Page 80 of Backwoods
Many of them gaped at the vehicle, awestruck, as if it were a fiery chariot that had descended from the heavens.
“What good’s it going to do to set it on fire when it gets made new every night?” Amiya asked Grandpa Lee.
“We’ve got to break the cycle,” Grandpa Lee said. He slammed the truck into park. “It’s like trying to untie a knot. We can’t untie it, so we just gotta tear it all apart. Fire started the curse. Only fire can end it.”
She didn’t understand what he meant about a curse, but he seemed to have a depth of knowledge about the situation that surpassed everyone else’s, and she questioned if he had known, all along, what had been going on back here. The possibility disturbed her.
But there was no time for such worries. The Overseer would turn up again, soon, and in the meantime, they had work to do.
She didn’t want to dwell on the Overseer too much, either.
She forced open the passenger door. She and the others literally spilled out of the truck.
“If we’re setting this place on fire,” Raven said, “we’ve got to get everyone out of the house.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ossie said. “We’ll get everyone into the front yard, a good ways away from whatever fire you get going.”
The two of them dashed inside the house through the front doorway.
Grandpa Lee lowered the truck’s lift-gate and looked at Amiya. “Grab a couple cans of kerosene out the back here. You and me, we need to soak it down, every floor.”
Amiya peered at the flatbed. Several gleaming metal cans of kerosene stood on the flatbed floor. It was enough of the flammable substance to set a fire on the property that would be visible for miles.
She slid two of the cans toward her, grabbed their handles, and lifted them out of the truck. It was like picking up two ten-pound dumbbells in each hand. She had been worn down from everything that had happened that day—the misadventures and terrors—but somehow, she summoned the strength to lug the kerosene toward the mansion’s front steps.
“Matches.” Grandpa Lee tossed her a box of matchsticks. “Don’t wait around. Soon as you soak a room, light it up.”
Amiya shuffled inside as fast as she could. The house staff, those who hadn’t already gone outside, were in a state of chaos. Raven and Ossie were trying to convince them to leave, but Amiya saw people shaking their heads, crying, shouting disagreements.
“We’re setting Westbrook on fire!” Amiya shouted, lifting a can of kerosene and waving it as if it were a flag. “Get out or you’ll burn in here!”
Fear spread across their faces. Perhaps her warning would spur them into action.
Amiya hurried to the staircase, fuel sloshing with each step. It was a long journey to the third level, but she made it up there. She spun open a can and dribbled the clear, sharp-smelling fluid throughout the wide open area where she had first watched night come over the land.
Then she struck a match and set it ablaze.
The fire came instantly, like angry spirits rising from the floor. The intense heat baked the perspiration on her face. She hustled back down the staircase to the second floor.
The second floor contained all of the bedrooms and a bath, and she needed to saturate each one. Planning to work her way back from one end to the other, she began by opening the closed door at the termination of the long corridor.
It was a room she hadn’t seen before, but she immediately recognized its purpose: Robert Westbrook’s private quarters.
The décor was ostentatious: Persian area rugs with intricate designs; heavy maroon velvet draperies flanking the long double-sash windows; an immense four-post bed fashioned from mahogany, with gold highlights; overstuffed chairs with gold inlays; a glittering crystal chandelier; a fireplace spacious enough to roast a pig, alight with dancing flames.
Robert Westbrook stood in front of the fireplace. At her entrance, he turned.
“You’ve reconsidered my offer, eh, lady?” he asked.
Such a wave of shock washed over Amiya that she almost lost her grip on the kerosene can. Almost.
I slit his throat from ear to ear and watched him collapse. How can he be alive?
Although alive, his movements weren’t as well-coordinated as before. His head appeared slightly out of sync with his neck, as if it had been soldered back onto his body by a blind craftsman. A faint red line marked where she had sliced his throat with the blade.
“I won’t be such a gentleman this time, my lady,” Westbrook said.
He flashed his shark’s grin. He ambled toward her with jerky steps, like a poorly handled puppet.
