling counterpoint to my most recent wounds, blistering painfully.

  Would that I could open my head and let the rain cool down my thoughts, chill the burn of long-ago wounds.

  Perhaps with time.

  Now the rain washes down in liquid torrents, obscuring my vision so much that I can barely see past the old stone archway.

  But, as I look over, the force of the rain drags lower the tendrils of ivy running across the face of the arch, uncovering an old faded inscription.

  It is why I keep returning, to read the carved words again.

  Forgiveness, thy name is salvation.

  Copyright 2014 m. a. petterson

  I love hearing from readers. Email me here.

  If you liked this work please leave a review. Why? Because positive reviews help others find my work and that helps me continue writing more. Plus, knowing that someone has enjoyed my work is a truly great feeling.