Fire Engine Dead Page 21

  Peter turned to me, fear in his eyes. “Nell?”

  I kept my eyes on Scott. “Peter, obviously there had to be someone on the inside, who knew where the collection was and what the engine was worth. I think Jennifer’s a better bet than Gary. Right, Scott?”

  “Keep up the good work. Gary is exactly what he looks like—an old coot who loves to talk about fires and firemen. Now, Jennifer—she’s got a head on her.”

  “But, why? Was it just about the money?”

  “What else? Jennifer needs the money. Her husband’s pension sucks—he’d only been with the department a few years when he died. The pay at the museum isn’t much better. That hunk of wood and metal was worth a couple of years’ salary for her, and it was just too easy to pass up. She asked me to help, for a share of the proceeds. Wasn’t hard to do.”

  “Did you set all the other warehouse fires?”

  “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

  “Scott, a man died there, where you switched the fire engines.”

  For the first time, Scott looked troubled. “Yeah, well, that wasn’t supposed to happen. The guy was a drunk. We thought he’d just passed out in a corner—wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I believed that Scott hadn’t known where the watchman was, but this wasn’t the time to debate that. “Where’s the real fire engine?” I asked.

  Scott all but snarled, “Look, lady, don’t expect me to pull a Sherlock Holmes and tell you everything you want to know. That’s bullshit. I don’t have the time.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Your place here is going to have an unfortunate fire, and it’ll look like Peter was the one who set it. Too bad the two of you have to die. Jennifer will be all upset about sending Peter over here to talk to you, when she’s had her suspicions that he was mentally unstable. But she was a loyal little employee, and she trusted her boss. Boo-hoo.”

  So Jennifer had set it all up. Wait, back up: had to die? Sorry, but I wasn’t going to go quietly. “What’s your end of the plan? You’re supposed to do the dirty work and kill us? And why do you think you can set a fire here?”

  “Oh, come on, lady—this building is full of dry old paper and books. Piece of cake. As for killing you—the fire’ll take care of that.”

  That was convenient: he didn’t get his hands dirty; the fire did all the work. What a handy rationalization. “And why is Peter supposed to have set it?”

  “Why, to cover up killing you, of course. He couldn’t let you keep nosing around.”

  “Nobody’s…going to…believe that.” Peter’s breathing was worsening rapidly, and he reached into his pocket for an inhaler. Would anyone buy that a serious asthmatic would be able to start a fire? Of course, the fire department and the police would have two bodies, neither of whom was talking. The story Scott had presented would be the simplest solution. Would James believe it?

  “Why…are…you…doing…this?” Peter struggled to say.

  Scott cocked his head at his brother. “Well, let’s see. Because you were little Mr. Perfect and Daddy loved you better? Because your asthma got you out of a lot of stuff that I ended up having to do?”

  I watched Scott. Actually he didn’t seem very invested in the reasons he tossed at his brother: they sounded like echoes of old sibling arguments. But why had Scott acted now? I said, “The fire engine isn’t worth that much.” Certainly not a man’s life.

  “What would you know about it? Hey, I’m not greedy. And how often do I get to stick it to Peter here and make some change out of it?”

  Maybe it was about the fire, not the cash. Maybe I was looking at a true arsonist. And maybe Jennifer had been pulling his strings all along. “Scott, you’re talking about killing your brother!” And me, of course, but there was no point in adding that. “Do you really think the FBI and the police aren’t already looking at you for this?”

  “Sure they are, but I’ve got an alibi. I was with Jennifer the night of the fire. We’re in love.” His eyes flickered toward Peter, who was having more and more trouble breathing. “Sorry about that, Petey, but one of us has got to take the fall for this, thanks to Ms. Pratt, and it’s not going to be me.”

  Scott Ingersoll was one sick man. Hang on—hadn’t James told me that Jennifer had told the police that she was home alone? From the way Scott drawled the word love, I had to stop and wonder who was pulling whose strings. Had Jennifer recruited Scott, or had he persuaded Jennifer to help him? Had Jennifer just thrown him under the bus by undercutting his alibi? Did he realize that?

  And this was the man who wanted to kill me? Please. I’d be embarrassed to have been outwitted by those two—except that I’d be dead. But I wasn’t yet, and I wasn’t giving up that easily.

  “That’s not what Jennifer told the police. She said she was home alone. Will the police be able to match you to one of the guys on the surveillance footage?”

  For a moment Scott looked startled, but he recovered quickly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”

  Yeah, right. I tried another tack. “We have fire suppression systems in this building, you know.”

  “Sure you do—old ones. I checked the specs—looked at your old annual reports, when you announced your so-called improvements. You really counting on them to save you?”

  I didn’t want to find out.

  The bastard was still grinning at us. He was enjoying this, or maybe just anticipating the nice bright fire that he thought was coming. “And of course, there’s always that handy smoke inhalation. You don’t have to fry, just inhale too much. Peter’ll probably go first, though. That pesky asthma, you know. I spent years listening to him wheeze at night.”

  Not if I could help it. Think, Nell! Scott was definitely bigger and no doubt stronger than I was, so I didn’t think I had a chance of overpowering him physically. Peter was pretty much useless if it came to any kind of physical attack. I’d gotten that far in my thinking when Scott pulled a gun out of his pocket and waved it at me.

  This was getting ridiculous. “What, Peter is supposed to have shot me? How is anybody going to account for a bullet?”

  “Just some insurance.” He ignored my question and turned to Peter. “Recognize it? It was Dad’s. How sentimental of you, to have kept it all these years. But of course, you always really looked up to Dad.”

  Peter glared wordlessly at him and dropped into a chair, his breathing labored. Come on, Nell, think this through. Now that I knew Scott was armed, I couldn’t even rush him, or I’d end up with a bullet in me. I glanced around the room: heavy tables with the lamps bolted to them, heavy chairs. I supposed I could throw books at Scott, but that seemed ridiculous. I wondered hysterically if a six-inch-thick tome would stop a bullet. Leather or cloth binding? What was I supposed to do?

  And then the answer came to me: let Scott start a fire.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sure, it was completely illogical, but I was beginning to have a glimmer of an idea, and the only way for it to work was to let Scott do what he planned, and do it right here in the reference room. “It’s not that easy, you know,” I said.

  “What, to start a fire? Sure it is, if you know what you’re doing. Look at all the lovely paper you have here.” He grinned. “And don’t tell me you have recording devices and spy cameras everywhere, and a panic button in your pocket that connects you immediately to the police department. You’re alone here with Peter. He sets the fire, you try heroically to put it out. Either he shoots you or he doesn’t, but you both die. He gets the blame, and Jennifer and I get a nice chunk of change when we unload the fire engine, even if we have to wait until things cool down before we sell it.” He barked a short laugh at his own joke. “End of story.”

  He’d forgotten to mention that the museum would probably go under, and Jennifer would be out of a job, but now was not the time to bring it up. “Look around you, Scott. What’re you going to light?”

  “Why would I be stupid enough to do
it here? Even I can see the sprinkler heads up there.”

  If my pathetic plan was going to work, he had to do it here, right where we were. But how on earth was I supposed to convince him to do that? “You really think they’re going to blame Peter for all the fires? I mean, look at him—he can barely breathe.”

  “I made sure he didn’t have an alibi for any of those fires.”

  “Jennifer.” If I got out of this alive, I was going to enjoy watching her go down.

  “Yup, she’s one smart cookie. She keeps his schedule, so she told me when he was going to be alone at home when all the fires started. So let’s get rolling.” He waved the pistol at us.

  Peter struggled to get out of his chair, then fell back again.

  A flicker of anger crossed Scott’s face. “Get up, you jerk. We’re going back into the stacks, where nobody passing by outside will notice the fire for a good long while.”

  Not part of my plan. I wondered if I could communicate psychically with Peter and convey that I wanted him to stay right here.

  Scott waved his weapon at me. “Help him.”

  I moved over to Peter’s chair and slid my arm under his. Which conveniently let me lean close and hiss, “Act helpless.” Peter looked at me with sad puppy-dog eyes, and I realized he didn’t even have to act. I hauled him out of his chair, but he was pretty much a dead weight, focusing on breathing and nothing else.

  I glanced at Scott, whose face was now flushed. “He can’t make it.”

  “Then drag him,” Scott snarled.

  I made a good show of it, but Peter was surprisingly heavy. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have dragged him anywhere near the stacks in the back of the building. “This isn’t going to work. I can’t move him.”

  Scott’s expectation that we’d make it to the stacks was dimming, but now he was getting mad. He waved the gun at us. “Back there. Around the corner, out of sight from the front.”

  Exactly what I wanted. I helped Peter stumble slowly toward the reference room. The volumes there might be old—and flammable—but they weren’t terribly valuable, comparatively. We made it to the wide doorway and turned the corner, out of view from the windows in the front. I leaned Peter up against the shelves along the wall. “What now?” I asked Scott.

  Scott looked briefly around, most likely recasting his plan. “It’ll still work. How old’s your system? Fifty years? You even know if it works?”

  He hadn’t done his homework well—the systems were newer than that, but they’d never been tested. “We’ve never had a fire here. I don’t know.”

  “What’s in there?” Scott nodded toward the vault. “I don’t see sprinklers.”

  “Nobody thought they were necessary in there—they figured the sprinklers out here would be enough.”

  “Great. Start tearing up some books.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You never built a bonfire? Take a book, rip out the pages, crumple ’em, and pile ’em up.” Without taking his eyes off me, he reached into the backpack and pulled out a metal can, which I had to assume contained an accelerant. “Go on, start ripping.”

  I started pulling books at random off the shelves. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the titles; I just opened them up and started grabbing handfuls of paper. I made a nice pile, with Scott’s eyes on me the whole while—and I carefully positioned it as close to the vault as I dared.

  “You too, Petey-boy,” Scott said.

  I sneaked a look at Peter, and he did not look good. He was suffering from a double whammy: the asthma was crippling him, and he was trying to deal with the fact that his brother wanted to kill him in a particularly unpleasant way. I wished there was a way to communicate to him without speaking that I’d rather have him close to me, because he was part of my desperate plan. Peter rose slowly, then pulled another book out and followed my lead. The pile of crumpled paper on the floor grew between us.

  “That’s enough,” Scott said. “Now, pull out a bunch more books—the old dry stuff, not the shiny new ones—and toss them around. Make sure they’re open and the pages are fanned out.”

  I was angry…but not angry enough to blow my one chance. At least he had let me build the pyre where I wanted to. Once the fire got started, the fire suppressant system would be activated, and that was linked directly to the fire department—I hoped. I refused to acknowledge how old—and untested—the whole system was. I had to assume that Scott planned to be long gone by then, out the way he had come, and was banking on the fact that the fire would spread quickly. Would the police look any further than two bodies on the floor? The police would find me with a bullet in me, and Peter suffocated by his own asthma, presumably clutching the gun that killed me. Not a pretty picture.

  “Now what?”

  Scott tossed the can toward Peter, who caught it awkwardly. I could hear it slosh as he juggled it. I noticed for the first time that he was wearing gloves. Nice touch—Peter’s fingerprints would be the only ones on the can. “Pour it on the papers there.”

  Peter looked stupidly at the can, at the pile of paper, at me. Even considering his breathing problems, he was moving suspiciously slowly. Maybe he’d finally guessed that I had a plan.

  Scott sneered. “You always were useless. Step back, both of you.” We backed into the corner, flanked by bookshelves. “Give me the can,” he said to Peter.

  For a brief moment I entertained the hope that Peter would fling accelerant in Scott’s eyes, but instead he meekly tossed the can back to his brother, who caught it deftly, unscrewed the cap with one hand, and started dousing the paper. The gun trained on us never left his other hand. There was an odd light in his eyes.

  When Scott looked down at the paper in front of him, I started edging toward the door to the vault, a few feet to my left, and made it partway before Scott noticed my movement and waved the gun at me. Then he grinned wolfishly. “Nowhere to run, Ms. Pratt.”

  I pressed myself against the books and crept closer to the door, trying to look terrified, which wasn’t hard. Peter hadn’t moved from the corner. Did he think he’d be safe there?

  Then Scott pulled a lighter from his pocket. He looked back and forth at Peter and me. “Who wants to do the honors? You, Ms. Pratt? You, you little wimp?” He didn’t appear surprised when neither of us volunteered. “Fine—I’ll do it.” He flicked on the lighter, then knelt by the pile of paper and touched the flame to it. It caught quickly, the loose sheets burning fast, the open books glowing at the edges as the fire began to eat into them—and following the liquid trails of the accelerant, which gave off a nasty oily smell. Old paper burned quickly, as Scott had hoped.

  Scott allowed himself a moment to stare at the flames, and I wondered what was going through his mind. While he was distracted, I took a full step to my left, so I was standing in the doorway to the vault. Peter was still frozen in the corner, struggling to breathe. Scott looked up at me. “Get back here.” He strode around the fire and toward me, and I took another step backward, into the vault, as if retreating from him.

  But when he was close enough, instead of retreating deeper I grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him farther into the vault, catching him off balance—I guessed I had surprised him. Using his own momentum, I slung him around until he was on the inside, then hooked my foot around his and sent him tumbling backward. He looked good and mad, and bounded up again, still clutching the gun.

  Then the sprinklers in the big room went off, momentarily startling him. I backed out of the room quickly, keeping an eye on Scott—and finally the metal door to the vault—the venerable fireproof vault—began to slide across the opening, just as its designers had intended.

  But not fast enough—Scott was up and moving. “Peter, help me!” I yelled. For a moment I thought that Peter wasn’t going to do anything, but then something penetrated his fog. He grabbed a tall heavy volume from the shelf. I did the same, and we converged on the rapidly moving door before Scott could slide out. I let Peter have first honors, a
nd he swung and connected with Scott’s hand, knocking the gun away, into the vault. I followed up with a desperate swing at Scott’s head, which sent him reeling backward. The metal door ground shut, inch by inch, but too slowly. I grabbed the outer handle and shoved, closing the gap. Scott stuck out a hand, trying to grab me, but Peter whacked it, eliciting a howl of pain from Scott. And then the door closed with a clang.

  Scott pounded on the metal door, yelling something inarticulate, but the door held. The overhead sprinklers continued with their deluge of water. Scott’s fire sputtered and died, reduced to plumes of smoke. I was drenched in seconds. I looked at Peter in time to see him slide down the shelf of books until he was sitting on the floor, his breath coming in short pants. His face was greyish. I knelt beside him. “Thank you.” He nodded. “Look, the fire system is linked directly to the fire department—someone will be here in minutes. Can you hang on?” He nodded again.

  I realized that I’d better open the front door for the fire department so they wouldn’t end up destroying anything more than they had to, but then I stopped. Scott wasn’t pounding anymore. Maybe he’d given up, but maybe…

  And then I remembered.

  The sprinkler system didn’t extend to the vault. Instead, during an earlier remodel, it had been replaced with the halon system, more suitable for a small, enclosed space. The vault was a small enclosed space, and was surprisingly airtight. And if the halon system had gone off, triggered by the smoke or the heat, then Scott was trapped in the vault full of halon gas.

  Halon gas was poisonous.

  “Oh, hell,” I whispered. I jumped to my feet and went back to the door. And stopped, at least briefly. Out here I was safe. On the other side of the door was a man who had just tried to kill me, and who still had a gun. And who might be dying because there wasn’t any oxygen left in the room. The fire department should be here in minutes—but did Scott have minutes? How was I supposed to know? So I had a choice: let him out and hope he didn’t shoot me, or leave him there to die. I chose the first option.