13

Roger wandered for over an hour, moving from one neighborhood to the next, like a man with nowhere to go.

A door burst open and light spilled onto the porch. Two men swayed down the steps, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they reached the sidewalk.

Roger stayed behind them until the next block, when he turned, leaving them to their own destruction. His mind whirled as he walked, trying to process his unexpected attraction to the woman he had learned to hate. There was something about her that he seemed unable to escape. What power did she hold, or was she playing a game with his mind?

And her attraction to him seemed equally real. The fear on her face when she talked about finding the gas cans wasn’t staged for his benefit. And she had turned to him for help. That had to prove something. And then tonight.

What would it have been like to kiss her? His heart thumped in his chest. He was falling in love with the woman he had vowed to kill, and the realization caused a flicker of joy and then bitter pain.

The sound of his footsteps awakened a dog from his slumber, and the beast shared a half-hearted bark before settling back against the foundation of the house. Except for the rowdy party a few streets back, he could almost believe he was the sole survivor of the end of the world the pastor was so fond of talking about. Sleep had settled over Darlington.

The black sky shimmered just above the trees to the right, and soon an orange glow broke the darkness. The brightness increased into a mass of light that domed a section of the night sky.

Sirens pierced the silence.

Blood rushed through his veins. He began to run.

A fire engine roared past, then another.

Rounding the corner, he stopped. A low groan escaped his lips. Flames roared and wood cracked as the fire destroyed another house. Even from half a block away, the heat assaulted his face. His mind slipped into memories of two other fires. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the visions aside. He had to stay in the moment.

Voices layered on top of each other, commands shouted, hoses shot streams of water that hissed as they joined with the blaze.

His shoulders slumped as he watched the licking greedy tongues ingest wood and mortar. He should make his presence known as the proxy homeowner. A loud crack disturbed his thoughts, followed by sprays of orange and red sparks.

Voices shouted. Yellow-garbed firefighters stumbling backward, hindered by heavy gear. Arches of water sizzled, their sound almost lost in the roar of the fire.

The house was dying.

People dressed in nightclothes gathered on the lawns, holding their arms around themselves as if protecting all they loved. An older woman with bare feet, a housecoat tied at her waist, ran to a firefighter and pulled on his arm. A bald and shirtless man ran after her and tried to pull her away. As they struggled, she continued to point toward the adjacent house.

Roger could see her mouth move, and could imagine her screams, but the snarl of the fire drowned her voice.

Soon firefighters shot water at both neighboring structures. Save the other houses; let this one go.

He knew their thoughts. As he stood alone on the sidewalk, too far from the action for anyone to want to join him, he noticed another solitary person huddled within distant shadows.

As though knowing it had been spotted, the figure melted into the blackness.

His back stiffened. He knew this person, but it was impossible.