By the time Rufus Bibbs next door could punch 911, the Sway trailer was engulfed and beyond help. Rufus hung up the phone, and ran to find his garden hose. His wife and kids were running wild, trying to dress and get out of the trailer. Screams and shouts echoed on the street as the neighbors ran to the fire in an amazing array of pajamas and robes. Dozens of them watched the fire as garden hoses came from all directions and water was applied to the trailers next door. The fire grew and the crowd grew, and windows popped in the Bibbs trailer. The domino effect. More screams as more windows popped. Then sirens and red lights.
The crowd moved back as the firemen laid lines and pumped water. The other trailers were saved, but the Sway home was nothing but rubble. The roof and most of the floor were gone. The rear wall stood with a solitary window still intact.
More people arrived as the firemen sprayed the ruins. Walter Deeble, a loudmouth from South Street, started babbling about how cheap these damned trailers were with aluminum wiring and all. Hell, we all live in firetraps, he said with the pitch of a street preacher, and what we ought to do is sue that sonofabitch Tucker and force him to provide safe housing. He just might see his lawyer about it. Personally, he had eight smoke and heat detectors in his trailer because of the cheap aluminum wiring and all, and he just might talk to his lawyer.
By the Bibbs trailer, a small crowd gathered and thanked God the fire didn't spread.
Those poor Sways. What else could happen to them?
Chapter 20
A BREAKFAST OF CINNAMON ROLLS AND CHOCO-late milk, they left the house and headed for the hospital. It was seven-thirty, much too early for Reggie but Dianne was waiting. Ricky was doing much better.
"What do you think'll happen today?" Mark asked.
For some reason this struck Reggie as being funny. "You poor child," she said when she finished chuckling. "You've been through a lot this week." "Yeah. I hate school, but it'd be nice to go back. I had this wild dream last night." "What happened?" "Nothing. I dreamed everything was normal again, and I made it through a whole day with nothing happening to me. It was wonderful." "Well, Mark, I'm afraid I have some bad news." "I knew it. What is it?" "Glint called a few minutes ago. You've made the front page again. It's a picture of both of us, evidently taken by one of those clowns at the hospital yesterday when we got off the elevator." "Great." "There's a reporter at the Memphis Press by the name of Slick Moeller. Everyone calls him the Mole. Mole Moeller. He covers the crime beat, sort of a legend around town. He's hot on this case." "He wrote the story yesterday." "That's right. He has a lot of contacts within the police department. It sounds as if the cops believe Mr. Clifford told you everything before he killed himself, and now you're refusing to cooperate." "Pretty accurate, wouldn't you say?" She glanced at the rearview mirror. "Yeah. It's spooky." "How does he know this stuff?" "The cops talk to him, off the record of course, and he digs and digs until he puts the pieces together. And if the pieces don't fit perfectly, then Slick just sort of fills in the gaps. According to Glint, the story is based on unnamed sources within the Memphis Police Department, and there's a great deal of suspicion about how much you know. The theory is that since you've hired me, you must be hiding something." "Let's stop and get a newspaper." "We'll get one at the hospital. We'll be there in a minute." "Do you think those reporters'!! be waiting again?" "Probably. I told Clint to find a back entrance somewhere, and to meet us in the parking lot." "I'm really sick of this. Just sick of it. All my buddies are in school today, having a good time, being normal, fighting with girls during recess, playing jokes on the teachers, you know, the usual stuff. And look at me. Running around town with my lawyer, reading about my adventures in the newspapers, looking at my face on the front page, hiding from reporters, dodging killers with switchblades. It's like something out of a movie. A bad movie. I'm just sick of it. I don't know if I can take anymore. It's just too much." She watched him between glances at the street and traffic. His jaws were tight. He stared straight ahead, but saw nothing.
"I'm sorry, Mark." "Yeah, me too. So much for pleasant dreams, huh." "This could be a very long day." "What else is new? They were watching the house last night, did you know that?" "I beg your pardon." "Yeah, somebody was watching the house. I was on the porch at two-thirty this morning, and I saw a guy walking along the sidewalk. He was real casual, you know, just smoking a cigarette and looking at the house." "Could be a neighbor." "Right. At two-thirty in the morning." "Maybe someone was out for a walk." "Then why did he walk by the house three times in fifteen minutes?" She glanced at him again and hit her brakes to avoid a car in front of them.
"Do you trust me, Mark?" she asked.
He looked at her as if surprised by the question. "Of course I trust you, Reggie." She smiled and patted his arm. "Then stick with me."
ONE ADVANTAGE OF AN ARCHITECTURAL HORROR LIKE ST. Peter's was the existence of lots of doors and exits few people knew about it. With additions stuck here, and wings added over there as an afterthought, there had been created over the course of time little nooks and alleys seldom used and rarely discovered by lost security guards.
When they arrived, Clint had been hustling around the hospital for thirty minutes with no success. He'd managed to become lost himself three different times. He was sweating and apologizing as they met at the parking lot.
"Just follow me," Mark said, and they darted across the street and entered through the emergency gate. They wove through heavy rush-hour hall traffic and found an ancient escalator going down.
"I hope you know where you're going," Reggie said, obviously in doubt and half-jogging in an effort to keep up with him. Clint was sweating even harder. "No problem," Mark said, and opened a door leading to the kitchen.
"We're in the kitchen, Mark," Reggie said, looking around.
"Just be cool. Act like you're supposed to be here." He punched a button by a service elevator and the door opened instantly. He punched another button on the inside panel, and they lurched upward, headed for floor number ten. "There are eighteen floors in the main section, but this elevator stops at number ten. It will not stop at nine. Figure it out." He watched the numbers above the door and explained this like a bored tour guide.
"What happens on ten?" Glint asked between breaths.
"Just wait." The door opened on ten, and they stepped into a huge closet with rows of shelves filled with towels and bedsheets. Mark was off, darting between the aisles. He opened a heavy metal door and they were suddenly in the hallway with patient rooms right and left. He pointed to his left, kept walking, and stopped before an emergency exit door with red and yellow alarm warnings all over it. He grabbed the bar handle across the front of it, and Reggie and Glint stopped cold.
He pushed the door open, and nothing happened. "Alarms don't work," he said nonchalantly, and bounded down the steps to the ninth floor. He opened another door, and suddenly they were in a quiet hallway with thick industrial carpet and no traffic. He pointed again, and they were off, past patient rooms, around a bend, and by the nurses' station, where they glanced down another hall and saw the loiterers by the elevators.