He heard Matthews moan and Clarice cry out—in pain, he thought, not a shared pleasure—and then there was the sound of someone standing and moving about in the room.
That and a low, murmured whispering.
“No!” It was Clarice’s voice. “I won’t. You can’t. Please Uncle Herbert. Don’t take me. Don’t make me …”
Longarm shoved the door open and came in, gun first.
Matthews, damn him, once again anticipated what was happening and already had the muzzle of his old- fashioned revolver pressed tight to Clarice’s head just behind and below her ear.
“We have a deal,” Matthews snarled.
“Clarice stays here. That’s part of the deal.”
“I changed my mind.” In a taunting singsong as if they were a couple of small children disagreeing in a sandbox Matthews sang, “Nanny-nanny-woo-woo, I changed my my-ind, my my-ind, my my-ind.” He ended the insane ditty by sticking his tongue out at Longarm and bursting into laughter. Clarice began to tremble violently, to shake and quiver as her uncle held her at the throat with one hand and pressed the gun to her head with the other.
Clarice reached behind her. Longarm thought she was fumbling on the night stand for the razor. And perhaps she was. Matthews had not put it back there, however, and her blindly searching fingers found only bare wood. And then the base of the oil lamp. Longarm thought she would leave be then. Dammit, he could still get Matthews to let her go. He was sure of it. But Clarice … she was not. Or so it seemed.
Her patience had worn out or her faith in Longarm’s ability to free her … whatever other reason there might have been. He would never know. She grabbed. Turned. Lashed out.
The lamp shattered and whale oil spilled onto the bed, the curtains, onto Herbert Matthews and onto Clarice as well.
The oil caught fire, the flame spreading with a whoosh, and within seconds that entire side of the room was engulfed in an inferno.
Buddy Matthews screamed. He jumped up and down, beating at his burning clothes with hands that quickly scorched and blistered. His hair caught fire, and the man began to shriek in agony. Longarm dashed forward. “Help me. For God’s sake help me,” Matthews cried.
Longarm bent. Grabbed. Ignored the pain that shot through his hands and arms.
He grabbed Clarice. Threw her hard onto the floor and pulled up one edge of the heavy oriental rug there to wrap her in and smother the flames that already covered most of her slim, fragile body.
“Save me. You can’t leave me. Help me! God! Help me!”
Longarm stood, Clarice cradled in his arms. He took one last moment to look back at Buddy Matthews sinking in a lake of fire. Then turned and raced for the stairs and the safety of the night air outside.
He got her out, out into the cool evening breeze, her charred clothing fused into her flesh. But he got her out as behind them the age-dried timbers of the old Matthews house fed an ever growing flame.
He got her out as neighbors began to see and to run, offering help and encouragement, someone among them already clanging a steel triangle to alert the volunteer fire department.
He got her out of the burning, roaring, spark-flaring blaze and he stood there in the young night with Clarice cradled in his arms, ignoring all offers of help from the neighbors.
And after a while—it might have been minutes or might as well have been hours—he relinquished his hold on her and let them lift her out of his arms.
He thought she probably died even before he got her out of the house. But he hadn’t wanted to take a chance about it. He hadn’t wanted to let anyone else take her from him while there was the slightest possibility that she might feel, that she might think he was abandoning her. He, after all, was the one who’d promised to save her, dammit. He was the one.
He let someone take her finally and shook his head and wondered how he’d gone and gotten his face all wet. Probably from the water buckets. Or sweat. Or some such thing.
Goddammit.
