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Authors: Paul Preuss
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through the doorway behind him, searing the painted wooden frame into blisters and charring the papered wall opposite; he’d rolled just half a meter past the plume of fire, and he kept going on knees and elbows, into the kitchen.
He knew the smell of phosphorus and jellied gasoline intimately, thus knew that his books and paintings were already gone, that in minutes the whole apartment, the whole building would be going. Already the air under the ceiling was seething with black smoke.
Keeping to the cooler air near the floor, he went on through into his back porch workshop and kicked through the locked back door.
His flat was on the second floor. He leaped from the backstairs landing and crashed into the roof of a potting shed, taking the impact with flexed knees. On the rebound he jumped, landing in a myrtle tree in the garden.
He extricated himself from the branches. He didn’t dare linger in the open. The attacker probably didn’t have a gun, or maybe didn’t know how to use one, for Blake had been literally a sitting target. But his assailant must be close, probably on an adjacent roof.
“Fire! Fire! Everybody out!” Blake yelled as he smashed his way through the garden gate and ran on through the narrow basement passageway to the street. “Fire!”
He came through the front to find people from across the street already pouring out of their doors. A big red-faced bobby was pelting toward him down the walk, jabbering into his comm unit as he ran. Blake looked up at the side of his flat.
A sucking gout of oily flame was rushing out of his shattered windows, blackening into a rising column of foul-smelling smoke. The old elm that had shaded his living room—it was in his neighbor’s garden— was on fire. The roof of the building was beginning to shed scales of gray-brown smoke.
Old Mr. Hicke, his downstairs neighbor, stumbled out onto the porch, wearing flannel pajamas and a threadbare robe. “Mister Redfield! You’ve returned! Oh my—are you aware that your face is scratched?”
“This way, Mr. Hicke, away from the building. That’s better. I’m afraid there’s been a rather serious mishap.”
Blake was about to plunge back through the front door when Miss Stilt and her mother, the only other residents of the building, emerged in wraps, bothered by the commotion and blinking at the light.
“That’s all right, sir, if you’ll just give us a bit of room here . . .” The bobby moved in to escort the ladies to safety; other police had arrived to hold back the quickly gathering crowd. Blake retreated with the crowd to the opposite side of the street.
He stood watching the graceful old building dissolve in flames. It was well on its way to becoming a gutted ruin before the first trucks arrived minutes later.
Whoever had thrown or launched the bomb must be long gone, unless that person was a committed firebug or for some other reason lacked a sense of self-preservation. Blake doubted it. Blake had been the specific target of the attack, and there was a message in the medium.
Blake himself had a weakness for blowing things up. Whoever had tried to kill him knew that.
He reviewed the morning’s events and simultaneously realized that his memories of the night before—it must have been two nights before, allowing for the change in time zones—were almost fully restored. Along with a full-blown headache.
He remembered trying to rescue Ellen. He remembered her betrayal. He couldn’t believe it.
Maybe she’d cut a deal with the commander to get him out safely. The commander knew Blake didn’t trust him, and Blake knew he wanted to get him out of the way. Had she seen to it that Blake was treated well, returned to his home? And had the commander then betrayed her?
Or was someone else after his well-crisped hide? There were certainly enough candidates. He watched the building burn, taking with it the last of the things he cherished. If he was to survive long enough to revenge himself, he’d
He knew the smell of phosphorus and jellied gasoline intimately, thus knew that his books and paintings were already gone, that in minutes the whole apartment, the whole building would be going. Already the air under the ceiling was seething with black smoke.
Keeping to the cooler air near the floor, he went on through into his back porch workshop and kicked through the locked back door.
His flat was on the second floor. He leaped from the backstairs landing and crashed into the roof of a potting shed, taking the impact with flexed knees. On the rebound he jumped, landing in a myrtle tree in the garden.
He extricated himself from the branches. He didn’t dare linger in the open. The attacker probably didn’t have a gun, or maybe didn’t know how to use one, for Blake had been literally a sitting target. But his assailant must be close, probably on an adjacent roof.
“Fire! Fire! Everybody out!” Blake yelled as he smashed his way through the garden gate and ran on through the narrow basement passageway to the street. “Fire!”
He came through the front to find people from across the street already pouring out of their doors. A big red-faced bobby was pelting toward him down the walk, jabbering into his comm unit as he ran. Blake looked up at the side of his flat.
A sucking gout of oily flame was rushing out of his shattered windows, blackening into a rising column of foul-smelling smoke. The old elm that had shaded his living room—it was in his neighbor’s garden— was on fire. The roof of the building was beginning to shed scales of gray-brown smoke.
Old Mr. Hicke, his downstairs neighbor, stumbled out onto the porch, wearing flannel pajamas and a threadbare robe. “Mister Redfield! You’ve returned! Oh my—are you aware that your face is scratched?”
“This way, Mr. Hicke, away from the building. That’s better. I’m afraid there’s been a rather serious mishap.”
Blake was about to plunge back through the front door when Miss Stilt and her mother, the only other residents of the building, emerged in wraps, bothered by the commotion and blinking at the light.
“That’s all right, sir, if you’ll just give us a bit of room here . . .” The bobby moved in to escort the ladies to safety; other police had arrived to hold back the quickly gathering crowd. Blake retreated with the crowd to the opposite side of the street.
He stood watching the graceful old building dissolve in flames. It was well on its way to becoming a gutted ruin before the first trucks arrived minutes later.
Whoever had thrown or launched the bomb must be long gone, unless that person was a committed firebug or for some other reason lacked a sense of self-preservation. Blake doubted it. Blake had been the specific target of the attack, and there was a message in the medium.
Blake himself had a weakness for blowing things up. Whoever had tried to kill him knew that.
He reviewed the morning’s events and simultaneously realized that his memories of the night before—it must have been two nights before, allowing for the change in time zones—were almost fully restored. Along with a full-blown headache.
He remembered trying to rescue Ellen. He remembered her betrayal. He couldn’t believe it.
Maybe she’d cut a deal with the commander to get him out safely. The commander knew Blake didn’t trust him, and Blake knew he wanted to get him out of the way. Had she seen to it that Blake was treated well, returned to his home? And had the commander then betrayed her?
Or was someone else after his well-crisped hide? There were certainly enough candidates. He watched the building burn, taking with it the last of the things he cherished. If he was to survive long enough to revenge himself, he’d
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