Watched Too Long: A Thriller (Val Ryker Series) Page 6

  He rolled into the big pile of hay.

  Which ignited.

  And so, the barn began to burn.

  Sha Nay Nay

  At the top of the tree, Sha Nay Nay eased open the window and crawled into the room. The two toddlers were still sitting on the bed.

  “Stranger danger!” yelled the little girl.

  “Plapp!” yelled the little boy.

  He wasn’t sure which one to grab. No one told him. And he wouldn’t be able to get back down the tree with one in each arm. His Mom, she could carry four kids, five bags of groceries, the dog, and a TV, all at the same time. The woman had skills. Sha Nay Nay did not.

  He whipped out his cell phone, tried to call Hackqueem. No signal.

  Oh, yeah. The cell jammer.

  Well, maybe he could make two trips. He reached for the closest kid—

  —and tripped over the lamp cord.

  The floor lamp fell, hit the carpet, and winked out.

  Sha Nay Nay couldn’t see shit. But he could hear. He heard someone from downstairs say, “There’s someone upstairs!”

  He reached around blindly in the darkness, touched a kid in a knit hat. Wasn’t the boy wearing a hat like that? Good enough. Sha Nay Nay scooped up the kid, adrenaline giving him a burst of strength, and then pushed through the window—

  —flailing at the tree—

  —missing a branch—

  —falling—

  —falling—

  SMACK!

  It didn’t hurt as much as he expected. Because the baby broke his fall.

  “Ah, shit! I squished him!”

  Sha Nay Nay rolled over, pawing at his chest.

  “Baby guts! I got baby guts all over me!”

  Man, baby guts was way worse than a bologna sandwich with mustard, or an old apple. Baby guts might have been the worst squishy thing in the whole world.

  But nothing felt squishy.

  And the baby felt strangely boneless.

  Sha Nay Nay held the toddler up in the moonlight and stared hard.

  It wasn’t a baby.

  It was a teddy bear.

  And so he screwed up, big time.

  Val

  Val found her keys hanging in their spot next to the door. She’d just reloaded the shotgun, buckshot this time, when Lund came downstairs with a child in each arm.

  “Dickhead went bye-bye,” Sam said.

  Lund shook his head. “Junior is right here.”

  “Dickhead bear.”

  “The bear?” Val asked. There wasn’t a chance they were going to waste time looking for a stuffed bear. “He’s going to stay and guard the house until we get back. We have to go.” She turned to Lund. “Ready?”

  He nodded. Grabbing a kid in each arm, he stayed behind her while she pulled open the door. A few feet back in the kitchen, she brought the shotgun to her shoulder and stepped to the side, scanning the driveway outside. Between the truck in front and the farm’s yard light in back, the night glowed as if there was a full moon.

  No shadows.

  No punks.

  “It’s clear,” she told Lund. “Now.” Then she led the way out onto the stoop.

  But the truck wasn’t burning that brightly anymore, and the yard light wasn’t on. The glow was coming from somewhere totally different.

  Oh no. The barn.

  “They set fire to the barn!”

  “Oh shit.” Lund backpedaled, returning to the house. By the time Val joined him and locked the door, he had set down the children and was busy digging through his boxes. He pulled out a turnout coat and a helmet.

  Val dug into another box, trying to help. “You have bunker pants? Boots? A mask and oxygen tank?”

  “Not here. No.”

  Val kept digging.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her to face him. “I can handle it.”

  “But there’s a lot of smoke and…”

  “Val, I can handle it,” he repeated. “Seems like this might be a good time to be macho.”

  “Marlboro!” Junior squealed.

  “There you go.” Lund grinned. “Gotta get out there and save some horses.”

  Not sure her voice would work, Val nodded.

  Lund threw on the coat and helmet, then pulled her close and kissed her. “Keep the kids safe.”

  And then he was gone.

  “Is he going to die?” Sam asked.

  Val pulled in a sharp breath and paced across the floor, still holding the shotgun. “Of course not,” she told Sam.

  “Don’t play with fire.”

  “Daehdehbahbah.”

  “Fire burns.”

  “Flagahaabeh.”

  “That’s right, honey,” Val said absently. She couldn’t handle this. Standing here, doing nothing, while Lund was out risking his life. He could be shot by one of the punks outside. He could be trampled by one of the horses. He could be burned…

  Val dodged an open box, and hit something hard with her toe. “Ouch.”

  “Owowowtchch.”

  “Don’t play with fire,” Sam said.

  Bending down, Val checked to make sure her toe wasn’t broken, then picked up the offending item, one of Lund’s pewter beer steins. Garishly ornate, the tacky thing featured famous Bavarian landmarks. A bullet hole threaded one of the towers of Neuschwanstein.

  “Broken,” Sam said.

  Val nodded.

  “Gimme,” Sam reached for it.

  Val hated not being in charge, hated sharing her space, and most of all, she hated these damn steins. And yet, if Lund died out in that barn trying to save the horses, or if he was shot by one of those punks, this pewter monstrosity would be all she had left of him.

  Just like her grandmother’s china cups and her mother’s curio cabinet.

  Val hugged it to her chest, unwilling to let it go.

  Lund

  Lund crossed the driveway, circled Val’s car, and headed for the barn, scanning the shadows along the tree line. He hadn’t taken the kids seriously at first. Who would have? They’d been so inept, their efforts seemed like mischief left over from Halloween, albeit more destructive.

  The moment Lund had heard gunfire shattering the glass patio door, things had changed. He was done goofing around. Whoever these idiots were, they were dangerous.

  The barn door stood open, the unmistakable glow of flame inside, smoke billowing out. Hooves slammed against wood walls inside. A panicked whinny pierced the night.

  He slipped inside. Smoke stung his eyes. Heat hit him like a wall. The fire was located in the feed stall, a three-walled area right inside the door. Bales of alfalfa and bags of wood shavings were extremely flammable and burned quickly, the fire growing fast. It was already raging, flame climbing up the corners and threatening to spill into the adjacent vacant stall. After that, it would reach the horses. He had no time to lose.

  For a barn, most guidelines suggested one extinguisher every twenty to thirty feet. Even though Val’s barn was only forty feet long, Lund had insisted she buy three large Class A extinguishers; one on each end and one in the middle. He found the first immediately, plucked it from its bracket, and pulled the pin. Moving as close to the inferno as he could stand, he laid down the retardant, focusing on the base of the flame. By the time the extinguisher was empty, much of the hay pile was a smoldering pile of white, but Lund wasn’t fooled.

  A fire needed four elements to burn; heat, fuel, oxygen, and a chemical reaction to link the other three. It also needed a rigid, porous structure so the fire could be self-sustaining. To put out a fire, at least initially, it was only necessary to take away one part of the fire tetrahedron.

  But bales of hay and bags of cedar shavings provided a textbook rigid, porous structure, as good at sustaining smolder as the tobacco in a cigarette. The fire might look dead, but it was anything but. With so much fuel, much of it still not smothered by retardant, and fresh air readily available, any smolder would eventually spark back into flame, like a cigarette did when the smoker took
a drag. It was only a matter of time, and judging from the smoke still issuing from the bales, not very much time at that.

  Lund needed another extinguisher. But first, he had to get the horses clear of this smoke before it hurt their lungs.

  He continued down the aisle to the far end door, unlocked it, and slid it open. This end of the barn led directly into a large pasture where the horses spent most of their days. All he had to do was let them out of their stalls, and direct them out of the barn, and they would be safely corralled by the pasture fences.

  Already the front end of the barn glowed, turning the smoke a lighter shade of black. Not long and the fire would be back to where it was. Lund had to move quickly.

  The first stall he came to was Max’s. The palomino nearly glowed in the smoky dark, dancing and tossing his head. Spotting Lund, he emitted a loud whinny.

  “Hold on, big guy.” Lund grasped the stall latch, wrenched it up and slid the door—

  Max surged forward, trying to squeeze through before Lund had it open. The horse’s shoulder plowed into him, sending him backward, smacking him into the wall. Steel shoes clattered on concrete, legs flying everywhere. Max slid, almost fell, then regained his balance, and raced out the paddock door.

  Lund righted himself and moved for Bo’s stall. He sure hoped the mares were more polite than Max.

  Bo peered through the bars in the top half of her stall door. She waited patiently for him to unlock the stall and slide the door wide.

  Then she leaped into the aisle, turned in the opposite direction, and ran toward the fire.

  No, no, no…

  Lund held his breath as Val’s mare ran right past the fire as if it was of little concern, and flew out the front.

  No paddock to fence her in out there. And no time to chase her down until he’d evacuated Grace’s mare and controlled the fire.

  The fire was growing. Smoke blocked the skylights, filling the barn from the ceiling down. Each breath seared Lund’s throat, making him wish he’d unloaded all his gear from the truck, instead of leaving it to burn and be ransacked by idiots.

  A whinny rose from Banshee’s stall, high and shrill as a scream.

  Lund felt his way to the mare’s stall, keeping as low as he could to take advantage of the more breathable air. He found the latch, slipped it free, and glided the door open, bracing himself for the thundering rush of horseflesh.

  Nothing.

  Lund stepped into the stall, the shavings soft under his boots. A thousand pounds of horseflesh stood cowering against the far wall. Grace’s show horse might be bomb proof, as horse people were fond of saying, but apparently fire was another matter.

  “It’s okay, girl.” Lund entered the stall. “I’m going to get you out of here, you little scaredy horse.”

  The mare shifted, snorting and whinnying.

  Lund touched the mare’s shoulder, her skin trembling under his palm. He moved his hands firmly along her neck and up to her head.

  Shit.

  He’d forgotten the horses didn’t wear halters inside their stalls. How in the hell was he going to get Banshee out without anything to grab?

  Wait. Lund had seen Grace ride the mare without a bridle, using just her legs to cue the animal and a hold on her mane.

  He wasn’t going to try to climb on sans saddle and bridle, but the mane thing was worth a try.

  Lund took a handful of mane in his left hand, then circled his right arm under the mare’s throatlatch, and pulled her sideways.

  She didn’t move.

  “Come on, Banshee. Work with me here.”

  He tried again, rocking her to the side. Once. Twice.

  Off balance, the mare took a step, then another, moving away from the wall.

  So far, so good.

  Lund could hear the flames crackle, gaining strength. Fire doubled itself every seventeen to thirty seconds. Soon the remaining extinguishers wouldn’t be enough to do the job. He had to clear the barn and knock the flame down soon, or the whole barn would be gone.

  Sweat soaked the back of his neck and trickled down his back. He pulled the horse to the side again, gained another step.

  “Come on, Banshee. Grace would be so disappointed if we both died. You’ve never disappointed her in your life, don’t start now.”

  Another pull, another step.

  They were close to the door now. Lund couldn’t see the stall wall, but he could sense it. He turned toward it, peering into the gloom and flickers of light from the flame.

  Banshee snorted. She lurched backward, yanking Lund off his feet, and scurried back to her spot, hugging the wall.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Obviously Banshee felt safe in her stall, far safer than she did with him. How in the hell was he going to get the horse out of here? It wasn’t as if he could just pick her up and throw her over his shoulder.

  Wait.

  Lund might not be much of a horse person, despite the efforts of Grace and Val to teach him. But he had read horse stories to kids as part of his role as fire chief of a small-town district. He remembered an illustration in Black Beauty, a drawing of the horses being saved from a barn fire, cloths tied over their eyes.

  He pulled off the turnout coat, struggled out of his flannel shirt, and then put the coat back on. Shirt in hand, he felt his way back to Banshee’s head. “What you don’t see might hurt you, girl, but it will be better than staying here and dying.”

  He draped the flannel over the mare’s eyes, tying the arms under her throatlatch. The mare’s face covered, Lund gripped her mane again and resumed pulling her from side to side. With each shift of the horse’s weight, she took a step forward, and soon Lund felt the rubber matt under his shoes change to hard concrete.

  He led her to the paddock door before removing her blindfold. For a second, the mare stood there, unmoving, as if trying to decide between real safety and the perceived safety of her stall. Then Max let out a whinny, and Banshee ran out to meet him.

  Horses evacuated. Now to see about that fire.

  He grabbed the second extinguisher and headed back down the dark aisle. Reaching the fire, he once again attacked the base of the flame, laying another smothering coat over everything until he’d emptied the second unit as well.

  Next he went for the hose in the wash stall. Turning the water on full, he soaked the bales and what remained of the shavings, taking out another element in the fire tetrahedron. Where the fire extinguisher had deprived the fire of oxygen, the water deprived it of heat.

  Lund left the water running, thoroughly swamping the feed stall and running in rivers down the concrete aisle. Confident the fire was truly dead this time, he grabbed a halter and lead rope from a hook on the outside of the tack room and went off in search of Bo.

  Lund had just stepped outside of the barn when he heard a noise. Not the movements of a horse. Not the voice of a human. Something else.

  What the hell?

  He reached for the pistol Val had given him, pulled it…

  The gun didn’t move.

  Shit. He pressed the button on the holster and freed the weapon, swearing to never tell Val that even after her lecture, he’d forgotten. Glock in hand and pulse pounding in his ears, he tried to pick up the sound.

  A soft mew.

  A faint snuffling.

  Someone crying?

  Lund spotted him. One of the dumb ass kids sitting on the ground, back against a tree trunk, sobbing his eyes out.

  “Don’t move. I have a gun.”

  “Ohshitohshitohshit. Man. Don’t kill me.”

  Lund sized the kid up. Ripped shirt and jeans. Puffy eyes and runny nose. He cradled his right arm, his hand and forearm a blazing red, as obvious as neon.

  “You burned yourself?”

  “It hurts!”

  Not willing to mess around with these kids a moment longer, Lund took the rope he’d intended for Bo and trussed up the kid. Like any firefighter, Lund was an expert in tying knots, training on them constantly, in the dar
k, behind his back, timed to the second. When he was done, the kid was going nowhere.

  “What the hell you tying me for? I look like I’m running away? I’m burned, dog!”

  Lund fished a Zippo out of his pocket.

  The kid cringed. “You gonna light me up?”

  Ignoring his wails, Lund used the light of the flame to study his injuries. “You’re a mess. Probably from setting that fire in the barn, right?”

  The punk nodded.

  “And the truck out front?”

  Another nod.

  “But it’s not too bad. Only first degree. Maybe a bit of second degree.”

  “The pain is unreal! It has to be eighth degree! No lie! I’m starting to rethink some of the shit I done in life!”

  Lund decided not to mention that second degree was as painful as burns got. By the time you crossed to third degree, there was nothing left to convey the pain to your brain. And of course, eighth degree was just silly. “This is what happens when you play with matches.”

  “Why didn’t nobody tell me fire hurts so bad? Moms! Pops! I’m sorry!”

  As a fireman, Lund had seen his share of grief. But he’d never seen anyone cry like this kid did. And his injuries weren’t that bad.

  A whinny sounded from somewhere near the house.

  Shit, Bo was still out there. At least she was still around and hadn’t beelined for the road.

  Leaving the wailing kid, he went to find another rope.

  Val

  What was taking Lund so long?

  Shoving aside the worries bombarding her, Val scanned her wreck of a living room. With the patio door shattered, the house was far from secure. Even a gang as inept as this one could probably negotiate a little broken glass on the floor.

  Come on, Lund.

  “Broke,” Sam repeated, sticking her finger in the stein’s bullet wound.

  “Deeeb,” agreed Junior.

  Val moved to the kitchen. Peering through the window, she tried to get a glimpse at the barn. The smoke that had been pouring out of the structure earlier was dissipating. A good sign. Lund must have been successful or the whole building would be up in flames by now. So where was he? They needed to get out of here before the firebugs decided to torch her car.