Fire Engine Dead (27 page)

Exactly what I wanted. I helped Peter stumble slowly toward the reference room. The volumes there might be old—and flammable—but they weren’t terribly valuable, comparatively. We made it to the wide doorway and turned the corner, out of view from the windows in the front. I leaned Peter up against the shelves along the wall. “What now?” I asked Scott.

Scott looked briefly around, most likely recasting his plan. “It’ll still work. How old’s your system? Fifty years? You even know if it works?”

He hadn’t done his homework well—the systems were newer than that, but they’d never been tested. “We’ve never had a fire here. I don’t know.”

“What’s in there?” Scott nodded toward the vault. “I don’t see sprinklers.”

“Nobody thought they were necessary in there—they figured the sprinklers out here would be enough.”

“Great. Start tearing up some books.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You never built a bonfire? Take a book, rip out the pages, crumple ’em, and pile ’em up.” Without
taking his eyes off me, he reached into the backpack and pulled out a metal can, which I had to assume contained an accelerant. “Go on, start ripping.”

I started pulling books at random off the shelves. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the titles; I just opened them up and started grabbing handfuls of paper. I made a nice pile, with Scott’s eyes on me the whole while—and I carefully positioned it as close to the vault as I dared.

“You too, Petey-boy,” Scott said.

I sneaked a look at Peter, and he did not look good. He was suffering from a double whammy: the asthma was crippling him, and he was trying to deal with the fact that his brother wanted to kill him in a particularly unpleasant way. I wished there was a way to communicate to him without speaking that I’d rather have him close to me, because he was part of my desperate plan. Peter rose slowly, then pulled another book out and followed my lead. The pile of crumpled paper on the floor grew between us.

“That’s enough,” Scott said. “Now, pull out a bunch more books—the old dry stuff, not the shiny new ones—and toss them around. Make sure they’re open and the pages are fanned out.”

I was angry…but not angry enough to blow my one chance. At least he had let me build the pyre where I wanted to. Once the fire got started, the fire suppressant system would be activated, and that was linked directly to the fire department—I hoped. I refused to acknowledge how old—and untested—the whole system was. I had to assume that Scott planned to be long gone by then, out the way he had come, and was banking on the fact that the fire would spread quickly. Would the police look any further than two bodies on the floor? The police would find me with a bullet
in me, and Peter suffocated by his own asthma, presumably clutching the gun that killed me. Not a pretty picture.

“Now what?”

Scott tossed the can toward Peter, who caught it awkwardly. I could hear it slosh as he juggled it. I noticed for the first time that he was wearing gloves. Nice touch—Peter’s fingerprints would be the only ones on the can. “Pour it on the papers there.”

Peter looked stupidly at the can, at the pile of paper, at me. Even considering his breathing problems, he was moving suspiciously slowly. Maybe he’d finally guessed that I had a plan.

Scott sneered. “You always were useless. Step back, both of you.” We backed into the corner, flanked by bookshelves. “Give me the can,” he said to Peter.

For a brief moment I entertained the hope that Peter would fling accelerant in Scott’s eyes, but instead he meekly tossed the can back to his brother, who caught it deftly, unscrewed the cap with one hand, and started dousing the paper. The gun trained on us never left his other hand. There was an odd light in his eyes.

When Scott looked down at the paper in front of him, I started edging toward the door to the vault, a few feet to my left, and made it partway before Scott noticed my movement and waved the gun at me. Then he grinned wolfishly. “Nowhere to run, Ms. Pratt.”

I pressed myself against the books and crept closer to the door, trying to look terrified, which wasn’t hard. Peter hadn’t moved from the corner. Did he think he’d be safe there?

Then Scott pulled a lighter from his pocket. He looked back and forth at Peter and me. “Who wants to do the honors?
You, Ms. Pratt? You, you little wimp?” He didn’t appear surprised when neither of us volunteered. “Fine—I’ll do it.” He flicked on the lighter, then knelt by the pile of paper and touched the flame to it. It caught quickly, the loose sheets burning fast, the open books glowing at the edges as the fire began to eat into them—and following the liquid trails of the accelerant, which gave off a nasty oily smell. Old paper burned quickly, as Scott had hoped.

Scott allowed himself a moment to stare at the flames, and I wondered what was going through his mind. While he was distracted, I took a full step to my left, so I was standing in the doorway to the vault. Peter was still frozen in the corner, struggling to breathe. Scott looked up at me. “Get back here.” He strode around the fire and toward me, and I took another step backward, into the vault, as if retreating from him.

But when he was close enough, instead of retreating deeper I grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him farther into the vault, catching him off balance—I guessed I had surprised him. Using his own momentum, I slung him around until he was on the inside, then hooked my foot around his and sent him tumbling backward. He looked good and mad, and bounded up again, still clutching the gun.

Then the sprinklers in the big room went off, momentarily startling him. I backed out of the room quickly, keeping an eye on Scott—and finally the metal door to the vault—the venerable fireproof vault—began to slide across the opening, just as its designers had intended.

But not fast enough—Scott was up and moving. “Peter, help me!” I yelled. For a moment I thought that Peter wasn’t going to do anything, but then something penetrated his fog. He grabbed a tall heavy volume from the shelf. I
did the same, and we converged on the rapidly moving door before Scott could slide out. I let Peter have first honors, and he swung and connected with Scott’s hand, knocking the gun away, into the vault. I followed up with a desperate swing at Scott’s head, which sent him reeling backward. The metal door ground shut, inch by inch, but too slowly. I grabbed the outer handle and shoved, closing the gap. Scott stuck out a hand, trying to grab me, but Peter whacked it, eliciting a howl of pain from Scott. And then the door closed with a clang.

Scott pounded on the metal door, yelling something inarticulate, but the door held. The overhead sprinklers continued with their deluge of water. Scott’s fire sputtered and died, reduced to plumes of smoke. I was drenched in seconds. I looked at Peter in time to see him slide down the shelf of books until he was sitting on the floor, his breath coming in short pants. His face was greyish. I knelt beside him. “Thank you.” He nodded. “Look, the fire system is linked directly to the fire department—someone will be here in minutes. Can you hang on?” He nodded again.

I realized that I’d better open the front door for the fire department so they wouldn’t end up destroying anything more than they had to, but then I stopped. Scott wasn’t pounding anymore. Maybe he’d given up, but maybe…

And then I remembered.

The sprinkler system didn’t extend to the vault. Instead, during an earlier remodel, it had been replaced with the halon system, more suitable for a small, enclosed space. The vault was a small enclosed space, and was surprisingly airtight. And if the halon system had gone off, triggered by the smoke or the heat, then Scott was trapped in the vault full of halon gas.

Halon gas was poisonous.

“Oh, hell,” I whispered. I jumped to my feet and went back to the door. And stopped, at least briefly. Out here I was safe. On the other side of the door was a man who had just tried to kill me, and who still had a gun. And who might be dying because there wasn’t any oxygen left in the room. The fire department should be here in minutes—but did Scott have minutes? How was I supposed to know? So I had a choice: let him out and hope he didn’t shoot me, or leave him there to die. I chose the first option.

I grabbed the door handle and pulled. And pulled again. It didn’t budge. I looked frantically for a latch or a button or anything at all that would release the door: nothing. Maybe the release switch was somewhere else in the building, but I sure didn’t know where. I realized I was sobbing, although with the water still falling on my head it was hard to tell. I kept tugging ineffectually at the door until I heard the sound of sirens outside, and then I gave up and raced to the front door and hauled it open before the firemen could even knock.

They were apparently taken aback by the sight of me, drenched, grimy, and incoherent. “Fire’s out, but there’s a man…a door, in the vault…and EMTs…go, hurry, please.” I don’t know what they made out of that, but at least they took off in the right direction. I followed, and once inside the reading room, I pointed. When the guy in the lead looked at me, I managed to say, “Automatic fire door. I don’t know where the release is. There’s somebody inside.”

The fireman said one word. “Halon?”

When I nodded, his expression changed. He barked some orders to his team; an axe materialized, and someone
went to work on the door. I could have told them it wouldn’t be easy: the building had been built too well. The dull clangs as metal met metal echoed through the room and beyond, but it took a while before anyone could force the door open, first a crack, then two guys got behind it and shoved it back into its slot.

I knew it was too late when they stopped hurrying.

I sat in one of the reading room chairs—damned uncomfortable
, I found myself thinking irreverently, maybe I should think about ordering cushions—while the firemen poked around the sodden pile of ashes, making sure the fire was out. Someone had turned the sprinkler system off, and I studied the scorched spot on the floor, the streaks of smoke creeping up the walls, and the steady drip, drip, drip of water from the shelves. Somebody had better think about rescuing all those books before they were beyond salvage. That somebody was probably me, but I was incapable of doing anything at the moment. So I sat and tried to avoid thinking at all.

I sat while the EMTs arrived and went straight to Peter, still slumped against the shelves. They found his inhaler in a pocket immediately, then started giving him oxygen before hoisting him on a gurney and making a quick exit. I thought he was unconscious, but as the gurney passed me,
he opened his eyes, and the look he gave me was so bleak that it was all I could do not to turn away.

I waited while the police arrived. Initially they ignored me, conferring first with the milling firemen. I watched as though it were a play: a police officer strode across the room, spoke briefly with the fire team leader, then entered the vault. He emerged more slowly, shaking his head, and barked instructions to his colleagues. It all sounded like gibberish to me. The fireman pointed at me, and the officer started to make his way in my direction. I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to gather my strength and my wits, and when I opened them, James was kneeling in front of me.

“Nell, are you all right?”

I debated about how to answer that. Physically, yes, more or less, although I was still dripping wet and shaking. Otherwise—I’d have to say the jury was out on that.

“Nell?” he repeated, laying his hands over mine. The touch of his warm hands was startling, as if I’d forgotten that humans were supposed to be warm. I wasn’t.

“What are you doing here?” My voice caught, and I coughed.

“The police said there was a fire here, and I figured it had to be connected.”

“Ma’am?” That police officer had arrived in front of us. “You’re Eleanor Pratt?”

I nodded. That was my name, and it seemed safe enough to admit it.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

James rose to his full height of six foot whatever. “Officer, Ms. Pratt will be happy to answer all your questions, but right now she’s not in any state to do so.”

The officer didn’t back down. “You her lawyer?”

“No.” James reached into a pocket and pulled out a badge. “FBI.”

I almost felt sorry for the officer.

“We still need some basic information,” he said stubbornly. “Does she know who the dead man is?”

Dead.
That was the word I was trying not to think about. I cleared my throat. “His name was Scott Ingersoll. The other man, the one the EMTs took away, is his brother Peter Ingersoll. Will Peter be all right?”

“Can’t say, ma’am. Now can you—”

“No,” James interrupted. “She cannot. She will talk to you in the morning.”

They locked stares for a couple of seconds, but it was the police officer who backed down. “Ten o’clock at headquarters. You’ll be responsible for her?” he asked James.

“Yes.” He stood guard next to me as the officer went back to consult with his peers. Then he turned back to me. “I’m getting you out of here.”

I seemed to be processing things very slowly. “My bag. It’s upstairs in my office.”

“I’ll get it. You stay here.”

“No! I’ll come with you.” I didn’t want to be left down here with all these strangers and their questions. I struggled to stand up—my legs had stiffened. James grabbed my arm to help, but I was still wobbly when I was upright. He gave me another hard look, then said, “Keys?”

I fished in my pocket and handed them to him. He led me to the elevator, and we ascended in silence. He didn’t let go of my arm; did I look like I needed to be held up? Still, I was grateful for it. Upstairs I moved by habit down the hall to my office, but when I walked through the door, nothing looked familiar, and I couldn’t remember why I was there.

James came up beside me. “Where do you keep your bag?”

I pointed toward the desk, and he found it in a drawer.

“Jacket?”

“On the door.”

He found that, too, and draped it around my shoulders.

There was something else important…“James, find Jennifer. She was in on it, working with Scott. She might even have planned it all.”