TORCH by Yvonne Collins, Sandy Rideout Read Free Book Online Page B

hear Bianca threatening to call the cops on Kai as the door of the school closes behind us.
     

 
     
     
     
The flames are moving up the aisle of grey industrial carpet toward the pulpit. An oak table to the left of the pulpit catches fire and one spindly leg quickly gives out, sending a large floral arrangement crashing to the floor. Lilies and roses wilt in the heat and then disappear. Flames climb the pulpit more slowly, eating into the heavy wood. A white cross hangs in front of a stained glass window with blue, green, red and yellow diamonds lit up by the flicker of orange. To the right of the pulpit is a door, and beside it on the floor sit two gallon-size white plastic containers. The door is ajar and I catch a glimpse of a man in a black baseball cap, white T-shirt and black work boots. When flames start racing up the cross, he steps back and closes the door.
     
    I roll over onto my back in bed and push the damp hair off my forehead, panting. That wasn’t just any dream. It was one of those dreams—the ones that are true. Somewhere, right now, a church is on fire.
    Reaching for the phone, I dial 911.
    “There’s a fire,” I blurt, when the operator answers. “I need to report a fire.”
    “Stay calm,” she says. “Where is it?”
    “In a church,” I say. “It’s really bad. I think someone set it deliberately.”
    “Which church?” she asks.
    I pause, realizing my predicament. “I’m not sure.”
    “There are five in the Rosewood area,” she says. “Can you describe it?”
    “There was, uh, a white cross and a stained glass window.” Realizing how stupid that sounds, I add, “I’m sorry.”
    “Is there anything else you can give me, Miss Seaver?”
    Crap. Call display. If I’d been wide awake, I’d have foreseen this, instead of just the fire. It’s too late to hang up now. I’ve been tapped. “No. That’s all. I’m sorry.”
    “Honey,” the woman says, “do you think you might have had a bad dream?”
    “I did have a bad dream,” I admit. “It seemed so real. I have no idea where this fire is—if there is a fire. I am so sorry to have bothered you.”
    “Never mind,” she says. “Go back to sleep. This happens more often than you’d think.”
     

     
    I don’t bother pulling up in front of church number two, because it’s obvious from a distance that there’s no fire of the magnitude I saw in my dream. Checking the map on my phone, I drive on to church number three. I keep my speed down, because I can’t afford to get pulled over when I’m driving without an adult after 11 p.m. In addition to getting a ticket, I’d end up in big trouble with Dad. I didn’t want to call him at work and share my suspicions. But after what happened with the factory fire, I can't just ignore this dream, either.
    I reach St. Paul’s Baptist Church in less than 10 minutes. Even from a mile away, I can see the glow from the church, which sits in a valley. The fire is raging inside, and it’s surprising no one has called it in. People in Rosewood must sleep very soundly.
    When the road begins to descend, I turn right onto a dirt road, pull a U turn, and let the Jeep idle while I think. If I call 911, I have to explain I’ve spent half an hour driving around Rosewood in search of a fantasy fire, only to discover it was real. Plus, I told the operator I thought someone set the fire deliberately, and I have nothing to back that up. In fact, they might think I had something to do with it.
    I’m still pondering when I hear the sirens in the distance. Pulling further off the road, I turn out the Jeep’s lights. One fire truck passes, then a second. And last, an ambulance. I wait another five minutes before pulling out, and driving a little closer. There’s a gravel road where the view of the church is unobstructed. With no houses in sight, I decide it’s safe to park and get out of the car.
    Climbing onto the hood, I sit watching as the firefighters roll out their hoses and direct