they find it, and if they don’t, they’ll tear up the rest of Kansas. We’re safest with our own authorities.”
“No, no, that’s not how it works,” said Floyd. “I seen it plenty of times in Europe. A guy stumbles across something big, a busted bank vault or the treasury under some old chateau. He turns it over to the MPs or the Judge Advocate General, next thing he knows, he’s peeling potatoes on bivouac in Libya while some officers cut themselves in for a percentage and maybe take a few extra medals for the poor guy’s trouble. We need to keep this between us two. See, the way out is, we catch the Nazis and turn ’em over to the authorities ourselves. The war is over, how many of them can there be around here?”
I thought about the inimical Mrs. Sigurdsen from the library. Maybe we could work an angle with her, rat her right into Leavenworth. It was a pleasant if passing fantasy.
I shook my head violently. “Floyd, now you have me thinking like an idiot. We are not going Nazi hunting. The farther away we stay from these people, the safer we will all be. You, me, your parents, my dad. Everybody.”
Floyd opened his mouth to say something else when the fire siren went off in Augusta. We were more than ten miles away from town, but when the wind was out of the west, you could hear it. That siren was loud.
“Oh, crud,” said Floyd, turning to run back into the house. “I hope that’s not a refinery fire.”
The Mobil refinery was Augusta’s biggest employer. If anything bad happened there, the town was in deep trouble.
I dropped the molding I had been cutting and trotted after him. As an afterthought, I stopped, turned to grab the silvery thing, and jammed it into my pocket. It didn’t seem like something to leave lying around outside, not even in the Bellamys’ yard. Especially not there, perhaps.
I can’t run like Floyd, because of my bad leg, but I can walk pretty fast when the need arises. I made it through the kitchen just as Floyd clattered up the stairs. I followed him up to find him standing outside his bedroom window out on the porch roof. From down the hall, Mr. Bellamy was yelling something about fire axes.
“What is it?” I asked. I knew Floyd could see part of Augusta from the porch roof if he stood on his toes and strained. The Bellamys’ farm was pretty high up on a ridge east of town, off Haverhill Road.
“Smoke,” said Floyd.
“Is it the refinery?”
“No, looks like a building fire. Let’s get into town.”
“I’ll drive,” I said. I wasn’t letting him touch the wheel of Doc Milliken’s Cadillac, and his truck was at my boarding house.
I limped downstairs and started the convertible. Floyd came running out of the house, carrying an axe and a shovel, followed by Mr. Bellamy moving more slowly, carrying another axe. They threw the tools in the back seat. Floyd jumped in after the tools, while Mr. Bellamy opened the passenger door and got in the front.
“Let’s go, Varian,” rasped Mr. Bellamy over the rumble of the Cadillac’s V-8 engine. As we pulled away, he began to cough.
* * *
We roared into town in the middle of an impromptu caravan of volunteer firefighters — everything from rattletrap hay wagons to a cut-down bus. As we drove up Highway 54 towards State Street, I had a sinking feeling about where the smoke was coming from. Reverend Little was at the head of our little caravan in his flatbed Chevy, and as he turned north onto State Street, I was sure the fire would be on Broadway.
It was. Mrs. Swenson’s boarding house was in flames. My heart seized with that moment of cold terror you experience when you fly over the neck of a horse, or try to land an airplane solo for the first time. The thick, tarry smell of a burning house filled my nose. It was hot to be near it, hotter than a summer’s day in the hay fields. Even the willow tree in the yard was burning, which in some illogical fashion struck me as a greater tragedy. The house was dying
“No, no, that’s not how it works,” said Floyd. “I seen it plenty of times in Europe. A guy stumbles across something big, a busted bank vault or the treasury under some old chateau. He turns it over to the MPs or the Judge Advocate General, next thing he knows, he’s peeling potatoes on bivouac in Libya while some officers cut themselves in for a percentage and maybe take a few extra medals for the poor guy’s trouble. We need to keep this between us two. See, the way out is, we catch the Nazis and turn ’em over to the authorities ourselves. The war is over, how many of them can there be around here?”
I thought about the inimical Mrs. Sigurdsen from the library. Maybe we could work an angle with her, rat her right into Leavenworth. It was a pleasant if passing fantasy.
I shook my head violently. “Floyd, now you have me thinking like an idiot. We are not going Nazi hunting. The farther away we stay from these people, the safer we will all be. You, me, your parents, my dad. Everybody.”
Floyd opened his mouth to say something else when the fire siren went off in Augusta. We were more than ten miles away from town, but when the wind was out of the west, you could hear it. That siren was loud.
“Oh, crud,” said Floyd, turning to run back into the house. “I hope that’s not a refinery fire.”
The Mobil refinery was Augusta’s biggest employer. If anything bad happened there, the town was in deep trouble.
I dropped the molding I had been cutting and trotted after him. As an afterthought, I stopped, turned to grab the silvery thing, and jammed it into my pocket. It didn’t seem like something to leave lying around outside, not even in the Bellamys’ yard. Especially not there, perhaps.
I can’t run like Floyd, because of my bad leg, but I can walk pretty fast when the need arises. I made it through the kitchen just as Floyd clattered up the stairs. I followed him up to find him standing outside his bedroom window out on the porch roof. From down the hall, Mr. Bellamy was yelling something about fire axes.
“What is it?” I asked. I knew Floyd could see part of Augusta from the porch roof if he stood on his toes and strained. The Bellamys’ farm was pretty high up on a ridge east of town, off Haverhill Road.
“Smoke,” said Floyd.
“Is it the refinery?”
“No, looks like a building fire. Let’s get into town.”
“I’ll drive,” I said. I wasn’t letting him touch the wheel of Doc Milliken’s Cadillac, and his truck was at my boarding house.
I limped downstairs and started the convertible. Floyd came running out of the house, carrying an axe and a shovel, followed by Mr. Bellamy moving more slowly, carrying another axe. They threw the tools in the back seat. Floyd jumped in after the tools, while Mr. Bellamy opened the passenger door and got in the front.
“Let’s go, Varian,” rasped Mr. Bellamy over the rumble of the Cadillac’s V-8 engine. As we pulled away, he began to cough.
* * *
We roared into town in the middle of an impromptu caravan of volunteer firefighters — everything from rattletrap hay wagons to a cut-down bus. As we drove up Highway 54 towards State Street, I had a sinking feeling about where the smoke was coming from. Reverend Little was at the head of our little caravan in his flatbed Chevy, and as he turned north onto State Street, I was sure the fire would be on Broadway.
It was. Mrs. Swenson’s boarding house was in flames. My heart seized with that moment of cold terror you experience when you fly over the neck of a horse, or try to land an airplane solo for the first time. The thick, tarry smell of a burning house filled my nose. It was hot to be near it, hotter than a summer’s day in the hay fields. Even the willow tree in the yard was burning, which in some illogical fashion struck me as a greater tragedy. The house was dying
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