He’d lost his gun in the struggle, but now held a much deadlier weapon.
Leigh’s reflexive gasp had Matt turning back even before he reached the door.
“Stop! You’re going to kill all of us.”
Simpson shook his head. There was neither madness nor cruelty in his eyes, just resignation. “I’m not going to jail. I won’t live out the rest of my days locked in the dual cages of this body and a cell. If you don’t want to die with me, you’d better run.”
Leigh glanced at Matt but he was already turning to Dr. McAllister. “Can you walk?”
The older man gave a wobbly nod.
Matt pushed him toward the door. “Get out now.”
As the doctor staggered from the room, Matt turned back to Simpson. “You don’t want to do this, Flynn.”
“Yes, I do. You most of all know what my life will be like.”
Matt inched slowly closer. “It will be tough, but you could have years left. Maybe decades.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Simpson spat. “I’ll be in a wheelchair within a year or two and dead from pneumonia a few years after that. Or from a fall. There’s no hope.”
Leigh saw the tiny remaining flicker of light go out of Simpson’s eyes and knew it was too late. “NO!”
Matt launched himself toward Simpson, just as his thumb scrolled over the flint wheel and a single bright flame danced to life.
The room exploded into the flames of hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: FLAMEOVER
* * *
Flameover: occurs when fire gases trapped at the upper level of a room catch fire and spread flames across the ceiling.
Tuesday, 6:44 p.m.
McAllister Residence
Marblehead, Massachusetts
Matt realized the danger as soon as the flame burst to life. Simpson wouldn’t need to set the bedding on fire. The vapor that permeated the room was far more lethal.
The air seemed to ignite even as Simpson let go of the lighter. With a whoosh, tendrils of flame rushed through the room, riding a cushion of air just above the floor as the heavier-than-air vapor ignited.
Matt abruptly checked his forward momentum, throwing himself sideways toward Leigh instead, scrambling to stay on his feet as his balance shifted. He struck her hard, his arms wrapping around her waist as they hit the wall with enough force to nearly wind them.
He didn’t see the explosion of flames; he didn’t need to. He could hear it as heat bloomed with fiery intensity at his back. Spinning around, he saw the curtains were alight, flames racing higher and higher to kiss the ceiling. The bed was totally engulfed and fire crept steadily along the carpet toward them.
“Simpson, we’ve got to get out!”
But Simpson simply stood on the other side of the room, unmoving, his eyes almost dazedly fixed on the dancing flames. Mesmerized.
Leigh tugged on his arm. “We need to get him out of here. Can we carry him?”
Matt was already jamming the gun into his waistband at the small of his back, freeing his hands. “We can try. But if he fights us, we’re going to have to let him go, or we’ll die with him.”
She opened her mouth as if she might argue, but then sharply nodded. He understood how torn she was. Her instinct was to save lives, but he wouldn’t allow it to be at the cost of her own. If Simpson wanted to die that badly, Matt was willing to let him go. In many ways, he understood his choice. Even respected it.
But they’d make the attempt first, navigating the rivulets of gasoline that were already alight. Darting around a patch of flaming carpet, they headed toward Simpson.
Suddenly there was a small burst of fire at the floor around Simpson’s ankles, and then the flames were racing up his legs. Cold horror coursed through Matt as realization struck—Simpson must have splashed some gasoline on himself as he spread it around the room.
The expression on Simpson’s face was one of joy and relief. Release. His suffering would finally end.
The flames shot up his body, greedily licking and biting and suddenly the body before them was an inferno. Joy melted from the face even as a blood-curdling scream filled the rapidly overheating air and he fell to the carpet, shrieking in agony.
Matt looked around frantically for anything he could use to smother the fire, but Simpson had set every piece of material in the room ablaze. His gaze fell back to the form writhing on the floor.
And then he noticed the gas can.
Matt grabbed Leigh’s arm with a force that would leave bruises. Flames were licking around the edges of the can. It was tipped on its side, the cap off, but whether it was empty or not, he couldn’t be sure.
If even just a few ounces remained, that can was a bomb.
“Run!” He jerked Leigh toward the doorway. She was startled but didn’t question, falling into step with him, sprinting for the hallway.
They’d just cleared the doorway, careening into the corridor and around the corner when there was an explosion of heat and a huge fireball blasted through the doorway into the hall. The fireball quickly receded, leaving thick black smoke rolling out from beneath the lintel and spreading down the hallway.
Breathless, Matt leaned against the wall for a moment, his head hung low and his breath sawing as his heart pounded in his ears. It was a very narrow escape—four feet closer to the door and they would have been caught in that fireball. Killed instantly.
If the flames hadn’t killed Simpson, the explosion surely had. He was beyond their help now.
Leigh’s gasp of fear brought his head up. His brief relief at escaping the maelstrom in the bedroom instantly dissolved into the smoke around them.
Everything was in flames.
The carpet was on fire, sending thick smoke into the shadowy second floor. Flames trailed down the main staircase and licked up the spindles of the carved wooden banister. Light flickered in each open doorway along the hall and smoke roiled in thick waves along the ceiling, billowing in dark, smothering swirls.
The acrid smoke stung his eyes, making them water. Matt swiped at them, blinking as he searched for a way out.
The flashes of red and white lights pulsing through the thickening smoke from the second-floor windows told him that Bree and her men were outside. But he had no idea if they’d be able to find them before either the smoke or the flames killed them.
They needed to get out. But their way down was blocked and every doorway led to a window guarded by flames.
“We need off this floor.” His body was wracked with harsh coughing. Desperation spun his adrenaline reaction higher as smoke inhalation suddenly became a very real concern. “Wait, where are you going?”
Leigh was running down the hallway, toward a dead end. A narrow door was set into the wall, closed tight.
She was headed for . . . a linen closet?
Cursing, he bolted after her. She was struggling with the door handle. “Help me!”
He pushed her out of the way. The handle was old, possibly original, and the door—which appeared to open inward—was stuck tight. He put his shoulder against it and pushed. With a groan, he felt the wood shift minutely.
“What is this?” he asked through gritted teeth, taking a step back to get more leverage. He hit the door hard and there was the high-pitched screech of wood scraping against wood as the door gave another fraction of an inch.
“I think it’s an old servants’ staircase.”
“I hope you’re right.” Matt threw all his weight behind one more strike at the door and it abruptly gave way. Forward momentum carried him into the darkness and he had the brief thought that it wouldn’t be the fire that killed him because the fall down the stairs would break his neck. Then he felt Leigh’s hand lock around his wrist and he latched on hard as she yanked him back into the hall. “Thanks.”
She was already patting the wall beside the door, finally finding an antique light switch. Two lights flickered on dimly, one at the top and another at the bottom of the stairs. “Thank God. I was su
re we’d be doing this blind.”
The air inside the staircase was stale, but blessedly free of smoke. The space was narrow, clearly meant for the female household staff, and Matt had to angle his body slightly sideways to keep his shoulders from brushing both walls.
“You should have left with McAllister,” Leigh tossed over her shoulder as they clattered down the worn wood stairs. “Then you’d be out of here.”
“And leave you alone to deal with Simpson? No chance in hell.”
Leigh stepped off the last step onto a worn stone floor. “If you wanted hell, it looks like you got your wish.”
Matt eyed the door at the end of the narrow corridor suspiciously. The hinges looked like they were made around the time Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. “If that doesn’t open, we’re in big trouble. And it’s got to come toward us.”
“I know.”
Leigh cast a worried glance back up the stairs and Matt followed her gaze. Flames roared at the doorway. They were cut off. His gut clenched. They were either going through this door, or they’d die together here. “Let me by.”
He squeezed past her, her slight groan at the tight quarters whispering in his ear, and then he was free. The brass door handle felt sturdy and relatively cool, and there was just enough room for him to wedge his boot on the door frame for extra leverage. “Give me some space.”
Leigh moved back up several steps.
Heart pounding, Matt gripped the handle. If the door was jammed they were done. Or if the handle came apart with one good yank. Or if—
He made himself stop thinking of all the ways they could die.
He took a deep breath, held it and then turned the handle and pulled slowly, trying not to stress the hardware.
For a pulse-pounding moment of terror, the door didn’t move. And then it started to slide toward him. He blew out the breath he’d been holding and pulled again. A half inch. Then another.
Then the door popped open and Matt found himself staring at hell itself.
He slammed the door shut.
Shit.
“What?” Panic backed Leigh’s voice.
“The house is engulfed. We’ll have to go through it.” He could hear his own fear in the rapid staccato of his words. He pulled off his jacket, balling it in his hands. “Take off your blazer. We won’t be able to breathe out there without some sort of filter. And stay low. Ready?”
Even in the dim, flickering light, her face was sheet white under the light smudging of soot already coating her skin. She pressed the material to her mouth and nose and nodded resolutely.
“Whatever happens, we stick together.”
She gave a curt nod of agreement. “Do it.”
Suddenly the lights went out. Matt wasn’t sure if that was the fire department cutting power or the lines burning through. Either way, they needed to get out now.
He whipped open the door. Then he grasped her free hand with his and they stepped out into the inferno.
Flames rolled across the kitchen ceiling in living, writhing waves, sliding sensuously into every corner. The acrid stench of melting plastics and burning wood filled the room. Smoke hung at the ceiling in thick oily clouds and the heat level alone would roast them if they didn’t get out quickly.
Matt scanned the room—the cabinets and center island were aflame and the wide picture window over the sink was framed by burning curtains.
The only potential escape was a door on the far side of the room. Gripping Leigh’s hand, he ran through the kitchen, bent as low as he dared while still trying to peer through the thick gloom.
Flames licked at his arms and the heat was unbelievable. He was sure his hair was starting to singe. Choking smoke slithered through the material pressed against his lips, and his lungs burned, straining for oxygen, but finding only noxious chemicals. The air was only minimally clearer this close to the floor; he could feel the particulates in the smoke coating the inside of his nose and lungs, and tears ran down his cheeks as his eyes stung and watered.
Somewhere ahead of him came the crash of something heavy collapsing, followed by glass shattering. Around them, the flames cracked and popped, slithering ever closer.
Leigh was coughing, the force of the shudders wracking her body and shaking his where they gripped hands. The doorway in front of him wavered and he blinked furiously.
Flames outlined the door frame and poured under the lintel in an undulating wave. Beyond it, the room was engulfed. But on the far side Matt thought he saw French doors. Leading out to a ground-floor patio?
The ceiling above them gave an ominous creak and their eyes met in alarm. If the ceiling collapsed on them it was game over. The flames roared and screamed around them and the air nearly sizzled.
He looked back at Leigh. Soot from the smoke stained her face, and the tears from her watering eyes had washed furrows through it. Pale fine lines radiated from her eyes, delineated in the darkness of the soot.
He dropped his jacket; it wasn’t helping anyway at this point and he needed his hands free.
Coughing shook him again and he felt his head start to swim. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. They were running out of time.
He pointed through the flaming doorway toward what he hoped really were French doors; either that or his mind was playing tricks and sketching a mirage through the thick smoke. Unable to speak, Leigh grasped his hand more firmly in acknowledgment.
They both leapt forward at the same time, sprinting through the doorway and into the next room. There was a line of flaming carpet in front of them, but it was go straight through or die. Forcing himself to ignore the inferno around them, Matt kept his gaze fixed on the doors—real ones, thank God—on the far side of the room. Escape from this hell. In ten feet. Five.
The roar around them became a deafening crescendo as they pelted through the wall of fire. The heat was excruciating and Matt felt Leigh’s death grip on his hand clamp even tighter. Aiming for the separation between the doors, he threw his arm up to protect his face and hit them with all his weight. There was a sound of shattering glass and splintering wood as the doors burst outwards.
And then he was dragging fresh air into his starving lungs. The air was so thin it was almost painfully sharp.
But he was off balance as they hit the patio, still half crouched and angled to take the door with his shoulder. He let go of Leigh’s hand as he tried to stop, tried to straighten, but then something was underfoot and he was flying through the air. He hit the earth with a thud, rolling through cool, damp grass until he came to rest, lying on his back. When he opened his bleary eyes, the stars winked down at him through the bare branches of a tree.
“Matt!” Leigh fell to her knees beside him, her head blotting out the stars. “You okay?”
Wincing, he pushed up to his elbows, a groan breaking from his lips. “Yeah, just . . . hit hard.” He had to stop to gasp in more oxygen. “What happened?” he rasped.
“You tripped over a planter . . . on the patio.” She braced her hands on her knees, her head dropping as she drew a ragged breath. “You did the whole ‘stop, drop and roll’ routine.” She tugged on the tail of his shirt, the edge of which was charred and still smoking. He’d been on fire and hadn’t even noticed, but his fall had extinguished the flames.
Leigh sagged down into the grass beside him. “I can’t believe we made it.”
He raised a hand to her cheek, using his thumb to stroke away the wetness from under her bloodshot eyes, but only succeeded in rearranging the soot into a dark smear. “You had doubts?”
She laughed, but it instantly turned into a hacking cough.
He sat up, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing her lower back until her coughing finally trailed off.
“Oh yeah,” she croaked.
“Me too. We cut it pretty close in there.”
He dropped his head down to touch his forehead to hers, feeling a tremor run through her body. He knew he was shaking himself in a combination of adrenaline, fear, overe
xertion and lack of oxygen, so he gave into the urge to take a moment for both of them.
His lifted his head at the sound of their names.
Bree was sprinting over the grass toward them in full turnout gear.
“We’re okay,” he called out, his voice cracking and breaking.
“You were spotted making your grand exit. I heard it when it came over the radio.” She unclipped her walkie-talkie. “Trooper Gilson to command. I have Trooper Abbott and Dr. Lowell.”
The radio crackled. “Message received.”
“We got Dr. McAllister. He made it out the front door just as we were getting our lines set up. He’s being treated now. What about Simpson?”
“Dead,” Matt said. “He never intended to escape.”
“You’re sure?”
Matt’s stomach rolled at the memory and he closed his eyes for a moment, hearing again the terrible shriek of agony as Simpson went up in flames before their eyes. “Yes. He went up like a roman candle.”
Matt thought he heard Bree mumble good riddance as she put the radio to her lips again. “Trooper Gilson to command. Cancel rescue.” She pocketed the radio and held out a hand. Leigh slapped her hand into Bree’s and let herself be pulled to her feet.
Matt followed next, giving himself a moment to get his balance, swaying slightly.
“Come out front,” Bree ordered. “I want you guys to get some oxygen.”
They followed her around the house to what was becoming a familiar sight: Engines and ladder trucks lined the street, and firefighters swarmed all over the site. Charged lines snaked from engines over the sidewalk to drape over the short fence that surrounded the house. Black soot stains were smeared over the windows, and flames still licked through the broken glass while smoke and steam billowed in huge clouds into the night. Water sprayed into every window, and ladder trucks streamed water through holes in the roof.
Together, Matt and Leigh sat on the bumper of the ambulance as medics milled around them, fitting oxygen masks over mouth and nose, and checking pulses. He glanced sideways at her and she threw him an exhausted smile from behind her mask. Turning his eyes back to the house, he watched the flames consume and destroy anything they touched. Wood. Cloth. Flesh.
A Flame in the Wind of Death Page 27