Death of a firebug
The story so far: On the way back to the farm after their big racing triumph, Mr. Brennan points out to Ben that bloodlines matter only with racing horses – not with people. But as they approach the farm, they find the barn on fire.
• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Death of a firebug
Mr. Brennan punched 9-1-1 into his cell phone as the truck rocketed up the driveway spewing gravel. “Wind Rider Farms, off Route 41 – barn fire!” the man yelled into the phone, his eyes on the barn.
Ben unbuckled his seat belt and put both hands on the door handle, ready to jump out. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew there were horses in that barn and that he would do anything to repay the kindness this man had shown him.
“Follow me!” Brennan said.
They both leaped from the truck and hit the ground running. Ben could smell the fire now, and the sound of horses whinnying grew louder by the second. For an instant, they both stood in the doorway: Above them, the hayloft was burning. Sparks and glowing embers were falling into the center aisle, and the horses were kicking and jumping in their stalls.
“We can’t take them through into the paddock, they’ll never go beneath the fire,” Brennan said. He looked at Ben, his face a mask of anxiety. “Just open the doors and get the horses out. Slap them, yell at them, make them run out this way. We’ll worry about catching them later.”
Nodding, Ben ran into the barn behind Brennan and opened the nearest stall door. “Move! Get out!” he yelled, waving his arms at the black mare inside.
She reared, hooves slashing the air, and then tried to turn into the corner of the stall. Flapping his arms and yelling wildly, Ben dodged in and got between her and the back wall.
She took one look at the fire and bolted for the open door. From across the aisle, another horse burst out, eyes wide with terror.
Ben fumbled with the metal bolt on the door of the next stall, but his hands were already slippery with sweat and shaking.
The crackling and hissing above made his knees weak. At last he slid the bolt open, and as soon as he swung the door wide the horse bounded out and made for freedom.
If Ben had ever wondered if he was a firebug, he now knew that he wasn’t. He hated this fire, hated the roaring voice of it, the embers that rained down onto his head and singed his hair and skin.
The horse in the next stall was screaming, turning in tight circles in a panic. The thought went through Ben’s mind that this horse could hurt him – kill him, even – but he went in anyway, yelling like a madman, and the horse streaked past him.
The barn was thick with smoke now, and he could barely see as he darted out of the stall after the fleeing horse. He ran from stall to stall, checking through the open doors, running on.
“They’re all out!” Ben gasped, jumping backward as a bundle of flaming hay plummeted past him. He turned, looking for Brennan.
Which way was the yard and which way the paddock? He’d gotten turned around, disoriented. He could dimly make out the open doors at each end of the aisle, but the fire seemed to be everywhere overhead now, and Ben couldn’t tell which direction to take.
Then he saw a horse and rider silhouetted against one of the doors.
“They’re all out!” he called, heading toward them.
The rider urged the horse forward, toward Ben.
“No, they’re all out! Go back!” Ben called, and doubled over, coughing.
Then the smoke swirled apart and he saw who the rider was – Joe Pastore; where his eyes should have been were two holes that churned with fire, and his clothes trailed evil-looking black smoke.
“You were supposed to come back alone!” Joe yelled, hatred twisting his features into a grotesque mask.
Ben stared, his own eyes stinging from the heat. “You meant for me to get blamed, didn’t you! But Brennan knows I didn’t do it – I was with him!”
“Ben!” Mr. Brennan’s voice came faintly through the roaring of the fire.
Ben began backing away from Joe. “You go to hell, Joe. We got the horses out, and Mr. Brennan knows I didn’t start this fire.”
“BEN! GET OUT!”
As Joe dug his heels into the ghost horse’s sides, Ben turned and fled. Above him, there was a loud crack and a louder roar of flame, and a blazing beam fell into the aisle. Choking, Ben dodged aside, while the hoofbeats pounded behind him.
“BEN! THIS WAY!”
Sirens were wailing, but Ben couldn’t see. He only knew that Joe was trying to run him down, trample him, and so he ran blindly forward.
With a gasp, he threw himself toward the door and burst out into sunlight just as the fire trucks screamed up the driveway. Brennan caught him and hauled him upright, dragging him away from the barn.
The entire structure was engulfed, but as Ben turned to watch, he saw the outline of the horse and rider standing inside the barn door. Just as Joe was about to spur the ghost horse again, the barn roof caved in with a tremendous crash, consuming the evil Joe Pastore once more.
• NEXT WEEK: In the Winner’s Circle