Free The Placebo Effect by David Rotenberg Page B

door—instantly smoke filled his lungs andblurred his vision. He fell to the floor and crawled to the bathroom, hoping the window there would allow him a way out. But the wall with the window was consumed in fire, and the molded plastic bathtub and shower were beginning to melt. He grabbed two towels and shoved them into the sink and was genuinely grateful when the water came on. He soaked the towels and then turned the faucet toward his jeans and shirt. With one wet towel over his mouth and head and the other over his shoulders he raced to the flaming stairway. Some of the steps were on fire, others smoldering, but the carved hardwood banister was still in place. He reached for it and it accepted his weight as he half walked, half slid down. Six steps from the bottom a spindle broke and he crashed to the floor below. To his right the front of the house was a wall of fire. Behind him the kitchen and back room were ablaze. He scrambled to his feet and threw open the door to the basement. He took one step and crashed through the stairway to the cement floor some seven feet below. He’d have broken a leg for sure, but he glanced off his exercise ball, slightly cushioning his fall.
    He looked to the basement exit but it had already cracked under the assault of the fire. Above him flames licked their way along the joists. He scrambled into the laundry room and yanked against the drier with all his strength. It slowly ground forward, revealing the hole to the Junction’s steam tunnels that he’d found when he first bought the house.
    He literally fell into the tunnel and then pulled himself along until he got to the main shaft. He sat back, sweat and the smell of burnt hair—his burnt hair—momentarily overwhelming him.
    He pulled his shoulder bag to him and tried to catch his breath. As he did he heard approaching sirens, then the heart-wrenching grinding and twisting and tearing of his house as it was eaten by the great fire monster.
    â€œI can barely hear you, Mr. MacMillan.”
    â€œIt’s the fire trucks and the police.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah. So talk to me,” Henry-Clay demanded.
    â€œHe’s toast,” Mac replied. There was not a hint of a smile in his voice.
    â€œAre you sure? How can you be sure, Mr. MacMillan?”
    â€œI have eyeballs on the back of his house and no one’s come out that way and I’m watching the front and not a soul made it out that way either.”
    â€œAnd the thing’s on fire?”
    â€œIt’s a fireball. Completely consumed. Crossbeams should be coming down any moment now.”
    â€œAnd he’s in there. You sure he was in there?”
    â€œSaw him sleeping myself before I set the devices. He’s toast—as I said.”
    Henry-Clay felt the sweat from his armpits dripping down his torso, but his breathing was stabilizing. He realized he’d dodged a bullet—a big fucking bullet. “I want you home now, Mr. MacMillan.”
    â€œTo finish Ratio-Man?”
    â€œYes, it’s definitely time to tie up that loose end. Come home, now.”
    â€œHow do you know he’ll come back to Cincinnati?”
    â€œâ€™Cause I know our Ratio-Man, Mr. MacMillan—I know him.”
    Twenty-five minutes later Decker pushed open the manhole cover and hauled himself out of the steam tunnel system near the corner of Keele and Dundas. Shortly after that he was on the sidewalk across the road from his house.
    Flames leapt from the third-story dormer window. Decker pushed past the crowd that had already gathered to watch the show. Everything was a damned entertainment! Then a support beam cracked, sending the second floor tilting then crashing to the ground, pulling the west wall inward at a sickening angle.
    Firemen rushed to the south side of the house, trying to prevent the fire from spreading down the street. The house to the north of his home had been abandoned for years and was already ablaze.
    Decker