Free Tin City Tinder (A Boone Childress Mystery) by David Macinnis Gill Page A

supposed to engage without a tanker? “Roger. Childress out.”
    I tossed the mic onto the seat. Nothing to do but wait. Just like Loach and the twins, who were parked on their butts in the shade of an oak tree, passing around a pack of Camels.
    Hat and hooligan in hand, I walked toward the back of the house. It was typical of farmhouses built in the early twentieth century. It had narrow windows, high ceilings, and an attic. Two doghouses protruded from the roof. Flames danced behind the windows in both of them.
    Across the roof, the fire had opened holes the size of a manhole cover, and acrid smoke poured out. I could hear the pop and crackle of the dried-out rafters as they exploded from the heat. In my mind’s eye, I saw splinters as long as my arm flying like jagged arrows in all directions.
    I heard a high-pitched squeal, and the window of the high doghouse blew out.  
    “Look out!”
    Glass flew ten, maybe fifteen yards, raining down on the ground. I pulled an arm across my face, dropped to one knee, and heard a scream coming from the doghouse.
    The same doghouse that was engulfed in enough heat and smoke to roast a man alive.
    “There’s somebody in there!” I waved for Atamasco company to join me. “I heard a scream. There! Another one. Someone’s calling for help!”
    Loach and his boys didn’t budge.
    “Y’all going to help or not?” I yelled.
    The twins, Ronnie and Donnie, turned their backs to me, and Eugene Loach just cupped a hand to his ear.
    “Can’t hear you.” Eugene blew cigarette smoke through his nose. It curled around his face so that he looked like a bearded Chinese dragon. “Must be that boomer stopped up my ears!”
    “Assholes.”  
    I bounded to the front porch. Turned the knob and put my shoulder to the heavy paneled door.  
    No give at all.  
    The dead bolt was thrown.
    I drew the hooligan tool back like a spear and rammed it through the door panel. The wooden cracked in half, and when I yanked the head of the tool out, the panel came with it, followed by a blast of heat and smoke that drove me down the porch steps.
    “What’re you doing?” Loach yelled.
    “Somebody screamed!”
    “There ain’t nobody screaming, you dumb ass. It’s just gas releasing or something!”
    Loach and the twins stood five yards behind me. Their fire coats were unbuttoned, and their mattocks were stacked against the oak tree.
    “Don’t go in there!” Loach yelled. “You ain’t got the right equipment.”
    “Then cover me. Ronnie and Donnie can back us up. Two in, two out.”
    “Dream on! Ain’t no way we’re risking our lives to rescue some charcoaled pole cat.”
    I knelt on the floor and turned on my breathing tank. Heat rose from the planking, and I could feel it through my Nomax pants. It gave me pause. If the porch was already hot enough to heat up my fireproof pants, what would it feel like to walk into a blast furnace? What if Eugene was right, and the sound turned out to be another possum? How would I explain that to Lamar?  
    No.
    It wasn’t a possum.
    Wild animals don’t scream, help me !
    I reached inside the door. The deadbolt was an old-fashioned twist bar, and I pulled it down. With a screech, the bolt withdrew, and I kicked the door open.
    A wall of heat engulfed me.
    Inside, the living room was a wall of flames. Through the smoke, I could make out a pile of furniture and an old sideboard on the opposite wall. The floor seemed intact, as least as far as the stairway, which was about ten feet to the right of the door. I couldn’t see any hot spots there, so it would be my first target.
    I crouched, ready to make my first move.  
    Loach grabbed my mask and pulled it away from my face. “Hold up, Possum, you ain’t going in! It’s suicide!”
    I yanked my mask out of Eugene’s hand. “Let go of my equipment!”
    “There ain’t nobody in this fucking house!”
    Help me! Por favor!
    “It came from upstairs!”
    “It’s just a fucking cat!”
    “That speaks