Legend of the Gilded Saber

by Sigmund Brouwer

  The frozen shock on Devon's face spoke far more loudly than anything he might have answered. That, too, we saw on the news later, in the early evening.

  "Go!" Devon said. "Just go!"

  "I'll just camp out here all day until you have a complete conversation with me."

  I was peeking through the screen of the open window, and I saw the smirk on her face.

  "Leave," Devon said, with the television camera still rolling. "Or I'll call the police."

  "You're sure you want the police here, too?"

  I tilted my head back and began barking. Loud. Mean. Like I was a Doberman.

  Mike and Ralphy and Lisa stared at me as if I had begun to roll around with rabies.

  I pointed at them and motioned for them to begin barking with me. They stared at one another for a couple of seconds, then shrugged.

  And barked.

  And howled.

  I shouted above them. "Devon, they're loose. I'm not sure I can hold them back!"

  The redheaded reporter immediately backed off the porch. I grinned and pumped a fist with triumph.

  That spurred Mike and Ralphy to howl and bark even louder.

  The redhead and her cameraman scurried back even farther. Unfortunately, they stopped on the lawn. Far enough away that they could jump into the van and escape. But close enough to still shout questions at Devon.

  "Were you working at the museum the day of the robbery?" she called toward the house.

  I barely heard her above the barking.

  Devon ran into the room we were in.

  "Good thinking, guys," he said, his face still flushed red with anger and frustration. "Keep barking. I've got an idea."

  He ran out of the room, toward the back of the house.

  "And what about your previous charges?" the redhead shouted. "And the time you spent in jail?"

  Devon couldn't answer because he wasn't here.

  A second later I discovered the brilliant idea he'd decided to use. Because, as he told us later, he'd gone to the control panel near the garage and bumped ahead a timer switch.

  Without warning, all the sprinklers on the lawn shot water in all directions.

  "Aaaack!" the redhead screamed. She was wearing a long beige dress and black high heels. She jumped out of the way of one blast of water right into another. It soaked her completely.

  She turned and bolted another direction, right into the cameraman. He fell backward on top of a sprinkler head. She tripped over him.

  As they rolled and fought to get up, the water soaked them more.

  She managed to get to her feet first.

  She kicked the cameraman in the side of his lower calf and then marched to the van.

  His revenge?

  He filmed her as she walked away, mud and grass on her back, her hair soaked.

  As she reached the sidewalk, her hair fell off her head. A wig!

  It lay at her feet like a drowned cat.

  She screamed and picked it up, then noticed the cameraman filming her.

  She ran toward him, screaming, "Stop it, stop it!"

  He calmly stepped aside.

  The redhead slipped and fell.

  He walked to the back of the van and opened the doors.

  "Give me that film," she screamed. The water was still gushing all around her. "I want it now!"

  The woman didn't realize she was holding her wig in her right hand. She raised a fist to shake at the cameraman, noticed her wig, screamed in rage again, and began stomping to the van.

  Only the ground was wet, and as she stomped, her high heels jammed themselves into the soil.

  She nearly tripped, but the straps of her shoes broke instead. She managed to keep her balance and slid and slipped toward the van in her stocking feet.

  By then, of course, Mike and Ralphy and Lisa had stopped barking.

  So we clearly heard the ringing of the cell phone as she opened the passenger door of the van.

  Dripping with water, she reached inside and pulled it to her ear.

  "What?!" she snarled. Then her face lost all anger.

  "Really?" She listened intently. "This is too good!" She hung up the phone.

  "Devon Emmett!" she yelled. "How do you feel now that your father has confessed to the crime?"

  Chapter 7

  That night I fell asleep thinking about family. I'd unpacked my suitcase earlier and found a teddy bear that my little brother, Joel, had hidden inside. He must have left it there thinking it would comfort me. Even at six years old, he adored that teddy bear. It was a big sacrifice for him to send it with me, and seeing the teddy bear gave me a touch of homesickness.

  I missed Joel. I missed my mom and dad. And I missed my baby sister, Rachel, especially because she was too young to talk when I'd called home from the phone in the guest room just before crawling into bed around ten o'clock that night.

  Mike's uncle Ted had not returned by the evening. Devon had not been in the mood for talking. Dinner had consisted of pizza delivered to our door by a driver who had peeked inside and asked if this was really the place where that millionaire guy lived who was now in jail, and that hadn't helped Devon's mood at all.

  The news on television had been filled with the story on Ted Emmett, and Mike had been really quiet all night. Ralphy and Lisa and I felt sorry for him because we remembered how excited Mike had been to finally visit the uncle he'd heard so much about but had never met.

  So after the depressing evening of awkward conversation, the last thing I'd done before going to my room was make a collect call home.

  Not that I was homesick.

  Okay, a little.

  Especially when Mom had put the phone up to my baby sister and let me listen to her babble for a few minutes.

  Listening to her, I pictured our own home. It was a lot smaller than this giant mansion. The furniture wasn't as fancy. It didn't have a sixty-inch television and a room set aside as a small theatre like in this house. My bedroom had baseball posters instead of oil paintings like the guest room where I was staying.

  But money doesn't buy love. And that's all I could think of as I listened to Rachel and remembered her blond curls and the way her face broke into a smile all the time.

  She was at the age where she could almost run but still not talk. It seemed like she never walked places, but tried to zoom, as if she were so excited about being alive that she wanted to get as much out of each minute as possible.

  She also had a short memory, which was great. If you left the room and returned a few minutes later, she would hurry over as fast as she could and throw her arms around your legs as if she hadn't seen you in five years.

  Some people believe in God because they look around the world and see amazing things in science or astronomy. For me, that did make it easier to understand that some great power I could never comprehend had designed our universe.

  But the bigger reason I believed in God was because of love. What good would it do to live in an incredible place—no matter how amazing the design—if your soul always felt empty?

  Whenever I hugged my little sister, I was able to understand better how life had more meaning because of love.

  This wasn't something I talked about with Mike or Ralphy And it was usually only something I thought about in quiet times, like now in the big dark guest room of the mansion that overlooked the park in Charleston.

  Love, it seemed to me, was something invisible but stronger than anything visible in our world. And where would this love come from but from God?

  Thinking about that got me to thinking about what heaven might be like. Forever, after all, was a long time. Did God expect us to spend forever flying around like angels and singing hymns of praise? To me, that would be more like eternal punishment. Especially for everyone else around who would have to listen to my voice.

  Maybe heaven was a place where time didn't exist. Or where we could step outside of time. Maybe we'd be able to explore other planets or other galaxies. Maybe...

&nbs
p; I fell asleep thinking of angels.

  And woke thinking of angels. Because a bright light was shining directly into my face.

  "What is it?" I asked when I finally figured out Mike was shining his keychain penlight in my eyes.

  "Did you know that when your eyes are closed, I can see veins in your eyelids?"

  I dropped my head back on my pillow and sighed. "You woke me up to tell me that?"

  "No," he answered. "Something weird is happening."

  I sat up. The bedcover fell to my waist.

  Mike flashed his penlight on my chest. "Is that a hair?"

  I stood in my sweatpants, grabbed a T-shirt, and threw it on. "Very funny. What weird thing is happening?"

  "Devon."

  "Devon?"

  "I couldn't fall asleep. I was lying in my bed and I heard him walk down the hallway, so I decided to get up and ask him some questions. Except I saw him tiptoe out the back door."

  "Mike, what time is it?"

  "Just after midnight."

  "You woke me up just after midnight to tell me about someone walking around his own house?"

  "Thing is, when I got to the back door, it seemed like he was talking with someone in—"

  A bright light suddenly flared in the darkness beyond my bedroom window. Mike darted to the window. In my sweats and a T-shirt, I joined him.

  We stared below at the courtyard. Specifically, at the garage in the rear of the courtyard.

  Chapter 8

  "Ralphy!" Mike shouted as we ran through the mansion. "Ralphy! Wake up! Call the fire department!"

  Running behind Mike, I called out, "Why don't I do it?"

  "No," he shouted without slowing down. "You have to help me."

  I stayed close. "Help you?"

  "Devon!" he said. "I think Devon is in the garage!"

  "What?!"

  Mike didn't answer, just kept running. He skidded through a turn on the hardwood floors, dashed through the kitchen at the back of the house, and pounded open the back door.

  We rushed through the courtyard, down the narrow cobblestone walks that led past all the vines and bushes.

  The flames on the outside of the wall were as high as the garage roof. A low roar seemed to fill the air.

  "There!" Mike pointed.

  The side door to the garage was open. The light of the flames clearly showed that a pair of legs stuck out. Horizontally. Toes up. Which meant that Devon was on the concrete floor, with the rest of his upper body inside.

  Mike pointed. "We have to pull him out!"

  I barely heard his voice above the roaring of the flames. So instead of yelling back, I nodded and stepped forward with Mike. I raised my arm to shield my face from the heat.

  The intensity of the growing fire drove us to our knees. Lower to the ground, the air was cooler. That was Devon's only hope for survival.

  We crawled toward him.

  Without warning, a deluge of water hit us on our backs. I didn't look behind me to see where it came from, but the cold blast made it easier to reach Devon.

  I grabbed one foot. Mike grabbed the other.

  "Ready?" I shouted.

  "Ready!"

  With the water still spraying us, we straightened and pulled.

  Devon's body slid toward us.

  More water gushed into our faces and chests as we strained to pull Devon away from the garage and toward the mansion.

  One step.

  Two steps.

  Finally we were clear of the heat and the flames.

  And the water stopped.

  I looked toward the mansion.

  Lisa stood there with the garden hose in her hands, grinning.

  "Thanks," I said. "Couldn't have done it without you."

  "No time," Mike said. "No time."

  "What?" We were clear. Devon was already struggling to sit up, shaking the water off his face.

  "No time." Mike tried to pull Devon to his feet. "Come on, we've got to move."

  "Mike..."

  "The Mercedes," he said.

  "The Mercedes? It's too late to do anything about the car. We don't have a hope of going in there and—"

  I stopped.

  The Mercedes!

  "Devon, get moving." Mike was lifting him under one arm. I lifted under the other. Lisa helped us support him as we staggered toward the back of the mansion.

  Ralphy had wandered outside to see what we were doing. "Called the fire department," he said.

  "Get inside, Ralphy!" Mike said. "Now!"

  "Huh?"

  "The Mercedes!"

  Ralphy didn't understand. We pushed him through the open back door of the mansion. Mike slammed the door shut.

  "The Mercedes," he repeated.

  I nodded, sucking in air. It felt like the inside of my throat was sandpaper. The smell of smoke filled my nostrils.

  "The Mercedes," I said. "The gas tank. It's going to—"

  I didn't have a chance to finish.

  The explosion from inside the garage mushroomed outward with a thunderous bang. Most of the kitchen windows shattered from the blast. A heartbeat later, shards of wood and brick rained against the back side of the mansion.

  I slumped against the wall and sat as sirens reached us from the distance.

  Devon lowered himself and sat beside me. He stared straight ahead and said nothing. He threw something in the air with his right hand and caught it. When he tossed it up again, he missed it and it bounced on the floor.

  A cuff link.

  I glanced at it and gave it back to him. He tossed it again and again and said nothing. His depression was like a black cloud of smoke that had followed him in from the garage fire.

  "Come on," Mike said to try to cheer him up. "At least it can't get any worse."

  "Don't bet on it," Devon said dully. He tossed the cuff link in the air again. A second explosion reached us, this one smaller than the first. And seconds later, half a lawn- mower blade smashed through one of the remaining kitchen windows and clattered onto the floor.

  Devon forced a grin across his face. "See?"

  Mike looked at Devon. "But your father has a great insurance policy, right?"

  Devon gave us a look that was difficult to understand. Then he said something even more difficult to figure out. "A lot of good insurance does a person who's going to die."

  Chapter 9

  By one in the morning, the fire was out. The massive fire trucks had departed, the firemen in their uniforms no longer dashing in all directions in the night. The neighbors had stopped gawking and had returned to their homes.

  Beyond the courtyard, all that remained of the garage were large pieces of water-soaked charcoal where the roof had collapsed in the middle of walls burnt almost to the foundation. With the wreckage of an exploded Mercedes beneath all the charred wood.

  We weren't about to sleep, however.

  The police were still at the mansion.

  Talking to Devon in the dining room. With me and Mike and Ralphy sitting quietly on chairs at the table.

  We hadn't had a chance to shower or change clothes, so the room smelled of soot.

  "One more time," the smaller of the two officers said to Devon. His uniform was neatly pressed, and he had a huge mustache. The other officer was large in a rumpled uniform, and he kept yawning. "You heard a noise, you walked to the garage, stepped inside, and someone hit you on the back of the head. That's it. No chance of identifying who did it."

  "No chance," Devon said. His eyes shifted sideways. He took a breath and then looked the smaller officer square in the eyes. "No chance at all."

  "Any guesses?" The smaller officer consulted his notepad. "After all, the firemen tell me that all signs point to arson. They say a preliminary guess is that gasoline was soaked all around the outside walls."

  "Guesses?" Devon repeated.

  "Yeah. Like does anyone hate you or your father? Anyone want to get him back for anything?"

  "Not that I can think of."

  "Could i
t be someone burned—pardon the pun—in your father's real-estate venture?" This came from the larger officer, who spoke as if he really were half asleep.

  "I don't know what you mean," Devon said. He squirmed in his chair.

  The larger officer suddenly leaned forward. His voice lost all sleepiness as his eyes widened and he stared at Devon. "Spare me the lies, kid. It's all over town that your father needs money badly to keep the real-estate deal from collapsing. You know it, too. Which makes me wonder what else you're hiding from us. I don't buy the fact that you just wandered into the garage and got hit. If you want us to believe you got hit on the back of the head without seeing who did it, why is there a large bruise across your nose and eye?"

  "It's where I landed. If you check the back of my head, you'll find a bigger bruise." As if confirming that, Devon reached up and touched the back of his skull and winced at the pain.

  "What about the smell of gasoline? Didn't that make you a little worried?"

  Devon didn't reply.

  The officer leaned in closer. "That's right. Gasoline. If the firemen have it right, the walls were soaked with the stuff. You should have been able to smell it halfway there from the house. But you still went inside?"

  Devon spoke quietly. "I heard a noise."

  "Or maybe there was no intruder," the larger officer said. "Maybe you're the one who started the fire. Maybe you're looking for insurance money for the building and the vehicle to help pay your father's legal fees."

  "I'm tired," Devon said. "I want to go to sleep."

  "That's all you have to say?"

  "I walked in. Someone hit me in the head. Now I'm tired and I want to go to sleep."

  "Fine." Both officers stood as the larger one kept speaking. "But don't expect this to be the last of it."

  Mike wandered into my bedroom half an hour later. I'd been able to shower and change into another pair of sweats and T-shirt. The clothes I'd worn earlier, like Mike's and Devon's clothing, were in a large plastic garbage bag because they were so smoky and singed with holes from sparks that we had no choice but to throw them out.