“Don’t do that to yourself,” I said.
Ruby flashed me an angry look. “Why? Because you don’t blame yourself for what happened to Brooks Hall?”
“That’s different,” I said.
“No, it’s not. It’s no different at all. You cut the rope. I couldn’t sleep with a stranger. We both made choices that cost innocent people their lives.”
“But I knew what was going to happen to Brooks. You didn’t know Jenna would be murdered.”
“It was a risk involving her with Uretsky in the first place. I knew that much,” Ruby said.
I didn’t say anything. How could I? She was right.
I parked a few blocks from the warehouse. I worried about surveillance cameras capturing video of two arsonists climbing into a red Ford Fusion to make their escape. We each wore Red Sox baseball hats, the ones I’d bought last year, during our annual anniversary date at Fenway Park. Ruby’s hat served a dual purpose, concealing her identity from the cameras while shielding her sensitive skin from the sun. I gave Ruby a pair of sunglasses to wear. Meanwhile, I donned a handkerchief to hide my face. I wanted to do this alone, but Ruby wouldn’t allow it.
We walked to the intersection of West Third and B Street. Sure enough, I saw the Dumpster behind the single-story redbrick building with a flat roof and a white garage door. The parking lot housing the Dumpster was empty. In fact, the only things in abundance in this desolate part of town were broken bottles and crumpled aluminum cans. I looked to my right and saw the warehouse we’d been instructed to torch, directly across the street from the Dumpster.
The three-story brick warehouse looked dark and empty, with many of the windows boarded up, covered in newsprint, or broken. I thought about how the flat tar roof would burn when the fire reached that floor. I imagined the smoke would be thick, black, and toxic, transforming a dumpy cityscape into the lead story on the six o’clock news. Would it be a three-alarm fire? Four?
And then I thought about a firefighter climbing up his steel ladder, hose slung across his shoulder, vanishing into a smoke-filled window and never coming out.
In my single-minded mission to save Winnie, it simply hadn’t occurred to me that a firefighter—or plural—could die while battling a blaze that I started. I pondered the conundrum while my stomach roiled. Walk away and Winnie dies. Set the fire and maybe somebody else—or plural—dies or gets burned to the point where death would be preferable.
What do we do?
Ruby saw my hesitation.
“What are you thinking about?”
I told her, and by her blank look, I saw that she understood the gravity of our situation.
“Do we let my mom die?” Her voice held no trace of sarcasm—same as me, she honestly considered just walking away.
How far would we bend?
I paced in a tight circle, cursing aloud to nobody but the pigeons enjoying a mid-morning snack of trash. I needed to start a fire. I had to burn a pile of wood pallets using three canisters of gasoline. I didn’t have time to go hunting for Uretsky’s hidden cameras. Either I did it the way he wanted it done, or I didn’t. But how could I start a fire that would be the least risky for the responding firefighters?
I caught sight of something that gave me an idea.
“No, we’re not going to let your mom die,” I said, pointing.
“How is a fire alarm box going to help us?” Ruby asked.
“Because we’re going pull the alarm before we start the fire,” I said.
I checked the time on my watch and set its stopwatch feature to zero. We had fifteen minutes to get that fire started.
CHAPTER 37
The green, rust-speckled Dumpster smelled of ammonia, rotting food, and gasoline. I saw the chain used to secure the flip-top lid on the blacktop beside it, coiled like a metal snake poised to strike. I could see where the chain had been cut, presumably with bolt cutters and undoubtedly by Uretsky’s hand. I pried open the lid and let it drop with a clang. Hesitating, I did a quick double take and agreed with Uretsky’s assertion that this desolate part of town saw very little foot traffic. Still, I pulled my hat down lower and the handkerchief covering my face up a bit higher. I climbed onto the lip of the Dumpster with ease. For a second or two, I crouched there, with my legs spread wide and my sweat-slickened hands down between my knees, gripping at the lip for balance.
“Apparently, he likes to hide things in the trash,” I said, remembering that he’d hidden a gun in a bathroom waste receptacle at the movie theater.
Beneath a cloudless sky and pale yellow sun, I jumped in and sank waist deep into the spongy refuse. The smells were more intense down here. Gag worthy, in fact. It was a potpourri of scents taken from the worst places imaginable: think the Port Authority bathroom, a field of rotting vegetables, a trash-filled car left baking in the sun.
I felt about blindly, reaching my hands lower and lower into the seemingly bottomless mass of foul-smelling trash. I dug and dug until the tips of my fingers brushed against a plastic handle. Gripping that handle, I yanked the object toward me. Almost immediately, my throat closed as my gag reflex kicked into overdrive. Evidently, I had brought to the surface, along with the first canister of gasoline, a fetid rag that stunk of excrement. Maybe it was something else, but it sure didn’t smell that way to me. It was a reminder that Uretsky was always playing games, using any opportunity he could to torment me.
It didn’t take long to find the other two containers of gas Uretsky had stashed down there. I set them in a neat little row on the blacktop beside the Dumpster.
I checked the time and swallowed hard. I didn’t know whether Uretsky first choked his victims and then cut off their fingers, or if it went the other way around, but if we didn’t pull the fire alarm in ten minutes, Winnie would have a few seconds of terror to find out.
While I was busy fishing containers of gas out of the trash, Ruby looked up some information on her smartphone. “There are two firehouses nearby,” Ruby said. “There’s one on K and Fourth Street and another on D and Third.”
“Perfect. So the fire department will get here in two minutes, tops,” I said.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You pull the alarm, and I’ll stand by the warehouse door with a match. We wait forty seconds, and then I light the gas. The pallets will burn for no more than a minute before the fire department gets here, and we’re already gone. Uretsky sees the pallets are on fire via his hidden camera—no false alarm, either, as it’ll be on the police scanners—and we’ll have met his demands without creating a towering inferno.”
Ruby thought a beat, searching for any holes in my plan.
“It’ll work,” she said. “But is he going to honor the rules of his game?”
I nodded. “He will,” I said, certainty in my voice. “It’s the only thing honorable about him.”
I was preparing to dash across the street, gripping the three red plastic gas canisters, when I heard an approaching car. I grabbed Ruby and pulled her down behind the Dumpster with me. We watched as the car—some sort of sedan—turned right onto B Street. Only when the sound of its wheels and engine had gone did we dare breathe again. We popped up from behind the Dumpster like wary prairie dogs.
Once again I hefted the gas canisters. Dropping into a crouched position—as if that would render me invisible in broad daylight—I broke for the warehouse across the street. I didn’t dare think about someone spotting me from a darkened window of the nearby buildings.
I checked my watch.
Ten minutes to go.
I went to the door that Uretsky said would be open, tried the knob, and found it was locked. I cursed under my breath. Again, Uretsky had proved he never tired of toying with us. Rather than search for an unlocked entrance, I decided to break the glass of a first-floor window to get inside. I assumed I could open the locked door from the inside; if not, I’d have to find another way out.
I looked around for a solid object to use, found half a brick,
and pitched it baseball-like through a first-story window. Shards of broken glass fell to the ground, sounding like wind chimes plinking in a soft breeze. I motioned for Ruby to cross the street, and she came over in a crouched posture, same as I had done.
“Help me up,” I said to her.
My breathing wasn’t labored. I was surprised, too, at the calmness of my voice. I wasn’t relaxed, but I wasn’t hurried, either. The adrenaline rush made me so focused on my goal, I forgot to be completely terrified. Perhaps that’s how real criminals feel before they commit their crimes—more amped than afraid.
Ruby locked her fingers together, and it seemed the adrenaline had got to her as well. Even in her weakened condition, she had no trouble giving me the needed lift. I set my forearms on the windowsill, relieving Ruby of my body weight, and clumsily used my elbow to push the remaining glass inside to clear away the jagged edges. I had just enough room to swing my body around until my legs dangled on the inside and my torso extended outward.
“Pass me a canister,” I called. I had my body perfectly balanced on the sill, making it easy to reach down and grab hold of the gas. I tossed the first canister into the warehouse, then the second, and soon enough I had all three of them down there. The rising vapor stung my eyes and burned the back of my throat, but that didn’t stop me from sliding off the sill as if I was being sucked down the gullet of some gas-breathing monster.
Ruby called, “John, are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” I shouted back.
The warehouse was dark inside except for places where the paper coverings on the windows had peeled back to allow slivers of light inside. Dust motes swam in and out of those light shafts, agitated by my presence. I took out the portable flashlight tucked in my back pocket and shone the beam around. The warehouse was nothing more than a big open space with concrete support columns staged evenly throughout.
Almost immediately, I saw the pile of broken wooden pallets Uretsky had instructed me to burn. I shone my flashlight around some more, wondering if I could spot one of Uretsky’s hidden cameras. I saw huge piles of debris scattered about, but I didn’t inspect them closely—there simply wasn’t enough time or reason. Nor did I worry that they would catch fire. Judging by the distance from the pallets, I felt confident the fire department would get here before the closest—and largest—pile could burn.
“Hello!” I yelled out. “Anybody here?” My heart was pounding in my chest, and my shaky voice mirrored my nerves.
Are you watching me right now?
I shone the light on my watch and shivered.
Six minutes to go.
CHAPTER 38
I used two of the gas containers to give the wood a good soaking and carried the third over to a rectangular border of light some thirty-odd feet to my right. I figured that light border was the same door I had tried to open from the street—the one Uretsky had promised was unlocked. Trying the knob, I found the door opened easily from the inside. A little bit of light spilled into the room, and that was when I noticed a stairwell to the other floors directly in front of me. Even though the pallets would burn for just a minute, I figured I should check the second and third floors for any people, as I had on the first.
I noticed the time before heading up.
Five minutes.
I climbed the rickety steps quickly, nervous that the flimsy boards would splinter from my weight. I got out on the second floor and shone my flashlight into the darkness. The upper level was a twin to the one below it. I jumped at the sight of a fat, hairy brown rat as it scurried in and out of my flashlight beam. I had a feeling it would escape the flames just fine. The wood floor creaked and groaned under my weight, and I wondered just how quickly it would burn if it caught fire. Very quickly, I decided.
But it won’t catch fire, because the fire department will get here in less than two minutes.
“Hello!” I shouted. “Anybody here? I’m not the police. Please answer me!”
I trained my flashlight on a few scattered piles of debris, just like below, but no movement. Again, only my echo answered back. I called out once more, and I waited—waited—but no answer. I looked at my watch.
Four minutes.
I raced up to the next level, the top level, and to save time, only popped my head out of the stairwell and repeated my call.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
My voice spilled into the darkness. I listened a few seconds for rustling noises, any movement at all, but heard nothing. As I descended the stairs, the powerful odor of gasoline reminded me I wasn’t a concerned citizen on the lookout for people in danger, but rather the person about to set a fire that would put them in harm’s way. Taking Uretsky’s suggestion, I made a trail of gasoline from the wood pallets to the door as quick as I could. When I exited the warehouse, I had to blink until my eyes adjusted to the light. My breathing was labored from all the gas vapors still swimming in my lungs.
I saw Ruby across the street, standing in position.
I held up my right hand—Get ready.
I checked my watch.
Two minutes until the deadline.
I lowered my hand as though starting a drag race. Ruby pulled the fire alarm, and I expected to hear a piercing shrill, but there was no sound at all. I reset my stopwatch and started it again. Five seconds later—ten at the most—I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Ruby looked at me with a fresh concern. I couldn’t believe how fast the fire department had responded.
I struck a match and let it drop. I stood in the doorway with my mouth agape and watched as the burning trail of gasoline wound its way across the floor on a collision course with the gas-soaked pile of wood pallets. In an instant the darkness of the warehouse erupted into a bright and blinding fireball. There was a powerful whoosh sound as all the air in the room seemed to get sucked toward the flame.
A ball of fire shot upward, licking at the varnish on the wood ceiling above. Flames crackled and spit angrily in all directions. Soon I couldn’t see the wood pallets anymore. Smoke began to billow up from the fire and unfurled across the ceiling like a noxious black tide.
Meanwhile, the sirens from a fleet of fire engines sounded louder— help was on its way. Ruby and I needed to make our getaway, and fast. We couldn’t be seen anywhere near the fire I had just set. I raced across the street and grabbed hold of Ruby’s arm.
“Start walking,” I said, pulling down my handkerchief, taking it from a disguise to part of my wardrobe. “Just act normal. Just be natural.”
Of course, I was breathing heavy and hard on our leisurely stroll—nothing at all natural about that.
I could see the fire engines coming, racing toward us.
Take that, Uretsky!
Ruby and I walked nonchalantly down West Third, thinking the fire trucks would zoom right past, but before they reached our location, the trucks took a sharp right turn onto C Street as if headed for City Point, a Southie neighborhood near Castle Island. I looked behind me and saw black smoke seeping out of the warehouse’s broken first-floor window.
“John, what’s going on?” Ruby asked. The sirens began to fade off into the distance. “Why aren’t they going to the fire?”
My phone rang.
I answered the call.
“We’ve done what you’ve wanted,” I said. I didn’t have to ask who was on the other end of the line. I just knew. “Where’s Winnie? Let her go.”
“Aren’t you wondering why the fire trucks aren’t coming to save the day?” Uretsky asked.
My legs went weak.
Uretsky spoke again. “Did you know that when an alarm is struck, the fire department automatically dispatches three engine companies and two ladder trucks to the scene?”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Where is Winnie?”
Uretsky ignored my questions. “Did you know that South Boston has two engine companies and two ladder trucks total? Total! A third engine would come from Columbia Road, maybe even Edward Everett Square.”
/> “Stop playing games!” I shouted, shaking. “Where is Winnie?”
Uretsky went on speaking. “But if two fires break out at the same time, the fire department won’t divert the trucks from one fire scene to another. The second call could be anything—a false alarm, even. Can’t risk sending engines from a real fire to a fake one. So if all the engines in South Boston are tied up answering a call when another fire in Southie breaks out, the dispatchers will send engine companies and ladder trucks from another firehouse farther away. Just so you know, the closest ones to you are on Harrison Avenue in the South End and maybe Atlantic Avenue in the financial district.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“Because it’s going to take at least another ten minutes for the engines from those locations to reach the fire you just started. Now, I bet you didn’t think I’d set another fire in City Point right before your deadline hit.”
My stomach clenched. I had to hold on to a parked car for balance.
“Too bad for Winnie,” Uretsky said.
“What . . . what have you done?”
Uretsky made a little “tsk” sound with his mouth, as though he needed to recall some details that had gotten away from him. “Let’s see. . . . Oh, that’s right. . . . I gave Winnie a big narcotic cocktail and left her unconscious on the first floor of the warehouse that you just set on fire. I tucked her behind the big pile of trash nearest to the pallets, but I’m pretty sure the fire department won’t reach her in time. Well, at least she’ll die in her sleep—unless, of course, you go back to save her. Once again, I’m wishing you good luck, John. This time, you’re really going to need it.”
I looked behind me. Black smoke poured from the warehouse window. I watched as the smoke rose like the fingers of the devil’s outstretched hand, reaching up to scratch and scar a beautiful and cloudless sky.
CHAPTER 39
All I said to Ruby was, “Your mom.”
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