A time to kill

Adams Street was blocked with an assortment of volunteer vehicles, mostly pickups. Each had a variety of red and yellow emergency lights, at least a thousand in all. They spun and flashed and streaked through the darkness in a silent chorus, illuminating the street.

The fire engines were parked haphazardly in front of the house. The firemen and volunteers worked frantically laying lines and getting organized, responding occasionally to the commands of the chief. Ozzie, Prather, and Hastings stood near an engine. Some guardsmen lingered benignly near a jeep.

The fire was brilliant. Flames roared from every window across the front of the. house, upstairs and down. The carport was completely engulfed. Carla's Cutlass burned inside and out-the four tires emitting a darker glow of their own. Curiously, another, smaller car, not the Saab, burned next to the Cutlass.

The thundering, crackling noise of the fire, plus the rumbling of the fire engines, plus the loud voices, attracted

neighbors from several blocks. They crowded together in the lawns across the street and watched.

Jake and Nesbit ran down the street. The chief spotted them and came running.

"Jake! Is anybody in the house?"

"No!"

"Good. I didn't think so."

"Just a dog."

"A dog!"

Jake nodded and watched the house.

"I'm sorry," said the chief.

They gathered at Ozzie's car in front of Mrs. Pickle's house. Jake answered questions,

"That's not your Volkswagen under there, is it, Jake?"

Jake stared in stunned silence at Carla's landmark. He shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Looks like that's where it started."

"I don't understand," said Jake.

"If it ain't your car, then somebody parked it there, right? Notice how the floor of the carport is burnin'? Concrete don't normally burn. It's gasoline. Somebody loaded the VW with gasoline, parked it and ran away. Probably had some kinda device which set the thing off."

Prather and two volunteers agreed.

"How long's it been burning?" Jake asked.

"We got here ten minutes ago," the chief said, "and it was well involved. I'd say thirty minutes. It's a good fire. Somebody knew what they's doin'."

"I don't suppose we could get anything out of there, could we?" Jake asked in general, knowing the answer.

"No way, Jake. It's too involved. My men couldn't go in there if people were trapped. It's a good fire."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, look at it. It's burnin' evenly through the house. You can see flames in every window. Downstairs and up. •That's very unusual. In just a minute, it'll burn through the roof."

Two squads inched forward with the lines, shooting water in the direction of the windows by the front porch. A smaller line was aimed at a window upstairs. After watching for a minute or two as the water disappeared into the flames

with no noticeable effect, the chief spat and said, "It'll burn to the ground." With that he disappeared around an engine and began shouting.

Jake looked at Nesbit. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Jake."

"Drive over to Harry Rex's and bring him back. I'd hate for him to miss this."

"Sure."

For two hours Jake, Ozzie, Harry Rex, and Nesbit sat on the patrol car and watched the fire fulfill the chiefs prediction. From time to time a neighbor would stop by and extend sympathies and ask about the family. Mrs. Pickle, the sweet old woman next door, cried loudly when informed by Jake that Max had been consumed.

By three, the deputies and other curious had disappeared, and by four the quaint little Victorian had been reduced to smoldering rubble. The last of the firemen smothered any sign of smoke from the ruins. Only the chimney and burnt frames of two cars stood above the remains as the heavy rubber boots kicked and plowed through the waste looking for sparks or hidden flames that might somehow leap from the dead and burn the rest of the wreckage.

They rolled up the last of the lines as the sun began to appear. Jake thanked them when they left. He and Harry Rex walked through the backyard and surveyed the damage.

"Oh well," Harry Rex said. "It's just a house."

"Would you call Carla and tell her that?"

"No. I think you should."

"I think I'll wait."

Harry Rex looked at his watch. "It's about breakfast time, isn't it?"

"It's Sunday morning, Harry Rex. Nothing's open."

"Ah, Jake, you're an amateur, and I'm a professional. I can find hot food at any time of any day."

"The truck stop?"

"The truck stop!"

"Okay. And when we finish we'll go to Oxford to check on Row Ark."

"Great. I can't wait to see her with a butch haircut."

Sallie grabbed the phone and threw it at Lucien, who rumbled with it until it was arranged properly next to his head.

"Yeah, who is it?" he asked, squinting through the window into the darkness.

"Is this Lucien Wilbanks?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Do you know Clyde Sisco?"

"Yeah."

"It's fifty thousand."

"Call me back in the morning."