18
Sam possessed a flair for creating a plan of action during the worst of times, and it took him no more than ten seconds to calculate the odds. He held his focus. His eyes still locked on the big red fire engine—not just any engine, it was an Ahrens-Fox, the Rolls-Royce of firefighters.
His childhood passion came flooding back as he remembered riding his bicycle to a fire station with his pals, helping the firemen polish their equipment in exchange for a free ride, with siren shrieking, bell ringing.
The firemen didn’t call it a fire truck, but a pumper. The engine was a massive four cylinders behind the radiator, and a maze of valves and faucets mounted beneath a big nickel-plated ball that increased pressure enough that it could throw water onto the roof of a forty-story building.
On occasion, the firemen would show the boys how to open certain valves so they could shoot water over a cornfield behind the station.
As Sam recalled the events of twenty-five years ago, when he felt he had to work a complicated crossword puzzle in just minutes, he judged the distance from the pumper to the iron door. Eighty feet for acceleration, then add the momentum and the weight of impact and deduct the drag of the flat tires.
At best, it was a toss-up.
Remi had found a piece of wire and was using it to tie her hair up in a ponytail. “Couldn’t be worse,” she said, with a grim smile thrown toward Sam.
Black smoke was rising and flowing through the shattered skylights and becoming a cloud that soon spread and stained the sky outside. Burning debris from the rafters fell on everything, starting small fires. The heat was already unbearable, and their breathing was starting to come in painful gasps.
“Oliver. Oliver!” Sam shouted. “Oliver!”
But Oliver was lost in fear. He sat like a statue, his face ice white, eyes glazed, blankly staring at the blazing rafters ready to fall. Remi clapped her hands right in front of his eyes, trying to get his attention.
Sam shook the man’s shoulder. “Oliver! The fire engine, does it run?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “It should.” He seemed to stare right through Sam as he answered. “Got the Bentley running, so we could sell it.”
“Why is it still hidden away in a warehouse?”
“Collectors claimed it had a replica body and too many flaws. They all refused to pay me, so I hid it away.”
“And the fire pumper?”
“My grandfather kept it in a building on the farm as a safety vehicle in case of fire in the buildings or the fields.”
Sam looked at Remi with a look that belonged in a pickle jar. “If we get out of here, we’ll rewrite the book.”
Sam walked over to the grease pit that was sunk into a trench below the concrete floor. The flaming diesel was throwing up a torrid wall of fire like lava bursting from a volcanic eruption on the Big Island of Hawaii.
Sam had no more patience.
“What about the pumper? It’s bigger and heavier, to ram the doors?”
Oliver continued to stare right through Sam. “The Bentley is . . . faster. Couldn’t sell it. The deal fell through. Must have some gas in its tank.”
Sam ignored Oliver’s mumbled reply, rushed over to the pumper, and raised the hood. The gas valve was in plain sight. He checked to see if it was in the closed position as a safety measure in case the Ahrens-Fox had sat for any length of time. He switched the lever to the on position and then checked to see if the battery showed any signs of life. There was a weak display of sparks when he tapped the two terminals together, but not nearly enough juice to turn the big four cylinders fast enough to cause combustion.
“Is that it?” Remi asked, her voice slightly above a murmur through the clean shop rags she’d wrapped as a mask around her face to prevent her inhaling the acrid fumes. “How do you plan to start this thing?”
At that moment, Sam felt the floor vibrate under his feet seconds before the far section of the warehouse roof crashed to the concrete floor in an explosive typhoon that seemed like it was controlled by a madman.
Faint sirens began to be heard over the deadly intensity. But by the time the firemen arrived, it would be too late.
With every minute, death crept closer. The only bit of fortune that came their way was that the Ahrens-Fox had been parked directly in front of the huge door, their only hope of escape.
Remi was standing close to Sam but spoke no more. She kept staring at those damned doors as if she could part them with her mind.
Sam looked at Remi. “Better you hop in the driver’s seat than me.”
Remi stared back at Sam as if he was a tree stump.
“What makes you think I can drive this old thing?”
“I have to start her from the outside. If I’m successful, I can get seated and launch the pumper in time to strike the door.”
Remi shook her head. “There must be another way.”
“If you don’t listen to my instructions,” he said hoarsely, “we all die.”
She had never heard Sam speak to her with his voice so cold. A scowl crossed her face, but she said nothing. She knew this was no time to waste arguing with him when his mind was set. Every moment, fiery debris from above fell in a storm that came closer and closer to the ancient fire engine.
Sam’s eyes were set, sweat was pouring down his face, yet there was no expression of fear. He looked into the eyes of his sweetheart and said, “Time to go. Take the seat behind the steering wheel. Oliver, get onto the fire truck.”
Oliver blindly tried to climb into the truck on his own. Sam gave him a boost, and he slid into the section behind Remi.
“The lever on the left side of the steering wheel controls the ignition,” Sam explained. “Pull it down to its stop when the engine begins to turn over and fire. The right lever is the throttle. The top stop is the idle position. When it begins to start, jiggle it a few inches up and down to build up the revolutions per minute until the engine smooths out. Use it as you would a gas pedal on a car.” Next, he gave her a quick instruction on shifting the gears of the transmission.
“How can I start it,” asked Remi, “with a battery that’s almost dead?”
Sam held up a hand and produced a silver-plated crank. “This is how I have to start the engine. I’ll take over when the engine fires up.”
“You’d better hurry it.” Remi barely got the words out before the blaze surrounding the pumper began assaulting the tires that started hissing.
Sam ran to the front of the truck and yelled back to Remi, “Ignition on.”
“On!” Remi repeated in a choked voice.
Sam remembered how to crank an ancient engine. He and his buddies used to drive the school majorettes onto the field before the football game in an old Model T Ford with no self-starter that had to be cranked by hand until the engine turned over and began running.
He grabbed the crank by the handle, braced his arm, and heaved.
The crank barely moved a quarter of a circle.
Again. This time he managed to make a full swing, as the oil began circulating inside the engine. The third pull came a little easier, but there still was no indication the engine was going to start.
Sam looked up and saw flames dancing along the rafters and support beams overhead. Then as he tightened his hand on the crank, he peered through the maze of pipes, pumps, and valves over the front of the radiator to see if Remi was still conscious and able to grip the steering wheel with one hand with the other hand on the gearshift.
Grim determination was etched on her lovely face.
Sam lost track of the time as he turned the crank but still no burst of exhaust. His arms were so numb he felt as if they had abandoned his body. He began to gasp more from the physical effort than from the fumes of the fire. After a few more spins of the crank Sam was physically finished. Curiously, he was not conscious of the blisters rising on
his hands. He sank to one knee, heart pounding, lungs heaving, vision fading, certain he could make only one more twist of the crank.
He would crawl up to the seats and embrace Remi for one last time.
Despite the turbulence, his body reeling, he heard her calling him.
At first, his foggy mind dismissed it. Then he saw her waving at him over the windshield. He shouted that he was done in, but she shook her head and yelled back, “The engine turned over on the last crank. I’m not sure, I think I heard it pop from the muffler.”
Sam struggled to his feet and grabbed the crank handle. His final effort, urged on by his beloved soul mate. This time he swung the crank using both hands with the little strength he had left. There was a muffled pop out the exhaust pipe. Sam felt as if he entered another dimension. With renewed effort, he swung the crank again.
This time the popping sound became a low growl as Remi pumped the gas pedal to raise the rpm’s. The old engine coughed a few times and began to growl, then turned over smoothly without losing a beat.
“I’ll take it from here!” Sam yelled to Remi above the crackling flames now in tune with the crumbling walls of the warehouse. “Take the passenger seat and hunch down.”
The huge tires hissed as they rolled over the spreading pools of burning oil. No time to be clever, Sam aimed the big silver-plated globe in front on a straight course toward the huge iron barrier, put the truck into first gear, and mashed the gas pedal to the floor.
The Ahrens-Fox approached the iron barrier at a speed Sam didn’t think possible. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and threw an arm around Remi when the pumper was less than five feet from the massive doors.
At almost the same instant of the collision, the entire roof and the two remaining walls collapsed in a black glow of whirling smoke. The pumper plunged into the great door with a horrendous crash that sounded like the burst of an explosive.
The massive door refused to fall after the old vehicle came to an abrupt stop. Sam was surprised to see so much damage to the fire engine. Amazingly, it was still running, but the valves and pumps on the front end were a mangled mess.
“Hit it again!” Remi shouted like a cheerleader at a college football game.
Sam made no reply except to grind the transmission gear into reverse, backing up fifty feet, before shifting into first gear.
Crouched behind Sam, Oliver looked as if he was lost in a tunnel.
Sam ignored the growing agony in his hands and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he rammed the gas pedal into the floorboard. The engine rattled like it was about to blow apart, but it responded by leaping forward and smashing into the door. Agonizing seconds that seemed like a full minute passed but nothing happened. Then slowly, incredibly slowly, the hinges began tearing away from the doorframe where they had been welded. Shattered, they ripped away, the massive door seeming to hesitate, frozen in time, before falling forward and crashing flat onto the cobblestone street with a great roar. Sam steered through the burning debris until they were in the clear and stopped under gushes of water from the firemen Remi had called.
Taking deep breaths to clear their lungs, they climbed down to the street.
“Now, that was a close call, Fargo,” Remi said.
“You doubted us?”
“Never us. The fire truck.”
“An Ahrens-Fox? How could you?” Sam took Remi in his arms, brushed the hair from her face, kissed her sooty forehead, backed away, holding out a little something he found. “I believe this is yours. A souvenir to remember an exciting day.”
Remi’s eyes widened as she reached behind her head, groping in her mussed hair for the little wire she had used to tie her ponytail. Sam passed it to her. “I found it on the floorboard below the brake pedal.”
Remi put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss him.
“I remember now why I married you. You’re hopelessly sentimental.”
19
Once the fire department had cleared what was left of the building, and the police report made—without mentioning that Sam or Remi had shot back at the gunmen—Sam watched as the investigator took photos of the door they’d escaped through.
“You’re lucky you got out,” the officer said.
To be sure, Sam eyed what was left of the building. Had it not been for the antique fire engine, they would never have escaped.
He looked over at the building where the camera was mounted, asking the investigator, “Any chance we can get a copy of that video?”
“I’ll check into it for you.”
Turned out that the camera was non-operational.
A little too convenient, in Sam’s mind, especially considering the camera was working when it showed Oliver’s uncle stealing the car.
* * *
—
THE NEXT MORNING, at Payton Manor, as the three sat around the breakfast table, Sam wondered why they’d been specifically targeted. “Either someone was watching the place or someone told them we were on our way there.”
“Nobody here would do that,” Oliver said. “I trust my uncle’s staff implicitly.” He was looking a lot better than he had last night after they’d taken him to the hospital. The wound on his arm was deep and required a few stitches. Mostly, he was suffering from shock, but after a good night’s rest he’d recovered sufficiently. “They’d never do anything to hurt him.”
“Well, someone knew we were there.” The real question was, for how long? Whoever it was, they had the inside knowledge of Oliver’s movements ever since Pebble Beach, possibly even before. “I think we’re going to have to back up a few steps. We need to talk to that attorney Selma hired for your grandfather. If anyone can tell us what’s going on with this case, he can.”
Sam called the number Selma had given to him, on speakerphone.
“David Cooke’s office,” a woman answered.
“Sam Fargo, here, with Oliver Payton. Is Mr. Cooke available?”
“One moment, please.”
Cooke answered a minute later. “Glad you called,” he said. “I’ve hired a top investigator for the case. Just heard back from him about that video the police have. According to his report, a couple of things of note. First, the white-haired man climbing in that window looks a bit too fit to be a seventy-something-year-old with memory problems. More importantly, the video’s grainy enough to be useless for a positive identification.”
“Which, apparently, didn’t stop the police from arresting him,” Sam said.
“Because of all the other circumstantial evidence, including that the Viscount owns the warehouse where the murder took place. Whoever set him up put a lot of thought into it. Which brings me to my next point. The car show in London. The cameras worked up until the fire alarm sounded as the distraction to empty the convention hall. A little too convenient that suddenly there was a malfunction, and no video exists of the theft. Also, the video from the days leading up to it were deleted.”
Sam and Remi exchanged glances. “Agreed,” Sam said. “Too convenient.”
“It gets even more interesting. The security guard who had access to the cameras? He’s the chap found dead at the Manchester warehouse fire. Autopsy still pending.”
“Anything on him?”
“Not yet. Scotland Yard’s working on restoring the digital images leading up to the fire alarm. Unfortunately, that’s all my investigator has so far.”
“That’s a good start,” Sam said.
“Quite. I can tell you this much, though. It doesn’t seem to be a crime of opportunity. My investigator informs me it seems to be a rather sophisticated operation. A lot went into the planning, even killing one of the men involved. In other words, Mr. Payton needs to be careful, as does anyone around him.”
“We’ll all be careful,” Sam told him. “Thanks for the update.”
“That,” Re
mi said, as Sam disconnected the call, “certainly is troubling.”
Oliver’s brow furrowed as he looked at Sam. “I have to wonder about the dead security guard. Why go to all the trouble to kill him? Just so Uncle Albert would be arrested?”
“If I had to guess,” Sam replied, “it was to make sure nothing led back to whoever’s really behind this. You and I both know your uncle couldn’t have done this on his own, which means that security guard was a loose end. Your uncle was a convenient target to throw suspicion.”
Oliver folded his napkin, set it on the table, pushed his plate away. “Who would do this to him? He must be worried sick.”
“At least the solicitor Selma hired has a decent investigator to help look into things,” Remi said. “We don’t have to wait for the police to release the details.”
Sam checked his phone. “Speaking of . . . Text from Selma.” He opened it, read it aloud: “Rolls-Royce commissioned two demonstrator cars to be shown at the 1906 Olympia show. When the Gray Ghost was damaged, they replaced it with the unfinished Silver Ghost, which made its official debut in March of ’07.”
“Nothing else about the Gray Ghost?” Remi asked.
“Looks like the Silver Ghost got all the attention after that.”
“Prettier paint job?” Remi said.
“That, and more press,” Oliver added. “The Gray Ghost was the one that suffered the hard knocks before they put the Silver Ghost through the trials.”
“This is interesting,” Sam said, scrolling through the text. “There’s no official record of the Gray Ghost. Selma says the chassis number you gave us, 60543, isn’t registered. Every source she found shows that they skipped that number—which would have been on the fourth chassis.” Sam looked up from his phone, eyeing Oliver. “Know anything about that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. A rather unusual story, in fact.”