rummaged about some more until he found a large tin can. He unscrewed the can, filled the heater most of the way, then dropped the can. Some kerosene spilled out, but apparently not enough for his purposes. He picked up the can, poured the remaining kerosene on the floor, then dropped the can again.
While Jim did this, I scanned the contents of the knapsack for possible weapons. Gatorade, rope, compass, first-aid kit--alas, Dad's emergency survival plans had never included exchanging gunfire with armed desperadoes. I could try the flare gun, of course, but I had no idea if it would do any damage, even assuming I got a chance to snatch it up. And I wasn't even sure I could fire it, since my hands were taped behind my back. Still, I had to try. First, though, I'd need to distract him.
'You're not really going to burn down the studio, are you?' I asked.
'Why not?' Jim said. He was rummaging through the trash can, pulling out paint- and turpentine-stained rags and scattering them about the studio. But not at random--he was making a path. Toward the back of the studio, where I could see what looked like a gas generator.
'You'd destroy the work of a great artist,' I said. Yes, definitely a path; now he took a can of turpentine and shook splashes of it along the path.
'Yeah, right,' Jim said. 'They've got museums full of his art; they won't miss what's here. All looks alike anyway; the old bastard hasn't painted anything new in forty years.'
Michael began laughing.
'Oh no?' he said. 'Take a look at one of those canvases before you light the torch.'
The sight of his bound, helpless captive convulsed with laughter must have roused Jim's curiosity. He glanced around at the canvases--all of which I'd turned to face the wall. He went over to one of the easels and turned the canvas around. It was the picture of Mother taking down her hair. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and I seized my chance.
I rolled over so my bound hands could reach the knapsack, scrabbled until I had the flare gun, and then rolled the other way and fired when I thought I had the gun pointed in his general direction. I missed--big surprise--but the flare passed close enough to his head to startle him.
Unfortunately, firing a flare gun in a room filled with spilled kerosene and paint-covered rags wasn't exactly a move that would endear me to fire-safety experts. The flare hit one of the easels, then skittered into some of the spilled kerosene, setting it on fire and splashing Jim's jeans, which also caught fire.
He yelped with pain and began beating at his pants with both hands. Not the best idea when you're holding a loaded gun; the gun went off, though, to my disappointment, he didn't actually shoot himself in the foot.
He turned and ran to the door. Michael and I were awkwardly struggling to our feet. Jim fired several wild shots in our direction--causing us to fling ourselves back on the floor--then yanked the key out of the lock, opened the door, and ran out while Michael and I were still struggling to our feet again.
'We've got to stop him, damn it!' Michael cried, and ran for the door like a charging bull.
Too late. I heard the key turn. Michael twisted at the last minute and threw himself at the door, trying to break it down with his shoulder.
'Oww!' he yelled as he fell over.
'Are you all right?' I called.
'I think I've broken my shoulder,' he said. 'Please tell me that the door cracked or something.'
'It looks the same as before,' I said, jumping as something--an aerosol can, I think--exploded across the room.
'That always works in the movies,' he said, lurching to his feet again.
'They use wooden doors in the movies,' I said. 'Not metal ones. Maybe we should tackle the glass.'
'And impale ourselves on glass shards?' Michael said. 'Maybe we can kick the door in.'
He began trying, but I could tell from his expression that the effort hurt him a lot more than it did the door.
'Maybe we need a battering ram,' he muttered, looking around, without success, for something large enough to serve.
The fire was spreading rapidly. I had to dodge a few stray patches of flame to make my way to the largest canvas--the standing portrait of Mother. I backed up to it, got a grip on it, and began dragging it toward the nearest glass wall.
'Don't worry about saving the damned art,' Michael said.
'We're not saving it; we're sacrificing it to save ourselves,' I said. 'Here, help me wedge it up against this glass wall.'
'What good will that do?' he asked.
'It may keep me from being impaled on shards when I try to break the glass,' I said.
'Brilliant,' he said. 'But let me do it; I'm heavier.'
He backed up and ran again, this time at the painting. I noticed he led with his other shoulder. I heard a cracking noise.
'Let me take a turn,' I said.
Instead of running, I gave the painting a few swift karate kicks. I could hear glass shattering; after half a dozen kicks, we pulled the painting away and found a space large enough to climb through.
'After you,' Michael said.
'Keep your eye open,' I said. 'Remember, Jim's out here somewhere with the gun.'
We both managed to climb out, then crouched down and ran for some nearby bushes. Starting nervously at every stray noise, we sat back-to-back and I pulled the duct tape off Michael's hands. He was just untaping mine when something exploded. The flames, which had grown steadily, suddenly shot ten feet into the sky at the back of the studio. We both leapt to our feet and backed up some more.
'Reached the kerosene stove, I guess,' Michael said.
'That or the generator,' I agreed.
'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine,' I said. 'I'm a mass of cuts, bruises, scrapes, and burns, and I think I singed off a few inches of hair on one side, but I'm alive.'
'We're both alive, thanks to you,' Michael said.
I had hoped for a more enthusiastic demonstration of gratitude, but Michael stood there for a moment, looking at the fire, frowning. Then he reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet.
What on earth?
'With any luck, the fire will destroy all of those very interesting paintings,' he said. 'But we still have a few loose ends to tie up.'
He took a piece of paper out of the wallet. I recognized it: the map, the one with Dad's printing on it that I'd found at the murder scene.
'We don't need this anymore,' he said, and he wadded it up and threw it at the fire.
'Michael!' I said, launching myself at him.
'Watch the shoulder,' he said.
Making allowances for his injuries, I found the demonstration of gratitude that followed quite satisfactory. At least the beginning of it; after a few minutes, the Monhegan volunteer fire department arrived and we postponed any further celebrations until their departure.
Chapter 32
'I think the coast is clear,' Michael said as he shook me awake.
'Or as clear as it's going to get,' I said, peering out the door of Resnick's garden shed, where we'd taken refuge until the crowds died down. Jeb Barnes had drafted most of the spectators into the search parties that were, even now, combing the island for the missing Jim. Only two people stood guard by the studio, and both of them were swathed in wraps, huddled against a tree, and, most important, facing in the other direction. We slunk across the lawn and paused in the shadows outside the entry to make sure no one had seen us. The guards hadn't
