while signaling to the rest of his crew to board the truck. “Let’s go, rookie!” the chief beckoned to Brady from across the garage as the young man struggled to free himself from the grip of a petrified matron while simultaneously attempting to pull on a pair of flame-retardant boots. Meanwhile, Chief Lawrence gesticulated wildly. “Come on, son! You’re drivin’!”
James, Bennett, and a bewildered Carter threaded their way toward the front of the stationhouse, where a knot of townsfolk blocked the exit as they dallied with coats, hats, and gloves. Looking around, James caught site of Chilly Willy, calmly finishing his stew and watching the excited crowd with a look of bemusement. At that moment, one of the young firefighters placed a hand on Willy’s shoulder and gave it a wordless squeeze as he dashed for the fire truck.
The fleeting touch, which seemed to carry a mixture of pity and hope, alerted Willy as to the source of the fire. Observers cast Willy sorrowful glances as they realized that the popular and jovial newcomer might be facing a tragic beginning to his life in Quincy’s Gap. After the young man moved away, Willy dropped his spoon and jerked upright, his eyes trained woefully on the wailing truck as it inched out of the garage, still impeded by an old pickup that was slowly backing out of the driveway by an extremely short driver who seemed to have a serious distrust for his rearview mirror.
James felt a deep instinct to call out to the man, to offer his sympathies, but knew that his voice would never be heard over the clanging of the alarm. As the yellow fire truck, newly washed and polished to a lacquerlike shine, burst out of the garage bay, Willy pushed his way through the crowd and out into the parking lot.
As James, Bennett, and Carter headed for Bennett’s truck, which was actually a retired mail truck repainted a plain white, they spotted Willy in the parking lot next to the station. Apparently, his car had been parked in by an SUV the size of an Army tank.
“Willy!” James called out. “Come on! We’ll take you!”
Willy nodded gratefully and hustled into the back seat of the tiny truck. As Bennett started the engine, he switched off the radio and the foursome drove in weighted silence down Main Street. As they crested the hill leading to West Woods Shopping Center, where the Polar Pagoda was located, they could see a thick trunk of smoke spurting into the night sky. It reminded James of a tornado’s funnel, except that it churned in one place, like a storm intent on damaging a single target of wood and nails and concrete.
It took several minutes to reach the top of the rise as most of the participants of the fundraiser dinner had made their way to the scene of the fire. A long line of red taillights cruising past the burning structure on the end of the strip mall caused Bennett to swear with agitation and disgust.
“Vultures!” he spat, swerving around a red sports car that had pulled off on the side of the hill in order to get a better view of the action.
“It’s just what folks do,” Willy muttered, his eyes never leaving the aggressive orange and vermilion tongues of flame as they burrowed into the pagoda’s new beams of wood and darkened the fresh coats of red and green paint into irregular, blackened shadows.
James didn’t know what to say. He was torn between pity for Willy and the guilty thrill of watching the avaricious fire eat away at the little ice cream shop at a tremendous speed. A strong spring breeze wafted ashes across the parking lot and as Bennett turned the truck toward the conflagration, splinters of charred wood and debris still lit with devilish sparks landed on his windshield.
“And here I thought I was safe from disasters,” Willy said as he got out of the car and stared at his ruined business. James followed his gaze, noticing that the firemen were doing all they could to control the blaze, but the roof had already collapsed inward and great
James, Bennett, and a bewildered Carter threaded their way toward the front of the stationhouse, where a knot of townsfolk blocked the exit as they dallied with coats, hats, and gloves. Looking around, James caught site of Chilly Willy, calmly finishing his stew and watching the excited crowd with a look of bemusement. At that moment, one of the young firefighters placed a hand on Willy’s shoulder and gave it a wordless squeeze as he dashed for the fire truck.
The fleeting touch, which seemed to carry a mixture of pity and hope, alerted Willy as to the source of the fire. Observers cast Willy sorrowful glances as they realized that the popular and jovial newcomer might be facing a tragic beginning to his life in Quincy’s Gap. After the young man moved away, Willy dropped his spoon and jerked upright, his eyes trained woefully on the wailing truck as it inched out of the garage, still impeded by an old pickup that was slowly backing out of the driveway by an extremely short driver who seemed to have a serious distrust for his rearview mirror.
James felt a deep instinct to call out to the man, to offer his sympathies, but knew that his voice would never be heard over the clanging of the alarm. As the yellow fire truck, newly washed and polished to a lacquerlike shine, burst out of the garage bay, Willy pushed his way through the crowd and out into the parking lot.
As James, Bennett, and Carter headed for Bennett’s truck, which was actually a retired mail truck repainted a plain white, they spotted Willy in the parking lot next to the station. Apparently, his car had been parked in by an SUV the size of an Army tank.
“Willy!” James called out. “Come on! We’ll take you!”
Willy nodded gratefully and hustled into the back seat of the tiny truck. As Bennett started the engine, he switched off the radio and the foursome drove in weighted silence down Main Street. As they crested the hill leading to West Woods Shopping Center, where the Polar Pagoda was located, they could see a thick trunk of smoke spurting into the night sky. It reminded James of a tornado’s funnel, except that it churned in one place, like a storm intent on damaging a single target of wood and nails and concrete.
It took several minutes to reach the top of the rise as most of the participants of the fundraiser dinner had made their way to the scene of the fire. A long line of red taillights cruising past the burning structure on the end of the strip mall caused Bennett to swear with agitation and disgust.
“Vultures!” he spat, swerving around a red sports car that had pulled off on the side of the hill in order to get a better view of the action.
“It’s just what folks do,” Willy muttered, his eyes never leaving the aggressive orange and vermilion tongues of flame as they burrowed into the pagoda’s new beams of wood and darkened the fresh coats of red and green paint into irregular, blackened shadows.
James didn’t know what to say. He was torn between pity for Willy and the guilty thrill of watching the avaricious fire eat away at the little ice cream shop at a tremendous speed. A strong spring breeze wafted ashes across the parking lot and as Bennett turned the truck toward the conflagration, splinters of charred wood and debris still lit with devilish sparks landed on his windshield.
“And here I thought I was safe from disasters,” Willy said as he got out of the car and stared at his ruined business. James followed his gaze, noticing that the firemen were doing all they could to control the blaze, but the roof had already collapsed inward and great
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