Borderlines by Archer Mayor Page A

me you didn’t have any air left in that tank.” “Not a whole lot.” I opened my eyes. Good thing I’m not religiously inclined, huh?” For all the chaos I’d witnessed on the inside, the building was still remarkably intact. Its roof was pretty much history-a good chunk of it had been blown away by the explosion-and all the window tops were charred and smeared black, but the walls remained standing for the most part. Still, my guess was the whole thing was unsalvageable. I realized my trying to be lighthearted had bordered on being flippant, which was not my intent. “It’s funny. I know Rennie and I came close to dying in there, but it all seems kind of far away right now.
    “You must be tired.” I smiled. “That I am.” Fire trucks from at least five surrounding towns were parked every which way. The ground was littered with a spaghetti-like maze of hard, frozen hose, glistening in ice-rimmed pools of water that were starting to reflect the sun’s washed out daily appearance. Firemen wandered about, collecting equipment, chatting, banging at hose connections with rubber mallets.
    And in the midst of all this solemn, dark and brooding quiet, stood the remains of the charcoaled house and five extinguished lives, huddled as we’d found them, wards of the state now of the arson investigators, the police, and the medical examiner.
    What had caused that fire? I wondered, and shuddered suddenly.
    Mentally replaying what I’d just been through, I recalled the spasm of panic I’d felt when the hose had gone flat, just before the explosion.
    There’d been no time for reflection at the time. Indeed, it had happened so fast, I’d almost thought it part and parcel with what had followed. But I knew otherwise now, and the realization scared me. My running out of water had had nothing to do with the explosion. Buster’s large profile stepped between me and the source of my reverie. He handed me a cup of coffee. “How’re you feeling?” “Tired.” “I bet.” He looked at me steadily, his face solemn. “I’m glad you made it, Butch.”
    I lifted my cup to him. “Butch,” for him, was the ultimate endearment.
    “Feeling’s mutual.” But his expression was steady, almost hard. “How did it happen?” “Damned if I know. Flashover, I guess; it got incredibly hot just before it blew. I suppose whatever ventilation there was wasn’t reaching the landing; maybe the attic had something to do with it. I just don’t know. It was pretty confusing.” I took a sip of coffee, which burned on the way down. My throat was sore from the smoke. “Dick said he told Rennie to get the hell out of there when he asked for the ladder.” My mind began to focus on what was going on here.
    Buster was after something seeking to lay blame. Any questions I was about to ask concerning the the flat hose line were pushed aside. “I heard some shouting,” I said vaguely.
    “Well, that’s what he said. What did Rennie tell you?” “He said we ought to check out the other bedroom. I agreed with him.” “He didn’t tell you Dick warned him the attic was about to go?” “He may have tried.
    You know what communication’s like with those things on.” There was a long, drawn-out silence between us. Then Buster pushed out his lips and turned away. “I gotta go check on the equipment.” We watched him lumber off.
    “Is he mad about something?” Laura asked. I leaned back again, watching the women’s auxiliary, chatting and laughing, serving their hot coffee and doughnuts to all corners. “We were just kind of bumping bellies.” “Over what?” “Oh, I don’t know. Different people have different ways of doing things. I think he feels we shouldn’t have gotten so close to getting killed.” She was quiet for a couple of seconds. “And he’s trying to blame Rennie.” “He’s just upset, trying to find answers when there’s no point to.
    He’ll let it go in a while.” I didn’t quite believe that he’d let it