Killer Summer

64

Summer stuck her nose to the jerrycan’s cap and sniffed. She couldn’t tell the difference between gasoline and diesel, but the can clearly contained some kind of fuel, so she dragged it out of the garage, having spent less than a minute inside. A moment later, she faced the large pile of split firewood. She circled the pile, dousing the wood, then drizzled a fuse of fuel some twenty feet away.

She wasn’t sure how big the fire would be, but big enough, she hoped, to bring them running. And, if all else failed, she at least would have created a signal that might be spotted by planes, although she hadn’t seen or heard any.

She stood there, with the empty jerrycan in one hand, the lighter wand in the other, thinking she wanted the can well away from her before she lit the soaked ground.

She screwed the can’s metal lid down tight and ran it back to the woodpile, launching it up on top.

She hurried back into the grass and found the lighter where she’d left it. The grass stank of fuel.

A trapezoid of light played across the lawn in the distance. Voices!

She fumbled with the wand, its safety feature requiring both thumb and index finger working in concert to light.

She pulled the trigger: click, click.

A silhouette stretched across the light-painted lawn as a man filled the doorway.

The wand sparked, a tiny blue flame dancing at the end of its chrome barrel.

She lowered the wand to the grass, expecting the flame to creep along. But what happened was nothing like that.

Whoosh!

In a fraction of a second, the woodpile ignited, black smoke spiraling up from it. She fell back, off balance, and then scrambled to her feet and made for the woods.

“FIRE!” she heard someone shout.

She raced down the mountain, dodging tree trunks and tearing through bramble and shrub.

Behind her, the men were shouting frantically now as the woods glowed yellow from the fire.

Then there was an explosion, as the jerrycan blew up, sounding like a bomb going off. She stopped and turned around in time to see a ball of orange flame rising forty feet into the smoke-black sky. Sparks rained down like fireworks.

She continued her way down the mountain, made easier by the light from the fire. She reached the level airstrip, the sound of the river not far off. Turning to admire her handiwork, she saw the orange glow now lighting the rocky face of Shady Mountain.

Keeping to the trees, Summer hurried toward the jet at the far end of the strip, its wings and tail covered with pine boughs.

Feeling in her pocket, she took the Learjet’s key firmly in hand.