“Everyone is,” said Fleming, trying not to cough and knowing he had very little time left. “If you come out, I’ll lead you down the stairs. They’re at the end of the hall.”

  “Okay,” the voice said, and a moment later a figure moved out of the dark toward him, a woman in her late twenties, with pale hair and tense features that might be pretty under other circumstances. She was dressed in a roll-top pull-over and slacks, with boots rather than shoes on her feet. “I was trying to get up the nerve to leave,” she said.

  “Take my arm,” Fleming told her. “We’re going to the end of the corridor and down the stairs.”

  “Not the elevator?” Her voice rose half an octave.

  “The power’s out,” he reminded her. “It’s the stairs or nothing.” He did his best to walk steadily, but it was becoming difficult. “Lower your head,” he recommended, doing the same, remembering his air-raid training.

  “Okay,” she said, trying not to cough.

  “Keep hold of my arm,” Fleming ordered, then continued on toward the end of the corridor, pounding on every door he passed until he reached the exit. He laid his hand on the wood to be sure it wasn’t hot, then carefully opened it. He encountered smoke, but nothing so thick as he had found in the corridor behind him. By now his eyes were streaming and his nose hurt, but he began to hope that he would be able to get out relatively unscathed. He felt the woman’s hand on his arm tighten, and that reassured him. “Just a bit longer, ma’am,” he said, his voice breathless and scratchy.

  “Okay,” she repeated, wheezing.

  “The stairs are just off to your right. I’m going to step down. Put one hand on the rail and keep the other on my shoulder,” he said, struggling to speak.

  “I will,” she said, and set action to her words at once.

  There was the sound of people below them, and in the distance, a siren was wailing. All of it became unreal as the two of them made their way down through the smoke, which grew thicker as they descended. At the next floor, the smoke was so dense that both Fleming and the woman with him could hardly breathe, and moving was becoming difficult. Fleming realized they would have to get out of the smoke quickly or risk collapsing and succumbing; he almost laughed, but it came out a gagging sound: that he, after all the strange events of the last four days, should end up dying of smoke inhalation in Jackson, Mississippi! He made himself keep moving in spite of the discomfort and giddiness he was feeling.

  The sirens were much louder now, either closer to the hotel or he was more acutely aware of them. He could hear stumbling steps behind them as others tried to make their way down the stairs. There were shouts and coughing and shrieks and prayers coming from the hall beyond them, and those sounds spurred Fleming on.

  They reached ground level to find firemen preparing to climb the stairs, most of them in protective gear, one in a flapping rubber-clad garment that Fleming had heard called a poncho. Suddenly he was forcefully reminded of the Blitz and all the other bombings in England, and he had to submerge the recollection as he continued toward the door. There were helping hands around them now and less confusion.

  “Hey! You two! Over here!” A white-coated attendant was standing just beyond the outer door, next to an ambulance drawn up among the four fire engines.

  The activity was purposeful, determined, and disciplined as the firemen deployed hoses and other equipment in the rain. Fleming allowed himself to be directed toward the ambulance. He was breathing in gasps, and the woman behind him was sobbing.

  “Com‘ere! Com’ere!” the attendant was shouting, gesturing broadly.

  Fleming headed toward him, lungs and eyes stinging. He stopped suddenly, coughed, bent over at the waist, and nearly fell to his knees. The woman behind him almost fell with him, but somehow managed to keep them both erect.

  The firemen were running, lugging their hoses, pointing up at the flames on the second floor. There was the sound of breaking glass and a general cry of dismay, cut short by a pulpy thud.

  “Oh, my God!” the attendant exclaimed. “He jumped!” Then he began running toward the hotel, leaving the ambulance unattended.

  Fleming staggered toward it, dropped his luggage, and reached for the sheet on the stretcher. He rubbed it over his face and handed it to the woman behind him. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said, and climbed into the ambulance. He took a bottle of saline solution, opened it, and gave it to the woman. “Wash out your mouth with this.”

  “Okay,” she said, and did as he ordered.

  Fleming took a second saline bottle and opened it, pouring it into his mouth so quickly that he sputtered and spat. Then he sluiced out his mouth and began to breathe less stridently. He was taking down a bottle of eye-wash when the attendant and two firemen came hurrying up, a man slung between them, his wet nightshirt spotted with blood.

  “Hey!” The attendant pointed at Fleming. “You ain’t supposed to be in there.”

  Fleming turned and saw the three men, and slowly got out of the ambulance. “Sorry. I didn’t know how long you’d be and I thought—”

  “Where’re you from, anyway?” one of the firemen interrupted. “You’re sure as hell not from around here, so don’t say you are.”

  “England,” said Fleming. “My airplane was diverted here,” he said as he climbed out of the ambulance.

  “Some diversion,” the fireman remarked, eyeing Fleming truculently. “The police”—he put emphasis on the first syllable—“said we should be on the lookout for unfamiliar people.”

  “Most guests in a hotel are just that,” Fleming said a bit testily; he didn’t want to explain, but he was resigned to making the attempt when he was spared the necessity.

  “Hey, you,” the woman spoke up, her voice still raspy. “You lay off him. He just saved my life.”

  There was a pause as the firemen took stock of the situation.

  “Perhaps you’d best get that man to the hospital,” Fleming suggested, standing back from the ambulance. “He doesn’t seem to be in good condition.”

  “You’re right about that,” said the attendant, and reached for the stretcher. “Get him aboard and loaded in.”

  The firemen put the man on the stretcher; he was moaning and he clearly had a broken shoulder. The attendant buckled him onto the stretcher, taking care to brace his shoulder with a rolled towel. The firemen loaded the stretcher and the attendant went to the front of the ambulance, climbed in, and started the motor.

  One of the firemen headed back toward the hotel, but the other stayed with Fleming and the woman, his attention now veering to suspicion. “So you’re not married, the two of you?”

  “Married?” The woman laughed. “We just met up there”—she gestured toward the hotel now billowing flames—“and he brought me out. I don’t even know his name.”

  The fireman gave a very pointed stare at her left hand. “You were there alone?”

  “Yes. I was alone. I checked in at six last evening. If you can find the desk clerk, he’ll tell you.” The woman sighed. “Look. My husband’s in a veterans’ hospital. I got a living to make. I’m on my way to Monroe for the Southern Quarter Horse Show. I have a horse farm outside of Tullahoma in Tennessee. My horses are being stabled at McShane’s farm on the north side.” Her face was smeared with mucus and soot but she had the manner of an authoritative matron. “You ask Linus McShane. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “The phones are out,” the fireman reminded her.

  “Well, ask the clerk at the front desk, then; he’s got to be around here somewhere,” she said. Then she looked at Fleming. “My name’s Myra Rinaldo, by the way.” Suddenly shy, she held out her hand to him. “Born Adler, by the way, in Wyoming.” This last reminded him of the American nurses he had met in the War, who always included where they were from in their introductions.

  “Ian Fleming, born Fleming, from England,” he said, taking it. “Pleasure, Missus Rinaldo.” He was aware that her accent was flatter and more clipped than those he heard around them.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Myra Rinaldo. “I was sure I was going to die.” She looked at the fireman. “So get your mind out of the gutter and go help put out that fire.”

  The fireman hesitated, but then a bellow from the hotel caught his attention and he hurried away, leaving Fleming and Myra Rinaldo standing together in the rain.

  “What are you doing in Jackson?” Myra Rinaldo asked after an awkward pause while they saw another five people run from the hotel. “They aren’t all going to make it out, are they?”

  “Probably not,” said Fleming, answering her second question first.

  “Wonder what caused it?” Myra asked.

  Fleming did his best to keep his answer calm and rational. “It may take a while to find out, unless someone set it. The power failure might have something to do with it. A short, perhaps, or unprotected candles.”

  “On the second floor,” said Myra dubiously.

  “It would seem so,” said Fleming.

  “It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?” She turned away from the fire.

  “Yes.” He doubted the firemen could bring the fire under control before most of the building was damaged beyond repair.

  “I guess I do owe you my life,” she said frankly.

  Fleming shrugged.

  “So what happens now?” Myra said as another ambulance wailed up to the fire engines.

  “They put the fire out and take care of the victims,” said Fleming.

  “But that’s going to take hours, and who knows where they’ll send us? What about a place for the rest of tonight?” She cocked her head. “We can’t stay here.”

  “No,” said Fleming, almost laughing. “I think not.”

  “Then come along with me, Ian Fleming. I’ll take us back to McShane’s. He’ll put us up.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Puzzled, Fleming hesitated. “If that’s the case—”

  “Why didn’t I stay there?” Myra guessed, stopping. “There’s a very good reason. McShane is a widower.”

  “Yes?” Fleming picked up his luggage and started toward her.

  “I’m a married woman. My husband’s in a hospital with his mind gone. People would talk, particularly around here. Gossip is the biggest industry in the South, and it could wreck everything I’ve worked for.” She folded her arms, looking unexpectedly vulnerable.

  “Is it any different now?” Fleming asked.

  “After a fire like this? You bet. And you, being a third person, turn it into something other than two people in a house alone.”

  “I should think it could be seen as something worse,” Fleming said, catching up with her.

  She resumed walking. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Come on, if you like. Or stay here and talk to the firemen and cops until noon. I’ll try to work out a way to deal with the talk. Maybe I’ll sleep in one of the stalls.”

  “I take your point,” said Fleming, and hastened after her, his steps splashing in the flame-ruddy puddles, his luggage slapping against his leg.

  Chapter 23

  MYRA RINALDO’S vehicle proved to be a new, dark-colored, one-ton pickup truck made by Chevrolet. It was parked a block away next to a service station—not, he noticed, a Texaco. She unlocked the door and let Fleming in. “Throw your bags behind the seat.” She climbed into the driver’s seat and put her key in the ignition.

  Fleming did as she said, and pulled the door closed as she gunned the motor. “What now?”

  “Now we hope the roads are open. Linus’s place is ten miles outside of town.” She turned on the headlights and put the truck into reverse, released the brake and backed up, then pulled out of the parking space. “Hang on, and watch out for headlights.”

  “Anything you say,” Fleming assured her. He folded his arms, feeling cold for the first time, and realized that between the smoke and rain, his clothes were ruined. He would have to make the most of the change of clothes in his bags.

  “I’ll turn on the heater as soon as the engine warms up. That’ll help dry us off a bit.” She swung onto a wide street, going north. “It won’t take us too long to get there. Fifteen minutes, maybe.” She handled the big truck with the ease of habit, proceeding carefully in the darkened city. “Keep your eye out for the Highway 51 sign. It’s a little way up on the right.” The windows were beginning to steam up. “Wipe off the windshield for me, will you?” She handed him a wash-flannel.

  Fleming nodded. “I’ll do it.” For an instant he missed his Rapier, and then, surprisingly, the Packard he left back in Colorado, but the impulses passed as soon as they arose.

  “Thanks,” said Myra, reaching to turn on the heater.

  A 1931 Cadillac passed them, splashing them in its haste.

  “Damn fool,” said Myra. “Driving like that in a power outage. It’ll serve him right if someone runs into him.”

  Fleming finished wiping the inside of the windscreen and put the wash-flannel aside. “Maybe he’s in a hurry.”

  “Hurry or not, he’s stupid,” said Myra, and settled in to driving.

  “I think there’s a sign for the highway up ahead,” said Fleming, squinting out into the rain that shimmered in the headlights.

  “Sounds good,” said Myra, preparing to turn.

  “Look out!” Fleming warned as the headlights picked up branches and leaves.

  A large tree had fallen and blocked the road ahead. Myra swore, double-clutched down and braked, pulling on the steering wheel. The pick-up leaned, tires squealing, but kept going as Myra swerved around the oak.

  “Very good,” Fleming approved. “They should have let you drive the ambulance.”

  “Too top-heavy,” said Myra, gunning the engine over railroad tracks.

  “And this isn’t?” Fleming asked.

  “Not as much sway,” said Myra, slowing for a dark intersection. “Okay. If there’re more downed trees, you let me know. You ride shotgun pretty good.”

  Fleming had seen enough westerns to know what she meant, but he was mildly startled to hear her use such language. “Riding shotgun,” he said, and chuckled, beginning to put the shock of the fire behind him.

  Myra smiled. “My granddad did,” she said. “For Wells-Fargo. He claimed to have been held up by Black Bart once, but I don’t think he was.”

  “Why would you doubt him?” Fleming asked, fascinated by this connection to the Old West.

  “Because Black Bart always worked alone, and in California.” She smiled faintly, the light from the dashboard showing the curve of her mouth. “He said Black Bart had a gang.”

  “Perhaps it was someone claiming to be Black Bart,” Fleming suggested.

  “In Wyoming?” she scoffed. “It made a great story.”

  “And you enjoyed it,” said Fleming, sensing her satisfaction. They were picking up speed, but not moving so fast that Myra could not maneuver if they should encounter more trouble on the road. “You said you raise horses?”

  “Quarter Horses, yes. Good, solid, dependable animals. Not high-steppers like Tennessee Walkers or Missouri Foxtrotters, but strong, good-natured stock horses.” She grinned. “I’ve got fourteen mares and two studs back on my farm. I’m selling three geldings and a two-year-old mare. If I get them to the horse show, I’ve got a good chance to make a sale.”

  Fleming smiled. “Some polo players ride Quarter Horses,” he told her.

  “Sure. They’re sprinters,” said Myra, then changed the subject. “Where are you going? And what are you doing in Mississippi?”

  “I was on an airplane bound for Memphis. The storm forced us to land in Jackson, and they’re supposed to get us back to Memphis when it’s safe.” He shrugged. “I need an airport to get a plane to Jamaica.”

  “I don’t know about Jamaica, but there’s an airport in Monroe. If you want to ride along with me, I’ll take you there on my way to the horse show.” Myra’s voice was tentative, but it was apparent that her offer was sincere.

  Fleming considered for a moment. “Why not?” he said at last. “I don’t think the airline could get me to Memphis any sooner. So long as I can get out to an international airport, it’s all one to me.”

  “Good,” she said. “I owe you and this will make it a bit easier for me.”

  “I appreciate this,” said Fleming. “But you don’t owe me anything.”

  “That’s not for you to say,” Myra said firmly. “I know what you did, and I’m grateful to be alive.” She turned the headlights onto high beams: a larger wedge of light cut through the dark rain. “I’ll probably get the whim-whams later tonight. I’m running on nerves right now.”

  They passed a church with a fallen branch staving in the roof, and a telephone pole canted against the steeple at a precarious angle.

  “Nasty storm,” said Fleming, glad to have something safe to talk about.

  “That it is,” said Myra, her attention on the road ahead. “You didn’t say what you do.”

  “I’m a journalist on a story,” he said glibly. He had a momentary yen for a cigarette but it faded almost as quickly as it had risen; the fire and smoke were still with him, and spoiled the desire.

  “And you got a deadline to meet, I bet,” she said. “My brother-in-law works for the Chicago Sun. He’s always on a deadline.”

  “Yes; I have a deadline,” said Fleming, glad she made the assumption.

  “I guess you can’t tell me very much about it until it’s printed,” she said knowingly.

  “Your brother-in-law has taught you well,” said Fleming, smiling a bit in spite of himself. “Who is he?”

  “Elihu Einhorn; my kid sister’s husband. He covers business and commerce,” she said.

  “I’ve heard the name,” said Fleming, relieved that he had. “I don’t cover that kind of story.”

  She managed a partial smile. “I didn’t think you did.”

  They passed a cluster of small houses with lantern-light in the windows. Then that beckoning light faded behind them and they were on an empty road hurtling north as the storm flailed around them.

  “How much farther?” Fleming asked a short while later.