Pete only looked at him, dazed and panting. The water in the cooler bottle continued to gush onto a part of the carpet that did not, unfortunately, need wetting.
Although his sports reporting was always going to be strictly junior varsity, Tony Guay had been a three-letter man in high school. Ten years later, his reflexes were still mostly intact. He snatched the spouting cooler bottle from Pete and held it first over the top of Julia's desk and then over the carpet-blaze. The fire was already spreading, but maybe... if he was quick... and if there was another bottle or two in the hallway leading to the supply closet...
'More!' he shouted at Pete, who was gaping at the smoking remains of his shirtsleeve. 'Back hall!'
For a moment Pete didn't seem to understand. Then he got it, and booked for the hall. Tony stepped around Julia's desk, letting the last pint or two of water fall on the flames trying to get a foothold there.
Then the final Molotov cocktail came flying out of the dark, and that was the one that really did the damage. It made a direct hit on the stacks of newspapers the men had placed near the front door. Burning gasoline ran beneath the baseboard at the front of the office and leaped up. Seen through the flames, Main Street was a wavering mirage. On the far side of the mirage, across the street, Tony could see two dim figures. The rising heat made them look like they were dancing.
'FREE DALE BARBARA OR THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING!' an amplified voice bellowed. 'THERE ARE PLENTY OF US, AND WE'LL FIREBOMB THE WHOLE DAMN TOWN! FREE DALE BARBARA OR PAY THE PRICE!'
Tony looked down and saw a hot creek of fire run between his feet. He had no more water with which to put it out. Soon it would finish eating through the carpet and taste the old dry wood beneath. Meanwhile, the whole front of the office was now involved.
Tony dropped the empty cooler bottle and stepped back. The heat was already intense; he could feel it stretching his skin. If not for the goddam newspapers, I might've -
But it was too late for might'ves. He turned and saw Pete standing in the doorway from the back hall with another bottle of Poland Spring in his arms. Most of his charred shirtsleeve had dropped away. The skin beneath was bright red.
'Too late!'Tony shouted. He gave Julia's desk, which was now a pillar of fire shooting all the way to the ceiling, a wide berth, raising one arm to shield his face from the heat. 'Too late, out the back!'
Pete Freeman needed no further urging. He heaved the bottle at the growing fire and ran.
23
Carrie Carver rarely had anything to do with Mill Gas although the little convenience store had made her and her husband a pretty good living over the years, she saw herself as Above All That. But when Johnny suggested they might go down in the van and take the remaining canned goods up to the house - 'for safekeeping' was the delicate way he put it - she had agreed at once. And although she was ordinarily not much of a worker (watching Judge Judy was more her speed), she had volunteered to help. She hadn't been at Food City, but when she'd gone down later to inspect the damage with her friend Leah Anderson, the shattered windows and the blood still on the pavement had frightened her badly. Those things had frightened her for the future.
Johnny lugged out the cartons of soups, stews, beans, and sauces; Carrie stowed them in the bed of their Dodge Ram. They were about halfway through the job when fire bloomed downstreet. They both heard the amplified voice. Carrie thought she saw two or three figures running down the alley beside Burpee's, but wasn't sure. Later on she would be sure, and would up the number of shadowy figures to at least four. Probably five.
'What does it mean?' she asked. 'Honey, what does it mean?'
"That the goddam murdering bastard isn't on his own,' Johnny said. 'It means he's got a gang.'
Carrie's hand was on his arm, and now she dug in with her nails. Johnny freed his arm and ran for the police station, yelling fire at the top of his lungs. Instead of following, Carrie Carver continued loading the truck. She was more frightened of the future than ever.
24
In addition to Roger Killian and the Bowie brothers, there were ten new officers from what was now the Chester's Mill Hometown Security Force sitting on the bleachers of the middle-school gymnasium, and Big Jim had only gotten started on his speech about what a responsibility they had when the fire whistle went off. The boy's early, he thought. I can't trust him to save my soul. Never could, but now he's that much worse.
'Well, boys,' he said, directing his attention particularly to young Mickey Wardlaw - God, what a bruiser! 'I had a lot more to say, but it seems we've got ourselves a little more excitement. Fern Bowie, do you happen to know if we have any Indian pumps in the FD barn?'
Fern said he'd had a peek into the firebarn earlier that evening, just to see what sort of equipment there might be, and there were almost a dozen Indian pumps. All full of water, too, which was convenient.
Big Jim, thinking that sarcasm should be reserved for those bright enough to understand what it was, said it was the good Lord looking out for them. He also said that if it was more than a false alarm, he would take charge with Stewart Bowie as his second-in-command.
There, you noseyparker witch, he thought as the new officers, looking bright-eyed and eager, rose from the bleachers. Let's see how you like getting in my business now.
25
'Where you going?' Carter asked. He had driven his car - with the lights off- down to where West Street T'd into Route 117. The building that stood here was a Texaco station that had closed up in 2007. It was close to town but offered good cover, which made it convenient. Back the way they had come, the fire whistle was honking six licks to a dozen and the first light of the fire, more pink than orange, was rising in the sky.
'Huh?' Junior was looking at the strengthening glow. It made