Tyler was about to tackle Corvath when a Great Dane, spooked by the commotion, yanked its owner into Tyler’s path. Tyler tripped on the leash and went down, tucked himself into a roll, and then jumped back to his feet in one fluid movement.
Corvath laughed and kept going. That spurred Tyler to run even faster.
He caught up with Corvath by the post office. A rock band was belting out a tune from the parking lot of a nearby bar. It kept playing as Tyler tackled his prey.
They both tumbled to the ground. Corvath flailed at Tyler, but he was outmatched by thirty pounds of muscle. Tyler wrenched Corvath’s wrist around, flipping him onto his stomach and pressing a knee into his back.
“What are you doing here, Corvath?”
“I wanted to see you again, Locke,” Corvath said in a high-pitched voice.
“Why?”
“We had unfinished business.”
“I know. Hope you like prison. You won’t see many fires or explosions in there.” “We’ll see about that. But I’m talking about our business together.”
A crowd of spectators were beginning to gather. The only ones ignoring them were a group listening to the roar of a revving 1968 Mustang V8 convertible.
“Get the police,” Tyler said to one of the spectators before turning back to Corvath. “We have no business together, you nutball.”
“You killed my sister and her husband.”
“Wrong. You did that when you faked your death.”
“Which I wouldn’t have had to do if you hadn’t zeroed in on me.”
“Is that your pathetic defense? None of it’s your fault? Save it for the police.” He looked around to see if any officers were coming but couldn’t spot any.
“I needed to pay you back,” Corvath said. “That’s why I found you.”
Tyler leaned down. “What are you talking about?”
“But first I found your sister and your friend Grant.”
Tyler yanked Corvath’s arm until it nearly came out of its socket. The arsonist cried out in agony.
“What have you done? Tell me!”
Corvath grimaced as he spoke. “Left… jacket… pocket.”
Tyler reached in and found two objects.
The first item was a phone. The screen had a red digital readout, but it wasn’t a timer counting down. It was a number that was increasing every few seconds. Currently it read 310 psi.
It took a moment for Tyler to recognize the second object. It was a copper plumbing joint with a metal lever mounted on it. The blood drained from his face when he understood what it was: a water heater pressure relief valve.
Just like the one from his Craftsman bungalow. Corvath must have lured Grant and Alexa there.
“I estimate the water heater will explode when it reaches 330 psi,” Corvath said. “Your rental house is, what, a mile away? Long way to run. I wish we both could be there when it goes, but I’ll just have to watch it later on the cameras I set up to record it.”
That had been Corvath’s plan the whole time, to lead Tyler away from the vicinity of his house and then taunt him about it when it was too late to reach it.
Tyler didn’t waste time asking any more questions. He slammed Corvath’s head into the pavement, and the arsonist went limp, out cold and ready for the cops, who Tyler could see approaching.
He didn’t stop to explain the situation. He ran over to the revving Mustang convertible, yanked the owner out, and jumped into the driver’s seat. The Mustang was
right in front of Eighty-Third Street, so Tyler didn’t bother trying to navigate through the crowds. He threw the car into reverse, crunched through a wooden barrier, and backed it full speed down the road between the cars parked on either side.
When he reached Dayton Avenue, Tyler spun the wheel around and slammed his foot on the gas, keeping one eye on the pressure gauge app on Corvath’s phone. It read 320 psi. His house was still ten blocks away.
He barely slowed when he reached Eightieth Street, just missing a passing car as he shot across. The street was so narrow that there wasn’t room for two cars to pass each other, so he kept his hand on the horn as he rounded the small roundabout islands of every intersection. Once he had to pull up onto the sidewalk so he wouldn’t have to wait for a car to go by.
By the time he reached his house, the gauge read 325 psi.
He left the Mustang idling on the street as he leaped out. The dark blue house was still intact. He raced up the front steps and glanced through the window into what should have been an empty house.
Instead, he saw his red-headed sister Alexa seated back to back with Grant, a huge former pro-wrestler who served with Tyler in the Army. They were tied up, breathing but unconscious. Corvath must have drugged them.
The chairs were situated directly above the house’s water heater.
Tyler didn’t have the house key, so he slammed his shoulder into the door with all his strength, busting it wide open after the third hit.
He flicked open the knife on his Leatherman and sliced through the nylon ropes. He counted out the rhythm of the pressure gauge in his head. He was up to 329 psi.
He threw Alexa over his shoulder and carried her outside, placing her behind the Mustang. Then he ran back inside to get Grant.
There was no way he could pick up Grant’s 260-pound bulk, so he dragged his friend by the shoulders, heaving from the exertion. The count in his head was over 331 psi.
He barely got Grant’s feet off the stoop and into the yard when the water heater blew up, flinging Tyler to the ground. Without the relief valve, the pressure from the steam had built up to the point that the tank could no longer withstand it, failing spectacularly.
The bottom of the water heater ruptured, shooting the remainder up like a rocket, blowing a massive hole in the floor and shattering the chairs into splinters.
It didn’t stop there. The tank kept going up, punching through the ceiling, then the roof, and blasting into the sky. The explosion was so powerful that not only was every window in the home destroyed, but the walls ballooned out and the entire frame was shifted off its foundation.
Tyler looked up to follow the path of the soaring water heater, which had flown five hundred feet in the air. It arced over gracefully and landed a block away in the middle of the street with a resounding clang.
He caught his breath from having the wind knocked out of him. After making sure Grant was uninjured, he retrieved Alexa from behind the Mustang and laid her down on the soft grass next to Grant. The fire station was only a few blocks away, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the siren start up. The explosion hadn’t started a fire, which would no doubt disappoint Corvath, but the firefighters would want to make sure the gas lines were shut off.
After texting his contact at the police department to make sure they took Corvath intocustody, Tyler scanned the block, wondering where the arsonist had hidden the cameras, but he couldn’t spot any. He’d find them later. Right now, he was too exhausted to care.
He sat down next to Grant and Alexa and looked at the ruined house that he and Karen used to live in. While he listened to the approaching siren, Tyler tried to imagine how he was going to explain this to his insurance adjuster and then shrugged. They’d figure it out. At least now he didn’t have to worry about renting it out.
About the Author:
Boyd Morrison is a Seattle-based actor, engineer, Jeopardy! champion, and New York Times bestselling author of THE LOCH NESS LEGACY, THE ROSWELL CONSPIRACY, THE ARK, THE VAULT, ROGUE WAVE, and THE CATALYST. His adventure thrillers have been published in over twenty languages. He is now co-writing with Clive Cussler in the Oregon Files series, the first of which was called PIRANHA. Their second collaboration, THE EMPEROR’S REVENGE, comes out in May 2016. For more information, go to www.boydmorrison.com.