Free Cell: A Novel by Stephen King

O’Leary’s cow kicked over the lantern?”
    “That lantern-kicking business was nothing but an urban legend,” Alice said. She was rubbing the back of her neck as if she were getting a bad headache. “Mrs. Myers said so, in American History.”
    “Sure it could,” Tom said. “Look what happened to the World Trade Center, after those airplanes hit it.”
    “Airplanes full of jet fuel,” Mr. Ricardi said pointedly.
    As if the bald desk clerk had conjured it, the smell of burning gasoline began to come to them, wafting through the shattered lobby windows and sliding beneath the door to the inner office like bad mojo.
    “I guess you were on the nose about that Shell station,” Tom remarked.
    Mr. Ricardi went to the door between his office and the lobby. He unlocked it and opened it. What Clay could see of the lobby beyond already looked deserted and gloomy and somehow irrelevant. Mr. Ricardi sniffed audibly, then closed the door and locked it again. “Fainter already,” he said.
    “Wishful thinking,” Clay said. “Either that or your nose is getting used to the aroma.”
    “I think he might be right,” Tom said. “That’s a good west wind out there—by which I mean the air’s moving toward the ocean—and if what we just heard was that new station they put in on the corner of Kneeland and Washington, by the New England Medical Center—”
    “That’s the one, all right,” Mr. Ricardi said. His face registered glum satisfaction. “Oh, the protests! The smart money fixed that, believe you m—”
    Tom overrode him. “—then the hospital will be on fire by now… along with anybody left inside, of course…”
    “No,” Alice said, then put a hand over her mouth.
    “I think yes. And the Wang Center’s next in line. The breeze may drop by full dark, but if it doesn’t, everything east of the Mass Pike is apt to be so much toasted cheese by ten p.m.”
    “We’re west of there,” Mr. Ricardi pointed out.
    “Then we’re safe enough,” Clay said. “At least from that one.” He went to Mr. Ricardi’s little window, stood on his toes, and peered out onto Essex Street.
    “What do you see?” Alice asked. “Do you see people?”
    “No… yes. One man. Other side of the street.”
    “Is he one of the crazy ones?” she asked.
    “I can’t tell.” But Clay thought he was. It was the way he ran, and the jerky way he kept looking back over his shoulder. Once, just before he went around the corner and onto Lincoln Street, the guy almost ran into a fruit display in front of a grocery store. And although Clay couldn’t hear him, he could see the man’s lips moving. “Now he’s gone.”
    “No one else?” Tom asked.
    “Not at the moment, but there’s smoke.” Clay paused. “Soot and ash, too. I can’t tell how much. The wind’s whipping it around.”
    “Okay, I’m convinced,” Tom said. “I’ve always been a slow learner but never a no-learner. The city’s going to burn and nobody’s going to stand pat but the crazy people.”
    “I think that’s right,” Clay said. And he didn’t think this was true of just Boston, but for the time being, Boston was all he could bear to consider. In time he might be able to widen his view, but not until he knew Johnny was safe. Or maybe the big picture was always going to be beyond him. He drew small pictures for a living, after all. But in spite of everything, the selfish fellow who lived like a limpet on the underside of his mind had time to send up a clear thought. It came in colors of blue and dark sparkling gold. Why did it have to happen today, of all days? Just after I finally made a solid strike?
    “Can I come with you guys, if you go?” Alice asked.
    “Sure,” Clay said. He looked at the desk clerk. “You can, too, Mr. Ricardi.”
    “I shall stay at my post,” Mr. Ricardi said. He spoke loftily, but before they shifted away from Clay’s, his eyes looked sick.
    “I don’t think you’ll get in Dutch with the management for