Fire Spirit (32 page)

‘What about your Professor Solway? Do you think that he might have some idea?'

‘Professor Solway? He's away right now. I'm not exactly sure where.'

They sat in silence for a while. Ruth felt exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but she still felt guilty that she wasn't over on West Superior Street, helping Jack to analyze the remains from the Weatherfield Riding Stables fire. She kept thinking that she ought to feed Tyson, too, and take him for his evening walk. His dark blue Sunday-best leash was hanging on the hat-rack by the front door, next to Craig's fishing-hat and her own red beret.

‘Can I ask you a personal question?' said Ruth.

‘Of course. Anything.'

‘How did you manage to put your Susan to rest?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, I told you about my colleague Jack, who scattered his wife's remains on her favorite gardens. After that, he never saw her again, so he guessed that she must have passed over and found peace.'

‘Sure, yes. But I never tried to put Susan to rest.'

‘You didn't? You mean – you mean she still comes back to you?'

He nodded. ‘I guess you think that's very selfish. But I find it impossible to let her go.'

‘But isn't she
suffering
, wherever she is? She drowned, didn't she? Doesn't she feel like she's
still
drowning, twenty-four-seven?'

‘I don't know, Ruth. I don't think so. She never gives me the impression that she's distressed. She just clings on to me as if she doesn't want to let
me
go, either.'

‘So every time you take a bath, or a shower, or go swimming—?'

‘She doesn't come to me every time. But whenever I go near water, I'm conscious that she's there. Or at least she
could
be there.'

Ruth didn't know what to say. Today she had seen for herself that the everyday world which she had always taken for granted was only one reality in a maze of countless realities. There were dead people everywhere, whispering behind walls, walking through gardens, floating in the darkest lakes. There were people who had been strangled, or burned, or drowned, or suffered heart seizures, breathing their last desperate breath in hospital wards. And they were always whispering,
whisper-whisper-whisper
, because they wanted to come back through, and settle old scores, or see their loved ones one last time, or stay for ever, if they could.

Whatever Martin said, Ruth found it hard to believe that
all
of them wanted that seamless darkness, that eternal silence, that absolute emptiness called death.

Martin finished his glass of wine and stood up to leave. ‘I'll call you tomorrow morning, shall I?'

‘Yes. You can catch me at the Fire Department any time after nine. Here, I'll write the number down for you. Four-five-seven, two-six-three-six.'

‘About today—'

She took hold of his hand. ‘Don't let's talk about today until tomorrow, OK? I'm still trying to take it all in.'

He looked at her for a long moment without saying anything. Then he said, ‘I hope you realize that I'm no expert when it comes to all of this afterlife stuff. Nobody is. But I know for a fact that not everybody goes quietly, because I can hear them, and I can see them, the same way that Amelia does.'

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I'll see you in the morning,' he said, and left. Ruth stood by the open front door watching his car turn around in the street, and then drive off.

When she closed the door she found that Amelia was close behind her, her face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Poor Tyson,' she wept. ‘I miss him so much.'

Ruth hugged her and shushed her. ‘Shush, sweetheart. He's in a much better place now.'

‘That's the trouble,' sobbed Amelia. ‘He's not. He's in
hell.
'

TWENTY

‘
W
hat do you think?' Craig shouted, as they drove back into the city on South Washington Street. Jeff had brought one of his Pig Destroyer CDs with him, and was playing ‘Fourth Degree Burns' at maximum volume, so that the window frames buzzed at every beat.

‘Fucking amazing!' Jeff shouted back.

‘Don't swear!' Craig retorted.

‘Sorry, Pops! But it's so fucking fantastic!'

The Grand Prix was in surprisingly good condition for a ten-year-old car, although the knob was missing from the gear shift and the corner of the passenger seat was heavily stuck with duct tape where the tan-colored vinyl had split. As far as Jeff was concerned, however, it was the greatest ride ever. He was driving with his dad, so he was not only observing the speed limit, he was stopping at all the red traffic signals, even if there was nothing coming, and religiously using his indicators, even if there was nobody behind him. But in his mind his car was already crowded with all of his friends, and the music was pumping so loud that they couldn't hear themselves think, and he was revving up the 3.1-liter engine until it screamed.

They turned off South Washington on to West Sycamore.

‘Wait until Lennie sees this!' said Jeff. ‘He's going to, like,
die
of jealousy! He's going to sob like a girl!'

‘Well, I'm glad you like it,' grinned Craig.

‘Like it? You are absolutely the best dad ever!'

‘Thanks. I do what I can.'

‘I got to get one of those Dyno-Max exhausts, though. They got that real deep
throb
, if you know what I mean. You can pull the girls even when you're stopped at the traffic signals.'

‘Sure,' said Craig. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But as far as I'm concerned, it all happened a long time ago, on a planet far, far away.'

As they drove along West Sycamore, Jeff glanced in his rear-view mirror and said, ‘Look at this guy. If there's one thing I hate, it's people who tailgate. Like, the street is totally deserted, dude! If you want to overtake, overtake!'

Craig turned his head around. An elderly black Buick Riviera was driving so close up behind them that he couldn't even see its radiator grille.

‘What's his problem?' he said. ‘Slow down, Jeff, and wave him past.'

Jeff said, ‘OK,' although Craig could tell that he really wanted to step on the gas pedal and leave the Buick way behind him.

Jeff reduced his speed to a crawl, and waved his left arm out of the window as if he were swimming, but the Buick continued to follow them, only a few inches behind their rear bumper.

‘Overtake, asshole!' Jeff shouted. ‘How fucking slow do you want me to go?'

‘Turn the music off,' said Craig. Jeff did as he was told, and suddenly the loudest sound they could hear was the menacing burble of the Buick's engine. Craig shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to see who was driving it. Every street light they passed was reflected from its windshield, so that he could only see the driver intermittently, but he appeared to have a dead white face – more like a mask than a face – and his front-seat passenger had a dead white face, too.

Jeff was driving at less than five miles an hour, but the Buick stayed close up behind them, and now Craig knew that they were in some kind of trouble.

‘Stop,' he told Jeff. ‘Pull into the curb and stop. And put up your window.'

‘Who the hell
are
these guys?' said Jeff, staring at them in his mirror. ‘Do you think you should call nine-one-one?'

Craig patted the pockets of his windbreaker. ‘I forgot my cell. How about you?'

‘I didn't bring mine either. My battery's dead.' He frowned up at his mirror again. ‘Like, what do they
want
?'

‘I don't know. But stay ready. If I say go, then put your foot right down to the floor and
go
.'

‘Dad – maybe you should drive.'

‘Unh-hunh. I don't think that either of us should get out of the car. But if I do say go, take a left on South Western Avenue, and then another left on West Superior, then a right on South Philips.'

Jeff steered the Grand Prix into the side of the road and stopped. Immediately, the Buick shunted their rear bumper, pushing them forward three or four feet and giving both of them a spine-jerking jolt.

‘Jesus!' said Jeff. ‘This guy's totally psycho!'

‘Put on your parking-brake,' Craig told him.

‘I already did! I already did!'

The Buick backed up about ten feet and then collided with them again, much harder this time.

‘Shit!' said Jeff. ‘What are we going to do, Dad?'

‘Just hold tight,' said Craig. ‘They're probably drug addicts. All we need to do is stay calm.'

‘Calm?' Jeff screamed at him. Because now, with a hideous grinding and squeaking of metal and plastic, the Buick forced itself right up against their rear bumper. The driver kept gunning his engine, and inch by inch they were pushed along the street, even though their wheels were locked and their tires were screeching in a high, hysterical chorus.

‘
Reverse
!' shouted Craig. ‘
Put it in reverse
!'

Jeff pulled back the gear-shift to R, and pressed the gas pedal down to the floor. The Grand Prix's rear wheels spun, and clouds of rubbery blue smoke billowed across the street, but the Buick weighed nearly two-and-a-half tons and had an engine that developed more than 300 horsepower, and it relentlessly edged them forward.

For a split-second, Craig wondered if they ought to jump out of the car and make a run for it on foot, but maybe that was exactly what these goons wanted them to do. Besides, this Grand Prix was much more than just a car. This was his way of showing his family that he was still capable of providing for them, and taking care of them. He wasn't going to let some crackhead morons in masks take it away from him, less than fifteen minutes after he had picked it up.

As the Grand Prix was rammed further and further along the street, the grating of metal and the shrieking of tires grew deafening. Jeff tried stamping on the gas pedal in bursts, but the Buick was unstoppable. Craig turned around again to look at its occupants, and he was sure that the front seat passenger was laughing.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Let's get the hell out of here. Remember – when I say go, give it everything you've got. And don't hesitate. Not for a moment. Keep going as fast as you can until I say it's OK.'

Jeff nodded. He released the parking-brake and shifted gear into D1, but kept his foot pressed hard on the brake pedal.

The Riviera backed away, only nine or ten feet, but then its engine bellowed and it collided with them yet again. It backed away once more, even further, nearly three car-lengths, and the driver was obviously preparing to ram them even harder. Its headlights filled the interior of the Grand Prix with blinding white light.

‘
Go
!' said Craig, and they slewed away from the curb and sped along the street.

Craig looked around again, and he could see that the Buick was coming after them, but they had a two-block start, at least, and in this part of Kokomo there were scores of criss-crossing streets and avenues where they could shake it off.

‘Keep going! Keep going!' he shouted. ‘Left at South Western Avenue –
there
!'

The Grand Prix's tires howled as Jeff steered them around the corner. The rear end of the car snaked from side to side, and for a moment Craig thought that they were going into a 180-degree skid, which would have left them facing back to West Sycamore Drive, and the Buick that was chasing them. But with his hands flailing at the steering wheel, Jeff managed to straighten them out, and they roared off southward, faster and faster. South Western Avenue was only a quiet suburban street, lined with trees and single-story houses, but by the time they were halfway down it they were touching sixty-five miles an hour.

Craig turned around. He could see the Buick's headlights as it turned into the avenue after them. His heart seemed to be beating three times faster than it ought to be.

‘Next left!' he panted. ‘Here – West Superior!
Go
!'

Jeff steered the Grand Prix in a wide screeching semicircle, and again Craig thought that he was close to losing it. With a resonating bang, their nearside rear wheel hit the curb, and the whole car joggled and bounced. They ended up sideways across the street, with the engine stalled.

‘Shit!' said Jeff, and punched the steering wheel in panic and frustration. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!'

‘Shift into neutral,' Craig told him, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘That's it. Now restart the engine. Brilliant. Now put it into drive, and go.'

West Superior was only a short street, but they hadn't even reached the end of it before the Buick came around the corner in pursuit, its suspension dipping, black and battered like a malevolent old shark. Craig said, ‘
Right
! Go right here, into South Philips – then right again – then left!'

His plan was to lead the Buick and its occupants into the intricate maze of roads and crescents next to the railroad lines, so that he could loop around and double back and leave them comprehensively lost. He just hoped that they didn't know where he lived, and follow them home, but once he and Jeff made it back they could call the cops. Besides that, he had his own gun – a Glock, in the left-hand drawer of his desk.

They turned right into West Carter Street and then immediately left into Conradt Avenue. ‘Now – switch off your lights,' said Craig.

Jeff's confidence was growing now. Conradt Avenue was narrow and heavily overshadowed by trees, and there were cars parked all along the right-hand side, but he put his foot down and by the time they were only halfway down it they were nudging forty-five. Turning around again, Craig saw the Buick miss the turning from West Carter Street and carry on speeding westward.