“Cal!”
The click of a revolver came on the heels of her scream. All sound and feeling vanished as the barrel of Rod’s gun lined up with her face. And then, a wall of flames slammed into him—Vinny,spinning erratically, howling as his gin-soaked back and head propelled the fire. Gunshots, one after another, cracked through the small room. Glass shattered behind her as quarts of gin exploded. There were suddenly voices rising in the corridor, and Vinny’s gurgling screams circling all around her. Fern tried to push herself to her knees, but her arm seared with pain and folded.
Heat battered her back, and a deafening whoosh of flames stole her breath. She remembered the broken gin bottles, the open butane lighter on the floor, and Vinny, now a fireball.
“Get them out of there!” a voice she didn’t recognize shouted, and more pain rocked through her broken arm as someone hauled her to her knees and dragged her toward the door.
“No!” she struggled. “Cal! Get Cal!”
Fern tried to twist around, but the men dragging her were too fast. Her hair had come loose and stuck to her face, and she sobbed against the wrenching of the men’s hands as they pulled her from the burning room.
“Cal! He’s still in there—Cal!”
The main floor of the Den was in chaos. Plumes of smoke rolled along the ceiling, and an explosion burrowed into her ears and shook her teeth. Screams and sobs and bellowing shouts swarmed her as she finally got her feet underneath her. Elbows and shoulders knocked her sideways; a man stepped on her foot; a hard fist slammed into the center of her back.
“Let go!” Fern’s voice cracked and went hoarse; she couldn’t even hear herself above the clamor. The hands dragging her released her, and her legs collapsed underher. She crumpled toward the floor, realizing too late that the men’s hold on her had been the only thing keeping her upright. Feet trampled her, kicking and battering her body, and then, a bone-deep thud preceded a powerful current of hot wind.
Fern’s eardrums burst as someone heavy flopped on top of her. An unmistakable crack of agony shattered through her, and the Lion’s Den went black and silent.
26
Rain pelted the window next to her bed. Fern blinked slowly after opening her eyes, and it took a minute or two to make sense of her surroundings. She was in a hospital room, and outside, the sky was a flat gray. Whether it was morning or afternoon, she didn’t know. The chair next to her bed was empty, though next to it on the white-tiled floor was a familiar, oiled leather suitcase with a brass latch and brass-plated corners. It belonged to Fern’s mother.
She shifted on the bed, the starchy sheets and blanket rustling like paper. A dull ache throbbed through her left arm; it was set in a sling across her chest, and a hard plaster of Paris cast enclosed her forearm. Her head seared with pain, and there was a constant low ringing in her ears.
A stab of nausea peeled back the fog and released a deluge of memories. Cal, tied to a chair; Rod, holding the flame of his butane lighter to her face; Vinny, flailing as flames spread over his back and shoulders; faceless mendragging her away from a motionless Cal as fire spread through the distilling room. Chaos and confusion, and then…a heart-stopping blast.
A low-pitched, tinny bell chimed. Voices beyond the drawn curtains enclosing her bed sounded distant and muffled. Her eardrums must have ruptured in the explosion at the Lion’s Den. Fern’s heart picked up speed as cold panic spread through her.
The curtain around her hospital bed opened, and Margie walked in. Her black skirt and white shirtwaist were paired with a long, black jacket and a strand of pearls that twisted fashionably into a knot. Her bespectacled eyes popped behind her wire frames.
“Miss Fern, you’re awake!” She nearly dropped a ceramic mug of coffee as she hurried toward the bedside. “How are you feeling?”
She set the mug down and snatched up Fern’s right hand, closing her own around it. Her palms were hot; or maybe Fern was freezing.
“Where is…” The two words drained her energy.
“They’ll be here. Mr. and Mrs. Adair are so worried. Your mother wanted me to call her as soon as you woke. She’ll come at once.”
Her mother wasn’t here? She’d sent Margie to keep vigil. She might have felt a prick of injury if she cared about anything other than Cal right then. Fern’s tongue, dry as a wad of cotton, stuck to the roof of her mouth. “I mean where’s Cal?”
Confusion flashed in Margie’s eyes as her lips parted. “Cal? Youmean…Clean Calvin?”
Working for her mother, Margie had to know he’d come to Young Acres and that Fern had left with him.
“There was a fire,” Fern went on. “I saw him, but he was on the floor…” She closed her eyes, exhausted. Anxious. He’d been unconscious, still bound to the metal chair.
Margie pulled back, releasing Fern’s hand. She dragged the chair over and sat, smoothing down her skirt and then clasping her pearls, fingers fiddling with the knot.
“You remember the fire?”
“And an explosion,” she rasped.
Margie nodded, her penciled brows furrowing as she frowned. “Miss Fern, I…well, the whole club was leveled. They found you under a few people who’d been…killed.” Fern dragged in a breath, and her heart began to slow. Her hearing became muffled again. “They’re saying a storage room full of gin exploded. It ignited a gas line and…well, it brought down the houses on top of the whole club.”
Fern had no memory after the blast that had knocked her unconscious. But if what Margie was saying was true…Cal had been in the storage room.
“Where is he?” Fern whispered. She knew before Margie even answered, her face twisted in preparation for the delivery of the news.
