Atropos - William L. DeAndrea Page 0,3

bright light. He looked back at the bungalow and saw what had happened.

The heat built up inside had popped one of the windows. Now the air was rushing in and turning the house into a furnace. The flames spiked up through the roof like bright yellow spears.

Hank allowed himself a small smile. The more heat, the less evidence.

Pina and her little bastard would burn to nonexistence. The less there was, the less there would be to react to for the police and the press.

Hank heard the voices as he was getting to his feet.

“Fire ... my God!”

“... Like a bomb, for Christ’s sake ...”

“... anybody called the fire department?”

The noise and the light of the fire had drawn them, a little excitement for a run-down neighborhood. A crowd for Hank to filter through. A good thing. He worked his way toward his car.

More voices.

“... hope there was nobody inside.”

“Senator?”

“... and where’s the goddam fire department, will somebody tell me that? That fucker could spread!”

“Senator? Senator Van Horn?” The owner of this voice had him by the sleeve. It was a short man with brownish teeth and slicked-back black hair. “Senator, I’m Jack Smael. I’m party coordinator for this neighborhood.” He held out his hand to shake. Hank took it automatically. Jack Smael went on to tell Hank how they had met a couple of years ago at the victory party for Congressman Delgado.

Hank’s mind was empty. Habit and training brought the proper words to his lips. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. Good to see you again. How are you?”

“More to the point, Senator, how are you? You look like you got too close to the fire. You need a doctor?”

All of Hank’s resources were devoted to keeping the calm politician’s smile on his face. There was nothing left for speech, or action, or thought.

“What are you doing in the neighborhood, Senator?” Jack Smael asked. “Next time, let me know, I’ll arrange something. I don’t have to tell you how important it is not to let an opportunity to meet the public go to—Oh, I got it. This is Miss Girolamo’s house; she’s on your staff. Jeez, I hope she’s okay.”

The smile went away. Hank could feel the muscles fail one by one. His face seemed to hang on him, dead and alien, like fungus on a tree. I’ve got to get out of here, he thought.

Then he heard the sirens, and saw flashes of red and white light on the black smoke billowing from Pina’s house. I’ve got to get out of here. He threw Jack Smael’s hand away like something dirty. “I’ve got to get out of here!” he said, and turned and ran.

Ainley Masters lived alone in an apartment on Lakeside, on the most exclusive block of that exclusive street. He had accumulated the necessary money in the course of serving the Van Horn family throughout his adult life. No one begrudged it to him—he had earned it.

He had earned his share of enemies, too. Hank had to stand on the doorstep for the better part of two minutes before Ainley peeped through all his peepholes and undid all his locks.

“Senator,” he said, as he swung the door open. “What the hell happened? Have you been attacked?”

Hank’s mistake was trying to tell it so it made sense. It was impossible to relate what had happened to him tonight so that it made sense. A few disconnected phrases made it past Hank’s mouth. “Pina’s dead ... fire ... somebody saw me—lot of people ... had to get away ...”

“Stop it.”

“Ainley, help me! The police will be after me, I’ll go to jail. I didn’t mean—”

“Hank, shut up!”

The Senator shut up and goggled at him. Ainley, though about ten years older, had never called him “Hank.”

Hank looked at him, waiting. Ainley was thinking. He had a very good face for thinking—large, dark, sort of sad eyes, long aquiline nose, thin lips, strong chin. He was quite a small man, but he gave an impression of power all the same.

“There’s the phone,” Ainley said. “Call the fire department. Give your name. Report the fire.”

“But, Ainley, the fire department was just getting there when I left. I thought it was the police, that’s why I ran, but I realize now—”

“You ran because you were obsessed with calling the fire department,” Ainley said. “You’re so agitated, you aren’t thinking straight.”

“That’s the truth,” Hank said. “Can I have a drink?”

“After you make the call. Maybe. As soon as you call, I’ll get the family