Dirk and Summer dragged Brophy to the very back of the building and set him on the floor.
Brophy coughed and waved them away. “Leave me be and save yourselves.”
“Stay down on the ground with him to avoid the smoke,” Dirk yelled to Summer.
He flipped over a table to provide a modest heat shield, then stepped to a sliding shelf ladder. The bookshelves were ten feet high, the arched ceiling rose another five. He scrambled up the ladder and pulled himself onto the top si
de shelf.
With the smoke collecting at the top of the room, Dirk could barely see. Hunching over, he felt his way along the wall-mounted shelves. The smoke swirling toward the roof inflamed his eyes and made it near impossible to see. With the air growing hotter, it was like standing downwind from a barbecue.
The heat rose in waves that took away his breath. He stumbled down the line of shelves, then dropped to his knees when he almost stepped off the last bookshelf.
The front wall and doorway were another four feet beyond and beneath him. But his focus was up, not down.
The large, rusty pulley above the doorway hung from the ceiling’s center beam. Just beyond it, he strained through the smoke to see what he prayed was still there.
It was. A short pair of plank doors in the front wall had allowed additional access and ventilation to the granary’s upper floor. Now Dirk hoped they would still open. It wasn’t grain he wanted to offload.
He backed up, took a quick step forward, and leaped off the shelf. With his long arms he stretched for the pulley, easily grasping it with both hands. The pulley was hot, the fire below even hotter. Dirk swung his legs back and forth, building momentum. He raised his feet as he swung forward and kicked the small doors. His feet bounced off, the doors just rattling. He swung and kicked again on the next forward swing. The result was the same.
It was too late to question the wisdom of his actions. If the doors didn’t open, he would plunge into the fire. His arms began to ache as he swung again and again, mashing his feet against the doors. The heat and smoke were intense, and he could barely see or breathe, as he swung once more, throwing all of his weight forward.
And then the doors gave way. Not with a crack or a splinter, but with a loud bang, nearly flying off their hinges.
Dirk felt a cool gust as he rebounded. He swung forward once more and let go of the pulley. When his legs and torso slid over the doorframe, he caught himself with his arms. He clutched the lower sill, let his body dangle down the front of the building, then let go.
He landed on the balls of his feet and rolled across the ground to break the fall. Friar Thomas’s assistant came running up.
“What’s happened?” Robert stared at Dirk.
Dirk’s face was black and his clothes were smoking. He rushed to the library door. It had been locked from the outside, and the key was now gone.
“The key!” he shouted. “Do you have another?”
Robert gave him a blank look and shrugged.
“Go get help!” Dirk yelled, then took off at a sprint. He looked around, spotting a small white car pulling into a parking lot at the far end of the complex. Racing across the lawn, he headed for the car as it pulled into a space. A young woman wearing an apron climbed out with the keys in her hand as Dirk approached, coughing and covered in black.
“Excuse me, miss.” Dirk plucked the keys out of her hand and flung open the door. “There’s a fire, and I need to borrow your car.”
The woman backed away, gasping, as this aberration hopped behind the wheel and started the car. Dropping the transmission into reverse, Dirk floored the accelerator, and the car screeched backward. He braked, turned, and pulled forward, bounding over a curb and onto the lawn. Something thunked, and the exhaust began to roar. He glanced in the mirror and saw the car’s muffler and tailpipe lying against the curb.
He found he was behind the wheel of a tiny Fiat 500. On the passenger seat sat a stack of strawberry pies for a church bake sale. Ahead, black smoke poured from the library roof. A small crowd had gathered around. In the distance, a fire truck’s siren sounded.
Dirk kept applying power as he angled the Fiat toward the corner of the church. Reaching an imaginary apex, he whipped the car to the right. The tiny car skittered across the grass, then found traction on the pathway to the library door. Dirk pressed the gas pedal to the floor and braced himself against the steering wheel.
The Fiat was just a fraction narrower than the doorway and it struck the thick wooden door head-on. The car’s front end crumpled, and Dirk was flung into an exploding airbag. The heavy door hung still for a moment, then its ancient hinges gave way and it collapsed to the floor.
The open doorway exposed a raging inferno inside. Dirk shook off a pain in his chest and realized the Fiat was still idling. He touched the accelerator, and the car crept forward, its front tires scraping against its mangled wheel wells.
Over the fallen door, he drove into the library. The first ten feet was through fire, but he emerged from the flames. Slowing in the dense smoke, Dirk stopped in front of the overturned table. He honked the horn and held his breath. A second later, two sets of blackened figures peered over the table’s edge.
Dirk beat down the airbags and crawled to their side.
“A fire truck . . . might have been . . . more appropriate,” Summer said, coughing.
“Wouldn’t fit through the door. Hope you don’t mind sharing a seat.”