6:03 P.M.
Parker darts into the candy store, his heart a drum in his chest. Once he’s behind the counter, he drops to his knees. As he crawls into the workroom, the muffled clap of a gunshot echoes out in the hall.
A startled cry is forced from his mouth. Who did the killers just shoot? Was it Blazers, for handing the lighter to AT&T? Was it AT&T, for trying to light a fire? Could it even be Stanford, the girl holding his sister—or Moxie herself?
Gritting his teeth, Parker forces himself to scuttle into the back room. He can’t afford to let terror paralyze him. Should he close the door behind him? What if one of the killers catches sight of the movement? But if he doesn’t close it, they might see him. He eases it closed.
As he gets to his feet, Parker grabs the knife off the floor. He reaches back and slips the handle under the waistband of his pants. The small of his back is slick with sweat. He centers the blade so that it’s flat against his spine, camouflaged by his polo shirt.
A glass-fronted silver box set into the wall catches his eye. It holds a fire extinguisher. The killers could use it to put out the fire.
He opens the box and then wrestles the metal canister free from its clips. He needs to hide it. Maybe in the cupboards where he put Moxie. Just the glancing thought of her makes his knees go weak. But worry won’t keep her any safer, and he can’t afford to be distracted.
He forces himself back to the here and now. Maybe he should keep the extinguisher handy. It could be a weapon. Once he gets the fire going, he could wait for one of the killers to open the door, then spray the chemicals straight in his face.
Parker lets out a strangled bark of laughter. If you had told him this morning that by the time the day was over he would be lighting fires and thinking about the best way to damage someone, he would have thought you were crazy.
After he sets down the extinguisher, he spreads his arms wide to gather the gold cardboard boxes and stacks of brown paper candy cups into a pile in the middle of the cool marble worktable. He tears pieces of white wrapping paper off the roll and crumples them. He looks at the ceiling. A metal sprinkler jet is about eight feet above one corner of the table. He scoots the pile so it’s right under it.
Out in the hall, it’s been relatively quiet. At least there haven’t been any more shots.
Parker fumbles the lighter from his pocket. The metal wheel bites into his thumb as he spins it. When the flame appears, he moves too fast. It gutters out.
Taking a deep breath, he tries again, this time cupping his other hand around the orange flicker. He slowly moves it until it starts to lick one of the crumpled balls of wrapping paper. Instead of blazing up, it nibbles delicately on the edge of the paper. The flicker of orange creates a thin curved line of black.
He moves the lighter to one of the gold boxes, holding it under a corner until it catches. Out in the hall, he hears Ron yelling. It’s a one-sided conversation, so Parker thinks he must be talking on a phone. He’s accusing the person on the other end of lying. Of spying.
The fire is slowly growing from two sides. Parker gently blows on it, and the flames fatten. The black lines turn to crumbling charcoal and silver ash.
Ron’s voice gets louder. Parker hears the words “remote-control car.”
So they think the Jeep came from the cops. Is that better—or worse—than the truth? Maybe it’s better for Miranda and her friends, but it sounds like it’s firing up the killers. If they get angry enough, will they start shooting again?
The fire’s now about three inches high. Not exactly a conflagration, but it’s making a good deal of eye-watering smoke. The gray cloud hangs a few feet above the table, spreading out tendrils that soften the outlines of the room. The smoke scratches his throat. Maybe whatever makes the boxes sparkly gold is toxic. When he coughs, he almost puts out the fire.
Most of the pile is now on fire. But the room doesn’t feel any hotter. It’s all going so slowly. Parker’s supposed to be providing a distraction, but he’s not accomplishing much of anything. At this rate the sprinklers will never go off.
He looks up at the one above the table again. Why is he messing around with lighting a fire, when he can go straight to the source?
Tucking the lighter in his pocket, Parker starts to brace his hands on the table to clamber on top. Then he realizes all the paper will be soaked once he triggers the sprinkler. What if he needs it to set another fire in a different store? He piles more boxes and paper candy cups next to the fire extinguisher. Then he climbs on the table, careful not to catch himself on fire. His bruised body protests each movement. He thumbs the wheel, hears it catch, sees the steady orange flame appear. To reach the sprinkler head, he has to stretch his arm above the fire. The air over it is hotter than he thought it would be. The skin on his forearm starts to feel crispy. With his arm stretched full length, he moves the flame back and forth under the sprinkler head. As he does, he braces himself for the water, thinking it will be like taking a cold shower in his clothes.
But when the sprinkler opens, it’s like someone has put a fire hose directly above him and turned it on full blast. Boom! The water is a shock, pounding so hard, it’s like a solid thing. In an instant, the fire is snuffed out.
He steps back, trying to get out of the deluge. But the table is covered with a sheet of water. His foot slips out from under him, and before he can recover, both his feet are in the air and he’s falling. When his tailbone meets the marble table, the pain rams all the way up his spine. The sensation is so intense, it’s like someone’s pressed the pause button on the rest of the world. Parker can’t think as he tumbles to the floor. He can’t even breathe. He’s frozen, trapped in the pain.
But finally, he sucks air in with a gasp. Moving hurts. A lot. But he has to. Someone is bound to investigate soon. The pain lessens a little once he’s upright and moving toward the door.
Only now does he wonder if it would have been better to let things build slowly. Now there’s really no smoke. No flames. Just water. It’s noisy, sure, but will it be enough to attract Ron or Lips? Maybe he should light another fire behind the counter.
Parker flicks his lighter. No response. He shakes water out of the well and tries again.
Nothing. There’s no way he’s going to be able to light another fire.