In the wake of the explosion came fire and a chaos alien to the residential area of the laid-back tourist town. The source house, the fourth of seven on the right side of the street, was gone; just gone. Those parts of the walls, ceilings, floors, furnishings and contents not obliterated by the concussion had taken to the sky in flaming shards and were already dropping back as scorched hail, or drifting back as blackened confetti. What was left collapsed into the basement which burned like the sixth circle of Hell. An exception was the front door frame. The door was gone but the frame still stood over the three-step stoop, over the flaming pit, like a grave marker. The front third of the roof had blown off in one chunk. It cleared the sidewalk, Erin, the drunk, and his Lexus and landed in
