The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady

Blue-white lightning flared like popping flashbulbs, and thunder was an almost constant stutter. Rain was sheeting down the closed windows and pouring in buckets through those that were broken. Water was spreading across the floor, and the smell of wet dust hung on the air.

“I understand,” Charlie said, raising his voice above the storm. “But it would be better if you’d come with me to talk to the sheriff. I know Buddy Norris. He’s a good guy. He’ll keep your part in this confidential. He’s got ways to handle stuff like this, if you’ll just trust him.” He hoped it sounded like he knew what he was talking about. “Look. All you have to do is get in the car with me. We’ll drive to town, and you can tell Buddy everything you’ve told me.” He made himself laugh. “Hell, we can even put a bag over your head if you don’t want anybody to see your face. So what do you say? The deputy is working on fingerprints now, and they may be able to get a match. If they do, it’ll make the case. You won’t have to—”

But the rest of what he had intended to say was annihilated by a blinding flash of lightning and a simultaneous explosion, as lightning struck the old sycamore next to the building. The tree exploded like a detonating artillery shell, dropping two massive limbs squarely on the school building’s roof and hurling showers of sparks and torso-sized chunks of splintered, flaming wood through the windows. The school’s belfry toppled onto the roof, and the roof collapsed on the desks with a deafening roar, as if a giant hand had broken its spine. The stovepipe came down and the Acme stove crashed over onto its side. The schoolroom filled with a haze of dust and old ashes—and smoke and the smell of burning kerosene.

The explosion had flung Charlie forward and onto the floor in front of the teacher’s platform. He tried to get to his feet, but he couldn’t and crouched there, covering his head with his arms, stunned, his ears ringing, his heart pounding like a trip hammer. Dazed, he heard the crackle of flames and got to his knees, turning to look over his shoulder. The fire was spreading across the floor, ignited by the lightning strike and fueled by the kerosene that had spilled out of the can beside the stove. Tongues of flame licked hungrily at the walls and the wooden desks. If it weren’t for the pelting rain that sought out the fire and doused it with a hiss and a sizzle, the old tinderbox would have gone up in an instant. As it was, it was likely to smolder for hours.

But the building no longer provided any shelter. Charlie scrambled to his feet. “Mata Hari?” he yelled, and sucked in a lungful of choking dust and smoke. He coughed. “Mata Hari?”

The only answer was the wail of the wind and the groan of the walls under the weight of the collapsed roof. The teacher’s desk still stood on the platform in front of the blackboard, but part of the wall was gone. Charlie picked his way through broken boards and roof shingles toward the nearest cloakroom door, and stepped into a splintered chaos. The roof of the back part of the building had collapsed, and most of the back wall. The rain was pouring down in a drenching torrent. The woman lay on the floor, pinned under a beam, her eyes closed, face ashen, head bleeding. Charlie recognized her immediately and bent over her, taking her hand. Her fingers were limp and cold.

“Lucy,” he said urgently. “Lucy, answer me. Are you all right? Lucy?”

There was no answer.





SEVENTEEN


In Which Several Important Things Happen at Once to Different People