Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(49)

“Mama, I can run by myself.”

“Let me carry you tonight, sweetheart. Arms around my neck, real tight.” Sherlock double-stepped down the front stairs and luckily didn’t stumble.

Thick smoke was gushing out of the kitchen, filling the living room, moving fast. Soon the smoke would engulf the house in a choking gray fog. She felt the heat from the flames behind them and pulled the blankets over Sean’s head. She unlocked the front door and ran full tilt out of the house, Astro right beside her, the security alarm blasting an ear-splitting accompaniment to the smoke alarms. She turned and stood panting in the front yard, rocking Sean, Astro hugging her leg, whimpering. She jerked out her cell, punched Dillon’s number. “Dillon, our house is on fire. We’re all right. Hurry!” She heard someone shout her name. She saw Luke Mason, a firefighter, jump off his porch five houses down and race toward her, shrugging into a jacket as he ran. She quickly slipped her cell back into her pocket. He grabbed her arms, did a quick once-over, and pulled back the blankets. “You’re good, Sean, and so’s Astro. You’ll be okay. Your mama was fast. Savich isn’t here?”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Didn’t matter, you did great. My guys are on the way, another couple of minutes. Hear the sirens? Stay put, Sherlock. I want to check this out.”

She shouted after him as he ran toward the back of the house, “Someone set the fire!”

“Sherlock!” It was Thomas Perry from next door.

Then she remembered. “Thomas, take Sean!”

Before he could stop her, he had an armful of little boy. Sherlock ran back into the house, her sweatshirt pulled up over her mouth and nose. She didn’t think, didn’t pause, just raced up the stairs into Dillon’s study. She grabbed MAX and raced back down, wheezing from the smoke, thicker with every passing moment. She felt heat pumping out of the kitchen like a blast furnace. She heard the flames crackling, making terrifying sputtering noises, pictured her kitchen, and swallowed convulsively. It’s only a kitchen. Get a grip.

Sherlock couldn’t believe it when she saw Griffin carefully lifting Dillon’s grandmother’s painting down from above the fireplace. He gave her a manic grin. “Got it. Let’s get out of Dodge!”

They ran out of the burning house to the sidewalk just as the ear-splitting sirens stopped. Two fire trucks pulled up, one on the street, one on the sidewalk. Firefighters jumped out of the trucks with dizzying speed. In a couple of minutes, they had hoses trained on the back of the house, now lit up like a torch. Thick, arcing streams of water shot into the heart of the fire, turning the flames into smoke that gushed upward like a mushroom cloud. It was like a Bosch painting of hell. A firefighter waved them across the street onto Mr. McPherson’s yard. She saw neighbors pouring out of their houses, those close by grabbing hoses and watering down their roofs. Other neighbors from farther away gathered around Sherlock and Griffin. Mr. McPherson came out of his house to stand beside Sherlock, Gladys at his side, her tail wagging. He was wearing what Sherlock called his Nanook-of-the-North padded coat. He was old and frail, but that didn’t matter. He was there for them, one of his veined hands lightly rubbing Sean’s back, Sean once again in Sherlock’s arms. She heard one neighbor wonder aloud how the insurance company would try to weasel out of paying for damages this time and nearly laughed.

Sherlock felt immense gratitude at that moment to Griffin for giving her those few extra precious moments. She was light-headed, realized Sean was choking her, his arms tight around her neck. She tickled him, gave him a smacking loud kiss. Sean laughed, music to her ears, but soon he was sucking his fingers, something he hadn’t done in at least three years. She felt his tears against her neck, listened to his little-kid hiccups. She rocked him and softly sang Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” to him.

When Sean hiccupped a final time, Sherlock turned to Griffin, saw he was grinning. “Good song.”

She nodded. It was still hard to comprehend, even looking at the flames, that someone had set fire to their house. Someone had wanted to burn it down with them inside. She felt a ball of bile rising in her throat, and swallowed. She took Griffin’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you, Griffin, for calling, you gave me enough time—” She gulped, and her voice fell off a cliff.

He said nothing, only stared at the flames and the gushing smoke. She looked at the painting plastered against his leg, covered with his own coat. “Thank you for saving Dillon’s painting. He would have been heartbroken if even one of his grandmother’s paintings had burned, but you know he’ll call us both idiots for running back into a burning house.” She sighed. “I guess we are idiots. But can you imagine MAX burning up?”

Griffin shook his head and moved closer. Together they watched the water winning the battle, but clouds of smoke still spurted upward. She kept rocking Sean, now only whispering the words from “Three Little Birds” against his cheek. He was calmer, no longer sucking his fingers.

Luke Mason’s teenage daughter had picked up Astro and was cuddling him close by. Mr. McPherson stood straight and tall, one hand on Gladys’s head and the other still lightly stroking Sean’s back.

It was the weirdest thing. Sherlock felt oddly disconnected from the burning house in front of her. The rancid smoke, the flames didn’t touch her because it didn’t seem real, but like a fire she’d seen on the news. How could it be her house? How could it be happening? She coughed, and it snapped her back. Her house, Dillon’s house—their home—was burning. And it wasn’t an accident. She began shaking. Someone had wanted to kill them.