Olivia gestured at the cat carrier with the blowtorch. “Give me the cat,” she said.
I pressed the bag against my hip. Owen hadn’t yet realized the top was open and he could jump out. “No,” I said.
Olivia’s eyes narrowed with anger. “You want the poor thing to die in here? What’s the matter with you?”
She leaned over so the flame was just inches above the elegant Oriental carpet runner.
“Give me the cat,” she repeated.
What else could I do? Maybe I could get us all out of this. My hands were shaking, but I eased the strap of the cat bag off my shoulder. Olivia held out her hand.
“Sorry,” I whispered to Owen, and then instead of handing over the carrier I threw it at her. As the bag arced down over the few steps between us, Owen somehow launched himself up and out. Eyes wide and angry, and fur going every which way, he landed three steps below me and darted between Olivia’s legs.
It was enough to knock her off balance on those high heels. She fell backward, dropping the blowtorch. It ignited the edge of her faux leather pants. Whatever they were made of was highly flammable.
Flames shot from her ankle to her hip in seconds. She screamed, hands flailing, which only succeeded in setting her sweater on fire. I flung myself on her, smothering the fire with my body and my heavy woolen coat. Above me Maggie sank onto a riser. She tucked her face in her elbow and looked at me. I tried to get my breath, but it was almost impossible, as there was so much smoke now.
Olivia moaned in pain, tears streaming down her face. Her fake leather pants had melted more than burned, and there were patches of the fabric layered onto the burns on her leg.
The blowtorch had fallen on the landing, and the Oriental carpet runner was already on fire.
Maggie had stumbled down around the turn of the stairs. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” she said. She coughed, bending almost double.
Olivia was shaking and whimpering. She was going into shock, I realized. The fire had spread now from the huge framed oil painting to the wallpaper. The woolen carpet was smoldering, making even more heavy dark smoke.
“Grab her shoulders,” I yelled to Maggie. Talking started another coughing jag, but I managed to grab Olivia’s feet. Maggie caught her under the arms and we got her around the turn and down the few stairs.
Then I heard a wrenching groan as if the house itself were in pain. The massive oil painting behind the stairs seemed to shudder and then, almost as though in slow motion, it broke from the wall and fell forward.
“Maggie!” I screamed.
Out of reflex she jumped backward, pulling Olivia with her. The momentum from the falling picture knocked me backward as well, up the stairs. Beside me Owen yowled as the carpet, which had been mostly smoking before, now began to really burn.
Olivia gave an agonized moan of pain.
“Kath!” Maggie screamed, struggling to get to her feet. The burning canvas was wedged on its side like a wall of flame between us.
“Get out!” I yelled at Maggie. “Go!”
She hesitated.
“Go!” I screamed. “Get yourself and Olivia out and go!”
Wheezing, she pressed her face into her elbow. “I’ll come back for you,” she shouted when she could breathe again.
“No!” I hollered. “Just get out and call nine one one.”
The flames were licking their way closer. Owen was beside me on the stairs, crouched low, ears flattened, hissing in anger or in fear, I wasn’t sure which. I waved Maggie down the stairs.
She gave me a last panicked look and began to drag Olivia down the steps.
I grabbed Owen and the empty carrier bag, pressed the crook of my elbow against my mouth and nose and began to climb. I knew it was a very bad idea, but I had nowhere else to go.
There were four large rooms on the second floor of the old house. Every one of them was locked. I grabbed the doorknob of the closest door with both hands and tried to make it turn. I shook it. I took a step back and kicked it. It didn’t give. I tried to force the door open with my hip, but it was heavy solid wood with raised panels. It didn’t move. None of them did.
The fire continued to lick its way up the carpet runner.
“We don’t have a choice,” I said to Owen. I started up the staircase to the third floor.
The air was actually a little better on the top floor of the old house, but I knew that wouldn’t last very long as the thick, noxious smoke rose through the stairwell. The doors on this level were locked as well. I was coughing most of the time and wheezing when I wasn’t. I put all my fear into kicking the doorknob to the room at the far right end of the hall, and by some miracle the door opened. I slipped inside, pushed the door shut with my hip and set Owen down on the floor. I doubled over, hands on my knees, and coughed. When I stood up again at least it was easier to breathe.
There was very little smoke in the room. Owen looked at me wide-eyed.
“We’re going to get out of here,” I said, swiping a hand across my face.
The room we were in was set up as a sitting room with several elegant chairs grouped in front of a high, multipaned window. I couldn’t get it open, and even if I had, we were three floors up. It was too high to jump.
I sank down on to the floor and Owen climbed into my lap and nuzzled my chin. I stroked his fur. “We can do this,” I said, my voice shaky. “We’ve gotten out of worse messes.”
I remembered being trapped in that tiny cabin in the woods the previous winter, locked in a dark, cramped basement with a leaking propane stove above us. We’d gotten out just before the cabin exploded and I’d walked through snowdrifts up to my knees. But we’d survived.
Smoke was rolling in under the door. “Hang on,” I said to Owen.
I pulled off my coat and jammed as much of it as I could into the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor.
The floor was warm. I felt the gleaming hardwood all around the area of the door. It was very warm. The fire had to be below us, working its way up the walls.
“We have to get out of here now,” I told Owen.
The cat turned to the long window. I walked over and looked out over the backyard. It was too far to jump. We’d never survive the leap.
Then I saw it—a small balcony just slightly to my left and one floor down. Was it possible? Could I somehow drop onto those few square feet? From the balcony it was maybe a twelve-foot drop to the ground, less if I landed in one of the banks of plowed snow. I might end up with a broken leg, but the odds were better than if I jumped from here.
It would have been better if the balcony were larger or directly underneath the window instead of off center from where I was. I tried to calculate how far off it was. My hands were shaking.
It was too much of an angle. I couldn’t jump. “What if I miss?” I said to Owen. He looked at me for a moment; then he walked across the room and climbed into the cat carrier. Was that his vote of confidence?
I couldn’t let Owen die and he couldn’t get out without me. I rubbed away tears I hadn’t known I was even crying. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
I picked up the closest chair, took two running steps forward and flung it through the window. It smashed the glass and fell to the ground. Cold air swirled into the room. It felt wonderful.
There was a poker by the fireplace. I used it to clear away the broken glass and the bottom part of the window.
I held on to the wide trim and looked out, careful not to get too close to the edge. The balcony looked a long way down.
“We need something to hold on to,” I said to Owen. The four-poster bed was covered with a rose-patterned quilt. I flung back the edge. Yes! It was also made up with sheets. I hauled them off the bed, used my teeth to start an edge and tore both of them into long strips.
The area of warm floor was spreading. I knew I was running out of time. I knotted the ends of the sheets together, hoping this would work as well as it did in every prison escape movie Maggie had ever made me watch.