The Senator’s Daughter (33 page)

Lyle started to gasp, as well.

“Break it,” she got out.

He shook his head and looked around.

Sometime in the past hours, she felt as though they'd developed the ability to sense each other's thoughts. Now she believed he didn't want to risk them getting cut unless they had to.

With the heat coming down … according to what she'd heard, a thousand degrees would sear their lungs before the flames reached them … it was time to risk it. Sylvia eyed the nightstand and debated demanding Lyle hurl it through the pane.

He gestured for her to stay put and moved into the murk.

With Lyle out of sight, Sylvia's chest clutched. Seconds passed like hours, while she considered executing the nightstand option on her own. At the very least, she was going to use the faux stone statue of an angel atop a nearby dresser to break the glass for air in the next ten seconds, no matter where Lyle was.

When her countdown was almost done, and she was reaching for the figure, he reappeared. Inserting a closet rod beneath the metal latches affixed to the wooden window frame, he bent and used it as a lever.

With a pop, the window opened, driven up a foot by momentum. Lyle dropped the closet rod, shoved the sash farther up, and threw his duffel bag into the night. Fresh air poured in, though she still felt the rising heat.

Lyle looked at Sylvia. “I'll go first and catch you.”

It wasn't the moment for a Sir Galahad remark, though the thought crossed her mind. Time for it later, if this worked.

He leaped and was swallowed by the shrubbery.

She strained her ears but couldn't hear the sound of his impact. Was he hurt?

She looked at the drop.

“Don't clutch now, babe.” Lyle's voice emerged from the cool relief of night.

Sylvia couldn't resist a look over her shoulder. Buck and Mary's pride and joy was going up in the worst way, flames licking their way across the carpet and burning her shorts where she'd dropped them. A look up and she noted the sprinkler valve on the ceiling; no water had come out of it.

“Sylvia!” Lyle called from below. The timbre of his voice said he feared the fire had done its worst.

Naked, she addressed leaping into the void. One leg over the scratchy wood sill, then the other. When she hit the sharp ends of the bushes below all hell might break loose, but on her back the heat turned blistering.

“Dammit, Sylvia!”

Finally, like all the people who'd ever leaped from a burning building rather than be caught by the conflagration, Sylvia pushed off the sill and felt the sickening sensation of free fall.

Lyle broke her descent, staggered, and went to his knees. She wound up cradled in the upturned branches of a rose of Sharon, getting scratches on her behind.

He helped her out. Slaphappy with relief, she thought if the situation weren't so serious, she'd want to laugh at the picture they made.

As soon as she was on her feet, Lyle dragged his duffel out of the bushes and unzipped it. Grabbing his cell phone out of the side pocket, he pressed 9-1-1, then looked at Sylvia and gestured toward the bag. “Grab something to put on.”

By the time he'd reported the fire, Sylvia had pulled on a pair of his jogging shorts, dragged the drawstring tight, and had her head under a T-shirt while she pulled it on.

The garment completely covered the shorts, grazing her thighs.

While Lyle rummaged for underwear, jeans, and a golf shirt and got into them, he said, “I was the first to call—”

“Buck and Mary!”

“They're probably around front.”

Sylvia hoped so. They'd had enough excitement in the past two days, with the quake and fire, to last a long time.

Though she broke into a jog, Lyle passed her at the corner. There was no one on the lawn or in the parking area.

They raced up the front steps. The door was locked.

He rapped at the panel, then pounded. “Do they keep a key under a rock or something?”

“I don't know.”

“I could kick it open if not for the deadbolt.”

“They don't set the upper lock, said it was so people could get out in case of—”

“Fire?” Lyle turned his back, lifted his knee, and brought it down in a donkey kick.

The door banged open, splinters falling from the frame.

Smoke boiled out.

Though the last thing Lyle wanted was to eat more smoke, he ordered, “Stay here.”

He dashed inside, snatching a decorative scarf from the foyer table and breaking some knickknacks that had survived the earthquake.

At the crash and tinkle, “Lyle?”

“I'm okay.” He wrapped the cloth around his mouth and nose and tied it behind his head.

The stairs down to where Buck and Mary lived were black and smoky. Having never been down, Lyle wished he knew where he was going.

Halfway down, Sylvia appeared at his elbow.

“I told you to stay put,” he gritted.

“You don't know where you're going.”

He wished he could argue with her.

When they reached the base of the stairs, an emergency light came on. Lyle jumped but was glad for the illumination.

“There goes the power,” Sylvia said. In the pale glow, he saw she had his T-shirt pulled up over her nose and mouth.

Along the corridor ahead, Lyle noted at least six closed doors. Though he hated for Sylvia to put herself at risk, thank God she had come. He wouldn't know where to start.

She pointed. “Second on the left. The others are storage.”

Lyle moved quickly to the door—unlocked. He touched the panel; not hot, opened it and jerked back. No need for emergency lights here, the living-room curtains were ablaze, along with a sector of ceiling near the outer wall.

Buck crouched on hands and knees on the floor beside a supine Mary. She wore a sweat suit, he jeans and a denim shirt; he held wet towels to his face and to hers.

“Are they gone?” Buck asked wildly.

“Who?” Lyle asked.

“Don't know. Someone threw a jar of gasoline or something like it through the window upstairs.” His voice shook.

“That's my room,” said Sylvia.

Her room? God, if they'd gone there …

“I heard glass breaking and smelled the fumes before all hell broke loose. Why aren't the sprinklers on?” Buck inhaled through the towel and looked at his wife. “We dressed and were on our way out when she collapsed.”

“I've got her.” Lyle bent and lifted Mary's limp form to his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He turned and headed up the stairs.

When he emerged into the night, he carried her away from the inn to where the air was cool and the wind blew the smoke in another direction. He lowered her to the grass with care and made sure Buck and Sylvia were behind them.

Tearing the scarf from his nose and mouth, Lyle mentally prepared to start CPR, but Mary moaned and turned her head. Buck knelt beside his wife.

After calling emergency services again and requesting an ambulance in addition to the fire department, Lyle felt his legs start to tremble.

It was the crash; the letdown after the adrenaline had flushed out of his system. Not only did it make him weak, it brought home what a close call they'd had. This put last night's earthquake in the category of a walk in the park.

He turned to Sylvia. She looked equally stunned.

All the while they'd been working out their escape, he'd figured somewhere in the background of his mind that an electric problem, old wiring, had caused the fire. Once he knew it wasn't the candle they'd stupidly left burning.

Buck's story of the sharp sound of breaking glass and the stench of volatile hydrocarbons now meshed with Lyle's dream of the car crashing into the dry cleaners. The fumes must have burned off by the time he and Sylvia had awakened to a conflagration.

If they hadn't been sleeping so soundly, they surely would have woken up before things got so out of control. Might even have been able to do something about putting the fire out.

A glance at the flames roiling through the roof made it an impossible dream. He never thought he'd be glad for an earthquake, but if it hadn't happened and rendered the inn empty, there would no doubt be bodies on the lawn.

He put his arm around Sylvia's shoulders and drew her down to sit beside him on the grass. He could feel the trembling in her, as well.

“Where's the fire department?” she demanded.

Lyle shook his head. “It's a ways to town. And when they get here I don't think …” He looked up at the debacle in progress.

“Who would want to burn out Buck and Mary?” Sylvia's anger rose.

He didn't have an answer. But, as great showers of sparks flew up to join the stars burning in the night sky, Lyle recalled Andre Valetti telling him he wouldn't get away with making accusations.

Sylvia rode with Lyle in his Mercedes through the predawn darkness, down the Silverado Trail to Napa's Queen of the Valley Hospital. They were following the ambulance with Buck and Mary.

Though she and Lyle were okay, at least physically, the fear-ache in her had not subsided. “Mary and Buck were good to me,” she told the highway's centerline.

“Fine folks,” Lyle agreed. “Mary was like a bantam hen protecting her chick when she thought I was your abuser.”

“This shouldn't have happened to them.” When she got the chance, she would ask them whether they had any enemies.

She didn't think it likely.

Looking out at the narrow strip of illumination from the headlights, she watched the vine rows go by on either side of the road. It was hard to believe that only a couple of hours ago, she'd been happier than she had dreamed possible. If only she could wake up and discover they were still in the big bed … she'd tell him her nightmare and he'd hold her.

Looking over at Lyle's profile in the dash lights, she reached and laid a hand on his forearm. He let go of the steering wheel and put his palm on her thigh, making her feel safer than she had since waking in a fiery hell.

“Buck said the fire started in my room,” she ventured.

“There probably isn't any meaning to it. Who would know it was your room?”

“We've had two close calls now.”

He took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “It would be tempting to think somebody's
really
trying to tell us something.”

He'd said the same thing last night and she'd told him to forget it. A fateful event like an earthquake was random, not aimed at trying to tear two people apart.

But what about arson?

If the gasoline bomb had been intended for her room, then how and why? She didn't think anyone knew where she was, but that could be wrong. Being in Lava Springs, away from the limelight, she'd almost convinced herself she could lead a normal life.

One that could include the man beside her.

“If something is sending signals,” she said softly, “I'd like to believe it's telling us to hold on to each other.”

“You and me both, babe.”

T
he clock in the ER waiting room at Queen of the Valley showed 7:00 a.m. Lyle sat beside Sylvia, both of them staring at the morning news on a wall-mounted TV, while Buck riffled the pages of a battered
People
with a headline speculating whether Brad and Jennifer would break up.

Images of the war in Iraq, turmoil in the Middle East, and the San Francisco arrest of a man suspected of killing his girlfriend did not distract Lyle from last night's arson. Sylvia had said it best—who would want to burn out Buck and Mary?

Two kind retirees, proud and happy with their inn. It didn't make sense unless there was some family or money business, and that was always a possibility. One was more likely to be injured or killed by family or friends than by a stranger.

His mind spun. Andre hadn't threatened him in so many words, at least not physically. And though he'd been down at the springs around dark, the fire had been hours later.

More likely, according to the KISS system—keep it simple, stupid—he should stick with the fact it had been Sylvia's room. She might have been the target of someone who'd recognized her and decided to get at the Senator. If that were the case, he'd have to stay close and make sure nothing else happened.