“Did you see Caleb?”
He has to shout it over the fire, now a wild, roaring animal. But I can’t answer. I cannot speak.
“Jack, where is Caleb?”
I shake my head. “Dad, he’s dead,” I finally manage and I point.
Without another word, Dad lifts me into his arms and turns for the truck. I catch a last glimpse of Mr. Madliner sitting against that stump. Staring his dead man’s stare at the burning house. That’s when my mind pieces it together. Caleb!
We come around the corner and I see now that the roof has caught fire. The first-floor windows are glowing bright. Smoke pours through cracks in the bone-white plaster. The whole place is being eaten alive by fire.
I want it to burn. Burn straight to the ground.
Through the truck windshield I see Pete is already in the cab, his clothes also charred. His face changes too when he sees me. A storm of anger at my sneaking along.
Dad carries me closer to the truck. But when Pete leans over and opens the door, I see there’s someone else there with him, wrapped in a dirty blanket. Pete has one arm around that someone, holding them tight.
And now I know why Dad asked me where Caleb was. Because in Pete’s arms, unconscious and covered in blood, is Elmira Madliner.
Mr. Madliner is dead. Mrs. Madliner is unconscious. But Caleb is nowhere in sight.
Dad slides me into the cab and slams the door.
Next thing I know, we are speeding down the lane, with the cinders from Madliner House chasing us as we go.
We meet the fire trucks on Hopkins Road. Three of them, splashing red light along the pavement. They do not blare their sirens. There is no one on the road to warn.
Through his open window Dad tells them: Arthur Madliner has been shot dead. Caleb’s missing. Madliner House is beyond saving. With the wind, there’s a strong chance the fire will spread to the trees. As if to give weight to his words, that smoky breeze blows soft and warm through the open window.
I shiver.
The fire engines leave us in swirling red dust. Just this morning those firefighters were parading down Main Street, waving to the people. Now, they’ll battle the flames of Madliner House, fight to keep the fire inside its cage.
“Will it spread?” Pete asks as we take off down Hopkins Road again.
Dad does not answer, and that’s all the answer we need.
In Pete’s arms, Mrs. Madliner stirs and moans. It’s an awful sound. Dad buries the gas pedal. The Ford eats up the road now.
The lights are on at Sam’s trailer. The old man is in the road. Long underwear and hunting boots and floppy hat. Dad brakes again.
“You’ll need all hands on deck when it reaches the meadow, Gene,” Sam says. He climbs into the bed, spits over the side, and slaps the glass to tell Dad to drive again.
Sam’s words are frightening. He believes it’s already certain the fire will spread to Knee-Deep Meadow. And from there it’s an easy march to Apple Creek, and Stairways just on the other side . . . A few sparks on the wind might be all that is needed to start fresh fire on our side of the creek.
Sam’s words must have frightened Dad too, because the truck engine makes its own roar now. We race across Hopkins Bridge, the metal beneath us rattling an eerie wail. Dad barely touches the brakes as we turn onto our lane. Next thing I know we come screeching to a halt in our driveway.
Ma rushes off the porch.
“Gene! Gene! Jack is gone!”
“No, he ain’t.” Dad jumps down and moves for Pete’s door.
When Ma sees me her face goes dark with fury. She storms over the stones and is about to let loose when Dad opens the other door. Pete steps out, cradling Mrs. Madliner in his arms.
“My God, Elmira!” Ma cries. “Bring her inside, Pete!”
They move toward the house, Ma shouting for Will to call Doc Mayfield.
I stand shaking in the drive until Sam comes off the pickup. He looks to the east, where the sky is a dull red. Like the dawn is coming too soon. An orange mist seems to be rising at Knee-Deep Meadow’s far edge. The wind blows and it smells like charcoal.
Sam sniffs the night. “This one will be bad. Worse than forty-seven.” He means the fire of 1947. I’d only ever heard stories about it. A wall of fire a mile wide that burned for two days.
Sam turns to me, leans over, and drops both his rough hands on my shoulders.
“Son, where do you fellas keep the buckets?”
I am sitting in our living room and wrapped up in Grandma Elliot’s old quilt again when Doc Mayfield arrives. He’s wearing slippers and carrying his black bag. He sees Mrs. Madliner lying on the couch—a pale, wasted skeleton of a woman, covered in dried blood—and he gasps.