Following their map, they zigzagged through back roads and phoned “all clear” to the courthouse operator at each checkpoint. Traffic was light except for a half hour when the bars closed. Once, Wetherby stopped and shone his headlights on a new building that looked like a Swiss chalet. “The new curling club,” he said. “I don’t curl, but I’m a member, and that’s where I go to relax. We should go some night.”
“What facilities do they have?” Qwilleran asked.
“Three rinks, spectator gallery, warming room with bar, locker room …”
“I’ve seen pictures of players on the ice with large stones and little brooms. What’s it all about? In twenty-five words or less.”
“Are you counting?” Wetherby asked. “Well, the idea is to slide the stone across the ice and into the target area. A skilled player can make the stone do tricks-curl around another stone, take out an opponent’s stone. Fascinating!”
“What does a stone weigh?”
“Forty-two pounds, carved from Scottish granite.”
“Do players have their own stones and take them home like bowling balls?”
“No. Stones have to be refrigerated or they’ll melt the ice.”
Apart from the conversation, it had been a dull expedition. In the first twenty-four hours of the Fire Watch there had been only one brushfire, resulting when a truck accident knocked down a power line. There had been no smoldering or black smoke in any of the four Mine Zones. The volunteer fire departments had it easy. But the night was not over.
After saying goodnight to his neighbor, Qwilleran unlocked his front door and saw a scene of destruction. A table lamp had been toppled and was hanging upside-down from its cord. The Danish rug was bunched. Red pillows, wooden apples, magazines, and desktop papers were on the floor. Geraniums were in the kitchen sink.
It meant only one thing, Qwilleran knew: a cat fit! … a prediction of trouble … probably the Big One. Having given the warning, Koko was lying on the mantel, exhausted. Yum Yum was hiding. Methodically Qwilleran began putting the room together again.
Halfway through his task he suddenly stopped and listened: a boom like a cannon shot… a rumble like thunder! He rushed outdoors. In minutes the fire trucks could be heard-racing from various directions, converging on Pickax. A sickening thought occurred to him: It was the Mackintosh Inn-again! A year before-when it was the Pickax Hotel-it had been bombed by a psychopath from Down Below. Already a red glow was building in the black sky.
He snatched a jacket and his keys and ran for his van.
six
Downtown was ablaze with flashing lights and searchlights, and a three-block area was closed to traffic. A thick column of smoke was rising where flames had been contained. Qwilleran parked and walked closer. It was not the inn; was it the post office? His press card admitted him as far as the yellow tape, where he asked an officer, “Is it the post office?”
“No, Mr. Q. Behind the post office.”
Incredible! Qwilleran thought. He skirted the yellow tape to the north end of Book Alley. The bookstore was a roofless shell, belching smoke. Firefighters were pouring water on the roofs of nearby buildings. Flickers of light on the pavement came from shattered glass.
“What happened?” Qwilleran asked a firefighter with a soot-covered face who was taking a breather.
“Explosion, Mr. Q. Roof blew off. Books went up like a bonfire. Nothing left but the stone walls.”
It was the voice of a sheep farmer he knew. “You’re-you’re-“
“Terence Ogilvie. Black Creek Volunteer Fire Department.”
“Yes, of course.” Qwilleran was remembering his visit to the back room where Eddington lived and did his bookbinding. A kerosene stove for heat. A propane burner for cooking. A big box of matches. And Winston! “There was a cat!” he said in alarm.
“Couldn’t possibly survive.”
Two fire trucks from outlying villages were pulling away. “How long will you stay here, Terence?”
“Some of us will stay all night, watching for hot spots.” They were standing with their backs to a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. “There’s a candidate for a fire right there! First thing we did, we hosed it down. All it would take is one spark!”
Something made Qwilleran turn abruptly to look at the lot. “Winston!” he shouted.
A large, black, bedraggled animal was prowling toward him through the wet weeds.
“That’s Winston! You’d never recognize him!”
Hearing his name, knowing the voice, associating it with a frequent can of sardines, Winston approached Qwilleran confidently.
“He’s a mess! And if he was blown through the roof, he could be hurt. If I could get hold of him, I’d take him to the pet hospital.”
“Cats are resilient. The question is: How did he get out? Where’s your car, Mr. Q?”
“On Main Street, two blocks away.”
“Bring it around. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Shepherds empathize with animals, Qwilleran had learned, and animals trust them. In ten minutes he was backing the van up to the yellow tape, opening the tailgate, and taking out an old blanket.
“Careful, Mr. Q! You could get scratched! And he’s covered with soot.”
“Good cat! Good cat!” Qwilleran mumbled as he gathered Winston in the blanket. A switching tail slapped him in the face and across his newly cleaned suede jacket.
As he drove away, his hands were black; the steering wheel was black; and he left a black smudge on the emergency bell at the pet hospital.
The night attendant who came to the door exclaimed, “Mr. Q! What happened to your face?”
“I have a cat in my car who survived a fire and explosion.”
“How big?”
“Big!”
Using a large plastic carrier, she transported Winston to the emergency room.
“He doesn’t look seriously injured,” she reported. “I’ll clean him up, and the doctor will examine him first thing in the morning. What’s his name?”
“Winston Churchill.”
Early the next morning Qwilleran phoned the attorney at home. “Sorry to wake you, Bart. Have you heard about Book Alley?”
“What?… What?” was the sleepy response.
“Explosion in the bookstore. Whole building gutted. All the books destroyed.”
“When?… When?”
“Three o’clock this morning. I heard the boom and hurried downtown. Winston is safe. He’s at the pet hospital. You might notify Cynthia she doesn’t have to feed him.”
“Yes … Yes.”
“Shall I take the initiative in finding him a new home?”
“Please … Please.”
Barter was not at his best when rudely awakened.
“I’ll get back to you if problems arise,” Qwilleran said, and then returned to his own concerns and responsibilities. The explosion and fire would be front-page news in that day’s paper, and it would be well to write a sidebar on Winston. He reflected that, ironically, the disaster solved the problem of what to do with the bookstore. He wondered, skeptically, about the Bixby real estate agent who wanted to buy the premises. He pondered, in amazement, Koko’s cat fit preceding the explosion by a few minutes.
At nine o’clock he reached the veterinarian.
“Miraculously,” she said, “he has no injuries, not even singed fur. Are you sure he was in the building?”
“Winston never went out. He doesn’t know what ‘out’ means.”
“And his vital signs are normal. You can pick him up any time.”
Qwilleran cleared his throat while doing some quick thinking. He said, “I’d like to board him with you for twenty-four hours, doctor, for observation, and while we arrange for adoption.”