Cut to the Bone(69)

Emergency pagers sounded across four counties.

One was atop Cross’s bed stand.

He dialed his direct line to the watch commander. His face hardened as he listened.

“On my way,” he said.

Emily dragged Marty the final inches to the bedroom window. She pushed her head through the empty frame, hyperventilating.

No help in sight.

That would change quickly, she knew. With a blast this titanic, every fire truck in ten miles was en route. She and Marty could breathe right here till rescue-

A thousand hinges squealed outside the door. She turned to see the landing shudder, liquidate, and disappear. Flames sloshed over the threshold to ignite what was left of her Oriental rug.

FD wouldn’t make it in time.

“Suck it up!” she shouted, trying to quell her panic. “You’ll escape!” Easier said than done, she knew. Her escape ladder was warped useless under the fried mattress. Her sheets and blankets were gone. She didn’t have any rope. Not even duct tape . . .

“Hutch,” she said.

She ran to the built-in, praying her gun belt wasn’t melted. She reached between two steaming piles of socks, yanked it free. A burning cinder fell on her neck. She slapped it away and raced back to Marty.

She buckled the belt around her waist. Locked one set of handcuffs to Marty’s wrists. Skin steamed where steel touched flesh. She took the second set, clicked one cuff around the chain that connected his wrist cuffs, clicked the other to her belt. They would live - or die - together.

A blowtorch raked her calves.

She twisted around, yelping. Orange flames bubbled through a new sinkhole in the floor.

If they didn’t get out right now . . .

She squatted, grabbed his neck and knees. Visualized setting a new Olympic record. Tensed her abdomen, back, and legs, said a final prayer, and power-lifted him onto the window-sill, gutting it out, going for gold.

Yessss!

Panting so hard the sill blurred, she pushed Marty to the very outer edge. She climbed over, leaned out as far as possible, wrapped her arms around the huge tree limb - Thank you for being here! I’ll never prune you again! - then swung like Tarzan, tugging Marty till gravity took over.

The bedroom exploded.

“Mush!” Viking cried, plunging into the vortex. The hose team followed, blasting everything in sight with hydrant pressure. The water vaporized on impact.

Another hose team appeared. Then another. The foyer swirled black, red, wet, dry, flamed, and steamy as dragon fought knights for domination.

“Why aren’t they out yet?” Cross demanded as he ran up. Both Annie and Branch called in on the Thirteen, saying Emily and Marty were inside the house.

The fire boss looked at him in exasperation. “The heat’s monstrous. I got three teams humping hose, four more breaking walls. They’re searching as fast as they can.”

Cross took off for the back of the house.





3:22 a.m.

The Executioner whistled “Ring of Fire” as he drove back to Morris. He’d dump the fuel truck in the abandoned barn near the nursery, recover his Land Rover, and head home. Bowie would laugh with delight when he heard about this brilliant maneuver.





3:28 a.m.

Emily gripped so tightly the bark flayed her palms. If they fell from this height, they might as well have died in the blast.

“We’re going to make it, Marty,” she said, glancing down for signs of life. All she saw were his fingers, bloated like jellyfish from his weight on the handcuffs. “I won’t let you die.”

The dragon snickered.

She inched them across the limb as the tip leaves ignited. Her boots fell off, then her nightgown. The gun belt sagged where the handcuff attached. Her hips screamed with each tick of the Marty pendulum.

Six feet to the main trunk . . .

Five . . .

Four . . .

Her right hand thwacked into a V-crotch.

Her certainty crumbled.

She’d have to let go to clear the obstacle. Put an inhuman strain on her remaining hand. Marty’s life would come down to five numb fingers. It had to be enough.

She let go.





3:29 a.m.

“Mr. Sanders?” the chirpy voice said.

“Speaking,” Johnny mumbled, patting around for the clock.

“This is Shonda Qualmann, a production assistant with The Oprah Winfrey Show. Sorry for the early hour, but I need to let you know . . .”





3:30 a.m.

“Hang on, Emily!” she heard Cross bellow as her right hand cleared the V-crotch and grabbed the other side. Ladders slammed the limb on both sides. The strain on her hips disappeared, and fireproof gloves encircled her waist.

“Got you now,” a firefighter said. “Let go of the tree.”

“I can’t,” she gasped.

“You won’t fall, I promise.”