The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(49)

“Not ‘supper.’ ‘Shudder,’ I said. Like something was shaking. Was there an accident? Didn’t you feel it?”

“Yeah, I did, something. Construction maybe.”

“Sunday?”

Glasses had shivered, windows rattled. She’d felt the rumbling in her feet; she’d pulled on her slippers as soon as they got back from the grocery store and finished carting the bags inside.

“Dunno.” He had the game on. He loved his games.

Arnie said, “So anyway. What is for supper. Since the subject’s come up.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Oh. Thought you were cooking.”

“Already? No.”

She returned to the kitchen. Ruth’s procedure for stowage was logical. First, freezer items went to roost. Then perishables that could germify—Arnie’s wonderful word—like meat, fish and milk. Then fresh fruits and veggies. Then boxes and finally the long-term stuff. The cheerful Green Giants, in cans, would be the last to get tucked away.

“Then you’re baking?” Arnie was in the corridor now. He’d come her way so they could speak in normal voices. “One of those pies? I was dreamin’ about rhubarb.”

“I’m not baking either.”

“Hm.” Arnie now stepped into the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen. His eyes were not on his bride of forty-three years but on the stove. She noted his expression of curiosity and she frowned. “What is it, hon?”

“The oven’s not on?”

She waved to it. Meaning no.

“I could smell gas. I thought you’d turned it on. And it took a minute for the burner to catch.”

“No, but…” Her voice faded. Ruth too could smell that rotten egg scent.

“Maybe the city’s doing some work and they hit a gas main. That was the shudder. You know, it’s stronger now.”

“Yeah. It is.”

His brows, set high in his well-worn face, knitted close. He brushed at his thinning, curly hair, walked to the front door and looked outside. He called back to her, “No trucks, no accidents.” He added that a few people were outside of their houses, looking around.

Maybe, Ruth thought, there had been a crash and a collision had ruptured a propane truck. But wait, propane didn’t smell like natural gas. Ruth knew this because barbecuing was one of their most enjoyable pastimes in the summer.

She walked to the cellar door and opened it. She was hit with the same stink but ten times stronger. “Honey! Come here!”

Arnie appeared in an instant. He noticed the open door. Sniffed. “My God.”

He peered downstairs and started to reach for the light, then stopped, as she was about to say, No! Arnie glanced at the fire extinguisher sitting next to the stove. It was seven years old.

She said, “We should get out. We should get out now.”

“I’ll call. We have to call. Isn’t there a special number you call for gas leaks? How do we find it?” He reached for the wall phone.

“Gas company?” she asked, incredulous. “Forget it, hon! We’ll call nine one one from outside.” She stepped toward her purse. “Come on! We have to get out.”

“I’ll just—”

From the basement door a tide of flame and smoke exploded outward, enveloping Arnie. As he flung his arms up and covered his face, he was blown against the far wall and landed on the floor, crying out in pain.

No, no, no! Ruth ducked beneath the raging tornado of fire that swirled from the doorway, screaming her husband’s name. She crouched and started toward him.

Suddenly a jolt sent her to her knees and the half of the kitchen floor where she was standing dropped three or four feet—the explosion had taken out the joists. As the smoke and flames and dust swirled about them, she could see Arnie—lying on his side, swiping frantically at his burning clothing. He was above her, on the part of the floor that hadn’t dropped. From the gap between the sections of flooring flowed dense black smoke, tongues of flame and red sparks like stinging bees.

Ruth struggled to her feet on the slanting floor, looking around frantically. They couldn’t use the back door now to escape—with the sunken floor, the exit was too high to reach, and was bathed in flames spiraling up from the basement.

The front. They had to get out the front. But first, Ruth needed to climb up to the level that Arnie lay on.

“Honey, honey!” she called. “The front! Get out the front!” But the words vanished in the roar. She hadn’t known that fire could be so loud.

Dodging the whips of flame, she started to climb up to Arnie, who was choking and writhing in pain. At least, she saw, he’d managed to strip off the burning clothing.

She put her hands on the end of the floorboards at his level and started to boost herself up. “The front door. Let’s—”

But at that moment the portion of the floor she was standing on dropped away completely and Ruth plunged into the basement, landing in a ragdoll pile on the concrete, pelted on head, arms and shoulders by boards, the kitchen table, cookbooks and cans of beans.

Fire was all around her now: storage boxes, Arnie’s magazines, Christmas decorations, the girls’ old clothing, furniture. And flames licked the cans and jars of flammables on Arnie’s workbench—cleaners, paint thinner, turpentine, alcohol. They could be exploding any moment.