Night of Fear (9 page)

A bright flicker on the far side of the shed caught T.J.’s attention. Hot ash or a piece of burning wood must have dropped into dry grass.

He circled the smoking remnants of the shed. When he got to the far side, a small grass fire was spreading away from the pony shed, toward the barn. T.J. stamped on the flames,
trying to get them out with his feet. Just as he got one spot out, the flames cropped up again a few feet away.

A grass fire, he knew, could be even more dangerous than the shed fire was. A grass fire, once it got out of control, could sweep quickly across many acres, laying waste not only the crops but everything else that stood in its way: equipment, vehicles, and even the farmhouse.

Three small fires erupted at the same time, a few feet apart. Sparks were obviously smoldering in the dry grass.

T.J. took off his sweatshirt and, holding tightly to the sleeves, beat at the flames.

Whack! Whack! The sweatshirt slapped the ground, smothering the fire beneath it. He could cover more ground at one time with the sweatshirt than he could with his feet. Smoke rose from under the sweatshirt and T.J. feared the material would catch fire, too, but it didn’t.

Whack! Whack! T.J. flung the shirt again and again, until he thought his arms would fall off.

It worked. The burning grass smoldered and smoked but the flames died out, leaving only a charred black area on the ground.

T.J. stood still, his breath coming fast. His nostrils and throat felt raw from the smoke he’d breathed and he had a taste of smoke in his mouth, as if he had swallowed great gulps of it. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wishing he had a drink of cold water. He waited and watched, to be sure the fire didn’t start up again.

Smoke hung thick and heavy in the air, making the night seem darker than before. The remains of the shed hissed and snapped as they settled to their final resting place.

When he was certain the grass fires were out, T.J. looked around for Brody. He was gone.

T.J.’s weariness lifted. Maybe I can still get away, he thought. With a fresh burst of energy, he ran the same way the pony had run: toward the house. Toward help.

As he approached the spot where the lane branched, he saw that the truck was still parked there. There wasn’t any way to reach the house without passing the truck. T.J. narrowed his eyes, trying to see if Brody was behind the wheel. The truck appeared empty.

T.J. drew closer. When he was nearly to the spot where the road branched, Brody stood up. He had been sitting on the ground with his back against the truck’s rear tire.

Brody stretched and took a step toward T.J. “Wasn’t that something?” he said. He sounded awed, as if he’d just witnessed a glorious sunset or seen a bald eagle in flight. “My old man would be proud of that one.”

T.J. slowed to a walk but kept moving. He passed the front of the truck. He turned, walking backward, so he could keep an eye on Brody.

“Get in,” Brody said. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m not going with you anymore.”

“I said, get in.” The voice was harsh now.

“No!” T.J. backed away from Brody’s outstretched hand. “You can go on by yourself. I’m staying here.”

“Get in the truck!” The tone of Brody’s voice was ominous.

T.J. hesitated. There had been no gun in the truck. Was there one in Brody’s pocket? Maybe Brody didn’t even have a gun. Maybe he had shoved something else in his pocket, back there in the Crowleys’ barn.

Maybe, T.J. thought, I should run.

The pony whinnied again, this time from the direction of the house.

“Get in,” Brody hissed. “Now.” He grabbed for T.J.’s shoulder.

T.J. ducked, whirled around, and ran.

Brody instantly dove forward and his outstretched hands caught T.J.’s ankles, tackling him from behind.

Brody’s fingers dug into T.J.’s ankles as T.J. landed face down in the dirt.

“You are asking for real trouble, boy,” Brody said. He kept one hand on T.J. as they both stood up.

Whether he has a gun or not, T.J. thought, he’s stronger than I am. He can force me to go with him and I’ll just make it worse for myself if I run again.

Wearily, he returned to the truck and got in.

Grandma Ruth stumbled on a protruding tree root. She grabbed at a bush to steady herself and then quit walking. She looked in all directions but, no matter which way she turned, it seemed the same.

The woods had always been a joyful place, full of adventure and discovery. Now, for the first time in her life, she was unhappy here. She was tired, too tired to go another step. She decided to do as the animals do and make herself a nest in the dry leaves. She would curl up on the forest floor, like a fox or a fawn, and fall asleep.

Tomorrow, after she was rested, she would go home. Surely by morning, Edward would find her. He would hug her and take her home and tease her about her foolishness.

“How could you get lost in our own woods, Ruthie?” he would say. “You know every stone and leaf better than the squirrels who live here.”

And she would laugh and tell him, “I wasn’t lost. I just decided to spend the night with the deer.”

Smiling, Grandma Ruth eased her weary body to the ground and closed her eyes. She heard only the slight rustling of the leaves as an occasional breeze brushed her face. It seemed as if she were the only person in the universe.

Then, not far away, she heard the yipping of a coyote and she felt less alone.

Brody drove slowly away, with no lights.

Am I a coward? T.J. wondered. Did I give in too easily? I could have yelled, and struggled with him; someone might have heard us. If I had kicked him and bit him, I might have been able to get away and outrun him. Maybe Craig Ackerley is right. Maybe I am scared to fight. Maybe I am a wimp.

On the other hand, what if the police made a mistake and had the wrong man in custody? What if Brody did have a gun?

Win with your wits, not with your fists.
I’m trying, T.J. thought. I’m trying, Grandma Ruth.

As the truck sneaked down the lane past the vegetable fields, T.J. looked back at the house. Light now glowed in an upstairs window. What were the people doing? Maybe they heard our voices or heard the pony, when it got near the house. Had they seen the fire? Had they called for help?

T.J. thrust his hand toward the steering wheel and pushed on the horn. It responded, barely, with a weak
beep
before Brody shoved T.J’s hand away.

A yard light went on, flooding the front of the house with brightness. T.J. saw a man step outside and look in all directions before he ran down the porch steps and crossed the yard. A small child ran after him. At the far side of the yard, the pony waited quietly, the tether hanging from its neck. The man moved toward him. The pony stood still while the man and the child approached.

Despite his weariness and anger, T.J. smiled. The pony was safe. That was something. T.J. was riding around with a lunatic who burned down other people’s property, but at least, because of him, the pony was alive.

Brody didn’t turn the headlights on until he reached the main road.

T.J. watched for a police car or fire engine but none appeared. Surely the fire had been discovered by now. The man would try to put the pony back in the shed and would find the smoldering ruins. But there was no reason to call the fire department; the fire was already out.

Would the farmer call the police? Maybe not. He might think the fire started spontaneously. Or maybe he was glad to be rid of the little building. Maybe he could hardly wait to collect his insurance money so he could build himself a new, bigger shed.

Brody said, “I bet that one will be a shocker. Way out here, with their pretty garden and their open space, they won’t be expecting it.”

Something in T.J. snapped. “What’s the matter with you?”
he said. “How could you stand there and let that poor pony burn to death? All you had to do was untie him. You could have turned him loose before you lit the fire.”

Brody looked startled. “What pony?” he said.

“
What
pony? The pony I rescued. The pony that was screaming because it was tied in its stall while you set fire to the place.”

“I didn’t see any pony.”

“You must have heard it.”

Brody shook his head.

“Then you must be blind and deaf,” T.J. said, “because there was a pony right inside the door, plain as day, and it was yelling its head off the whole time.”

“When I’m getting revenge, the rest of the world fades away. Everything else disappears.”

“And your revenge is to burn down other people’s property?”

“My revenge is to make the rich people of the world pay attention, so they’ll know what it’s like for the rest of us.”

“I doubt if those farmers are very rich.” T.J. leaned his head against the seat.

“Their shed is gone now.”

“It’s gone,” T.J. agreed, “and the people who owned it will get stuck cleaning up the mess and building a new shed.” He looked at Brody. “I could have been killed, you know. It wasn’t easy, getting that pony out before the shed collapsed.”

“You went in the shed? You went in while it was burning?”

“There wasn’t any other way to get the pony out.” He glared at Brody. “And if I had been trapped inside, it would have been all your fault.”

“Only a fool would run into a burning building. If you don’t have sense enough to stay out of a fire, it isn’t my fault.”

“It’s your fault that there was a fire to begin with. It’s your fault that the pony was left in there.” Memories of the thick smoke and the leaping flames made T.J.’s hands sweat. He had nearly lost his life and he would not soon forget the smell of that smoke or the terrified cries of the pony.

“I didn’t push you in that door.”

“What would you have done, if I had been trapped inside?”

“Nothing.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I didn’t even know you were in there. I told you, when I’m thinking about my revenge, everything else fades away.” Brody glanced over at T.J. “Even if I had seen you, I wouldn’t have done anything different. I’m not fool enough to go into a fire. Not me.”

T.J. pictured himself trapped in the burning shed while Brody strolled happily back to his truck.

“Why did you go in?” Brody asked.

“I just told you. To rescue the pony.”

“It wasn’t your pony.”

“What does that have to do with anything? No matter who it belongs to, I couldn’t let it burn to death when all I had to do was untie it.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” T.J. tried to think what to say that Brody would comprehend. He remembered when he was about three years old and Grandma Ruth caught him smashing ants with a rock. “You must be kind to all creatures, T.J. Each one is important; each has a special place on Earth.”

“Ants don’t.”

“Oh, but they do.” She explained that ants have lived on Earth for more than 100 million years. “They live in colonies,” she said, “and each colony has a queen.” She told him how hard the ants work and showed him an anthill, with the ants climbing in and out.

T.J. had been fascinated by the anthill and had spent several hours looking for the queen ant, expecting it to be wearing a tiny golden crown. After that day, he never again killed an ant intentionally.

T.J. looked at Brody. “All creatures are important,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The pony deserved to live.”

“It wasn’t any use to you. You couldn’t take it with us.”

“That doesn’t mean his life had no value.”

“You’re nuts. You know that? ‘All creatures are important.’ What kind of crazy talk is that? You’re just as nutty as the saint back there, singing in the barn.”

Sure I am, T.J. thought, and you are Citizen of the Year.

The more he thought about the pony, the angrier he got. Where he had initially felt only fear when he looked at Brody, now he felt rage. As the fury built in him, it pushed his fear of Brody away.

“Exactly what are you getting revenge for?” T.J. asked.

“The fire.”

“What fire?”

“They burned my store.”

“Who did?”

“All of them! I don’t know who. They burned my store and
everything in it. People went crazy, running in the streets, smashing cars and setting fires. They burned my store.”

T.J. had seen clips on the news of riots in different cities, with people looting and burning. Whole neighborhoods sometimes went up in flames. “Where were you, when it happened?” he asked.

“I was on my way home from a delivery when the trouble broke out,” Brody said. “A gang surrounded my truck and wouldn’t let me through. I finally abandoned the truck and walked home. Mobs of people were shouting and throwing rocks through windows and overturning cars. I couldn’t believe it! The closer I got to home, the worse it was. They ran from one store to the next, smashing windows, helping themselves to the merchandise, and setting fires. All of the businesses in my block were owned by local people, like me. My old man opened that furniture store with money he earned as a janitor. Why would our own customers want to burn it down? Why would they destroy everything my old man had worked for?”

“It must have been terrible,” T.J. said.