Full Cry

CHAPTER 23

Flames shot into the night sky, an eerie sight with snow falling. The heat was so intense that Shaker and Xavier couldn’t get within fifty yards of the small brick building.

As the firemen worked in both bitter cold and searing heat, Shaker found Sheriff Ben Sidell. “Sheriff, anything I can do?”

“No. They’ve contained it. Thanks to George’s quick thinking, they saved the big warehouse,” Ben said, referring to Fire Chief George Murtagh.

“Bad night for it.”

Ben pulled the collar of his coat up higher around his neck. “Don’t guess there’s ever a good one. They keep coating the big warehouse with water on this side; ices right up and then melts again. Weird.”

“Any idea?”

“No, George said he won’t know much of anything until he can get the fire out. The building passed inspection, but the wiring is old. All it takes is one mouse to bite the wrong set of wires.” Ben stared at the men holding the hose. “You know, it’s warmer nights I dread the most. There are more fights, stabbings, and murders in summer when it’s so bloody hot out. I know if I get a call on a bitterly cold night, someone’s kerosene stove blew up or someone hit a patch of black ice.” He sighed. “Either way, usually someone’s dead.”

“You can smell the furniture burning.” Shaker wrinkled his nose.

“This one closest to the railroad tracks has furniture being shipped out. Clay said it was loaded. Next shipment was Tuesday.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

Ben’s eyebrows rose for a moment. “No. Thanks for asking.”

Shaker walked over to Clay and Xavier.

“Sorry, Clay.”

“Shaker.” Clay’s eyes welled up. “Thank you for coming on down.”

“X and I kind of hoped we could pull stuff out.”

Clay shook his head. “Wooden crates, wooden furniture, upholstery, pffft.” He threw up his gloved hands. The furniture and valuables had been packed in wooden crates.

“Sister wanted to come down, but I told her to go home.”

This made Clay’s eyes tear up again. “God bless her.” “Is there anything I can do?” Shaker asked.

“No.” Clay shook his head. “This stuff will smolder for days.”

“Izzy okay?” X asked.

“Crying her eyes out. I told her we’d be fine.”

X’s deep voice deepened more. “There will be a lot of upset people, but we’ll do all we can. As soon as I can, I will cut a check to replace the building. I don’t anticipate problems with the carrier. They’ll send someone down, but that’s protocol these days.”

“You know, I’m not there yet.” Clay bit his lip. “I’m glad you are, but I can’t think that far ahead.”

“Don’t worry.” X meant it. He was a successful man because he backed up his word. He really did care about the people who insured through him.

As Shaker walked back to the truck, the wind shifted slightly in his direction. Tiny red and gold sparks flew upwards as white flakes fell down. He inhaled smoke carrying the unmistakable odor of flesh. He’d smelled that once before as a young man. An old house had burned down, its owner having fallen asleep in bed with a lit cigarette.

He returned to Ben.

“Ben, there’s meat in that building.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Come with me.” Shaker led Ben to where he had picked up the scent; the wind was still blowing in that direction. “Take a deep breath and you’ll cough. Smoke burns the hell out of your throat.”

Ben inhaled, coughed, but he smelled it. “Wonder if Clay had any kind of refrigeration unit in there.”

“Talk to George first. I mean, that’s what I’d do.”

Ben nodded. “You’re right.”

Ben headed toward the busy fire chief as Shaker climbed into the old Chevy, turned over the motor and sat to let the engine run a minute. If anyone was in there, he or she was burned to a crisp. Who would be in the storage house? He hoped it was a raccoon. A big one might give off a powerful odor if killed or burned.

Shaker headed out of town. He called Sister on his phone, installed in the truck.

Sister asked, “You okay?”

“Nothing for me to do. Clay’s holding up. X’s real calm. That helps him, I guess. Ben sent me home.” Shaker listened to the crackle on the phone as he drove through a patch of bad reception.

“Strange. When I drove by Hangman’s Ridge, I—” She stopped herself. “Well, that place sometimes presages bad tidings.”

“See another ghost?” This was not said in jest, for once she had seen a ghost there. A year later, he had, too, even though he hated to admit it.

The souls who had been hanged on the huge oak on top of the ridge, sent to justice since the early eighteenth century, were unquiet. Many had seen or heard them; even Inky skirted the place if she could. Being a fox, her senses were far keener than a human’s. She had seen more than one ghost—all men—necks unnaturally stretched.

“I just heard howling, but it’s windy. Picking up.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, uh, forgot what I was going to say.” She hadn’t actually, merely changed her mind.

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Halfzimers,” she fired back as she hung up.

She had been going to ask him if he wanted her to bring Sari up to the main house so he could be alone with Lorraine. Then she realized the supper was a surprise, and, also, Sari looked up to Shaker. Removing her from the picture wouldn’t be fair. If romance was going to blossom, there was time for that. Sister didn’t have to put a log on the fire. She repented of that image the moment she thought it.