He imagined that cigarette landing on the dynamite, the bursting explosion that would shake the earth and send him tumbling into the quarry. He pictured his body being consumed by fire, flames that ate at his clothes and peeled away the pain.
Why me?
Why was he connected to the deaths of not one, but two women? Was he some kind of supernatural link? A cosmic pawn? A lightning rod for lost souls? Or maybe he was being punished. In the aftermath of Aimee’s death, he’d been hailed as a hero, when Ross knew all along he was exactly the opposite.
As a child he’d read comic books, dazzled by the strength and the daring on pages cut into squares like a sidewalk, as if these superheroes were already walking a path toward greatness simply by appearing on the page. He had told Meredith he was invincible, but he was no Superman, no Captain Marvel. He was not even the sort of man that good things happened to. Meeting the girl of one’s dreams, winning a scratch ticket, finding a ten-dollar bill on the street—these were experiences in someone else’s daily existence. There was a point where the bad luck ended, and the bad choices began, and Ross could not see the fine distinction. He couldn’t live a life worth saving, and he couldn’t save a life worth living.
Ross climbed onto the safety railing. He stood with his arms akimbo, his legs spread, a messiah or a target or both. He was swallowing glass with every breath; he was running on nails with every step.
Jump
, he thought,
and you get to start over.
He slipped, caught himself, and then laughed at his own caution. He balanced like a chair on the nose of a circus clown—something far too heavy and gravity-laden to defy the laws of nature for very long.
Pitching forward, Ross managed to stop himself from falling over the fence. His
Bogeyman Nights
baseball cap went spinning, and landed on a stick of dynamite.
The clown might drop that chair, but he’d always snatch it just before it smashed on the floor. After all, he had to come back and do the same act night after night. Ross stepped away from the fence, then took the prop that was his body and slouched toward home.
Rod van Vleet had cashed his last paycheck at the only bar in Comtosook, a place that had taken pity on him in spite of his former association with the development property that had caused so much unquiet. Oliver Redhook himself had called to terminate his employment and to inform him that he expected the company car and the company cell phone back at their Massachusetts headquarters by Monday. “I could have sent a trained monkey to Vermont,” Redhook had said on speakerphone. “But I made the grave mistake of sending
you
.”
In a truly Machiavellian twist of fate, the bartender was one of the Indians who had been banging a drum outside his company trailer for three weeks. Gracious winner, he’d given Rod three shots on the house before he started taking his money. Now on his eighth, Rod could barely get the nerve endings in his hand firing well enough to lift the drink, which seemed so small and slippery that he was about to ask the bartender for a magnifying glass to help locate it.
“One more,” he said, or he thought he said, he didn’t quite think it was English.
The bartender shook his head. “Can’t, Mr. van Vleet. Not unless you call yourself a taxi.”
“I’m a taxi,” Rod said.
The bartender exchanged a glance with a woman beside Rod. She had long black hair and the shoulders of a linebacker, and at closer glance turned out to be a man. Rod downed the last of his drink. “Fine, then,” he slurred. “I’ll just take myself up and over to Burlington. Crash a frat party.”
“You do that,” the bartender said. “But you might just crash your car first.”
Rod fished in his pocket and held up a set of keys on the first try. He stumbled and landed hard against the polished bar. “Would serve ’em right.”
The police lights whipped across the truck’s windshield, casting Shelby’s skin with a faint blue tinge. She pulled Eli’s jacket closer around her shoulders, shivering although she wasn’t cold. He’d taken care to park off to the side, so that she would not have to stare at the wreckage and the body that had been tossed onto the street, but her head kept turning and her eyes kept straining to make out the details of the catastrophe.
“I’m sorry,” he had said to her, when the radio went off in his truck en route to the restaurant. “I have to go.”
She understood, which was why she got out of the passenger door, now, her high heels slipping on the damp pavement. Outside the cocoon of the truck there was a rally of noise, from sirens to shouting cops to the subtle clicks of the crime-scene photographer. She edged closer to the circle of activity, fully expecting to look down and see Ross.
She had not been present at his car accident, the one in which Aimee had been killed. But he had been the mission of rescuers like these; there had been a car overturned like that; the EMTs had strapped him to a gurney like the one whining over the pavement toward the victim right now.
When the phone call came about her brother, she’d been breastfeeding Ethan. She’d almost let the machine pick it up, because it was so much trouble to juggle a drowsy baby and a telephone. Even now, she could not remember whether the officer who told her had been male or female. Only a few words remained, stuck like cement in her memory, blocks that she still tripped over every now and then:
Ross
,
accident
,
serious
,
passenger
,
dead.
Time stopped, and Ethan had rolled from her lap onto the cushions of the couch. Shelby had tried to picture Ross, battered and bleeding, but could only see him as a skinny fifth-grader with fire in his eyes, taking it upon himself to beat up the eleventh-grade soccer star who had broken Shelby’s heart.
Now, she pushed two uniformed policemen out of the way so that she could see better. The clothes were ripped, the face mangled, but Shelby could still make out the features of the businessman who’d been trying to develop the Pike property.
A hand tugged at her elbow and yanked her backward. Eli stared at her, upset. “What are you doing out here?”
“I . . . I had to see.”
“No one should have to see this. Rod van Vleet totaled his car. The only mystery is whether it burst into flames on impact, or if it was the alcohol fumes coming from the driver.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah, but he’s got some bad breaks and burns.” Eli had led her to the truck without Shelby even realizing it. He opened the door and tucked her inside. “Stay.”
“I’m not Watson.”
His eyes softened. “I know. Watson’s used to this. You’re not.”
As he turned to finish whatever it was he had to do, Shelby blurted out his name. Immediately, he turned. Even with the sentence on her lips, she did not know why she felt the need to tell Eli what was tunneling through her mind. “Ross almost died in a car crash,” she said finally.
Eli looked over his shoulder at the debris, the rising smoke. “Almost doesn’t count,” he said.
Ethan had stolen his uncle’s EMF meter from his bedroom and after some thought had chosen a short-sleeved T-shirt— one he was only allowed to wear inside the house—as the uniform for his escape. A soft knock on his door told him Lucy was ready. She slipped inside his room, her eyes so big and nervous that it made Ethan laugh. “We haven’t even left yet. Chill out.”
“Right.” Lucy started talking to herself under her breath. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
For Lucy, the worst was that she’d get scared. Uncle Ross had said that a human spirit couldn’t actually hurt you. For Ethan, the worst was, well, a lot worse. He had told Lucy that he got sick if he stayed out in the sun, but he hadn’t explained the ultimate cost—the skin cancers, the lesions, death. She never would have agreed to this plan, then. But Ethan had thought this through, and if he was going to die young, he wanted to do it on his own terms. He didn’t want to get stuck in some Pedi ward, with stupid purple dinosaurs painted on the windows as if that was supposed to make any kid think he was anywhere but there.
Maybe hoping hard enough could redirect fate—it was possible that the blood vow he and Lucy had made the night before had changed them a little, so that Lucy was a little bit braver and he was a little bit stronger. “Okay,” Ethan said, tucking the EMF into the loop of his jeans and opening his bedroom window. “We’ll slide off the gable onto the roof of the porch, and then jump.”
“We will?”
“Well, it’s that or walk right past your mother in the living room.” He set one foot over the sill. “I’ll go first.”
“Wait.”
Ethan turned. “Lucy. We talked about this, remember? You were born a chicken, and I have this weirdo disease. So what? Only losers would stay that way forever.”
“What if it’s how we’re supposed to be, and that’s why we’re like this?”
“That’s crap,” Ethan said. “I’ll tell you what it was—it was God taking a coffee break and some dumbhead filling in for him when it came to handing out all the cool genes.” He stared at her. “If you couldn’t change things, ever, what would be the point of growing up?”
She nodded, convincing herself. “Where are we going, exactly?”
“To the only place in Comtosook where you can find a ghost
and
watch the sun come up,” he answered. “Trust me.” He held out his hand, milky and white, and waited until Lucy put hers into it, a sealed deal. Then they scrambled through the window and into the darkness, determined to turn themselves into what they were not.
On the banks of Lake Champlain, Az Thompson thought back to the moment his daughter, Lia, had visited with a social worker and he had given her a language to speak. He’d been too scared at that moment to tell her who he was, or that he knew her. Instead he’d fed her words, Abenaki; let her swallow them whole so that they took root in her belly, a bashful garden for the grandbaby she was carrying.
Words, for all they were flimsy and invisible, had great strength. They could be as fortified as a castle wall and as sharp as a foil. They could bite, slap, shock, wound. But unlike deeds, words couldn’t really help you. No promise ever rescued a person; it was the carrying-through of it that brought about salvation.
It seemed fitting to Az, after all that had happened, that it all still came down to what was written and what had been said. He looked at the box of files and pedigree charts that sat on the banks of the river where his bucket of muskies once had been. It hadn’t been difficult to get into the municipal building’s basement—did anyone in Vermont think to lock cellar windows?—and to haul out the remaining evidence of the Vermont eugenics project, which Ross Wakeman’s sister had brought back to the town’s keeping.
Az knew that the only way to strip words of their power was to erase them. Of course, once one had been released into the world you couldn’t call it back, but you could certainly keep it from being sent out again and listened to and digested. He picked up the roll of duct tape he’d gotten at the Gas & Grocery and unraveled the end, taping it to his shirt just beneath the armpit. Picking up the first of Spencer Pike’s extensive files, he held it to his chest and ran the adhesive around his body to secure it.
As he continued to fasten the files and papers and unwieldy genealogy charts to his thin body, Az remembered his daughter: the way her eyes lit up when she saw him coming, the movement of her hands across her abdomen, the way she stood out at the Gypsy camp like an orchid in a field of daisies. But you could transplant an orchid to that soil, and get it to grow. You just needed someone with the time and hunger to make it survive.
His mind wandered further back, to the moment he had noticed his beautiful Lily, the first afternoon he’d been working for her father. He’d come in from the fields to get another basket for the berries, and saw her—silver-haired and white-skinned, dancing on the porch to a song she was humming under her breath. She held her arms in place around an imaginary mate, waltzing. She didn’t know anyone was watching, and that alone took Az’s breath away.
She needs a partner
, Az thought, and that was the beginning.
He wondered if Meredith had talked to Winks yet about the land. He wondered if she’d come back to Comtosook, like she said. He didn’t know her well enough to read her. Sometimes in the fluid moments before he dropped off to sleep he confused her in his mind with Lia. They looked alike, certainly, but it went deeper than that. He would not speak for his daughter, but he thought Lia would be proud.
When he had strapped the last of the files to himself and used up all of the silver tape, Az walked into the water. Cold even in August, it numbed his ankles. He felt the files at his hips starting to soak. The papers were sponges, anchoring him to the muddy bottom.
Az took a deep breath just before his head went under. He moved along the floor of the lake, kicking up snails and stones and forgotten treasure. He let the air bubble out of his lungs and lay down on his back, sunken by the weight of the history he had strapped to himself, and he waited for the morning to come.
“I’m sorry,” Eli said to Shelby for the thirtieth time, as he opened the door of his house and greeted a lonely Watson.
“It’s not your fault.”
They had not only missed their dinner reservation in the aftermath of the car crash, they had completely missed serving hours at the restaurant. Now 2
A.M.
, there wasn’t even a McDonald’s that was open for a bite to eat. Eli tossed his keys into a bowl on the kitchen counter that held three molting bananas. “I’m a pretty awful date,” he muttered, opening the fridge. “I can’t even cook you something. Unless you like bread and mustard.” He scrutinized the loaf. “Make that penicillin and mustard.”
Suddenly Shelby’s arms circled him from behind. “Eli,” she said, “I’m not even all that hungry.”
“No?” He straightened, turned toward her.
She tugged loose his tie. Then she stepped out of her high heels. Barefoot like that, she seemed so small and delicate that it reminded Eli of a snowflake; one blink and it might melt away into nothing. “No,” she said. “But I am a little hot.”