Sam shouted something. Rounding the end of the porch, Shayne plunged into the lake, going all the way down into the mud and the weeds. He came up sputtering, and whipped the wet dress around his head for protection.
The sawhorse was still against the wall where he had left it. He exploded up onto the shed-roof and climbed, bent over, toward the bedroom windows.
The shingles were alive with flame but the wall was still intact. Stabbing out with the steering wheel, Shayne battered the screen out of the window, took a deep breath and plunged through.
He could feel the heat through his shoes. The dress slipped down over his eyes. He groped blindly through the smoke, swinging his left hand a few inches above the floor.
His fingers fastened on a man’s shirt.
He covered the rest of the room in wide fast sweeps. The girl he had left tied up on the floor was gone.
Returning to Maslow, Shayne dragged him roughly to the window. A patch of ceiling came down, showering them both with bits of burning lath. He coughed smoke out of his lungs, filled them with uncontaminated air from the window, and began the difficult job of heaving the unconscious senator over the sill.
He was hampered by the steering wheel. Fire broke through the floor a few feet away. On the other side of the room the bed was ablaze. Gripping Maslow under one shoulder, Shayne threw himself backward. The heavy body hung at the point of balance for an instant, and Shayne lost him.
Another patch of ceiling fell. Shayne leaned all the way out the window to get more air. The dress was on fire, and he wrenched it off and threw it away. Maslow’s hair was burning. Shayne slapped out the flames. This time he hoisted the body with both arms, getting leverage from the stub of the steering post, backed against the window and they both went out together.
The wheel snagged and checked Shayne abruptly. Momentum pulled Maslow out of his grasp. Shayne freed himself, feeling one foot go through the shingles. He overtook the rolling body, steered it to the edge of the roof and down the sloping joist until it could be reached from below. Rourke was there. So was Matt McGranahan.
Shayne came down in a shower of sparks. Going headlong, he rolled over and over until he was sure all the fires were out. McGranahan and Rourke, with his one hand, dragged Maslow away from the blaze.
Rourke, looking up at Shayne, asked the obvious question.
“I’m great,” Shayne said savagely. “Nothing I like better than pulling a dead man out of a fire.”
“Is he dead?” Rourke asked, looking down.
“He isn’t breathing. That’s a pretty good sign.”
“It’s Shell Maslow!” McGranahan exclaimed, looking down. “Now that’s typical of the guy. I know he wasn’t invited.”
CHAPTER 9
Shayne pulled McGranahan around.
“Give him mouth-to-mouth,” he snapped. “Open his mouth and blow into it hard. Keep it up till somebody tells you to stop. Tim.”
He stepped back among the trees. The bedroom wall, which Shayne had dived through a moment before, was now a sheet of flames. The building was going fast.
“I’ve got to stay out of sight. Find the highway patrolman and see if you can get his keys. It shouldn’t be hard if he’s unconscious. I need to get rid of this wheel.”
“Mike, was Maslow dead when you picked him up?”
“How should I know? I didn’t listen for a heartbeat. Is your helicopter still around?”
“Yeah, at Tallahassee airport.”
“I want to borrow it.”
The last section of roof fell in, and the flames swirled up with the roar of a waterfall. As Rourke started away, Shayne heard the cry of an outboard motor.
He came forward, frowning. The parking lot was still blocked, and Shayne thought he had immobilized the boats. Swearing, he set out on a wide circle around the fire. He was on the wrong side of the driveway. He hesitated before stepping out of the shadows.
The second state highway patrolman, the younger of the two, was walking toward him. Shayne saw him too late.
“I’m Michael Shayne,” he said crisply. “Move your cruiser out to the gate and don’t let anybody leave before the city cops get here. This is going to be a hell of a story. A senator’s dead.”
The patrolman rubbed his mouth and looked wonderingly at the steering wheel. “I only had this job two days, and something like this has to happen. What did you say that name was, again?”
Shayne snapped it out like a command. An instant later he was among the trees.
The outboard motor seemed to be moving straight across the lake. Shayne broke into a run. The boathouse was burning from the roof down. The light of the flames showed him both boats where he had left them. He fished the spark plugs out of his pocket and screwed them in. He tried the ignition, and the motor answered with a full-throated roar.
Shayne backed out of the slot and wheeled about in a wide arc. Behind him, the boathouse rafters came down in a shower of sparks. He throttled down until he could hear the other motor, and aimed at the sound.
He must have been visible against the fire, but he wasn’t able to pick up the other boat until he was three-quarters of the way across. He tried dashboard knobs until he found the one that turned on the front light. He was up to full power, and the gap was narrowing. The smaller boat bore to the left, aiming at the shore at the nearest point.
Shayne crossed its wake, then cut sharply to his own left and shot past. He had the wheel over hard. The other boat, merely a fishing skiff with a motor clamped to its stern, sprang into outline. It carried two people, a man and a woman.
A flash of light winked at Shayne.
He completed his circle and came back, aiming at the point where the two arcs would intersect. There was another flash. He ducked, holding the wheel steady. He counted to five slowly, before raising his head for a quick look.
The girl at the tiller of the outboard-it was Lib Patrick-had heeled too far over for the boat’s speed, and it was bucking badly. Shayne changed course, then gave the wheel a sudden half-spin. The boats missed by inches, and the smaller boat nearly capsized.
Shayne came back at full speed. Both figures in the boat were waving. Their boat seemed to be settling, stern first.
The motor, no longer running, was almost under water. Again Shayne passed within inches. The skiff rocked violently and shipped more water.
He came around for another pass. He roared down, swinging the wheel at the last possible instant. The skiff was barely afloat. Sam Rapp, behind Lib, was knee-deep in water, his face disfigured.
Shayne completed the top loop of a long figure-eight and started back. The skiff was gone. As he approached the spot where he had seen it last, his headlight picked up the two figures in the water.
Lib cried, “Mike, he can’t swim!”
Shayne wheeled around in a slow, contracting circle. Picking up a cork cushion he scaled it out as he passed. It skidded over the choppy water and Lib grabbed it.
Shayne cut his power and continued to tighten the loops until the boat lost way.
Lib called urgently, across the ten yards that separated them, “I can’t hold him! He’s going under.”
“Will I get shot if I pull you in?” Shayne asked quietly.
“He didn’t know it was you. Please. I can’t-”
“Hang on and don’t panic,” Shayne said without sympathy. “How deep is it, can you stand?”
“No!”
“Give me a minute. Maybe I can think of something.”
He looked around the deck and found a coiled line. After lashing a buoy to its free end he tossed it out. He felt the tug as she took hold, like a trout striking.
He reeled them in. When he felt the bump he kept tension on the line but made no attempt to haul them aboard.
“What happened to the gun?”