Fury's Fire

by Lisa Papademetriou

“No,” Gretchen said.

  “Which is it?” the young officer snapped.

  Will and Gretchen stared at each other. Will’s denim-blue eyes were hard for a moment, then softened. “It’s up to you,” he said.

  Gretchen turned to the female officer. “No, thank you.”

  “This dog should be reported to animal control,” the officer replied.

  Coco’s owner wrapped her dog in a protective hug, and Gretchen suddenly felt her arm throb with pain. Tears sprang to her eyes, and her knees felt gelatinous, as if the muscles holding up her legs had melted away.

  “She’s a good dog,” Coco’s owner whimpered, on her knees beside the dog.

  Gretchen blinked away her tears and swallowed a few times, hoping her voice would return. When it did, it was an uncertain croak. “It isn’t the dog’s fault.”

  “Were you teasing it?” The young officer had red hair and a spray of freckles across his nose, which—frankly—made him hard to take seriously.

  Maybe that’s why he has to sound like such a tool, Gretchen thought. To make up for his innocent looks. “I didn’t do anything,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. She hadn’t done anything, she knew that, but somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somehow responsible—that the dog never would have gone crazy and attacked anyone else. The dog’s eyes were brown now, but when it had attacked, they had glittered like gold. They had worn a human expression, full of power, full of hate.

  Like the eyes she had seen in the waterspout.

  When Gretchen looked up, she saw a group of students clustered behind the glass doors, watching the scene. Her body felt limp, her head light. Will wrapped a supporting arm around her shoulders.

  “Let’s get you to the doctor,” he said. “I think someone should take a look at that arm.”

  The young officer looked like he was about to protest, but his partner said, “Let’s go,” in a voice that gave no options. “You’ll have to make a statement,” she said to Gretchen.

  “Can she come to the police station later?” Will asked. “I think we should get her to the hospital right now.” He didn’t wait for a response, just led Gretchen away by the elbow.

  Gretchen and Will started up the walkway that led around the school, avoiding bringing the spectacle inside through the double doors. Gretchen had never been so grateful for someone else’s presence. She was grateful, too, for Will’s silence, his refusal to get hysterical even when she felt like she was falling apart. Like everything was falling apart.

  Behind her, Gretchen heard Coco’s owner sobbing softly into the dog’s yellow fur.

  It’s not the dog’s fault. She knew it.

  But she couldn’t make sense of it. It was almost as if with every step she took toward answers, they receded, slipping back into the vast, mysterious ocean beyond.

  No trauma.

  That was what the emergency room doctor had said. “There is no trauma to your arm.” She was African, and her enunciation was rounded and musical, making the absence of trauma sound like a celebration. But Gretchen didn’t feel like celebrating. In fact, she didn’t even agree that there was no trauma. True, her arm hadn’t been chewed off. Thanks to the thick material of her jacket, there weren’t even any bite marks, no blood to deal with. But there was heavy bruising—her muscles felt as if they had been placed under a potato masher and pulverized.

  More than that, though, she felt cracked open, like a pumpkin cut in half, oozing pulp. The bright lights and beeping machines in the hospital, the man who lay on a stretcher in the corner, ignored and moaning with every exhalation, all made her want to scream. Will’s presence was the only thing that gave her comfort. And even when the doctor discharged her with a sheaf of paperwork and let them walk back into the day as if nothing had happened, the brilliant sunlight seemed overwhelming.

  Will took her hand and gently led her to the Gremlin. “Let me?” he asked as he pulled the keys to her car from his pocket. She nodded; she was still in no shape to drive. He opened the door for her and she climbed into the passenger side. Then he held her hand as he started for home, driving slowly, carefully, with only his left hand on the steering wheel.

  The day had grown pleasantly warm, and Gretchen used the crank to roll down the window. She liked the low-tech certainty of the crank. It felt good to do something under her own power, even though it was a small thing and made her arm ache. She breathed in the autumn smell of damp leaves, felt the cool air on her face. Gretchen and her father had often come out to their country house on weekends throughout the fall and even into the winter, so the landscape wasn’t unfamiliar. But she found herself longing for the deep canyons of Manhattan, the cliffs of buildings reaching to the sky, leaving only a small strip of blue overhead. She missed the masses of people.

  What am I doing here, she wondered, underneath this wide sky?

  She felt a hot tear slip from her bottom lashes and slide silently down her cheek. She made no noise, but Will tightened his grip on her hand. He guided the car into Gretchen’s driveway, the wheels crunching over the gravel as the Gremlin rolled to a stop. When he turned off the engine, silence fell, soft as snow, over them.

  Will looked at her then, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked. He erased the track of the tear with his thumb but made no mention of it.

  Gretchen felt her lips tremble. There were many things she wanted to say, but all she managed was, “Why?”

  That was it. Why? Why did Tim have to die? Why was Asia killed? Why do frightening things keep happening?

  Why can’t things go back to the way they were?

  Will sat back in his seat. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I guess I’ve … I’ve just stopped asking that. It doesn’t really help.”

  Gretchen laughed, soft and sad. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “There’s a lot of tragedies in the world, you know? Why do some kids get cancer? Why do some people live in Rwanda and get their arms chopped off?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. They just do. And those people just have to figure out how to go on.”

  Gretchen nodded. “I just wish I knew what was happening.”

  “Me too.”

  The silence sat before them, like a smooth pool. Neither wanted to disturb it. Finally, after a long while, Will said, “You’re stronger than you realize.”

  “I don’t want to be strong. I just want … to take a nap.” She laughed at how pathetic that sounded.

  “Yeah.” Will turned to her. “Well, maybe you can do that.”

  She closed her eyes, and he pulled her close to him. She felt the warmth of his skin through his blue and gray plaid flannel shirt, and it seemed to flow into her. Gretchen kissed his neck softly, and he pulled away in surprise.

  She felt her face turn hot as he looked at her for a long moment. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean—”

  He leaned forward then and pressed his lips against hers.

  It was a sweet kiss, and Gretchen would forever remember the softness of his lips, the feel of his arms pressing her against his body. Happiness coursed through her like a new heartbeat.

  When he pulled away, he touched her hair gently. He smiled at her, eyes shining, and she felt then as if she might fly away, float through the window and up to the clouds. It was what she had wanted for so long, and now she had it, and it was almost too much.

  She pressed her forehead against his chest, and he stroked her hair. Finally, he put his hands to her face and tilted her eyes toward his. “What was that for?” she asked, an echo of the question she had asked the last time he kissed her, innocently, in the hospital.

  “For you,” Will replied, his eyes serious.

  Gretchen looked up at him and touched with light fingers the long scar that ran across his face. “I’m glad.”

  “Me too.”

  The car was filled with the things unsaid between them, and Gretchen felt vaguely that they should be expressed, that expectations
should be explained, but in the end she was just too tired, and when Will leaned forward to kiss her again, she surrendered herself to him completely.

  Chapter Eight

  From the Walfang Gazette

  Inspectors Find Fault in Local Bridge

  High winds have been taking a toll on the Highlands Street Bridge, local authorities reported. “It’s a lucky thing this bridge was due for inspection,” said civil engineer Peter Hawles. “We’ve got a lot of high school kids taking that route every day.”

  It seems that high winds and extreme weather have been weakening the joists that hold the bridge together. “With the wrong set of circumstances,” Hawles said, “we could have had a catastrophe on our hands.”

  Repair work is scheduled to take place over the weekend.

  “Well, this sure is a fun outing,” Carl said as he steered the battered old truck through the streets. It was drizzling lightly, but the sky was dark gray. A storm was coming.

  “Thanks for taking me downtown,” Gretchen said.

  “Nothing better than a field trip to the police station,” Carl replied. “I hope you two are scared straight!” He let out a belly laugh that filled up the car and even made Gretchen giggle a little. Will shook his head. He was wedged in the middle, between Gretchen and his uncle.

  Gretchen had to make an official statement about the dog attack, so she was headed downtown to talk to Police Chief Barry McFarlan, Angus’s uncle. And Will had to straighten out the beach permit mess he had created.

  Unsurprisingly, his father had hit the roof when he’d heard.

  “You’re causing a real headache for your uncle!” Mr. Archer had screamed. “This could be a major problem, Will.”

  Will had tried to hide his irritation. Lately it seemed as if everything he did was wrong. He wished his father were a little less judgmental. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Mr. Archer snapped. “Just straighten it out.”

  So that’s what he was doing.

  Carl, on the other hand, hadn’t seemed perturbed at all. He had been very understanding, and had even teased Will for getting a ticket, calling him “Mr. Safe Driver.” Now he was whistling as he steered with one hand, the other arm propped on the open window frame.

  Carl pulled right into a spot in front of the station and put two quarters in the meter. “Crime doesn’t pay,” he said to Will with a wink. Then they all walked up the concrete steps.

  The Walfang police station was an old building with computers that looked as if they had been unearthed in an archeological dig. The entire police force was about fifteen people, but there were only five on duty now. The officer behind the desk pointed out the police chief’s office to Gretchen. Gretchen gave Will a pat on the arm and started down the hall.

  “Want me to come with you?” Will asked.

  Gretchen didn’t break her stride as she took two backward steps, smiling at him and shaking her head. “I can handle it, Will.” She turned back and disappeared into an office. Will bit his lip, wondering what she would say. The way she had insisted that it wasn’t the dog’s fault had unnerved him. What had she meant by that?

  “How can I help you?” The officer, a young Latina with a professional air, lifted her eyebrows at Carl.

  “We’re just here to take care of this parking ticket.” Carl handed over the orange slip.

  “I was borrowing his truck,” Will explained. “We don’t want it to go on my uncle’s record.”

  “Just a minute.” The officer—Tejada, her name tag read—typed some numbers into the computer, then waited. She smiled at them apologetically. “Slow,” she explained.

  “Take your time,” Carl said, leaning against the reception desk.

  A soft insect-like sound hummed in Will’s ears. He didn’t pay much attention until he noticed his uncle’s head snap up.

  Will watched as Carl turned. There was a holding cell a few feet away, up the hall in the opposite direction from which Gretchen had gone. A figure sat, hunched in the corner, unmoving.

  Will heard the sound again. It was a long, singsong note.

  Horror flashed across Will’s uncle’s face as the figure slowly, slowly lifted his head. Will didn’t know the man, but the look in his eyes was terrifying as he sang on.

  “Hey, shut up,” Officer Tejada snapped.

  Will grabbed his uncle’s elbow. “Are you okay?”

  Carl’s eyes were wide, and for a moment he stared at Will as if he had no idea who he was. Then he blinked. “I think … can you handle this, Will?” Carl gestured to Officer Tejada. “I need some air.”

  “Do you know that guy?” Will asked. Will looked over at the man. Pockmarked face, flashing eyes—it wasn’t anyone he’d seen before.

  “No.” Carl’s voice was a whisper as he stepped past Will.

  Will stared, and the man stared back. A smile slithered across his face, twisting like the branch of a poison tree. His eyes gleamed golden and then, suddenly, the fire in them disappeared. It was as if he had been lit by a momentary spark that had flared and then died out.

  “Okay,” Officer Tejada said at last, frowning at the computer screen. “As long as this is paid off, there shouldn’t be a problem with your uncle’s record. Are you prepared to pay it now?” She looked up at Will with dark eyes.

  It took a long moment for her words to fall into place, and for Will to find the meaning in them. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I can pay it.” He cast a furtive glance at the man in the holding cell, but he had turned back to the wall.

  Will took care of the ticket, then waited for Gretchen in the hallway. When she came out of Barry’s office, Will hurried to her side.

  “Ugh. That was painful,” Gretchen said. “Everything taken care of at your end?”

  “Yeah.” Will held her arm gently, making sure to guide her as far away from the holding cell as possible. But there was no sound from the suspect. Will cast a glance over his shoulder as they walked toward the front door. The rain had picked up, and the fat drops hit them as they hurried to the truck.

  Carl was waiting for them, seated behind the wheel.

  “Thanks again, Carl,” Gretchen said as she climbed inside after Will. “That wasn’t fun; I’m glad I had some company.”

  Carl didn’t reply—he just nodded as he turned the key in the ignition and brought the truck to life. The blood seemed to have drained out of him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Will said. They pulled away from the curb, and he watched the police station in the rearview mirror until it was out of sight.

  The scene at the station had disquieted him, and now—hours later—he replayed the scene with the dog in an endless loop in his mind. Over and over, he saw the flash of bared teeth, the tense muscles spring forward; he felt his heart drop as the Lab knocked Gretchen to the ground. He’d been consumed by fear, rage and fear, and in the fury that consumed him, he would have killed the animal.

  He had seen the dog, seen it attack, but it had reminded Will of a sailboat, invisible wind driving it forward. What had made it go momentarily mad? He looked out his window at the house across the creek. The sky was darkening into gray twilight and Gretchen’s room cast a yellow glow onto the almost-changing leaves of the maple tree that framed her window. She wasn’t in her room, but Will was comforted that he was able to watch her home from his perch on his bed. She was inside the old farmhouse, safe.

  He looked down at the flute in his hand. It was lightweight, made of human bone, and the length of his forearm. A sense of foreboding fell over him.

  The kiss that afternoon had taken him by storm, but not by surprise. He wondered why they hadn’t done it before. The moment he felt her gentle, hesitant lips against his neck, Will knew that a pass had been reached, and now there was no going back. The kiss he gave her was like a dam opening, unleashing a torrent of pent-up emotion. He could no longer deny that he loved Gretchen with a ferocity that frightened him. The touch of her skin, the sweet smell of her hair—t
hese things were precious to him, and when he’d kissed her again, he hadn’t wanted to let her go. His desire to protect her had only grown more desperate. Love had bound them together and ignited a flickering, warming light within the wreckage of his ruined life.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave her, but Gretchen felt she had to explain about the dog attack to her father, and she wanted to do it alone. So he had kissed her again on the doorstep, feeling the heat of her body pressed against his, and had finally let her go.

  Then he’d made his way back to his house.

  His mother had been in the kitchen, relaxing with a cup of coffee, when he got back from the police station. She looked up at Will and smiled. It was the kind of smile that he hadn’t seen from her for a long time, as though all of her worries had vanished and she was just happy to see him. Impulsively Will had stepped behind her and kissed the top of her head. She took the hand he had rested on her shoulder and squinted up at his face. “What’s wrong?” she had asked, but her voice was surprised, not worried.

  “Nothing,” Will had whispered, squeezing her soft hand.

  She’d looked down at her coffee cup. “Dinner’s at six.”

  “Dinner’s always at six.”

  He’d taken the stairs up to his room and thrown his book bag on the floor. He stepped over to the window and looked out, over at Gretchen’s house. He saw her brush past the window. Then she moved toward the door and disappeared.

  He’d turned back to his bureau, and a shiver had rippled through his body. Sitting atop the polished dark wood was a flute that Barry McFarlan had given him. It had been found on board the Vagabond after the accident, and Barry had assumed it belonged to Tim. Will later discovered that it was a flute that the Sirens used to call to one another. Asia had told him that.

  He usually kept it buried in his bottom drawer. He had no idea how it had appeared on top of his bureau. Reaching out, he’d touched the smooth bone with a tentative finger. Then he lifted the flute in his hands, weighing the delicate heft of it.

  I must have put it there, he mused now. I must have put it there and forgotten.