I started down the path into town, River and Neely behind me, nothing dividing us from the dark night except the watery white beam from the flashlight I carried. It had stopped raining, but the path was slick and muddy.
“Where are we going, Vi?” River asked, finally, after we’d passed the tunnel. Neely still hadn’t spoken.
“To find proof,” I answered. “At the White mausoleum.”
“Proof of what?” River asked, and it was nice, that he was asking the questions for once.
I ignored him. “Jack was on top of the Glenship mausoleum when he was looking for the Devil. But the White mausoleum is buried back in the trees, farther away. It’s bigger, though. And it has Gothic columns. And a puzzling phrase carved over the doorway. You’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will.” River stumbled over a rock on the path, but caught himself before he fell. “Wouldn’t I like it just as well in the morning? When it’s warm, and we can see what we’re tripping on?”
“No,” I said.
Neely just laughed.
The moon was beginning to stick its face out into the night sky as we reached the cemetery, and the sea gusts were gentler now, having left the witching hour behind, I guess. The iron gate was open. The three of us squeezed through the gap.
I stood still and tried to absorb that calm, lonely, cemetery feeling. And then I led River and Neely to the White mausoleum.
Our family tomb was by itself at the back of the cemetery, along with some early suiciders’ graves, and an abandoned caretaker’s cottage that was spitting out old bricks and looking plump with atmosphere. Freddie was buried there, and my grandpa, and a mad uncle, and two poor little stillborn babies that Freddie had given birth to before my dad was born.
The Glenship tomb got mowed and trimmed now and again because it was near the graveyard’s entrance. But not ours. Ivy poured off the stone roof as if it owned the place, and blackberry bushes crowded the walls like thorny leeches. Now that I was there, in front of our mausoleum, I was a bit shocked by the brutal neglect. It was tangible. Almost oppressive. I couldn’t remember when I had last been to visit. When anyone had been to visit. Was it when Freddie died? Had it been that long?
I felt the bitter bite of guilt stirring up inside of me. Why hadn’t I taken better care of Freddie’s grave?
Maybe I had absorbed neglectfulness from my parents, along with art and snobbery.
Oh, it’s okay, Violet, came Freddie’s voice in my head. I like my tomb this way. Forgotten and still.
And it was true. Freddie had always liked abandoned, quiet things. Like ghost towns and rusted-out cars in junkyards and broken windmills standing where farmsteads used to be.
She’d had a collection of keys to buildings that had burned down in Echo. There were eleven of them, all looking pretty much the same, except for the great big key that had belonged to an old wooden church, reduced to ashes by some priest gone mad. She kept them in a pink handkerchief, and showed them to me one summer night when we both couldn’t sleep. I remembered the fireflies, and Freddie’s handkerchief smelling like rose petals, and the humid night air, and the ginger lemonade, and soft, wrinkled, familiar hands.
I reached up and tugged on a strand of ivy. It had been hiding the words carved into the stone over the door. They swooped and curled and glowed in the moonlight like something from Middle-earth.
“Is it in Elvish?” River asked, not two seconds after the thought of Tolkien danced through my brain.
“Mea Culpa. By That Sin Fell the Angels. Exuro, Exuro, Exuro.” I stood on tiptoe and traced the words with my fingers. “Mea culpa translates as my fault, which you probably know. The second line is from Shakespeare, Henry VIII. The end is I burn, I burn, I burn. Freddie had it carved up in there decades ago, and would never tell me what it meant. I finally had to do some research at the library. I translated the Latin, but as far as what Freddie meant by it . . .”
“She’s sorry,” Neely said, speaking for the first time since River had woken him up. He looked sweet and disheveled in wrinkled linen pants and his Windbreaker. “She’s sorry for the sins she committed. And the burning is the fires of hell.”
“I think not,” I replied. Freddie wasn’t burning in hell. I was sure of that, if nothing else.
I tapped the rusted-out lock on the door of the mausoleum, and it shook flakes of metal onto the ground. I supposed I could break it with a rock if I wanted to. Who the hell knew where the key was anyway.
But wait.
The names might be on the outside, buried under green leaves.
I moved to the other side of the tomb and pulled back the ivy.
The first name that came into view was True White. My aunt. The little girl that drowned. The ghost that River conjured up to scare Luke. The daughter that drove Freddie into the arms of God, and the Devil.
But the name we were all staring at wasn’t True’s.
ROSE REDDING
Beloved daughter, beloved sister
Murdered on her 16th birthday, June 8th, 1929
I pulled out the red card and the five letters I’d been keeping in my pocket. I gave the flashlight to River. He read everything. Silently. And then he gave the letters to Neely.
“Did you know?” I asked River, after a few more long moments of silence. “Did your grandpa talk to you about Freddie, and Echo, and is that why you came here? Did you know he had the glow too?”
River paused. His eyes held mine. Then he leaned back onto the blanket of ivy covering the mausoleum and nodded.
“My grandfather called it the burn. And yes. A few years before his death he started talking to me. That’s when I first learned that this thing of mine, this glow, ran in the family. My father didn’t have it, but my grandpa did. And I learned about a woman named Freddie, who was the only girl Will Redding ever loved. I learned about a town named Echo, where my grandpa lost control of his burn, and it got his sister killed. He tried to warn me, back before he died. But it was too late. Dad already had me working for him, and I’d gone too far with it. I was already addicted. I thought . . . I thought if I came here, to Echo, I might . . . I don’t know. It might help me.”
“It didn’t,” Neely said.
And I was thinking the same thing.
River looked at me, and his eyes were sort of pleading. “I got to Echo and found out Freddie had a granddaughter that looked just like her. And this granddaughter was looking for someone to rent the guesthouse. It seemed too good to be true. I thought it was fate. I thought . . . I thought you were going to save me, Vi.”
“I’m trying,” I said.
“I know,” he said back. River reached for me . . . and then stopped. He put his hands back down. “It’s not about that, Vi. It’s not about Freddie, and my grandfather. It’s not about the glow. It’s about you sitting on those great big steps, reading in the sun. It’s about the way you drink coffee on your tiptoes. It’s about you being direct and shy at the same time, and caring and eccentric and kind of a snob. It’s all of it.” River stopped talking for a second, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “There’s never been anyone before. Any girl. I don’t know what I’m doing. Vi. Vi, look at me. Do you believe it? Do you believe what I’m telling you?”
He said the last part fast, really fast, like he was embarrassed, maybe.
“No. You’re a liar.” But it didn’t come out as sharp as I wanted it to.
Neely laughed. “She’s got you there, River. Told you there’d be consequences for all that ly—”
A shout. A kid’s shout. Almost a scream. It came from the direction of the Glenship mausoleum.
We all looked around at each other, and then took off toward the sound. As we neared the old tomb, I saw two kids moving in the shadows. A tall, lean, black-haired boy. And a smaller boy, cowering on the ground by a headstone, his arms covering his face because the older boy was kicking th
e hell out of him. His wails filled the night air; they were ghostly, gossamer things, weak and pathetic and heartbreaking.
Neely shouted, “No, River, let me do it, don’t touch him,” but it was too late. River threw his shoulder into the older boy, knocking him back against the mausoleum. He grabbed the bully by his shirt and dragged him into a standing position. Then he put a hand on the kid’s throat and pushed him into the ivy-covered wall. Hard.
The boy’s head jerked back and cracked against the stone.
“River, stop,” I called out. It was the boy from a few days ago. The bully. Casablanca and the yo-yos. “He’s just a kid. Stop.”
River ignored me.
“Beating up a kid half your size?” River yelled. “You think that’s fair? You think that’s okay?”
The bully squirmed underneath River’s hand. He raised one arm and pointed it at the boy crumpled on the ground. “I came in here, looking for a place to smoke, and that kid had the balls to tell me to leave. Because of the Devil. The Devil. Those lying little brats told everyone they saw the fucking Devil, and made our town look stupid. And then I catch one of them, telling me to leave the cemetery. That little shit.”
I knelt down by the boy on the ground. I recognized him. He was the blond kid who had hesitated by the gate when the other kids were leaving the cemetery. He was dirty, and his clothes were torn, and there was blood coming from his mouth and his nose. He swiped a hand across his eyes and glared at the black-haired boy.
“I’m not a liar. The Devil was here. We saw him. We all saw him.”
The bully struggled in River’s grasp. “You lying little shit. I’m gonna kick you until your chest caves in and your lying little heart squeezes out between your ribs—”
Neely shot forward and ripped River’s hands away from the black-haired kid. The boy stood frozen for a moment, eyes staring stark white out of the shadows, and then he darted off into the trees like a deer.
Neely’s hands were shaking. I could see them, moving in and out of the moonlight. His breath was coming fast. His shaking hands tightened into fists. “Did you? Did you, River? Did you use the glow on that kid?” Neely’s voice had changed. It was low, and kind of eager, as if he wanted River to say yes.
River put his hands on his temples. “I . . . I don’t know. I just— My hands were on his throat, and I was so mad, and I—”
Neely pulled his right fist back, the one with the scars that ended at his wrist, and hit River dead across the face.
River’s head jerked to the side and he stumbled back. He brought his hand up to his cheek and looked at his brother. “Thanks” was all he said. He shook his brown hair away from his forehead, kind of cocky. Almost, almost like he was inviting Neely to do it again.
“Come on,” Neely said, and his voice was tense and excited now. He circled River for a second. Then he threw his fist out again, smooth and fast and hard.
River glided out of the way like it was nothing to him. Neely put his head forward and ran his body hard into River’s side. Both of them hit the ground and rolled. Neely came up on top, but River had him—his arm was wrapped around Neely’s neck and wasn’t going anywhere.
“Are you done?” River shouted. “Are you done?”
“Yes. Yes, damn it,” Neely whispered back, because the inside of River’s elbow was pressing on his throat.
River let go. He got to his feet, and so did Neely. River looked at his brother, and then looked at me, and then he walked off down the hill.
I turned to the blond boy. “Are you hurt?” I asked, stupidly.
“A little,” he replied, his right hand pressing into his ribs and his left hand swiping at the blood coming out his mouth. “But I’ll be all right.”
I moved his hand and felt around his little chest to see if anything was broken.
“Here, let me.” Neely knelt down beside me. He was breathing fast, still, but he seemed . . . calmer, somehow, after the fight. “I’ve had first aid training. I did a summer as a volunteer EMT.”
Neely searched the kid over. His knuckles were bloody, either from hitting River or from hitting the ground, but he didn’t flinch as he moved his hands. He was gentle and efficient and not remotely bothered by the blond boy’s dark, staring eyes, as I was.
“You’re in luck,” Neely said, after a few minutes. “No broken bones. Only bruises. You had better go home and let your mother put some ice on those.”
The kid pressed his hands into the muddy earth and pushed himself to his feet.
Neely put a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t come back in here. There is no devil, and there never was, okay? Promise me you will stay out of the cemetery.”
“I’ll try,” the boy answered, his dark eyes blinking at Neely, and his hand on his ribs. He turned and walked down the path.
I watched him until the stubborn black night swallowed him up.
And then I felt warm fingers intertwine with my own. Neely had grabbed my hand and now stood shoulder to shoulder with me, facing the woods. I could feel drying blood under my fingertips.
“I’ll go look for the other boy later,” he said. “I don’t know what River glowed at him, but it . . . it couldn’t have been good. I’ll need to clean it up.”
I nodded. And then we walked back to the Citizen, listening to the late-night creatures sing their late-night songs. Neely’s fingers stayed tight around mine, until I let go.
When we got back to the guesthouse, River was missing, still. Neely went looking for him around the grounds. It was late. A few hours from dawn. The grass was dewy and the air was moist and cool, almost cold. The moon was out, and everything was quiet, except the ocean. Even the crickets had gone silent.
I went home, dug around in the Citizen’s freezer, and found some ice. I grabbed two washcloths, put four ice cubes in each, and went outside. I sat down on the front steps, in the spot where the light from the foyer spilled out the front windows.
Neely showed up a few minutes later. No River.
“Here,” I said, handing him one of the cloths.
He grinned, and the bruise under his eye stood out stronger for a second. He put the ice on his swollen hand. “Thanks, sweetheart. A guy could get used to this—being taken care of after a fight.”
“Everything’s going to be all right with the bully, you know,” I lied, because sometimes a girl needs to lie. “I’m sure River just made him see Cthulhu or something on the way home.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Neely laughed. “I shouldn’t have . . . My brother just really, really pisses me off. So . . .” He lifted his wounded hand and gestured to the bruise on his face. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“It’s all right. I’ve wanted to hit River myself, a few times.”
“He’ll do that to a person.” Neely sighed, and I saw that sad smile, again, the one from before. “I know it seems like I’m not taking his problems seriously, but I am. I worry about him. Constantly. I just think you should know that.”
“I do.”
And Neely was grinning again. “Does anything get by you, Vi?”
I shrugged, thinking about Luke and Sunshine, and Freddie’s hidden letters, and Daniel Leap’s secret. “Yeah. Lots of things.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m going for a walk. I don’t want to be here when River comes crawling home because I’ll probably just punch him again. I’ll be back soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
Neely left. The four ice cubes I’d kept for River melted in my hand and dripped onto the ground. I traced the edge of the red skirt I was wearing (Freddie’s) and thought about the blood on the blond boy’s mouth, and Rose Redding with her throat slit, and the letters, and River.
He showed up about twenty minutes later. He swaggered up the Citizen’s front steps like always, and smiled at me like a damned angel.
“I think Neely’s been wanting
to do that for a long time.” River laughed, putting his fingers on his cheek. It was swollen and evil-looking and starting to bruise. Brothers with matching smiles. And matching bruises.
I went inside, to the kitchen, and River followed. I fished some fresh ice cubes out of the freezer, put them in a dishtowel, and handed it to him without a word. A feeling had stirred in me, looking at River’s bruised, smiling face, and it was hard and strong and bitter, like over-brewed black coffee without milk or sugar.
“Stop smiling, River,” I said. “You don’t even know if you used the glow on that boy. Do you understand how dangerous that makes you? Do you understand what that means?”
River pressed the ice to his face, and the cocky light dimmed in his eyes. “Do you think we can talk about this later? My face hurts. Tomorrow we can figure out what’s to be done with me. I’ll pack, and I’ll leave, and I’ll go home, screw everything up, and run off again.” He paused. “The next town won’t have you, though. Which kind of pisses me off, when I think about it.”
And he sounded half sincere. Which was something.
I stared at him for a second. “The things you said in the cemetery, before we heard the kid’s screams, about there never having been another girl before me. You were telling the truth, weren’t you?”
River looked at the wall, and kind of, well, fidgeted, in a way that Neely would have laughed at had he seen. “Yes. Yes, I was.”
“Are you lying?”
“Yes.”
“Did you just lie, again?”
“Yes.”
River let out a long sigh. And the last bit of his cockiness flickered, and went out. He looked younger, suddenly.
“Vi, would you please sleep next to me tonight? Please?”
“All right,” I said. Because it would be the last time. Besides, I kind of believed him, about the things he said in the cemetery.
We went to River’s bedroom in the guesthouse, opened his windows so a sea breeze could drift in, and slipped under the covers. River winced when his swollen cheek touched the pillow. I didn’t kiss him, and he didn’t kiss me, but I drifted to sleep with his arms around me and his face in my hair.
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea Page 19