Stryker turned. He was a tall man, square-chinned, with pale hair and hard jade-green eyes. Like most prairie males, he was weather-burnt and wore cowboy boots. "That you, Virgil?"

"Yeah. What happened?"

Stryker turned back to the fire. "Don't know. I was down in my house, and one minute I looked out the window and didn't see anything, and the next minute, I heard the siren going, looked out the window, and there it was. We got a guy who was driving through town, saw it happen: he said it just exploded."

"What about Judd?"

Stryker nodded at the house. "I could be wrong, but I do believe he's in there."

Up closer to the fire, a man in a trench coat, carrying an umbrella, was standing with three firemen, waving his free hand at the fire, and at the trucks, jabbing a finger. In the light of the flames, Virgil could see his mouth working, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

Strkyer said, "That's Bill Judd Jr. He's pissed because they're not putting out the fire."

"The New York City Fire Department couldn't put that out," Virgil said. The heat came through the rain, hot as a hair dryer, even at fifty yards. "That thing is burning a hole in the storm."

"Tell that to Junior."

The fire stank: of burning fabrics and old wood and insulation and water and linoleum and oil and everything else that gets stuck in a house, and maybe a little flesh. They watched for another moment, feeling the heat on the fire side, the cool rain spattering off the hoods on their rain suits, down their backs and necks. Virgil asked, "Think he was smoking in bed?"