THIRTY-THREE

The house was full of smoke. Chance had dragged himself into the kitchen, was crawling toward the porch. Behind him, flames were licking up the dining room wall.

She caught his left arm, lifted, got it around her neck, stood with him. He leaned against her, and they made their way onto the porch, then into the yard. She set him down in the snow, looked back at the house. Flames had reached the roof, were crawling under the eaves, smoke pouring out.

“Where is he?” Chance said.

“Dead. Come on.” She got him to his feet again, walked him through the snow toward the woods. His legs were unsteady, but they stayed under him. She had her right arm tight around his waist, her left bracing his wrist across her shoulder.

“Where we going?” he said.

“Try to find his car.”

Ashes and soot drifted down on them. She could hear sirens far away.

“Come on,” she said. “You can make it.”

The Toyota’s gas tank went up with a flat boom. The trunk yawned open, flames billowing out. A glowing ember twirled through the air, landed in the snow in front of her. It was half of a twenty-dollar bill.

They were into the trees now. She stopped, looked back. The roof was on fire, a mammoth cloud of smoke filling the sky, blotting out the moon.

The sirens were louder, closer.

“Red … we need to get out of here.”

“I know.”

“Now.”

There was a loud crack, and a section of roof caved in, sparks swirling up. She watched them rise into the sky.

“Red…”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She turned her back on the house.

*   *   *

After a while, they reached a road, stumbled along it until she saw the car parked in the trees.

“There it is,” she said.

“I need to sit.”

She lowered him to the snowy ground. Her right leg was stiff, her hip aching.

The Mercury was locked. She looked around, found a heavy stone stuck in the frost. She got it loose, lifted it over her head, and smashed it into the passenger side window until the glass gave way.

She dropped the stone, reached in and unlocked the door, brushed glass from the seat. She helped him up, got him into the car. He leaned over, popped the driver’s side lock.

She slid behind the wheel, realized then she had no tools. No pocketknife, no pick set. She clawed at the plastic on the steering column, the pain in her wrists flaring. No good.

“Son of a bitch,” she said. She got back out, held on to the door and roof for support, heel-kicked the steering column until the plate broke. Back behind the wheel, she pulled the plastic loose, tugged at the wires.

“Can you do it?” he said.

“Shut up and let me concentrate.”

It took her three tries. Relief flooded through her when the wires sparked and the engine turned over. She backed out onto the road, swung around to head south, lights off.

Cold air filled the car as she drove. They came to a four-way stop sign, and an ambulance blew across their path, lights flashing, siren rising and falling.

The clouds had parted, and the moon was out again. With the headlights off, she wound her way back to where they’d left the Mustang. It was alone in the lot. Through the trees, she could see a parade of emergency lights on a parallel road. In the distance, the sky glowed red.

When she pulled up alongside the Mustang, Chance’s eyes were closed. She pulled wires loose to kill the engine.

“Hey,” she said. He didn’t move.

She touched his shoulder, and his eyes snapped open. His face was slick with sweat.

“Your keys.”

He looked at her, confused.

“Give me your car keys.”

He nodded, reached slowly into a pocket, drew out two keys on a ring. She took them.

“Leave me,” he said.

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to.”

“No, I don’t.”

She got out, opened the Mustang’s passenger door, came back. His eyes were closed again, his chin on his chest. When she opened the door, he slumped out. She caught him before he hit the ground.

“Come on,” she said. “Work with me.”

She pulled his arm over her shoulder, helped him get his feet under him.

“Leave me,” he said.

“Quiet.”

She walked him around the Mustang, got him into the seat, shut the door.

She needed something to wipe the Mercury down. They’d left evidence back at the house, but there was nothing she could do about that now. The car was different.

She popped the Mercury’s trunk, looking for a rag. Inside were an olive drab duffel and an oversized gym bag. There were clothes in the duffel. She pulled out a T-shirt, saw white plastic below it. Her laptop. She drew it out. Beneath it were banded stacks of money.

She looked at them for a moment, then dumped them into the trunk. Twenties and fifties.

She filled the gym bag with money, put the laptop in, zipped it up, and slung it over her shoulder. She shut the trunk, used the wadded-up T-shirt to wipe down everything she might have touched.

The gym bag went into the Mustang’s trunk. When she got behind the wheel, Chance was out again. She started the engine, backed out, and headed south once more, away from the sirens and the glow in the sky.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, she saw the first yellow hospital sign. She followed them into a small downtown, all the stores dark. The hospital was an island of light at the end of the street. Big glass doors and a red neon sign that said EMERGENCY.

She pulled to the curb, killed the headlights. They were three blocks from the hospital, but even from here she could see the security cameras over the doors.

Chance opened his eyes. “Where are we?”

She pointed at the hospital. “This is as far as I can take you.”

He nodded. “All right.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked at her, pulled his coat tighter around himself. “Don’t be, Red.”

He opened his door, paused as if gathering strength. She put a hand on his forearm, squeezed. He gave her a slack smile.

“Go on,” he said. “Get out of here while you can.”

He pulled himself out of the car, leaned on the roof, looked in at her.

“See you when I see you,” he said and shut the door.

She watched him walk away, leaning against parked cars and meters for support. When he reached the emergency room, he stepped into the lights, sank to his knees, triggered the automatic doors. He rolled onto his side, and two white-coated EMTs rushed out.

Headlights still off, she U-turned in the street, drove away.

*   *   *

It had started to snow again, hard and icy, clicking as it hit the car. After a half hour behind the wheel, her eyes were closing, her limbs heavy. She pulled into a Quality Inn outside Oxford, used the T-shirt to wipe the blood from her jacket and the car seat.

She checked in using her Roberta Summersfield ID. It took all she had to carry the gym bag up to the second-floor room. She hung the DO NOT DISTURB tag, set the night latch, turned the heat up.

Her clothes smelled of smoke. She peeled them off, ran the shower. Her right leg was bruised from hip to knee, a deep blotch of yellow and purple. On her left wrist, the skin around her tattoo was swollen and blistered.

She stood under the hot spray for a long time, her eyes closing, only the pain in her wrists and leg keeping her awake. Afterward, she wrapped herself in a towel, unzipped the gym bag, spilled its contents out on the bed. It took her ten minutes to count it all. She kept losing track, having to start again. It came out to forty thousand and change.

She powered up the laptop, checked the folder. Maddie’s pictures were still there. She looked through them all twice. The low-battery light began to blink in a corner of the screen.

She shut the laptop off, put all the money back in the bag. Then she lay back on the bed, looked up at the ceiling.

Suddenly she was cold, shaking. She sat up, wrapped the covers around herself, but couldn’t stop trembling. She began to rock back and forth, eyes closed tight against the tears that were spilling out.

The last thing she did before sleep was get the .38 from her jacket, check the door again. She slid the gun under a pillow, turned out all the lights but one, crawled naked between the sheets. She fell asleep listening to the wind.