She shrugged. “It’s not like he’s ever taken it in school. But he reads a lot. He could have heard it anywhere. Some of the kids in school, maybe. It was just a single word. It’s not like he’s one of those people you read about. You know, the ones who bump their heads and suddenly start speaking another language.”
“And you think, what—that he had some premonition of you getting a burn?”
“What do you think?”
“Well …”
“You think it’s nuts, don’t you.”
“No. It’s not that. You said yourself that these premonitions—if that’s what they are—were always about good things. Harmless things.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s kinda freaky.”
“The good news is, it wasn’t like he predicted an earthquake.”
“Well, if he had, and we had one, would that make you believe?”
He finished his Coke too fast and stifled a burp. “I might,” he said.
He just might.
~
They finished lunch, and Marisa picked up the bill. “Call your brother,” she insisted.
At the library steps, he asked her to dinner.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’ve got shifts at the bar all week.” She kissed him. “Call him.”
~
At home in his study, Jared nodded off in his chair. He woke with a start, pain rippling through his chest. His eyes were burning. It passed quickly, and he sat up, out of breath. His hands ached.
The digital clock on his desk read 10:44. He went out to the deck for some air. The night was still.
What’s happening to you?
And what the hell did you see?
He tried to remember. All his broken brain could come up with was a shape. A dark shape. Something in the gateway.
He went back inside and curled up in his bed.
~ 31
Tom Greenwood rang up the total on the Eight-Ball’s register.
“Six-ninety-six,” he said, smiling. The pretty teenager paid for the potato chips and pop and left with her friends. He followed them to the front door of the convenience store and flipped the sign to CLOSED. He closed the cash and cleaned up, double-checked the delivery door at the back before heading out, and started out on his usual six-minute walk home.
He was thinking about Kyle Duncan. He’d tried to bury that horrible scene in the back of his mind, but every time someone came in to the store, he’d look up and see that smeared patch of dried blood in the street. It didn’t help when people kept asking what happened. What was it that old loon Rose Tillman always said? Small town … big doin’s.
The good news was, at least most of them had turned the page and just whined about the heat.
He passed Sonia Wheaton’s house and stopped. Guilt swallowed him. He’d been married for nineteen years, all of them happy. All of them wonderful. He loved his wife, but the truth was, Sonia was different. Sonia was wild.
There was more, too; she had brains. Besides her blog and two romance books, she had a column in The Torch Falls Monthly, writing everything from what she called op-ed (he still had no idea what that was) to entertainment pieces. After sex—great, uninhibited sex—she always had something to say. Interesting stuff, too, not like that mind-numbing small-talk from his wife. Yes, he loved his partner, but Jesus, how much of that drivel can any man take?
He checked his watch. Nine-fifteen. He should go, he knew, for all the right reasons.
Still—he had time for a quickie.
And that was the thing he loved most about Sonia: No strings. No pressure. No bullshit.
He called her on his cellphone as he continued down the street. She met him with her minivan three streets over, in the rear parking lot of the Holy Trinity Catholic Church. It was one of their usual spots, and she rode him in the back until he came. She kept it short and sweet, and when he got home after savoring a short walk with his Pall Mall, his good wife was waiting for him with a kiss.
“Busy night,” he said. “That damn Brooks kid and his moron friends knocked over a candy bar rack again. Idiots.”
“That’s like the third time they’ve done that,” Linda Greenwood said. “Why don’t you just ban them from the store?” She took up on the sofa in front of the TV.
Tom joined her, and they watched together. A half hour later, she got up with a yawn.
“I’m beat,” she said. “You coming, honey?”
“I’m gonna make some tea.”
“You’ll be up half the night. You know what caffeine does to you.”
He got up and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, Linda Greenwood.”
“I love you, too,” she said, and they kissed again.
“I’ll be up soon, okay?”
He patted her rear and watched her go. In the kitchen, the clock on the stove read a quarter to eleven. He filled the kettle with water and set it onto the gas burner. From the cupboard he fetched the tea, and suddenly, he stiffened at the deep throb in his eyes. They were burning.
He rubbed them. It felt like someone had sprayed him with mace. He staggered, backing up against the counter near the kitchen window.
He straightened. The pain stopped, just like that.
He went out back to his tool shed and returned with an adjustable wrench. The old stove was a heavy beast, and he moved it out slowly, careful not to make a sound. He loosened the nut around the flexible gas supply hose and drew the line free. The smell of rotten eggs made him turn away.
He set the wrench on the counter. It wasn’t long before his dear wife called from upstairs.
“Tom! Do you smell gas? Tom?”
She came down and met him in the kitchen. She had a hand cupped over her mouth to help her breathe.
“Tom! Tom! What are you doing?”
His eyes were bloodshot. The veins around them were the color of grapes. They deepened, growing longer. Thicker.
“Lo siento,” Tom whispered. He did not know Spanish—how it had come to him he could not possibly fathom—yet he knew in his heart that he was truly sorry. For everything.
“Lo siento.”
“What? What?”
Tom Greenwood raised his left hand. The hand that held his lighter.
“Tom! No—”
“Quemar.”
~ 32
Jared rose early on Tuesday. Sleep had been restless, and the bathroom mirror greeted him with bloodshot eyes. Looking closer, he saw that the veins around them had returned. His face was pallid. His hands and legs felt stiff, stretching bringing mild relief.
He ate breakfast in his study while he worked. His usual fare of three scrambled eggs, hash browns, and sausages wasn’t enough; an extra four slices of toast and grape jelly did the trick.
His research stalled, the Internet taking him in every direction save for the one he wanted to go. He tried calling Ed Kendrick, a hog farmer, hoping he could discuss the slaughter of a “Hampshire hog” back in September of 1992. A dark gray pig had been brutalized so precisely, it was clearly the work of the Phantom. But Mr. Ed wasn’t talking. He hung up at the words, I’m writing a book.
Not seeing Marisa until the weekend made him antsy. While he would almost always reach for a cigarette in a time like this, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that his cravings for one were far less than usual. He’d tried for years to kick the habit, tried the patch, tried the gum, tried the shrink—and now, cold turkey—but in the end, he would always cave. His zany brainy just couldn’t take it.
And right now, it couldn’t take those words rolling around in his head.
Call your brother.
Call him.
Marisa was right, as she usually was. Judd was all he had, and it was better to know now than spend the rest of his days wondering.
Besides, he thought. You can’t avoid this forever. Sooner or later, your trains are going to meet.
~
Jared drove into town just past one, the A/C cranked to max. The temperature had shot up overnigh
t, settling at a steamy eighty-two degrees.
As he approached the western outskirts, he found his tap-tap-tap on the wheel progressively rapid. He had no doubt that Judd still lived at the same place, and while he could scarcely remember what he had for breakfast, he knew the way to his brother’s house like the back of his scarred hands.
He slowed at the last turn before County Road 10 and pulled onto the shoulder. Dust whipped up behind the Land Rover in the slight breeze. In his side mirror, he could see the town water tower in the distance.
He drew his hands from the wheel. Still a little numb. He rubbed them. Better. He checked his eyes in the rear-view. Still bloodshot. The veins seemed darker. Hard to say. Everything was a tad fuzzy.
Are you ready for this?
He didn’t think so.
You shouldn’ta been late, Little Brother. For once in your miserable, brain-fucked life, you shoulda remembered.
A pickup passed him going the other way. He put a hand on the wheel, his finger thumping away.
Twenty minutes later, he turned down County Road 10.
~ 33
A quarter mile short of his destination, Jared pulled over again. There was open field on both sides of this lonely road, with tall grasses swaying in the light breeze all the way to the horizon. Judd’s house, a modest square home built during the Second World War, seemed to lurk on the rise like a beast. He knew he was being ridiculous, but the feeling that he should just turn around and close this chapter of his life for good seemed like the best idea he’d ever had.
What was he thinking? He knew exactly how this was going to play out. No matter what was said, the game would end with a door slammed in his face.
Maybe that’s what you need, he thought. Some cold hard reality. Maybe then you can finally move on. Accept the guilt and set it free.
He inched ahead and almost turned around. Instead, he took his foot off the brake and made his way up to the rusted metal mailbox.
Collado.
He turned into the wide gravel driveway and parked in front of the double garage. An old VW Beetle sat up on blocks. Still.
He got out. He could hardly believe he was here.
The paint on the white two-level house was faded. Dust dulled the windows. The modest deck offered a pair of coral blue Adirondack chairs. Two old bushel baskets stood in a corner with some long-dead flowers in them. The left railing on the steps was damaged. The newel post had collapsed, snapped in two.
The double garage was actually an add-on to the house, built by his brother for Judd’s auto and small-engine repair business. He had helped with its construction over a cool spring and even cooler summer. The doors were rolled up, and he walked over and stood just outside. A white Honda Civic was up on a hoist. Two small outboard motors stood upright on racks. One of them, a Mercury 9.9 horsepower, had its cowling removed. Three bald tires sat against a wall between a workbench and a tool rack. The smell of oil and grease hung in the thick heat.
No empties, he thought. That’s good.
“… Judd?”
Hunched under the Civic, Judd Collado brought his arms down and stopped. He was holding a wrench. He paused before turning around, squinting out of the shade into the daylight.
“Judd—” Jared’s voice trailed off.
Judd stepped out from under the Honda. He stopped where the cement garage floor met the driveway.
“Jared.” The tone was cold.
Jared tried to say something, yet nothing came. He looked at the Honda and held there for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, his eyes met Judd’s, and he offered a hand. “It’s good to see you.”
Judd left him hanging.
Jared dropped his hand. “I just … you know … it’s been a long time. I just wanted to come by and see how you were.”
Judd stood silent in his soiled jeans and T-shirt. He was a full six inches taller than his brother, nearly eight with his work boots. He spat on the ground and looked Jared square in the eye. “Nice wheels.” He raised his nose to the Land Rover.
“Thanks,” Jared said, suddenly mindful of his obvious wealth. “It gets me around.”
“Bet it does, Little Brother.” The words could not have felt colder in the stifling heat.
Jared studied the hard lines in his brother’s face. His black hair had thinned. His arms were still muscular, but all in all, he looked like someone in ill health. Judd was haggard, like weathered leather.
Jared scanned the grounds, trying to make it look as if he wasn’t thinking about bolting for the Land Rover. His eyes settled on the navy F-150 pickup parked in the far corner of the parking area. It was a late 90s model, and except for a bit of rough Bondo work on the rear driver’s side panel, it could almost pass for cherry.
“You still have it,” he said, mildly surprised. “Still purrs like a kitten, I bet.”
“Yeah.”
Jared could really feel the heat now. His vision blurred a moment, and he stirred.
“What’s wrong?” Judd said.
“Nothing. It’s just so damn warm.”
“You don’t look so good. Your eyes are all messed up. Like ya used to get in spring.”
“The aspen,” Jared said, recalling his allergies. “Pretty much every year.”
“You wanna drink?”
Jared looked at him blankly.
“Water,” Judd said.
“Of course. Yeah. Good. Water’s good.”
Judd set the wrench on the workbench. He disappeared into the house through the fire door that connected the garage. A minute later, he emerged on the front deck with a cold glass of water. Jared met him at the steps, and Judd handed him the glass before he sat in one of the Adirondack chairs.
Jared drained the glass.
“Easy, Little Brother.”
Jared stood on the top step.
“You gonna sit?” Judd said. “Or didja come all this way just ta stare?”
~ 34
Jared sat in the Adirondack chair beside his brother. He set the glass on the deck, and not knowing what to say, stared at the field across the way. He had missed the view. Judd had bought the place three years before the accident, and they used to sit here on lazy afternoons sharing cold ones.
“What happened to the railing?” Jared said. He hated small talk.
Judd laughed it off. “Booze and bumpers don’t mix.”
There was a scratching sound on the screen door. Jared turned. “Holy crap! Is that Oro?”
A border collie whined behind the door. Judd got up and let him out. The big dog lumbered up to Jared, sniffed him, and went to its master. Judd rubbed him behind the ears. “Plata.”
“Cataracts?” Jared said. The dog’s eyes were cloudy. Though he felt bad for thinking it, it reminded him of Marisa’s son.
Judd nodded. “Vet says it’s the diabetes. Struck ’em both about three years back.” He regarded the door. “Get that.”
Jared got the door. Like the first, the second collie struggled on its old legs as it came up to him. It sniffed him. Despite its poor vision, it seemed to recognize him. When he put out his hand to shake a paw, the dog did.
“It’s Oro, all right. Plata never got this.” He sat. “I can’t believe they’re still around. They must be what, nine or ten by now?”
“Eleven next month.” Judd leaned forward and patted Plata on the side. He wore two plain rings on his left hand, one gold, one silver. Oro and Plata.
“They still eat like horses?” Jared said.
Judd gave him a look. “You kiddin’? Pretty much they just sleep away what time they got left.”
“They were never really inside dogs.”
“Jesus,” Judd said, agitated. “I keep ’em in most days because a the heat. They don’t see worth shit any more, but I still put ’em out back at night. Satisfied?”
Already Jared had run out of things to say. He just stroked Oro’s fur without a word.
“So,” Judd said. “How long ya here?”
Jared hesita
ted. “Back for good, I guess.”
“Big Apple too big?”
“Something like that.”
“Told ya not to go.”
“You did. Big Brother, right again.”
Judd regarded the Land Rover. “How much for that?”
“More than I’d like to admit.”
Judd eked a small smile. Then it was gone.
“Nice plate,” he said. The vanity plate on the SUV read LUSCIOUS. “Kinda gay, though.”
“Thanks,” Jared said. “It’s my first book—”
“Like I don’t know.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ll have to ditch it. Pretty sure you can only use seven letters here.”
“Time for a change anyway.”
“Sure. Where ya stayin’?”
“Out of town,” Jared said. “A place near the river.” He didn’t elaborate.
“You just get back?”
“Few weeks ago. I meant to call earlier.”
“You forget? Same old Jared.”
“No. It’s not like that. I’ve just been busy. The move and all.”
Judd seemed indifferent. Oro lay down, his tongue dangling in the heat. Plata did the same.
“How have you been, Judd?”
Judd sniggered. “Right to the point. I’m dry.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Sure ya did.”
They sat silent. A crow cawed from its perch in a dying fir tree.
“You hear about the explosion?” Judd said.
“Explosion?”
“House in town. Last night. Radio said it was probably a gas leak.”
“Huh. Anyone hurt?”
“Two people. Dead.”
“They say who it was?”
Judd shook his head. Again, they sat without words.
Jared couldn’t stand the silence. “Listen Judd, I was thinking …”
Judd didn’t seem to be listening. He just stared ahead.
Jared tried again. “I just thought we—I mean, if you—”
Judd cut him off. “There’s nothin’ to say. Nothin’ ya can say.”
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