Page 97 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Help me!” I scream.

Smoke scorches my throat. My shirt is still damp from the rain. Not bothering with the buttons, I tear it open, rip it off my shoulders. Setting down the flashlight, I use my teeth to tear off one of the sleeves, wrap it around my head, cover my nose and mouth, and tie it at my nape. I put what’s left of my shirt back on and jog to the wall farthest from the fire. The stone and concrete foundation is a couple of feet high. I run my hands over the wood siding, looking for loose or rotting boards, but there’s nothing.

Turning, I rush the stairs, snap up the T-post I left on the landing and I clatter back down. Once again at the farthest point from the fire, I draw back the T-post and smash it against the siding. I ram it again and again; I swing it like a bat, but the wood holds firm.

The fire has transformed into a living thing. A merciless, bellowing monster bent on devouring everything in its path.

“Help me!” I try to scream the words, but I break into coughing. The smoke is choking and so thick I can barely see. It’s acrid and caustic. The heat is unbearable. I can feel it scorching my shirt, smell it singeing the fabric.

Dropping the T-post, I go to my knees, hacking and retching. I think about Tomasetti and a scream of outrage pours from my throat. I don’t want to do this to him. I don’t want him to suffer the unbearable pain of losing another loved one.

I don’t want to die.

I drop to the ground, set my face against the dirt. The air is marginally cleaner. I scoot closer to the stone foundation. Still hot, but cooler. I want to go back to the stairs, try the door again. It’s my only hope. My last hope. I’m not sure I can make it.

Disbelief swamps me. I can’t believe my life is going to end this way. I think of the people I’ll leave behind. My brother and sister. My team of officers. The Amish community that has shunned me, yet that I still love.

But it’s John Tomasetti that dominates my thoughts. Even in the throes of a chaotic and mindless horror, it’s he who lights the darkness. The intensity of my love for him. Even if I die here today, I know that will live on.

A crash shakes the building. In my peripheral vision I see sparks raining down, and I know the ceiling is starting to cave. If I don’t get out now, I’ll either be crushed to death or burned alive.

“Tomasetti…”

I scoot closer to the foundation. Nowhere else to go. No air to breathe. Just fire and heat and smoke.

Dear God.

A cool puff hits my face. At first, I think my mind is playing tricks. Then I smell rain. The flashlight is still in my right hand. Groaning, I drag it up. The beam illuminates nothing but dirt and stone, all of it obscured by smoke. Then I spot the gap where the mortar has crumbled. Water seeping in from the outside.

The urge to run back and grab the T-post again is powerful, but there’s too much smoke, too much heat; I might not make it back. Instead, I roll onto my back, set my feet against the stone foundation, and I stomp as hard as I can. Hope leaps when the stones shift. I kick again, this time with so much force that my body slides away. I reposition myself, mule kick with all my might.

Another surge of hope when I feel movement. The stone is smaller than a cinder block; even if I manage to dislodge it, I won’t fit through the hole. But I’ll be in a better position to kick out a second one.

Lifting both legs, I stomp the stone, again and again. It slides a couple of inches. Finger-size chunks of mortar fall toward me. I scream and kick and choke in a frenzy of panic and resolve and the will to survive. All the while the fire rages. Debris crashes down from above. I ignore all of it and kick, kick, kick.

The stone gives way. The one above it shifts down. Mortar crumbles. Sobbing, lungs burning, I kick it. Once. Twice. And it’s gone.

Twisting, I sit up, set my face against the rush of cool, clean air. I thrust my hands and arms and head through the hole. Digging my toes into the dirt, I shove my torso and hips through. Drizzle and cool night air greet me. I’m still coughing and sobbing. I grab handfuls of weeds and grass and mud, and pull myself free of the hole. I hear someone laughing maniacally, realize it’s me.

Then I’m outside, gulping fresh air, coughing. Rain cools my heated skin. I roll onto my back, look up at the night sky. For an instant I can’t move. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

A crash from inside the barn snaps me from my stupor. I sit up, struggle to my feet. The flashlight is lying in the weeds, so I bend and pick it up. The fire lights up the entire area. I back away from the barn. I’m on the downhill side of the structure. Unseen from the parking lot. I’d been so focused on escape, I hadn’t considered the possibility that Edna Lambright is still around. That she’s got my .38. Starting up the hill, I make my way toward the Explorer to radio for help.

CHAPTER 22

I’m midway to the Explorer when I hear tires on gravel. I’m about to take cover when I see the flash of emergency lights against the treetops. Skid’s cruiser pulls up next to my Explorer.

The driver’s-side door flies open. Skid jumps out and jogs toward me. “Chief!”

I break into a run. “Edna Lambright is armed!” I call out. “She locked me in the barn. Set it on fire.”

He flicks the thumb strap off his sidearm and pulls it. Simultaneously, he speaks into his lapel mike. “Ten-thirty-five,” he says, putting out the code for a major crime alert.

“I think she’s in a 2005 Taurus,” I tell him. “We need to stop her.” I reach him, aware that he’s staring at me with concern as he relays the information into his mike.

“You okay, Chief? You need an ambulance?”

I yank open the passenger door of his cruiser. “I’m fine. Let’s go get her.”