He pulled himself up far enough to unbuckle the leather strap that held the two cans to the trunk. Both tumbled into the snow, the nearer can striking his broken leg with enough force to make him scream again. He used every curse word he knew, caught his breath, worked the lid off one of the cans, fed the entire length of his figuring rope down into it until the rope was soaked with gasoline. He left two or three feet of rope down in the can, wedged the can under the Caddy’s gas tank, tugged the second gas can next to it. He stopped to rest then, taking long, deep breaths of cold air into his lungs. It took almost all he had left, but he managed to drag himself fifteen feet from the car, paying out the rope as he went. When he judged that he was far enough away to avoid being killed by the explosion, he fumbled in his pocket for matches. He smoked no more than the occasional cheroot, but it was an old habit, making sure he always had dry matches in his jeans. He mumbled a little prayer. Either the rope would burn or it would not. If it wouldn’t, he would freeze to death.

Eli’s hands were so cold that he had trouble lighting the wooden matches and wasted four before the flame caught and held. It took the merest touch to ignite the gasoline-soaked rope. Once it was lit, the rope became a perfect fuse. The flame raced toward the first gas can and the crippled Cadillac. He had just enough time to roll away and cover his face with his arms before the two gas cans exploded, one after the other. A few seconds later, the gas tank of the Caddy itself blew with a heavy thud. He risked a glance and saw a ball of red and blue flame rise twenty feet into the sky. He felt a rush of blistering heat before he had to cover his head as debris from the burning car fell around him. The explosion was enough to lift the car itself, and as it settled back down, it rolled a half turn toward him, so that it was once again upright on its wheels.