Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,126

fire truck roars by. I track it instantly. Except the fire engine barely makes it three blocks before coming to a screeching halt, and I realize belatedly the sky is gray not from low-hanging clouds, but from plumes of smoke.

The sidewalks are a crush of activity. Groups of students moving away from the fire in an organized fashion, intermingled with lone gawkers who want to see what’s going on. I decide to play gawker, too, pulling the hood of my gray sweatshirt over my head and burying my hands deep in the pockets of my down jacket as I shoulder my way toward the bustling firemen, already pulling hoses and shouting orders.

I had assumed Rocket was headed toward Evie’s mother’s stately Colonial in the residential part of Cambridge. But given the kid’s penchant for burning things, I have to figure he’s behind this latest danger, even if I don’t understand why.

Which means he’s around, somewhere. Watching.

Except then I identify the firemen’s target and draw up short. I’m not looking at a building fire. Something big and ominous and impressive. I’m looking at a narrow cloud of smoke, followed by a sudden skinny burst of flame. Except there’s another and another and another. Trash cans. I’m looking at four trash cans, spaced at random intervals, all on fire.

What the hell?

I think back to the first night I met Rocket, that particular trash can. And almost on cue, a new line of smoke rises in the distance …

I don’t yell at the firemen. I burst into a run. It’s Rocket. I know it. Working his way across campus, dropping firebombs as he goes. Why, I have no idea. But I’ve met the boy and this … this is exactly his style. Fire, beautiful and mysterious and everywhere.

Screaming. Chaos. None of the fires are big; it’s the sheer number and randomness that are leading to panic. Trash cans bursting aflame here and then there and here again. Students are trying to scurry off campus as fast as I and various firemen try to push through. The firefighters need to hose down each trash can and stomp out embers. Me, I need to get to the head of the line, spot the source.

How is Rocket pulling this off? No way he boarded the subway with canisters of gasoline or a backpack of Molotov cocktails. Had he already stashed supplies nearby? A first stockpile for the lawyer’s town house? A second buried behind a dumpster on campus? Is there another target?

I spy a figure moving ahead. Not running, but definitely moving in a brisk, direct fashion. Dark hoodie—not dissimilar to mine—pulled over his face. I don’t stop to think if this is wise, or what I’m going to do if I draw too close and Rocket notices me. I trust in my training and the low buzz of adrenaline that’s jolting through my entire system.

As I’d explained to Keith, it’s hard for a girl like me to experience an up.

But this … this does it for me every time.

Rocket. Right in front of me. He turns just as I start to close the gap. For one moment we’re eye to eye. He has a backpack slung over one arm. As I watch, he pulls out a small clear bottle. Alcohol. With a rag stuffed into its neck. A Molotov cocktail, just as I had expected, in a bag he must’ve stashed somewhere nearby. Meaning he knew he was coming here. All part of his plan. Burn down a lawyer’s tony brownstone in downtown Boston, then head to Cambridge and light up a college campus.

Why?

My time for thinking is up. Rocket is no longer holding the Molotov cocktail; he’s lit the fuse and is hurtling it straight at me. I yelp, dive left. The flaming alcohol hits the ground to my right, where lucky for me, it sputters out against the winter mush. I don’t bother checking it. There are enough professionals on-site and my mission is clear. I clamber to my feet and start running. There, up ahead. I spot the dark hoodie again. Rocket, running pell-mell through a startled crowd of bundled up students. The kid is crazy fast. In a straight-out sprint, I’m never gonna take him. Instead, I do my best to guess his direction, then race a diagonal intercept.

I’m just starting to gain on him, when he glances over his shoulder and realizes my strategy. Just like that, he veers left, farther away from me. I redouble my efforts, plowing through