Page 3 of A Gathering of Secrets

“This is a dangerous thing you’re doing!” he shouted. “Stop screwing around and open the damn door. Now!”

He listened, heard the crackle of what sounded like fire. Fingers of alarm jabbed into the back of his neck, sharp claws sinking in deep and curling around his spine. He stood back and landed a kick against the wood, next to the knob. Another satisfying crack. Raising his leg, he kicked it again. Part of the wood jamb split. He could see the brass of the dead bolt now. At some point he’d begun to cough. Smoke was pouring in from beneath the door, black and choking and thick.

“Come on!” he screamed. “Are you fucking nuts? Open the door!”

Coughing, he stepped back and lunged forward, his shoulder crashing against the door. Pain zinged across his collarbone, but he didn’t care. The door opened an inch. He shoved it with the heels of his hands. There was something in the way. Something outside the door. Too heavy to move. Through the gap, flames and smoke and heat rushed in, scorching his face and hands, stinging his eyes. He smelled singed hair and the cotton fabric of his shirt. He stumbled back, stunned by the scope of the fire, disbelieving that she would be so irresponsible. That this could be happening at all.

“Hey! Go get help!” Looking around wildly, he grabbed the bottle of wine, the only source of liquid, and thrust the open end toward the blaze. Wine splashed onto the fire and door, but it wasn’t enough to douse the flames. The fire seemed to drink it in and ask for more.

Heat sent him back another step. Smoke poured through the gap, hot black ropes twisting and rising, taunting him, reaching for him. Yellow flames licked at the wood, growing and moving closer. Raising the crook of his arm to his face, he rushed the door, slammed his body against it. Heat seared his shoulder, the side of his face, his ear, but he didn’t feel the pain. The lock had given way; he’d gained another inch. Hope leapt in his chest. But within seconds the opening ushered in a tidal wave of ferocious flames, hungry for fuel, gobbling up the dry wood, eating up the floor.

“Help me!” he screamed. “Fuck! Help!”

Smoke and fire streamed in through the gap. The heat scorched his face, set his lungs ablaze, stole all the air in the room. He could hear himself panting and gasping, every inhale like a hot poker shoved down his throat. Choking, he looked around, seeking something, anything, he could use to pound his way to freedom.

Through the thick smoke, he spotted the homemade saddle rack—dual two-by-fours formed into an inverted V and nailed to the wall. He shoved the saddle to the floor, raised his foot, and slammed his boot down on the boards. Nails screeched as they pulled from the wall, the rack slanting down. He stomped it again and the boards gave way, clattered to the floor. Another dizzying leap of hope as he snatched up one of the two-by-fours. Rushing the door, he swung the section of wood like a bat, slammed it against the door. Once. Twice.

On the third swing, the board tore through the wood. An instant of hope, and then fire burst through the hole, a roaring beast with flames tall enough to lick the ceiling.

Panic tore through him. The blaze was burning out of control. There were thirty bales of hay in the loft, dry as tinder and waiting to explode. If the fire reached that hay, he wouldn’t make it out.

Choking and cursing, he stumbled back. Too much heat now. Too much smoke to breathe. Ripping off his T-shirt, he dropped to his knees and set the fabric over his nose and mouth. Lowering himself to the floor, he rolled onto his back, raised both legs and rammed his booted feet against the door. Once. Twice.

The door gave way. Wood and ash and sparks rained down on him, embers burning his bare chest and arms and face. A rush of superheated air washed over him. Acrid smoke in his mouth. In his eyes. Through the haze he saw glowing cinders on his jeans, the fabric smoldering, the searing pain of a dozen burns. He brushed frantically at the tiny coals, but there were too many. Too much heat. Not enough air to breathe. Dear God …

Fire burst into the room, a rabid, roaring beast that came down on top of him, tore into him with white-hot teeth. Smoke seared his face and neck and chest. The full force of his predicament slammed into him. He screamed, twisted on the floor, rolling and flailing, trying to get away from the pain, but there was no place to go.

His lungs were on fire, burning his lips, his teeth, his tongue. Air too hot to draw a breath. Blinded by smoke and heat. Eyes sizzling in their sockets. The smell of burning flesh in his nostrils. I’m dying, he thought, and he was incredulous that this could happen.

“Datt! Datt!” But the words were little more than muffled cries. He rolled, clawing at the flames crawling over his body, but he hit the wall, no place else to go. No escape.

He tried to scream, but his spit seemed to boil in his mouth, his tongue clogging it like a piece of cooked meat.

With a final hideous roar, the fire swept over him. Red-hot teeth tearing into him, chewing him up, grinding flesh and bone into a molten ooze, and sucking him into its belly.

CHAPTER 2

When you’re the chief of police in a small town, a call at four A.M. is never a good thing. As I roll over and reach for my cell, I’m anticipating news of a fatality accident or, God forbid, bad news about one of my officers or my family.

“Burkholder,” I rasp.

“Sorry to wake you, Chief,” comes the voice of my graveyard-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz. “I just took a call for a barn fire out at the Gingerich place. Thought you’d want to know.”

I’m familiar with the Gingerich family. Miriam and Gideon are Amish and live on a small farm a couple miles out of Painters Mill. I don’t know them well. They’re a nice family and lead quiet lives. Last I heard, they still have four kids at home.

Getting my elbows beneath me, I scoot up to a sitting position. “Anyone hurt?”

“Not sure yet. I talked to one of the volunteer firefighters and he told me the family hasn’t been able to account for their son, Danny.”

A sense of dread sweeps over me as I throw off the quilt and set my feet on the floor. “Anyone mention the cause?”

“No one knows anything yet.”

“I’m on my way.”

I hit END as I rise and head to the closet for my uniform.

“What’s up, Chief?”