“Down!” Holliday yelled. Concussion, then blast, then fire: the first axiom of the thermochemistry of explosives. He lurched forward and bowled Peggy off her feet, tumbling them downward as the firestorm roared briefly overhead.
Out of the corner of his eye Holliday caught a flicker of shadowy motion and turned his head to follow it-a figure, hunched, carrying something, racing away from the house, heading through the trees. Peggy must have seen the man, as well.
“Get him!”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes! Yes! Just get him!”
Holliday scrambled to his feet again and ran forward, skirting the angry fire spitting out of the burning house in long fiery tongues. The blazing heat was already beginning to shrivel the young leaves on the surrounding trees. A bank of rosebushes planted on the protective flank of the old house burst into flames; the first early-summer flush of blooms turned to black ash in an instant. The upstairs windows began to explode like gunshots, and the first searching fingers of fire crept out through the tinder-dry shingles of the roof.
The shadow figure appeared again, outlined in the light. The figure turned, and for a split second Holliday had a glimpse of a startled face, pale and narrow, some sort of hood or cowl disguising the rest of his head. The eyes were wide and glistening. Then the man turned away, running hard toward the creek.
For a moment Holliday thought that the man might have a boat in the water, but at this time of the year the creek was too low for that, and besides, where would he go? The creek wound its way through the town and into the suburbs, finally emptying into Lake Erie; not the smartest escape route. Could he have a car waiting at one of the bridges along the route? It seemed too elaborate.
The man fell; Holliday heard the dull explosive grunt as he hit the earth. He picked himself up, but Holliday had gained valuable ground. For the first time he saw what the man was carrying: Uncle Henry’s sword, still in its ghoulish silken shroud. Burn down a house to cover his crime? Crazy. What was going on?
Broadbent the lawyer?
No; this man was tall and lean, legs pounding like a long-distance runner. Broadbent was built like a Tele-tubby. The purple one, Tinky-Winky or whatever the hell his name was. The one with the purse.
“Stop!” Holliday yelled, feeling like an idiot even as the word burst out of his mouth. The man was a thief and an arsonist; why would he stop? Holliday sprinted after his quarry, one eye on the ground in front of him looking for obstacles, the other on the runner.
He was breathing hard now, but he forced himself to go even faster. The thief had stolen Uncle Henry’s sword and burnt down a house full of memories-Holliday’s memories, the best ones from a childhood where they were few and far between. In the distance Holliday heard sirens.
The man fell again, tripping on a branch, almost losing the sword, and Holliday gained a few more yards. He twisted around one of the willows at the embankment and then jumped down onto the narrow strip of stony beach below. Holliday was hard behind him, close enough to see the reflective swoosh on the heel of the runner’s New Balance shoes.
The fugitive splashed into the water, pushing himself toward the opposite bank. The creek was no more than two feet deep at the foot of Uncle Henry’s property, but the rocks were slippery, covered with weed and algae. The man slipped, regained his balance, then slipped again. The breath was tearing out of Holliday’s lungs in angry gasps, but he was gaining. He slammed into the water. Ten, maybe fifteen feet away now, so close he could hear the other man’s ragged breathing as well as his own.
The running thief reached the far bank of the creek. There were only two ways to go. To the left, the bank was shallower, and led up to the football field where the Fredonia Hillbillies played. The right side was steep and wooded. He’d go left. Holliday swung that way, trying to cut him off. The runner reached the far bank then turned suddenly, throwing the silk pennant to one side and brandishing the sword.
Holliday pulled up short, arching back from the swinging blade. The man was no swordsman, but thirty inches of sharpened steel was daunting in anybody’s hand. He caught a better glimpse of his antagonist; not as young as he’d first thought, maybe late thirties, clean shaven, hair hidden under the hood of a black sweatshirt.
Ducking under the swing, Holliday lunged forward, shoulder dropping, and caught the thief in the chest, knocking him backward, half up the embankment. The thief swung the sword again, the blade slashing toward his head in a whistling arc. Holliday threw himself to one side as the sword came close to decapitating him.
The man turned, tossing the sword away, and scrambled up the bank, using both hands to haul himself upward. Holliday lunged again, managing to grip his attacker’s ankle. The man kicked back furiously, this time connecting, catching Holliday in the chin. Holliday fell away, stunned, then tumbled back down the embankment. By the time he got to his feet again the man who’d burned down Uncle Henry’s house and tried to steal the mysterious sword had vanished into the night.
7
Doc Holliday and Peggy Blackstock showed up at the Main Street offices of Broadbent, Broadbent, Hammersmith, and Howe at nine the following morning after spending a few brief hours sleeping in adjoining rooms at the White Inn. They’d watched as the Fredonia Volunteer Fire Department desperately tried to quench the flames consuming Uncle Henry’s house, but in the end all they could really do was contain the blaze and keep it from spreading to other houses on the street. By three o’clock in the morning the old Queen Anne mansion was nothing more than cinders and ashes.
According to the fire chief, a man named Hoskins, admittedly no expert, the fire was almost certainly arson, originating at the gas stove in the kitchen of the house. To the chief it looked as though someone had blown out the pilot lights, switched the gas on full, and left some sort of timing device attached to a small initiating device, perhaps something as simple as a cardboard tube filled with match heads.
There was no way of telling if the arson was professional or amateur; you could find out anything on the Internet these days, including detailed instructions on how to build a time bomb or burn down a building.
“Miss Blackstock, Colonel Holliday,” said Broadbent, standing up behind his desk as they were ushered into the lawyer’s office by his secretary. “Nice to see you again. So soon.” He didn’t look pleased at all. He extended his hand across the desk. Peggy and Holliday ignored it. “What can I do for you today?”
“My uncle’s house burned down last night.”
They sat down; so did Broadbent.
“Yes,” said the lawyer, affecting a solemn tone. He sounded like an undertaker. “A terrible thing.”
“The fire chief thinks it was arson,” said Holliday.
“Really?” Broadbent said. “Do you have some sort of experience with that kind of thing?”
“Somebody burned down my uncle’s house last night, then ran away. I almost caught him.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Holliday paused. “He was stealing something from the house.”
“What would that be?”
“You know exactly what he was stealing,” said Holliday.
“I do?”
“A sword, Mr. Broadbent. The sword you were so interested in yesterday.”
“So it really does exist then?”
“You know it does.”
“What exactly are you inferring?” Broadbent asked mildly.
“I’m not inferring anything,” snapped Holliday. “I’m telling you straight out: you hired someone to steal the sword and burn down my uncle’s house.”
“I wouldn’t go around saying that sort of thing in public,” the lawyer advised. “You might find yourself staring a lawsuit in the face.”
“So you’re denying it?” Peggy asked angrily.