House on Fire (ARC)

by Bonnie Kistler

  “Okay,” he said. She didn’t react as he kissed her. He got to his feet and circled behind the twins and clapped them each on the shoulder. “You doing okay, guys?”

  They looked like their father, big and blond. Two years of college pizza and beer had softened them around the middle, too, like Ted. Zack started to answer before he choked up and ducked his head. With a loud sniff, Dylan nodded in the direction of the bar. “Pete, somebody’s gotta cut Dad off.”

  Zack found his voice to chime in. “Yeah. Before he starts singing or something.”

  By somebody, they meant Pete, but it wasn’t his place to close the bar to their father. “It’ll be over soon,” he told them.

  He spotted Karen and Gary standing alone on the far side of the living room. They didn’t know anyone there, and Karen was getting that fearful look she often wore in a room full of strangers. He ought to go rescue her, even if it meant talking to Gary. He started to head that way when Gary buttonholed another passing guest and introduced himself as Dr. March. “It’s like a balloon bulging out of an artery,” Pete heard him say. “These things can go undetected for years until, bam, they rupture. Then they bleed out into the brain and it’s all over.” Gary was a dentist. He knew more about abscesses than aneurysms.

  Pete did an abrupt about-face. He looked around for Kip but he was still AWOL. Probably hiding out in his room. Pete headed for the stairs. Time to flush him out.

  Polly was still in the front hall. She’d been cornered by the Dietrich girl, who was speaking in a strained, too-loud voice. “I’m just going to disappear, that’s what. He can’t stalk me if he can’t find me.”

  “Now let’s think about that, dear.” Polly was the secret weapon in the arsenal of Leigh’s practice. She was like everyone’s favorite grandmother, wise and soothing. “You don’t want to be on your own with a baby coming. You’ll want your mother and father on hand.”

  “They’re no help to me. Not where Hunter’s concerned.”

  “Excuse me,” Pete said and cut around them to the stairs.

  The buzz of the crowd faded as he reached the second floor. He turned right, past the old master bedroom, now fitted out for Mia, then climbed another half-flight of stairs. Three doors opened off the landing, and two of them stood open, to Kip’s room and the twins’, but he wasn’t in either one.

  The third door was closed. Pete hesitated before he swung it open, but that room was empty, too. The bed was made and the books and homework put away and the clothes picked up off the floor, but signs of life were still everywhere. The life of a girl teetering between childhood and young womanhood. Her Breyer horse collection arrayed on a shelf above the complete works of William Shakespeare and a year’s back issues of Seventeen. The One Direction posters on the wall and the blue ribbons tacked to the bulletin board beside flyers for Habitat for Humanity and Doctors Without Borders. A rainbow of nail polish bottles lined up on her dresser next to a framed photo of the family, the one taken in front of the tree last Christmas. Pete picked up the photo and gazed at the grouping. He and Leigh stood smiling with their arms around each other’s waists, the twins were taking a knee on either side, and Chrissy sat front and center with her arms flung around Kip and Mia and a thousand-watt smile spread over her face.

  He clasped the frame to his chest and sank down on her pink-­ribboned bedspread. The door to the closet stood open and he could see the heaps of sneakers and loafers on the floor and the jumble of dresses and shirts crammed on the rod. Leigh loved to buy Chrissy new clothes, loved it far more than buying clothes for herself. She delighted in her daughter’s burgeoning beauty, and every time they got home from the mall, she had Chrissy give them a fashion show of each new ensemble. She’d sit down with Pete at the kitchen table and Chrissy would duck into the pantry with her shopping bags and come out giggling to prance and twirl with the tags still attached and fluttering like tails on a kite. Then the two of them would gallop upstairs and rummage through her closet to see what else might go with what. They’d be up there laughing for an hour after every shopping spree while Pete sat in the kitchen, grinning at all the ruckus.

  He put his face in his hands as the echo of their laughter rippled away. It struck him for the first time: he’d never hear that sound again. Chrissy’s laughter, gone forever, and he couldn’t imagine life in this house without it. Or her. He might never hear the sound of Leigh’s laughter again either. Not that laugh anyway, the one that bubbled out of her, a spring of pure delight. Chrissy was the heart and soul of Leigh’s life, and Pete didn’t know how she’d ever be the same again. His wonderful, lighthearted, wisecracking wife might be gone for good.

  The voices of the crowd droned on downstairs as he got up and closed the door to Chrissy’s closet. The clouds had been hanging heavy in the sky all day, and now the windowpanes were streaked with rain. He looked out through the glass. A drizzle was falling on the bluestone patio down below, and there was Kip, outside, hunkered on a chaise. Hiding out, as he’d suspected. No better than Pete, but he shouldn’t be doing it in the rain. He headed downstairs to drag him inside.

  Polly was talking to someone in a rain-splattered hat at the front door. It was the traffic cop, which meant another fire to put out. “I got this, Polly,” Pete said. Until he saw that there were two officers at the door, and neither one was the traffic cop. He stopped short. “Is there a problem?”

  Polly turned to him, eyes wide, and it was then that he registered who the officers were. They were the two cops from the police station Friday night.

  “Mr. Conley,” the man said. Softball Coach, Leigh had called him, though Pete learned that night his name was Hooper. “Is your son at home?”

  “Sure. What’s this about?”

  The woman stepped up. Ballerina Bun, Leigh had named her, though she was actually Officer Mateo. “We have a warrant for the arrest of Christopher Conley.”

  “What?” Pete said, a little too loudly as Polly backed away. “What do you mean? He was already arrested. You released him.”

  Mateo held up a crisp sheaf of papers. “These are new charges.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Conley.” Hooper glanced uneasily at the throng of guests spilling into the foyer. “I know the timing is—unfortunate.”

  Shelby charged into the hall with a glass of wine in her hand. “Let me see that,” she snapped and thrust her glass at Officer Mateo as she snatched the warrant from her.

  “What new charges?” Pete said.

  Mateo scowled at the glass in her hand. “Manslaughter.”

  “What!”

  “Vehicular,” Shelby said, flipping through the pages.

  “A Class Five felony.” Mateo put the glass down on the hall table, clumsily, and it tipped over and spilled out a pool of red wine.

  “We had a deal.” Shelby looked up accusingly. “You agreed he was a juvenile.”

  “Subject to the prosecutor’s review. And that was before somebody died.”

  “Let me guess. Harrison? And I guess the timing was his idea, too, to cause the most possible pain to the family. It’s not bad enough they lost their daughter.”

  Pete wasn’t following. “Wait. Are you talking about Chrissy? She had an aneurysm.”

  Mateo thrust out her chin. “Sustained in the accident that night, the doctors say.”

  “No. That can’t be—”

  “Mr. Conley.” Hooper spoke in a low voice. “Is your son on the ­premises?”

  “Here,” Gary called, and he came into the foyer pushing Kip ahead of him.

  The low buzz of the crowd swelled louder. Someone must have overheard what was happening and spread the word. A nervous clamor filled the house, and Pete could feel the heat of a couple dozen bodies pressing in behind him.

  Kip stood blinking in the glare of the hall chandelier, his suit coat splotched with rain and his hair plastered to his skull. The cops each took him b
y an arm. “Christopher Conley, you are under arrest—” Mateo ­began.

  “No, wait,” Pete said. “This is a mistake.”

  They pulled Kip’s arms behind his back. “—for driving under the influence of alcohol—”

  “Dad?” Kip’s voice cracked on the word.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out.” Pete reached for him, but the cops pushed him aside as they snapped the handcuffs over the boy’s wrists.

  “—for driving recklessly or in a manner so as to endanger the life of another—”

  “Kip, don’t say a word,” Shelby said as the cops pushed him to the door. “Not one word.”

  “—causing the death of Christine Victoria Porter.”

  A sudden silence sliced through the hum and hiss of the funeral guests. The crowd parted in two waves as Leigh wobbled into the foyer. She stood swaying, with her fingers twisted in her pearls and her eyes unfocused behind the veil of the sedatives. Her gaze wandered around the room and skittered past Kip where he stood with his head bowed. The only sound in the house was the rhythmic drip of the spilled wine from the hall table onto the floor.

  “Peter?” she said, blinking hard.

  “Leigh.” He reached for her while one hand still stretched back toward Kip. His child was being arrested for killing hers, and he didn’t know where to go or what to do. “It’s a mistake. I’ll take care of this.”

  “You have the right to remain silent—” Mateo pushed Kip out the door.

  “Which he invokes. Right now,” Shelby said.

  Leigh’s fingers wound tighter in her necklace.

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you—”

  Pete followed as far as the porch. Kip stumbled on the front walk, and the cops hoisted him upright and held him between them as they strode to the patrol car. “Hold on a minute,” Pete yelled. “You’re making a mistake!”

  From behind him came a sound like artillery fire. He whipped around. Leigh’s necklace had snapped, and a hundred pearls were spraying out from her throat. They hit the stone tiles like shotgun pellets and scattered through the pool of red wine still seeping across the floor.

  Chapter Seven

  That afternoon Kip was transported to the Hampshire County Adult Detention Center in Arwen to be held overnight pending a bond hearing before the magistrate in the morning.

  That night Pete lay awake with the deadweight of Leigh in his arms and those strange words boomeranging through his head. Transported sounded like Kip was in chains on a ship bound for Australia. Detention was innocuous enough on its own—an hour after-school writing I will not disrupt class again a hundred times on the board. Nothing Kip hadn’t experienced before. But put the word Adult in front of it and it turned into Pete’s worst nightmare. His kid was in an adult jail, full of actual adult criminals.

  The next morning Shelby Randolph met him on the courthouse steps and strode inside ahead of him in slender high heels and a suit as crisp as new money. There was a security checkpoint to navigate like at the airport, and down the corridor beyond it, two heavy wooden doors to the magistrate’s courtroom. Other lawyers and family members were milling around in the pew-like rows of spectator benches.

  “Sit here,” Shelby said, steering Pete to a spot in the first row behind the railing. She swung through the gate and crossed the aisle to speak to a harried-looking woman who stood shuffling files at one of the two lawyer tables. The woman didn’t look up from her files, only listened for a minute and shook her head.

  A girl in flip-flops barreled into Pete’s row with three small children in tow. The children wore flip-flops, too, and their feet looked red and raw with cold. The court reporter was setting up his equipment at the foot of the magistrate’s throne-like bench, and another functionary was beside him, flipping through her own towering stack of files. Two of the children next to Pete started to scrap with each other. “Cut that out,” their mother hissed. “Or I swear to God, I’m leaving your asses here.”

  Shelby slipped into the seat beside Pete as a door opened at the front of the courtroom. The magistrate emerged to take the bench, and the first case was called. A lawyer popped up from his pew like a jack-in-a-box and hip-checked through the swinging gate to take his place at the defense table. Pete dug his nails in his palms at the sight of the first prisoner to be led out in manacles—a young tough with a fat lip and a shiner starting over his right eye who still managed to look like the other guy got the worst of it. Assault was the charge, bail was set, and he was led out again, all in the space of two or three minutes.

  The next prisoner was led out. “Daddy, daddy!” the children cried. The charge was unpaid child support, and the man didn’t glance at his family on his way in or out of the courtroom.

  Finally Kip’s case was called. “Christopher Conley,” the functionary mumbled, and Pete leaned forward on the bench as Shelby rose to the defense table. The door opened and Kip was steered into the courtroom with his wrists manacled in front of him. His head came up as he cleared the door, and his eyes darted wildly until they landed on Shelby first then on to Pete behind her. He walked in a strange shuffling gait that made Pete wonder if his legs were shackled, too. But when he came closer, he saw why: His shoelaces were gone and his shoes were flapping loose on his feet. His belt must have been taken, too. His pants sagged low on his narrow hips.

  Pete tried to muster an encouraging smile, but before he could pull it off, Kip turned his back to stand at attention beside Shelby. His suit coat was striped with deep vertical creases. He must have wadded it up for a pillow in his cell last night. It was his first real suit. Leigh had taken him shopping for it last fall to wear for his interview with the governor and next for his graduation. Now he’d worn it twice in between: for his sister’s funeral, and for his own bond hearing.

  The clerk read the charges in a flat voice. Operating a motor vehicle after illegally consuming alcohol. Operating a motor vehicle after his license was revoked. Driving recklessly or at a speed or in a manner so as to endanger the life, limb, or property of any person. Driving recklessly and without a valid operator’s license resulting in the death of another. Driving under the influence of alcohol and causing the death of another. Involuntary manslaughter.

  Manslaughter. That was another word that boomeranged senselessly inside Pete’s head. Chrissy wasn’t a man, she was a girl. Girlslaughter, they should call it, except that Kip hadn’t slaughtered her. He hadn’t done anything to her. She’d died of a ruptured aneurysm that could have been sleeping inside her brain her whole life.

  The magistrate wasn’t there to hear about any of that. He wasn’t there to consider evidence or decide guilt. He had only one function, and that was to set the terms of Kip’s release. The female prosecutor rattled off some buzzwords. Second offense. Very serious charges. Potentially facing a long period of incarceration. Extreme flight risk. Shelby had a swift return for every lob. Christopher was a straight-A student. He’d been selected for a very prestigious internship with the governor’s office this summer. His father was a custom builder with projects throughout the county. His stepmother was an attorney who’d lived her whole life in Hampshire County. It was an upstanding family with deep roots in the community.

  “You headed to college this fall, young man?” the magistrate cut in. He was ancient, with deep hanging jowls like one of those dogs with the smashed-in faces.

  Kip cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “Out of state?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barely, Pete thought. Duke was only five hours away. He could drive there and back, overnight if necessary, to deliver Kip to his court appearances.

  “Then we’d better give you some incentive to come back and grace us with your presence. Bail set at one hundred thousand dollars. Cash or bond.”

  Those words boomeranged even more wildly. Pete had to put the figur
e up on his digital screen before he could believe he had the right number of zeroes. Kip whipped around with a look of pure panic in his eyes, and Pete tried to give him another encouraging smile, but he could feel his lips stretch into a rictal grimace as the boy was led away again. Who had one hundred thousand dollars cash?

  Nobody, Shelby explained as she led him out of the courthouse. Hence, the bail bondsman. She had to get back to her office for a meeting, so Pete was left on his own to stumble his way through the bonding process. It was late morning by the time it was done and another hour after that before Kip was released.

  Pete grabbed him by the arm as he came through the metal door. “Are you okay?” He looked him over, up and down. His shoelaces were tied, his pants were belted, but there was something wrong with his eyes. They couldn’t meet Pete’s.

  “I’m fine. Dad, the bail—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But how—”

  “You’re sure you’re okay? I mean, you want to see a doctor or anything?”

  Kip flushed. “Nobody touched me, all right?”

  Pete realized his thumb was digging into the boy’s bicep, and he let go and gave the spot an apologetic rub. “You want to get something to eat?”

  “I just want to go home.”

  The rain had finally ended, and the sun was sparkling on the bright white blossoms of the Bradford pears that flanked the walkway to the parking lot. Kip usually called shotgun and sprinted ahead to claim his prize, but today there were no other contenders. He trudged to the Volvo and slumped down low in the passenger seat.

  “Shelby said to call as soon as you got out.” Pete punched her office number into his phone, and he was pulling out of the lot as her voice came over the dashboard speaker.