Speak of the Devil

by Shari Shattuck

  That’s when she heard the thunder, a low, rolling rumble. And she looked up at the sky again, expectant. Susan followed her gaze.

  But the thunder wasn’t coming from the sky. It was coming from just under the spot where the ridge sloped steeply down from them, and as both women searched frantically for some reason or logic that would explain the noise, a herd of horses broke over the crest a few yards away and galloped wildly toward them.

  Susan screamed and pulled both hands up in front of her face. Greer leapt forward, ignoring the stampeding animals bearing down on them, and launched herself onto Susan, grasping and twisting the other woman’s gun arm tightly in both hands and knocking her to the ground.

  The next few seconds were a confusion of dust, soot, hooves, and eternal struggling as time slowed to a denser dimension where the seconds ticked through space as thick as tar. The very air was filled with pain and exertion. Greer breathed it in and was choked with dust churned from the chaos of the hooves and the desperate flight born of inbred fear. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder the same instant she heard a sharp, hot blast, muffled and infused into the confusing cacophony all around them. She felt Susan’s body heave violently against her and then just as suddenly surrender the tension and anger, so that with a barely detectable gasp or sob, she seemed to melt, easing almost gracefully onto the ground. The warm skin of her bare arm under Greer’s hand was smooth, in sharp contrast to the coarse and gritty surface on which they both now lay.

  And then it was quiet. Very slowly, as though it had only paused to sense a glimpse of the physical world and now it was eager to go on its way again, time picked up its pace, resuming its brisk, inattentive walk on earth. The sound of rushing hoofbeats fading away and the sensation of the ground, still hot from the fire, returned Greer to her senses enough to force herself up onto her knees. Clutching at her shoulder with one hand and Susan’s limp arm with the other, she grappled with reason, trying to make sense of what she saw before her.

  The gun lay, gleaming and man-made, discordant in a pile of twisted, organic sticks; the horses were disappearing in a cloud of dust and soot that their sharp hooves had churned up; her shoulder was bleeding where one of those hooves had clipped it as the horse jumped over her—all these things came wandering warily into Greer’s field of awareness. But there was something else, something that would not show itself. Greer shook her head and forced herself to call the truth into her sluggish mind.

  Susan was lying perfectly still. Her white skin on the black earth gave her the artsy look of a black-and-white photograph. Except that there was one color. From the hole in the side of Susan’s face, dark red blood was oozing onto the scorched ground.

  And Greer rocked back from the realization when it hit her with its harsh and undeniable finality: Susan was dead. The blackness that she had seen inside of Susan had been there not because she was ill, but because the mortal danger that Greer had seen in her future would come from inside of her; she had been the danger to herself. Susan had nurtured it, fed it, and refused any warning about it.

  And she had paid the price.

  Chapter 60

  Reading and Jenny had lost sight of the other horses. When they came to the highest open point on the trail, Reading pulled up hard in front of Jenny and pointed. Off to their far right, on the fire road leading to the south, they could see the forms of the running horses and the telltale clouds of their path.

  “They’ve headed for the already burned-out area,” Reading said through gritted teeth. “Smart animals. Now, if they don’t get hit by a car, they should be all right.”

  “Where are we going?” Jenny asked, ignoring the slight cramping in her stomach. It was so hot and arid that her clothes had already dried on her body.

  “Down,” Reading said, his face unreadable as he scanned hers, possibly looking for signs of weakness. “Here.” From a deep pocket in the hunting vest he was wearing, he pulled a full bottle of water and handed it over. “Drink half and pour the other half over your head. I left my truck off the road this morning and hiked back in. In case, well, in case of this.” He scanned the dry chaparral below them. And then pointed again, in the other direction. Jenny followed his finger and saw that up to the left, yet another insidious orange line had formed on the crest. “Let’s go,” Reading ordered. “We’ve got to beat that fire to the road. If it cuts us off, our only choice will be to go back, and you know what’s waiting for us that way.”

  Revived by the water, Jenny nodded and took the lead. The trail was steep, and there was nothing for it but to give the horses their lead and let them find their footing at their own pace on the way down.

  Jenny tried not to keep looking at the threat that was bearing down on them from the left, but it was mesmerizing and constantly pulled her gaze until she could rip it away again, urging Buttermilk to increase her slipping pace just that little bit more.

  After what seemed several endless days, they came to more level ground and she was able to press her lathered horse into a trot. They passed into a deep canyon, working their way as cautiously as they dared around the broken ground and rocks of the dry creek bed, and then the canyon walls fell away, and they could see the road, several hundred feet in front of and slightly above them, and they could see the fire traveling down on the left.

  Jenny gasped, estimated the distance, and threw one look back at Reading, who had done the same.

  She tightened up both reins in one hand and wrapped the other in Buttermilk’s mane, and leaning forward, she shouted as she kicked at the horse, “Run, run like the wind.”

  The horse took off, her nostrils flaring, her hooves punishing the rough gravel of the dry bed, the hot wind hitting Jenny’s face as though she had opened an oven and leaned down into it as the heat escaped, except that in this case, the heat kept on coming.

  And so did the fire. With all her willpower and strength, Jenny focused on the road ahead, and only the road. She did not look left or right, though she could see the flames approaching on her left, moving faster than she was, leaping from submissive ground cover to trees weakened with drought. She urged Buttermilk on, giving a kick when the horse needed to jump a bush or a rift in the ground, and still she kept her eyes forward. She was almost there, just a few more yards, when suddenly, a low row of sage in her path burst into flame. Buttermilk began to hold back, but Jenny kept her weight thrown forward. Signaling the horse to go forward with a hard kick and a thrust of her whole body, Jenny let loose a loud, adrenaline-fueled howl, and Buttermilk, sensing the futility of any other course, gathered her great body and leapt, sliding blindly into the air. For a few seconds there existed only the swirl of wind in Jenny’s ears, the opaque screen of smoke that blocked her vision, and that curious, lovely weightlessness of flight, and then the ground hit them, and with a crash, Buttermilk’s hooves slammed into the sandy soil on the far side of the burning shrubbery. She stumbled and then righted herself and continued on. But they were at the road.

  Behind her, Jenny heard the impact of the stallion’s great bulk and the continuation of his run; without looking back, she brought the horse up a small, steep incline and then turned to continue on the shoulder of the road. A quarter mile down, they came to where Reading had left his four-wheel drive. They both dismounted, and Reading quickly pulled the saddles from the steaming horses and then slapped them firmly on the rumps to send them running on down the road ahead of them.

  “Get in,” he barked unnecessarily. He started the engine, and even as he pulled out, he cranked the air-conditioning on high, pointing the vents toward Jenny. “You need to get your body temperature down,” he ordered.

  Leaning gratefully into the mercifully cold air, Jenny asked weakly, “What now?”

  “Now, we go find the horses.” He drove very fast, and soon they had distanced themselves from the danger zone behind them. They passed two hook-and-ladder trucks, sirens screaming, heading to fight the fire, and two helicopters buzzed over them, very low, on their way in wi
th their loads of water. In less than two minutes, both helicopters passed over them again, on their way back for more.

  “Where are we going to look for them?” Jenny asked.

  “Best guess? The ones we just rode will head to a friend of mine’s barn nearby. It should be safe. That’s where the stallion was born. I’ll call them later. The others were heading out over Oak Springs fire road, so I’ve got a general idea that we head to the Golden Door development and try to find them as they come out the back side. But you’ll stay in the AC. Baby needs your temperature somewhere below uncomfortable.”

  “I’m feeling fine now,” Jenny told him. She closed her eyes and ran a quick physical check. The cramping was gone; her body was cooling. She breathed a sigh of relief and said a prayer of thanks that she had been strong enough, that the baby was okay.

  Then she opened her eyes and said it out loud to Reading. “Thank you.”

  It took about fifteen minutes to maneuver their way through the tangle of back roads, which cut off a huge portion of driving time compared with taking the paved streets. Finally they came to the development entrance and the edge of the desolation, and Reading stopped to look around.

  There was another truck already there, a black pickup, and Jenny almost shouted when she saw who was in it.

  “It’s Joshua! Greer’s son and Sterling too. What are they doing here?”

  Reading had already started rolling toward the other pickup. Neither of the men in the truck looked up at first; they seemed engrossed in examining a map of some kind. Jenny actually had to lean out the window to get their attention as she and Reading pulled up beside them.

  When Sterling recognized her, his face was a plethora of emotions that seemed to be competing for dominance on his handsome dark face. He got out of the truck and ran over to her.

  “Jenny. Thank God you’re all right. Did Greer find you?”

  “Greer?” Jenny was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that she went after you, she and Susan Hughs, and I think she might be in big trouble now. We’re trying to figure out where they might have gone.”

  “Why would she come looking for me here?” Jenny asked.

  Sterling’s green eyes darkened. “She didn’t. Listen to me, we need to find her.”

  From the pickup, Joshua called out, “I think I know!” He clambered out and ran to where Sterling was standing next to the four-wheel drive. “Look, I think it’s past the phase-three section. I think it’s where Susan wanted the new road.” He looked in that direction frantically. “But we can’t get through there; there’s no access. We’ll have to hike in as best we can.”

  “Bullshit,” growled a voice from behind Jenny. “Get in.”

  The huge wheels on Reading’s off-road vehicle ate the dirt as they sped toward the far end of the cleared land, and then rolled onto the rough-cut track. They bounced along, jolting and jerking for a few hundred feet until they rounded a curve, and then Reading hit the brakes hard and all of them reached out to save themselves, slamming hands into seat backs and dashboards. Reading’s right arm was rigid across Jenny’s chest to keep her put.

  In the track, just ahead of them, were two figures, one kneeling and the other lying flat on her back.

  Joshua fumbled for the door latch, but his relief and his last night’s experience rendered him weak and slow, so it was Sterling who was first from the truck, who ran stumbling toward them, heedless of the rough surroundings. Sterling who reached down to encircle Greer in his arms when she turned and looked at him with absolute expectation. It was Sterling who saw the sad picture of Susan Hughs on the ground and who lifted Greer into his arms and who cradled her against his chest as she leaned her head back as though she were a drowning woman craning for a breath of air above an invisible surface and let go of a rending sob.

  When Joshua reached them, she was able to touch his face and smile with infinite sadness. “I couldn’t help her,” she said.

  Joshua caught up his mother’s hand and looked searchingly into her eyes. “No one said you could,” he told her. “She had to make the choice.”

  Greer let her head fall against Sterling’s chest as they started back for the car. “My wise teenage son,” Greer muttered through her dry, cracked lips. “How did you get to be so smart?”

  Joshua had to fight down the swelling in his throat as a figure flickered into his view over Sterling’s shoulder. He looked up into the face of his father, smiling his benevolence down on Greer in the safety of loving arms. “Oh,” he said, “I’ve got a few really good teachers.”

  Chapter 61

  It had taken Sheridan only a short time to reach the edge of the cleared land. Leaving his dark blue sedan there, he picked his way across the steeply canted, broken earth in his rubber-soled loafers with patient stealth and gazed down at Susan’s inert body with what seemed an almost premeditated disinterest. As she watched him, Greer thought of Susan’s husband, Rowland, and felt a submerged ache. How would he feel when he discovered that the woman he thought he had married had been an illusion? She had cheated him.

  Greer tried to make it clear to Detective Sheridan that Susan had been acting without her husband’s knowledge, though she knew that he would have to investigate all possibilities. She wondered if Susan ever had any honest love for her far simpler, gullible husband at all, or if she had only been using him, like every other resource at her disposal. With a spongy sadness, Greer realized that she would never know, but she hoped—with an inexplicable fervency—that Susan had really loved Rowland, though she didn’t know if that made the situation better or worse.

  It was still so unbearably hot that after only a few questions Sheridan told them he would meet them at the high school gym to finish his questioning, and insisted that they go there immediately to get first aid for both Jenny and Greer.

  Back in Reading’s truck Greer had downed a large bottle of water when she got a look at Jenny in the side-view mirror. Her friend’s aura was clear, and there was not even the faintest outline of dark wings. Catching in her breath, she reached up and folded down the sun visor, then flipped open the mirror. She exhaled with a grateful, audible noise. The space above her was clear as well.

  Sterling reached up a hand from the backseat and placed it on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, you look beautiful.”

  Greer glanced again in the small vanity mirror, this time at her physical reflection, and laughed out loud. Her face was scratched and smeared with soot, her hair a tangled, dry mass, but she turned and looked over the seat back at first Sterling’s glowing eyes and then at Jenny’s clear aura and said, “Yes, I do, and so does Jenny.”

  Next to her in the front, Joshua squeezed her hand, understanding her deeper meaning. The dark wings of danger looming over Jenny and his mother were gone.

  “The weather’s looking better too,” Reading contributed from the driver’s seat. “The wind’s died down, and look.” He jerked his chin forward. They all leaned to look through the windshield up at the sky, and there they were—clouds. Gray clouds, promising in their pale pewter tint and downy thickness, not dark with rain, not yet.

  “Oh God. Please let it rain,” Jenny murmured.

  When they reached Sterling’s truck, everyone but Reading transferred over. Jenny wanted to go help find the horses, but Reading forbade it as he had already recruited several of his hunting buddies to help out.

  The first person they saw when they walked through the doors of the huge gym was Rowland. He was sitting on a bench at one of the long tables with his cell phone in his hand, a look of concern on his face.

  Greer looked to Sterling, hoping to find a sense of direction in the dizziness that had grabbed hold of her. He shook his head slowly. “No, it’s not for you. Let Detective Sheridan explain it. That’s only fair. If Rowland wants to speak to you afterward, and we think it’s safe for him to do so, then you can. And I’ll be with you.” There was such knowing conviction in Sterling’s voice and face that Greer trusted
his judgment without question. Turning away to hide her tears, she hurried into the kitchen to find Leah.

  Jenny was already with her, and the two were locked in a hug, but instead of Leah looking relieved, it was clear at a glance that Jenny was comforting Leah.

  “What is it?” Greer asked as she came level with the two of them.

  Jenny pulled back and said, “There’s a helicopter down, and they won’t tell anyone yet which one, or if anyone was hurt, or . . .” She let the word remain silent in her throat, as though saying it would make it real.

  Greer moved quickly to Leah and wrapped her in a hug. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. But let’s not make any assumptions, okay?”

  Her body still rigid from the unaccustomed familiarity, Leah looked desperately into Greer’s face. “Is he dead?” she demanded.

  Startled by the question, Greer stepped backward. “I . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t work that way. I can tell you that I didn’t see any danger around him. But I don’t read men well and—” The exhaustion and emotion of what she had endured already today welled up inside of her like too much pressure in a waterspout, and the injustice of being expected to know someone else’s fate filled her with anger. “You can’t ask me to know that! I don’t know!” Greer could hear that her voice had a hysterical edge to it.

  Leah looked as though Greer had punched her so hard it had knocked the wind out of her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Of course you can’t. I’m sorry. I’m just so worried.” Leah reached one hand in Greer’s direction and then let it hang in the space between them for a second before losing her nerve and letting it drop back into a tight fist across her chest. “I don’t even know Weston very well. I feel like I don’t have any right to feel this strongly about him. I mean, we had, what, two dates? But somehow I . . . I do.” She looked searchingly from face to face.

  Sterling was the one who responded. “Sometimes it happens that way.” Greer felt his arm encircle her waist.