Lady in Flames by Ian Lewis Read Free Book Online Page A

leave well enough alone. Now I’d set anyone’s place on fire without a second thought. I’ve been shoved too far in the wrong direction and I’m not coming back.
    Zig-zagging my way across two-way stops, I ditch the main drag and drop onto a service road that runs near the railway. Lifeless stumps peek up from under the heavy snow on either side of the road. Lifeless like this garbage town.
    The hardware won’t open until six, so I’ve got time to get in and grab what I need. Fire is simple. Turpentine will do—so will kerosene. I can get matches anywhere. Whichever way, I want it to be big, fast, and hot.
    In an alley that runs behind a stretch of grimy buildings, I pass a yellowed block feed store and the rear stoop of the barber shop before I reach the hardware. I steer into the empty back lot while the car tries to slide tail-out.
    Skating to a halt, I leave the car crooked in the middle of the lot and trudge up to the rear of the store. The flimsy storm door barely latches; I yank it out of the way so I can work on the rotted, wooden inner door.
    Ramming my shoulder into it doesn’t do anything more than make it groan. I hoped it would give way easier than this; I pictured the faded blue paint splintering in cracked slivers. No such luck.
    Old man Maynard doesn’t worry too much about security. He doesn’t worry too much about his tools either. Near the trash bin, I spot a crow bar sticking out of the snow on a pile of busted-up pallets and crates.
    I cram this in between the door and the frame and wrench it back and forth. The soft wood buckles and then gives way as the door snaps open. Looking over my shoulder, I step inside.
    It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. It’s still dark outside, and near impossible to navigate in the back hall cluttered with storage bins and boxes. Once I’m able find my way, I trace a route to the paint counter where three shelves worth of solvents wait to be grabbed.
    I wrap my left arm around as many quarts of turpentine as I can hold and then push past the next few aisles to find the wooden stick matches. The glare of headlights waving across the storefront halts my search and I duck, fumbling my armload.
    Between the squeak of my wet boots and dropped cans, the racket stops me from breathing as I listen for the rumble of the car to fade. On hands and knees, I wait for my lungs to catch up before I grab what I dropped and move on, certain the car is past.
    The gleam of a streetlight leans in the front window; shadows from the shelving stretch with it. I cut across them and dart down the last aisle where I can just make out the stacks of match boxes. One will do.
    I’ve got what I need now. Heading for the rear door, I can’t get past the paint counter without thinking about Doppler. I can still see him leaning over the counter in his overalls, gesturing with his crooked index finger the way he did when he wanted to make a point.
    I wonder what he’d say about me burning. Probably wouldn’t care…he didn’t think much of the people here. “Give ’em what they deserve, Johnny,” I imagine him saying.
    Bursting into the lot, I don’t bother to tidy up the scene, leaving the door hanging. I only stop to grab the crow bar. Snow and slush fly as I high-step through the drifts. I dump my goods onto the passenger seat and wheel the car around.
    I’m a few hundred feet before I get the tail end straightened out. Then it’s around a slick corner and up the funnel of a side street that dumps me into the worn-out guts of Halgraeve.
    The vacant parking spots hide under the snow. A set of faint tire tracks lead the opposite way out of town. My car’s headlights sneak past blackened windows. It’s perfect, nobody but me.
    Steering around the square gets me onto the “bar side.” I slide past Lady Luck and the Ale House to the end of the strip and cut around the corner to the back of the last structure. A narrow alley runs behind, wide enough for a car. The plan is to