Chapter Twenty Five
I pulled in front of the house. Dad stood on the porch. The second the car stopped, he opened the passenger's door and jumped in.
"You have a gun?" I asked.
"Yes, for me and only me. I'm your partner on this. Head for Main Street." Dad's tone and expression said arguing was out of the question. I headed for Main Street.
"Wilson's address?" I said as I made a right at a stop sign.
Dad spoke to the GPS. "Thirty-two, sixty-six Edgewood Road."
The GPS did its thing and we were soon headed east to the wooded section of Bayport.
# # # #
When Wilson had cleared out mother's room at the retirement home he'd found the bible and the marked passages. The bible had confirmed it, God condoned the taking of a life. It started with Cain and Able. Mother had highlighted the passage. But that wasn't all. God himself had punished mankind on many occasions. He'd created floods and plagues. God, in his infinite wisdom, determined who lived and died.
Tonight, Wilson was God's tool. Wilson was the instrument by which God's will was done. Tonight, fire would destroy that which so greatly displeased God.
Inside the house, Callie searched the living room. She ran a hand over the dusty end tables, the coffee table, the sofa and chair. No keys. She hadn't really expected to find them, not in the living room.
The kitchen was next. It was brightly lit. The overhead lighting cast everything in harsh hues of brassy gold. The curtains were drawn at the window over the kitchen sink. Still, Callie moved cautiously for fear her shadow might be seen from outside. She was now convinced the man was outside and the keys were with him.
Callie looked around. She would hide and wait for the man to return. The pantry. It had just enough space to squeeze into. She reasoned the man had gone out the kitchen door and into the backyard. He would likely come back in through the kitchen door and when he did, she would leap from the pantry and … attack. That part of the plan was shaky. She had to overcome her natural abhorrence to hurting someone. She had to. The element of surprise was hers. The man would be startled and unprepared, but only for a second, and that's when she had to attack. No hesitation. Hesitate and she would be lost. The tide would turn in the man's favor. Even if not armed, he was bigger and stronger. No, she could not hesitate.
Callie wedged herself in the panty and pulled the door to. She did not close it completely. The small space soon became hot and stuffy. Callie waited and listened, the knife in her hand, ready to attack.
# # # #
Wilson decided the kitchen was the best place to start the fire. The gas lines would add combustion once they were breached. Wilson carried the gas can and a skinny tree branch to the kitchen door. The fire would begin on the outside and travel inside.
Wilson splashed a little gasoline on the bottom of the wooden doorframe. This old house, made of more wood than brick, would catch fire easily. Wilson knelt beside the gas can and stuck the skinny branch into the spout. He soaked the tip in gasoline then withdrew the branch. From his pocket, he produced a cigarette lighter. An old one of mother's. He flicked the lighter and held the flame to the tip of the branch. Instantly, it caught fire. Bright, swirling flames lit the night. Wilson leaned the burning branch against the doorframe and watched as the flames took hold. In time, the flames would grow and spread.
Onto the next step. He used his key and opened the kitchen door. He went inside, the gas can in his hand. He slid his keys into his pocket and then pulled the door shut.
Callie heard the kitchen door open and close. A tremor of fear shuddered down her spine. He was there, in the kitchen. Not more than four feet from her. Now, now was her chance. She steeled herself and silently pushed open the pantry door.
His back was to her. He was bent over, pouring liquid on the floor. The smell hit her – gasoline – and she knew. Fire! He was going to burn the house down with her in it.
She lifted the knife above her head … took one step forward … and brought the knife down. She grunted with the thrust. The knife struck the man mid-back on the right side. It was a good thrust, but did little damage. The man's jacket and shirt bore the brunt of the attack. The knife barely nicked his skin.
Wilson felt the sharp prick and spun. His eyes were wide with surprise and a moment of shock froze him. The woman. She was here. She had struck him.
Callie attacked again. This time she aimed for a vulnerable spot. His face. She caught him on the right cheek and saw blood spurt.
Wilson squealed like a stuck pig and threw the gas can. It bounced off the wall and landed on the linoleum floor. Gasoline spilled from the spout.
Callie instinctively ducked when Wilson threw the gas can. Now, she readied for another attack. She lunged with the knife, but fate was against her. She slipped on the wet floor and Wilson seized the opportunity. With both hands, he shoved Callie in the chest and sent her crashing onto the floor. The impact momentarily dazed her. The acrid smell of gasoline brought her back to reality and a new fear took hold. Her pants and shoes were wet. Soaked in gasoline.
She got to her feet and gaped in horror. Wilson had a lit lighter in his hand.
"Nooooo," Callie screamed and backed against a wall.
She watched the arc of the lighter as it flew through the air. She held her breath as it landed on the gasoline soaked floor. Nothing happened. The flame had gone out well before the lighter hit the floor. Callie's relief was visceral and deep. Her knees buckled and tears stung her eyes.
Then she remembered – the knife. She had lost it when he pushed her. She had to find it. Her eyes darted around the kitchen. Where was the knife? And the man, where was the man?
Wilson was in the living room. His cheek hurt where she had stabbed him. Blood ran down his face and dripped onto the collar of his jacket. He went to the fireplace, to the stack of old newspapers on the hearth. The newspapers were ancient. Dried and yellowed with age. There hadn't been a fire in the fireplace in years. A box of long matches sat beside the newspapers.
Wilson took a handful of papers and rolled them into a long tube. He used one of the long matches and lit the end of the tube. The old papers caught fire and burned rapidly. Wilson headed to the kitchen with his torch.
# # # #
Dad pointed and said, "There, on the left. That's the house."
I saw a ramshackle place no better than Father Bob's place. But this house was set back from the road. It had a big front yard and a long driveway. Forest enclosed the property on three sides. The next house was a fourth a mile down the road.
I pulled into the driveway and parked. Dad and I exited the vehicle. He drew his revolver and we approached the house.
"Do you smell that?" I said. "It smells like smoke."
Dad peered at the chimney. A crescent moon aided his efforts. "It's not from the fireplace."
I edged toward the back of the house. "There's smoke back there. The house is on fire."
"I'll call the fire department," dad shouted as I rushed toward the house.
I banged on the front door and tried the knob. No use. It was locked. The windows were dark. An uncanny black. Not a speck of light glowed from any of them.
"I'm going round back," I yelled to dad and dashed off. I looked for rocks as I ran. Something to throw at a window.
# # # #
Callie thought she heard pounding on the front door. Or was it the man? She didn't know where he was or what he was doing. She saw the knife on the floor by the pantry door and grabbed it. When she turned, the man stood in the doorway that led to the living room. He held a flaming paper torch. Callie stared at him horrorstruck. No. Please, no.
The man bent and laid the torch on the floor. Then he stood and smiled, a sick manic smile that chilled Callie. She watched the man turn and walk away.
The flames jumped the short distance to the gasoline and Callie heard a loud WHOOSH! Suddenly, the room was ablaze. Callie ducked inside the pantry. The heat was tremendous. Orange-red flames devoured the wallpaper and traveled to the ceiling. Callie couldn't stay here. She would be burned alive.
# # # #
I got to the back of the house. Bright flames ate at the outer walls and a back door. The heat drove me back, away from the house. I put up a hand to shield my face and saw the window. Curtains burned inside and the room beyond was engulfed in flames.
I had a rock, but couldn't use it. Not here. A broken window would provide the thing the fire needed most, more oxygen. I had to go back to the front of the house.
A/N: Oh dear, another cliffhanger. Not what I'd planned. Well, here's my reasoning: this is where I'm at. I need to put this part of the story to bed and stop editing it. Once it's posted and behind me, I can move on and finish the rest of the story. Otherwise you're waiting another three days or more for an update. I figured its better to have an update sooner. It lets you know I'm moving forward and it keeps me moving forward. See, we both win. :D