But there was no movement and no sound, and he drove home still troubled.
The church bells rang out in staggered order, calling people to their respective Sunday services, their different tones and pitches blending, harmonizing, to create one lovely melded semi melody From his office, Jim could hear the bells of five of the town's six churches, and he could pick out the individual sounds of three of them. He looked out the window, staring at the fluffy white clouds above the Rim; the clouds that would turn into raging thunderheads bymidafternoon . All but one of the bells quit pealing. Their ringing tones faded, quieted, died out. Only the bell to the Episcopal church continued. Three extra rings. Then it, too, was silenced.
Jim stared in the direction of the Episcopal church, though he could see nothing but trees. He wondered who was taking Father Selway's place in the pulpit today. He thought of the horrible attitude of the bishop and he grimaced. He was half-considering popping over to the church for a quick look, just to see what was happening, when he heard the unmistakable sound of the fire department's siren. He cocked his head, listening. The truck seemed to be heading down Main Street, away from Old Mesa Road. He skirted around his desk and turned up the scanner on the shelf above the rifle case.
".. . Ash Lane." There was a sharp crackle of static. "Fire reported at the residence of John Wilson," a woman's voice stated. "Twelve thirty-four South Ash Lane."
Wilson!
Jim ran down the hall to the front office. "Rita!" he called. "Do you have the address of that kid who was here yesterday? Don Wilson?"
The dispatcher looked startled. "Yes, but I think I put it on your desk."
"Never mind! Do you remember whether he lived on Ash?"
"I think he did ..."
Jim was out the door and running, fumbling the keys out of his pocket as he sprinted across the small parking lot. He hit the lights and the siren and spun out onto the street. He grabbed the radio microphone from its spot on the dash. He clicked the radio tuner to the fire emergency channel. "Weldon!" he shouted into the mike. "Get me an update on that fire!"
The woman's voice came over the car's speaker. Sheriff?" It was Natalie Ernst, Chief Ernst's daughter-in-law.
"Howbad's the damage Natalie?"
"The truck's there right now. The neighbor who called said the house just sort of exploded about ten minutes ago."
Ten minutes ago. He hadn't heard a thing. "What about the family?"
"Someone got out, but we're not sure who."
"Was it a kid?"
There was a short hesitation. "I don't think so."
Jim turned the car onto Old Mesa Road. The four travelers on the street pulled over as they heard his siren. He let the radio mike hang. "Sheriff?" Natalie said. "Sheriff?" He flipped the radio off and turned onto Ash. Ahead, he could see the square yellow bulk of the town's new fire engine blocking the road. Smoke was billowing out from the house in front of the fire engine, partially obscuring the scene. A tangle of hoses, like gigantic anacondas, snaked across the partially paved road into the thickest part of the smoke.
A helmeted, uniformed man, probably Ernst, was standing in the middle of the street shouting orders and gesturing authoritatively.
Jim slammed on the brakes and hopped out of the car. He ran straight for the fire chief. "How's the kid?" he yelled.
Ernst looked at him, his face already blackened by soot. "What kid?"
The neighbors were out now, standing in front of their houses in huddled groups, a bizarre mixture of Sunday-suited churchgoers and sleep-garbed stay-at-homes. They were milling around nervously, looking this way and that, talking among themselves in hushed tones.
Jim walked up to the nearest group. He nodded toward a well-dressed elderly man. "Do you know theWilsons ?" he asked.
The man shrugged. "Not too well."
"Any of you?"
"I used to baby-sit Don," one lady offered. She clutched the top of her pink terry cloth robe to her neck, trying to hide her semi nakedness.
"Have you seen Don this morning?"
The lady shook her head. "I just got out here a few minutes ago. I didn't know anything was happening till I heard the sirens pull up."
Jim strode over to another man, standing by himself, staring into the smoke. "You seen anything?"
The man shook his head. "I heard the woman got out. That's all I know."
"Did you see her?"
The man pointed toward an adjoining lawn, where several people were milling about. "I think she's over there. They're waiting for the ambulance to come."
Jim started toward the house next door, but he could see the sheeted figure on the grass between several legs before he even reached the spot. His heart sank as he pushed two people out of the way and looked down on the moaning remains of Don Wilson's mother, her arms, little more than stumps, trying unsuccessfully to shield her charred and blackened face from heat that was no longer there. The sounds that came out of her mouth were barely human, and discolored blood seeped out from beneath peeling folds of burned skin.
He turned away and walked back across the street to where Ernst was adjusting a hose on the fire truck. Orange flames were now leaping out of the smoke. "Chief!" he called.
Ernst waved him away with one short motion of his hand. "You're in the way, Weldon," he said abruptly. "I'll be glad to talk to you, but not right now. We've got a fire to put out."
Jim stepped back and watched as Ernst and another man ran into the smoke toward the house carrying a hose. He heard several voices shouting orders.
He stood alone in the middle of the street, staring numbly. Don was dead, he knew. The boy had never even made it out of the house. He had probably died in his sleep from smoke inhalation. Or else he had fried trying to escape. Jim thought he saw shapes moving through the smoke. It looked like the fire was coming under control. This was no accident, this fire. Someone--something-had wanted Don dead, had known that the boy had come to him and wanted to get him out of the way. He stepped over a puddle, walking back to his car. He was going to make sure that Ernst followed through with an investigation of this fire. A full arson investigation. The fire had been deliberately started, and he wanted some answers.
He stood for a moment staring at the remains of the Wilson house, now visible through the thinning smoke, and remembered the small scared boy sitting in his office, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands, flipping his too-long hair off his dirty forehead. He had not really known the boy, but he had liked him. He'd seemed like a good kid.
He thought unreasonably of his own son Justin. He saw him the victim of a deliberately set fire or some other form of murder made to look like an accident and he shivered. Maybe he should send Annette and the kids down to Phoenix to stay with his brother for a few days. Or a few weeks. Or however long it took for this thing to blow over.
He got into the car and backed slowly out, lights and siren off.
Glancing in the rearview mirror at the chaotic street, at the incendiary destruction, he felt as though something had been taken out of him, as though he were empty. He had not realized until now how much he had been depending on that boy to see him through this crisis, to provide him with more dream-inspired clues, to help him, somehow, solve all of these interrelated cases. He had been expecting the boy to be with him every step of the way, to lead him. Now he was alone.
He was on his own and he would have to use his own deductive powers and abilities to put an end to all this.