Fury's Fire

by Lisa Papademetriou

  “There wasn’t any other way, Gretchen,” Will whispered into her hair. “You didn’t even do it on purpose … but I would have.”

  “Why is this happening to me?”

  She looked up at him, and he brushed the hair away from her face. “I don’t know.”

  “I want it to stop.”

  “Maybe it will.”

  She looked away from him, a low flame of anger burning in her veins. She hated to admit it, but she was angry with him for finally telling the truth. No, she was angry that the truth was what it was. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “What would I have said?”

  “I don’t know—the truth.”

  “Whatever that is.”

  “Don’t joke, Will.”

  “I’m not.”

  He held up his hands, and his face looked so helpless that she was reminded of a time long ago when she and a seven-year-old Will had caught a fish. They had been trying all afternoon, and when a small blackfish finally nibbled the end of their line and they pulled it up, she had shrieked in horror, and Will had jumped back as the fish flapped wildly, desperate to be free.

  “Put it back!” Gretchen had screamed, but Will didn’t want to touch the fish, so she had finally grabbed it, unhooked the bleeding, gaping mouth from the silver hook, and tossed it back into the creek. “We almost killed it,” she had said then, filled with remorse.

  And that was how she felt now—as if her wish had finally been granted, but the granting was something horrible and terrifying. She knew the truth, but all she wanted was to toss it back. And nobody could help her.

  “Let’s go,” Will said finally, taking her hand again.

  “Where are we going?”

  Will looked surprised. “Back to school.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He smiled a little sadly. “What else are we supposed to do?” he asked.

  This, too, was the truth, Gretchen realized. And so she slowly followed him back into the building, trying to make sense of her swimming thoughts and broken heart.

  “Dudes, you are not going to believe this!” Angus said, sliding onto the orange chair beside Gretchen. He looked like he was about to say something, then got distracted by Will’s lunch. “Gimme some of that.” He broke off half of Will’s chocolate chip cookie. Will rolled his eyes.

  “Man, what does your mom put in this—crack? How am I supposed to stop eating it?” He reached for the second half of the cookie.

  “You could just say to yourself, ‘Gee, this isn’t my cookie, maybe I should stop eating it,’ ” Will suggested.

  Angus laughed as he polished off the cookie and brushed the crumbs from his hands. He looked over at Gretchen, grinning, and she felt her body unspool a little. She was grateful for his presence. She and Will had just been sitting there in tense silence for the past five minutes. It had been wearing her out.

  “So—did you want to tell us something?” Gretchen prompted.

  “What?” Angus looked blank.

  Will sat back in his chair. “You said that we wouldn’t believe something.”

  “Oh, right!” Angus put up his hands, palms out, as if he were ready to stop traffic with his news. He turned to Gretchen. “The guy who robbed us killed himself.”

  Will let out a strangled “What?” and the pizza Gretchen had just consumed threatened to make its way back up her throat. For a moment she felt as if she had flown out of her body—like she was watching herself from above, hearing the news. She had no sensation in her hands, her feet. Her body was a strange, unreal thing.

  And then Angus said, “Crazy, right?” like he was discussing some wild celebrity gossip, and Gretchen fell back to earth, crashing into her body like a meteor. She went concave, her body collapsing like a roof under a heavy weight of snow.

  “Jesus, Angus, you can’t just drop that on someone.” Will was watching Gretchen, concern stamped across his face.

  “Sorry—I’m sorry.” Angus touched Gretchen’s arm. “Hey, I’m sorry.” He leaned down to look up into her face. “I didn’t know you’d be so upset.”

  “Anyone with a heart would be upset, Angus.” Will’s voice was sharp.

  Gretchen forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another. It was a while before she felt like she could speak. “What—what happened?”

  Angus hesitated a moment. He looked over at Will, who shook his head slightly. But the question had been asked. “He hanged himself,” Angus said quietly. “In his cell. He used a bedsheet.”

  Gretchen digested this information. She didn’t know why, but for some reason she looked over at Kirk, who was watching her intently. There was something in his expression that made her wonder if he knew what they were talking about.

  “I don’t feel well,” Gretchen said.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water.” Will stood and hurried to the drinks counter for a plastic cup.

  “I’m sorry, Gretchen,” Angus said. The spray of freckles across his nose had faded but were still visible, and his wide face and large eyes were so childlike that she couldn’t help forgiving him. “Listen …” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked at her evenly. “I am now going to drop another bomb on you, so I just want you to be prepared.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to focus as her heart did a skip-thump. “Okay,” she said slowly.

  Angus cleared his throat. He took a deep breath, like someone who has accepted his fate, and reached into his pocket. “That thing you asked me about.” The paper was folded into messy quarters, and he laid it on the table before her. “Weird story, actually.”

  They both looked at the paper for a moment without moving.

  Gretchen touched a protruding corner with a finger, then gingerly unfolded it. Angus had photocopied the article. It was crooked on the page, and for some reason that bothered her.

  One Lost, One Found After Fire

  Brookline, MA

  A conflagration at 657 Attinson Street, just above the Juliet Theater, is feared to have claimed a life last night. Saskia Robicheck, age unknown, is missing and presumed dead. Investigators have not yet found any remains, nor have they determined the cause of the fire.

  “Most fires of this nature are caused by electrical problems,” Fire Chief Lawrence Sawyer commented this morning. “I strongly urge everyone to get a thorough inspection—especially anyone living in one of the older houses out here.”

  But adding mystery to tragedy is the presence of a small baby at the scene of the fire. The baby has been taken into care at Mercy General Hospital, but doctors there have stated that the child is in good health and seems unharmed by the fire. “She must have been placed there after the fire,” said Dr. Elizabeth Anders. “She’s only a few hours old.”

  The firefighter on the scene was flummoxed as to how the baby might have gotten there. “It was so strange—the baby was in the part of the house that had already burned most completely,” said firefighter DeShawn Greene. “She was surrounded by black, smoking ashes.”

  Gretchen scanned the article, but there wasn’t much more information. She took a second glance at the date at the top: July 21, 1995. “The day after my birthday,” she said. It wasn’t that she was surprised, not exactly. This just confirmed what she had feared all along. “Saskia Robicheck is my mother,” Gretchen told him. “My birth mother.”

  “I didn’t even know you were adopted.”

  Gretchen shrugged. “Why would you?”

  He sighed. “You think you’re the baby?” Angus tapped the paper. “This baby?”

  “I know I am,” Gretchen said. She placed the paper carefully on the tabletop, folded it in half. She felt strange throwing it away, but she didn’t really want to keep it. So she just folded it again and tucked it into her back pocket. “I just don’t know what it means. If it means anything.”

  “It’s just weird.”

  “Who knows what’s weird anymore?” Gretchen pushed back in her chair and folded her arms across
her chest. She was silent.

  “So, does this mean you have magic powers, or something?” Angus joked. “Like some Stephen King Firestarter deal? Like, maybe you could open a barbecue place and—”

  “Please stop.”

  “Okay.”

  Gretchen pressed her fingers against her temples, fighting to contain the thoughts that pinged around her mind. “I don’t know what it means,” she said at last. “Thanks for looking it up, though.” She started to stand.

  “Gretchen.” Angus grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop. “I’m sorry.”

  And he did look so sorry that she felt awful for him. Gretchen gave his hand a squeeze. “It’s not your fault.” She was careful to make her voice gentle, despite the fear and anger that raged inside her.

  “No, but … I’m still sorry. I can see you’re freaked out. But this doesn’t mean anything.”

  Angus stood and leaned forward to give her a hug. He was more than a head taller than she, and her head banged awkwardly into his shoulder, her nose mashing into the ridged line of the zipper on his jacket. Still, she was grateful for the contact.

  “What’s up?” Will asked. His head was cocked in bemusement at the sight of his friends hugging. He handed Gretchen a plastic cup filled with water. She felt him watching her as she took a sip. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  She looked over at Angus, who touched her elbow. Will noticed the gesture and must have taken it as a sign that Angus was asking for forgiveness, because he sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Good.”

  The bell rang, signaling the next class. “I’ll see you guys,” Gretchen said, scooping up her tray.

  “See you,” Will called after her. Angus was silent.

  For once, she supposed, Angus didn’t have anything else to say.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fireflies floated overhead, sailing toward the black sky as if longing to join the stars, then winked out. Around her, faces—angry and dirty—glowered, flickering in reflected torchlight. An old woman in a gray head scarf shouted something, but Gretchen couldn’t hear the words—it was as if she were watching television with the sound turned off. She could see that everyone was crying out, screaming at once, but Gretchen couldn’t understand why.

  Beside her was a man of about fifty, with heavy-lidded eyes and sunken cheeks. He stood tall, as straight as a scarecrow, and lifted a bony finger at her. He began to speak, but again Gretchen couldn’t hear the words. His lips formed the word burn and she saw that he carried a torch. It was then that she realized that she was immobile—her hands tied behind her back, her feet resting on uneven ground. And then the torch was thrust at her, and she saw the kindling at her feet.

  She tried to cry out but found herself as soundless as the crowd gathered to watch her burn.…

  “Uncle Carl?” Will called at the front door. He had been hoping to catch his uncle alone for the past few days, but whenever he did, Carl babbled on about some inane subject or found an excuse to leave as quickly as possible. Will had finally had to accept that he had to corner his uncle and force a few questions.

  “Come on in!” a voice boomed at him from somewhere deep in the house.

  Will pushed open the screen door—the main door was standing wide open—and stepped into the living room. Carl came in from the kitchen, wiping his left hand on a towel. His right hand was still wrapped in a bandage. He looked surprised, and maybe not too pleased, to see his nephew. “Will. What brings you by?”

  “Just wanted to hang out.”

  Carl stood there, eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Okay, uh …” He gestured toward the kitchen, and Will followed him there. He sat down at the tiny table across from where Carl was sliding something into the oven.

  “I didn’t know you could cook,” Will said.

  “Miserable bachelors always know how to cook.” Carl had been divorced for eight years. Will knew that he didn’t often see his two daughters. Carl’s ex-wife wasn’t the kind to split amicably. She had more of a slash-and-burn personality.

  Carl shut the oven door slowly, then folded the blue and yellow print towel and hung it over the handle. He looked down at the floor. “Um, Will. About the other night. I’m … I know my behavior hurt you, and—”

  “Did you know that man?”

  Carl seemed surprised by the question. “What man?”

  “The one at the police station. The one who was singing.”

  “No.” He mashed his lips together, as if he didn’t trust himself to say more.

  “No, but …?” Will prompted.

  Carl crossed the yellow linoleum, sat down in the chair across from Will. “I guess I knew that song he was singing.”

  “You seemed really upset by it.”

  “Will, I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “I know, Uncle Carl. Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t important.”

  Carl’s chair screeched as he pushed it back from the table, but he didn’t stand up. Instead, he gazed at a far-off point—somewhere beyond what Will could see. “It’s just—I used to hear these songs.”

  It was as if something had stolen the breath from Will’s throat. He parted his lips, but nothing—no word, no breath—came through them.

  “That’s when I started drinking. I’d drink until I passed out, just to make the song go away. And then … I don’t know … I did quit drinking, and everything turned around … and the song went away by itself. And then I thought I heard it again the other night.” Carl looked down at his injured hand. “But it’s stopped now.” He looked up at Will. “I won’t be drinking again, Will. I promise you.”

  It was a supreme effort for Will to make himself nod. He breathed in deeply. “Okay.” The word was a whisper, like wind cut by a kite string.

  Those songs. Will didn’t need to ask what song. He knew.

  A seekrieger’s song.

  But which seekrieger? Calypso? Asia? Or someone else? Could one—or more—have survived the fire on the bay?

  And what did they want now?

  Will did the same thing he always did when he had questions that needed answers. He texted Angus.

  “Welcome to the Evil Empire,” Angus said with a grin as Will walked into the coffee shop. It was a franchise, just one more in a national chain, and the people of Walfang had expressed outrage when the owner had proposed opening it in the center of town. But it had opened anyway, and the summer people had flocked there, and five years later, it seemed as much of a landmark in Walfang as the town hall. Will usually avoided the place, though. There was good local coffee just up the street. Or he could get coffee strong enough to melt nails at Bella’s. But Angus had said that he had some information about Carl, and suggested the place. Will was more than happy to meet in a location that felt anonymous. It was mostly empty at eight-thirty on a weeknight, and the people there were staring at laptops or reading, not paying attention to others around them or what was being said.

  Angus took a sip from a tall, pink frothy drink topped with whipped cream. “Can you believe I’m drinking this girlie thing?”

  Will sat down in the chair across from his. “Um—should I state the obvious?”

  “No. Thanks for your restraint.”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  Angus liberated his long legs from beneath the small table between them, creating a tripping hazard for anyone who wanted to pass by. He took another sip of his enormous drink, pretending it absorbed his entire attention. “Are you going to get anything?” he asked, almost hopefully.

  He doesn’t want to tell me, Will realized. “I’m good.”

  “Listen …” Angus inhaled a heavy sigh. “I found out something about your uncle.”

  “Right.” Oh, God, do I want to hear the rest of this?

  “He was there the night Kirk Worstler’s father died.”

  “What?”

  “He was a witness.” Will clamped his lips together and shook his head as Angus went on. “He saw Ezekiel Worstle
r jump out a window.”

  Will put his elbows on the table, ran his hands through his hair. “He was at the suicide.”

  “I talked to one of Barry’s good buddies down at the station. A detective. He’s been there a long time. I won’t tell you who, but he pulled Carl’s statement. I’ve got a copy.” Angus pulled an envelope from his messenger bag. “Do you want it?”

  Will looked at the manila envelope, wary. He thought of Pandora’s box. Once the box was opened, the evil it contained could never be put back. “Why wouldn’t he have told me?” Will asked.

  “Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it,” Angus suggested. “Or maybe he thought you’d think he was crazy.”

  Will plucked the envelope from Angus’s fingers. The statement was three pages, handwritten, hard to read, made even harder by a poor photocopy. Will scanned it, familiar with his uncle’s uneven scrawl from eighteen years’ worth of Christmas and birthday cards.

  The call came at 7:34 on Monday night, from the Mill Gallery. My security company had set up an alarm system there. I was on, so I went over.

  When I arrived, I saw that the front door was ajar—someone had smashed the glass and turned the knob. A brick was missing from the landscaped edge near the entrance, so I assumed someone had pried it free. When I stepped inside, I saw Ezekiel Worstler. He had his back to me, but when I called his name, he turned around. He had been slashing the paintings. I asked him what he was doing. Zeke and I had been in high school together, but I wasn’t sure he recognized me. Something in his expression told me that he wasn’t in his right mind. He’d always been a strange one. That family—well, [words scratched out].

  The Mill Gallery is built over a river, and there’s a functioning water mill just outside. The gallery lit it up at night, and I could see it from the plate glass window, just behind where Zeke was standing.

  I was a little worried, since he had a knife, but I’d never known Zeke to be violent, so I didn’t draw my gun. But he just grinned at me and turned back to the paintings. I said his name then, and he froze. He turned to me, and something in his face shifted. Just for a moment. “Carl Archer?” he asked. I said his name again, and in a flash, he reached into his coat.