Legacy

by Cochran, Molly

  She flicked her cigarette ash onto the floor. The smoke curled up between her fingers and veiled her face.

  As I was climbing the stairs, I heard her BlackBerry ringing.

  “Madison Mimson,” she said, all business.

  CHAPTER

  •

  TWENTY-NINE

  PELE

  Dad was sitting at his computer, with three books open on the desk around him, but I don’t think he was working. The TV was on, and he was leaning on his fist with his legs stretched out in front of him, watching the news.

  “Hi,” I said, sliding in.

  He looked dyspeptic. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Just saying hi.”

  “Oh.” His eyes wandered back to the television.

  “Um, I saw a McDonald’s down the street when you brought me here . . . those many weeks ago.”

  He made a noncommittal sound, the way I do when I don’t like the direction a conversation is going.

  “I could get you a burger.”

  “I could get it myself.”

  I tried a weak laugh. “No get-out-of-jail-free card for me, huh?”

  He slammed his fist on the desk. “Katherine, you were necking!”

  God, it never stopped. “So what’s the punishment for necking?” I yelled. “Life imprisonment?”

  “You’ve never been appropriately remorseful.”

  “No, I haven’t. You know why? Because being with Peter was the last good day of my life, that’s why. If I felt remorseful about anything, it would be—”

  “Shh.” He waved me down and turned up the volume on the TV remote.

  “. . . strange goings-on in a place known to locals for its strangeness, thousands of Cory’s Shearwater birds have been found dead along the beachfront on Whitfield Bay. Here’s Matt Rodriguez with the story.”

  The camera switched to a view of the bay, nearly at the identical spot where Peter and I had been. A man in a short-sleeved shirt and khakis was walking along the shore, pointing out a ridge made up of large bird carcasses.

  “Waste management trucks have been called up to perform the unpleasant task of removing . . .”

  “That’s happened before,” my dad said. “The shearwaters. The last year we were here. Your mother said—”

  “It’s a harbinger,” I finished.

  Dad looked at me with an expression that conveyed something like fright. “Are you one of them?” he asked, so softly that I didn’t know if he even wanted me to hear him.

  I pretended not to.

  “And Whitfield’s troubles don’t end there. In instances that authorities say are unrelated to the dead birds, the town’s historic district has been plagued with a rash of arson fires. We have breaking news on one of those fires right now. Channel Nine’s Melanie Ott is on the scene. Can you tell us what’s happening, Melanie?”

  A pretty young woman wearing a pink suit appeared standing before a Rose of Sharon hedge that looked like the one in front of my great-grandmother’s house.

  “Like the two other fires reported in Whitfield’s historic Old Town this past week, this one appears to have been set deliberately. Although our cameras are not permitted to get close enough to show our viewers, several witnesses who claim to have seen the path of the blaze report that the fire does appear to have circled the house. Fire trucks are on the scene now, and damage does not appear to be extensive, although some of the houses here, including this one, have been designated as historic landmarks . . .”

  Dad sat up in his chair.

  “It’s Gram’s house,” I said. I ran out of his office and down the stairs, making only a brief stop to grab a handful of coins from the change dish in the entryway for the bus.

  “Katherine!” my father called.

  I didn’t stop. He could ground me again later. For now, though, I had to get to Old Town. Since I’d never been free here I had no idea where the bus stop was, but I had a sense of which direction the business district of New Town lay, and I sprinted toward it.

  “Katherine, wait.” It was my father, pulling up beside me in his car. “Get in. I’ll take you.”

  I didn’t know if I wanted him to go with me to my relatives, but it was definitely the quickest way there, and at the moment speed was the most urgent factor. I climbed in and we drove in silence through the development where Mim’s house was located and onto the wide thoroughfares flanked by huge commercial establishments that made up most of New Town.

  He turned on the radio. To my surprise he didn’t tune it to a news station, but to some punk rock music too young for him. That was for my benefit, I guessed. It was a small effort, I know, but something.

  “This your car?” I’d guessed it was, since it was a Ford Focus—not something Mim would buy.

  He said, “Um,”—that noncommittal sound again—and nodded.

  “It’s nice,” I said.

  “Oh?” He seemed surprised, as if he’d expected me to criticize it.

  “I like the color.”

  “Good.” He knocked on the dashboard, as if showing me how sturdy the vehicle was. “I got tired of driving Madison’s hand-me-downs,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

  “It’s better to have your own stuff,” I agreed.

  “Where is she now? By the way, what do you call her?”

  “Madam Mim?” I ventured.

  He laughed. “That’s it.”

  “She’s resting, I think.”

  The laughter stopped, and the smile behind it slowly disappeared. “Yes. She does a lot of that. But usually at the table.”

  “That’s where I left her.”

  “She’s not there now. Neither is her car.” He shrugged. “Alas, a corporate vice president’s work is never done.”

  There was a long uncomfortable silence which I finally broke. “Dad, I know you don’t like Mom’s relatives,” I said. That was so weird, calling her “Mom”, as if my mother were someone I knew.

  “So they’ve come after you, have they?” I saw the color rise in his cheeks.

  “They’re my family, Dad,” I said quietly.

  “I’m your family.” He stomped on the gas, and we lurched forward.

  The whole area around Town Square was in turmoil. While Dad parked the car, I ran through the gathered crowd, looking for Gram. The TV crews were finishing up, putting their equipment away into two big vans with satellite dishes on top. On the far side of the property an ambulance was parked, its interior light bright against the darkening night. As I passed, I heard snippets of conversation:

  “. . . lives in New Town with cowen . . .”

  “. . . I think she’s related to that Wonderland woman . . .”

  “. . . hardly a drop of witch blood in her . . .”

  “. . . of course you know who her mother was . . .”

  “. . . hard to believe she’d do this to her own family . . .”

  I turned around at that one. Were they saying I’d set this fire? I scanned the faces around me, but no one met my eyes.

  Near the side entrance to the house I saw Captain Dryden, the police officer in charge of Old Town, taking notes while he spoke with Aunt Agnes and Gram. The damage to the house didn’t look too bad. The fire was already out, and Jonathan was directing a crew of volunteers who’d been helping the firemen. The Ainsworth women might have fallen out of favor in the community, but Jonathan Carr hadn’t. When he asked for help, every able-bodied man in Old Town showed up.

  “Oh, Katy dear, what a blessing it is to see you,” Gram said as I approached.

  Captain Dryden must have finished his business with her because he folded up his notebook and moved on.

  “Dad drove me over,” I said, looking around for him. “He was parking the car, but I couldn’t wait for him. What happened?”

  Agnes shook her head.

  “Harbinger,” Gram said, almost in a whisper.

  “Perhaps,” Agnes said. She looked skeptical.

  “What do you . . .” I follow
ed her gaze back to the house. The fire had inscribed a charred circle around its perimeter. “The news report said that the police think it might be arson.”

  “Oh, surely not,” Gram said.

  “Natural fires don’t burn in a circle, Grandmother.”

  The old woman squared her shoulders. “They do if they’ve been set by the Darkness.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would the Darkness choose this house?”

  “Why would an arsonist?” Gram countered.

  “I heard someone in the crowd saying they thought I was the one who set the fire,” I put in.

  “You!” Gram sounded appalled. “Good grief, what nonsense!”

  Just then Jonathan came over, sooty-faced and grinning. “Doesn’t look too bad, ladies. Hey there, witchlet, come for the show?” He tousled my hair.

  “Can I help, Jonathan?” I asked. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Nah, most of the damage is cosmetic. Nothing a coat of paint and a little airing out won’t fix, eh, my girl?”

  Agnes blushed despite the seriousness of the situation. “There really isn’t any more to be done, Katy.”

  “But where are you going to stay? I could ask my father—”

  “Oh, gracious, no,” Gram said. “A number of people have invited us to stay with them. We’re not completely friendless, you know.” She ruffled her shoulders like a roosting hen.

  “You won’t have to be gone long,” Jonathan said. “In a week, I’ll have the place cleaned and smelling like a rose. Fortunately, Mrs. Ainsworth here called the firehouse as soon as it started.” He tipped his hat to her.

  Gram blushed with pride. “Well, I did make the call, but I’m sure I would have slept through everything if it hadn’t been for Katy’s friend Peter.”

  “Peter?” I asked stupidly. “Peter Shaw?”

  “He walked through the ring of fire to get me. I’d been dozing at the time, and Agnes was at the grocery . . .”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Over there, with the paramedics.” She pointed to the ambulance. “The flowering pear tree caught fire and part of it fell on us as we were coming out of the house. He used his arm to protect me, poor thing. The medical people told us . . .”

  I never heard the rest of what she was saying. Fighting my way through the crowd I finally saw him sitting, shirtless, in the back of the ambulance. A paramedic was wrapping gauze around his forearm.

  “Peter,” I whispered.

  When he looked up at me, he smiled. I must have looked stricken, because he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t freak,” he said. “This is no big deal, really.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” the paramedic said with a grin. “He’s fine. But I’ve got to have something to do, now that we’ve been called here.”

  “Really, Katy, no worries, okay? I got hit by a branch off a tree. A small branch. Mrs. Ainsworth and your aunt are all right.”

  “I know. I’ve seen them. How . . .” I looked around. “How did you happen to be here?”

  “Hattie sent me out for some things from the drugstore. On my way back I saw the . . .” He glanced at the paramedic, who was obviously trying not to interfere with our conversation while he took care of Peter’s arm. “. . . the fire . . .”

  “It’s made a black ring around the house,” I said.

  “Crazy, man,” the paramedic said, evidently unable to contain himself any longer. “A ring of fire, huh? I heard you talking to the cops.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “A ring of fire.”

  “Could be arson,” the man speculated. “If it was a ring, like you say, that could have been some nut with a gasoline can. Ever think about that?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Peter said, looking at me.

  “I hear you. Got enough on your plate with the arm, right?”

  Peter smiled. “Really, this is nothing. You shouldn’t even have been called out.” He reached out with his uninjured arm and took my hand.

  “The old lady was worried. This your girlfriend?”

  Peter squeezed my hand. “Maybe,” he said, teasing. “Want to be my girlfriend, Katy?”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, filled with happiness.

  The paramedic put the last bandage over the gauze. “Okay, you’re good,” he said. “I just want to check out something before you . . . Whoa.” He was leaning over Peter’s back. “What’d you do here?”

  “Must have gotten scraped by some branches,” he said, scrambling to put on his shirt.

  “You kidding me? This ain’t from no tree.” He yanked the shirt back off Peter’s arm. “Dude, I got to tell the police about this.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with the fire,” Peter said.

  “Yeah, I know. This wasn’t done today. But it’s been done a lot.”

  “What is it?” I asked, craning around behind Peter.

  He pushed me away. “It’s nothing. Sports injury,” he told the paramedic.

  “You don’t play sports,” I said. “Not since your brother—”

  “This from your old man?” the paramedic interrupted.

  “My father’s dead,” Peter said. “Look, I told you—”

  “You’re how old? Seventeen, was it?”

  “Peter, please tell me what’s wrong!” I shrilled.

  They both ignored me.

  “You don’t have to take this, man. The cops, they can help, I’m telling you,” the paramedic said.

  “No, you don’t understand. No one’s responsible. That’s the truth.”

  “Fine, if you say so. But I still have to make a . . . Hey!” He reached past Peter to try to stop me from climbing into the ambulance, but he was too late.

  The interior was lit as brightly as an operating room, so there was no mistaking what I saw: Peter’s back was covered with deep welts, slash marks, and bruises.

  I gasped.

  “Katy, please,” Peter said miserably.

  But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even look away.

  The wounds were placed exactly where I’d seen them in my nightmares.

  It felt as if the whole world had suddenly gone silent. There was the paramedic, his bushy eyebrows raised, pointing at me, his mouth moving. And in the distance, my father, looking lost. Aunt Agnes had spotted him, and looked as if she were deciding whether or not to speak to him.

  Then there was Peter, alone with me in this silent shell, meeting my eyes with something like shame.

  What are you keeping from me? I wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he tell me?

  “Katy!” My father’s voice cut through the bubble of silence, bringing back all the other noises.

  “Honey, I mean it. Get out of the ambulance,” the paramedic shouted, pointing at me. Dad was on his way.

  “Go,” Peter said.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  I hadn’t meant to say that, not there in the ambulance with the paramedic next to us in a crowded, noisy place with my angry father stomping toward me. But it was true. I loved Peter Shaw, and I would love him until the day I died.

  I jumped off the back end of the ambulance.

  “Thank you,” the paramedic said sarcastically as I walked away. Peter didn’t say anything.

  My father had that I’m gonna kill that kid look on his face.

  “Dad—” For a horrible moment I was afraid he wouldn’t stop, that he would keep walking until he reached Peter and did something awful to him. I grabbed his arm.

  “You came here to see that boy, didn’t you?” he accused.

  “No. I didn’t even—”

  “I saw you, Katherine.”

  “He was hurt, Dad. He’s the one who discovered the fire.”

  “The arson fire?” Dad asked pointedly. “Isn’t that interesting.”

  He was so beside the point that he wasn’t even worth talking to, and I really would have walked away from him if Aunt Agnes hadn’t come up to us.

  “Hello, Harrison,” she said. It
was a dutiful greeting, guarded, exploratory.

  He took a step backward, clearly astonished. It must have been like looking at my mother all over again. “Agnes,” he said formally. “I’m sorry about your misfortune.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “I understand you’ve been . . . looking after my daughter.”

  The stiffness of the exchange worried me. Dad was lapsing into his stern-professor persona, and Aunt Agnes was every inch the Yankee spinster. “My grandmother and I have done what we could to make Katy’s stay in Whitfield a pleasant one,” she said.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure the school is prepared to provide whatever may be necessary.”

  “On the contrary, Dr. Jessevar,” Agnes said, coloring ever so slightly. “There have been several occasions for which the school has provided neither accommodation nor amusement.”

  “And exactly what sort of amusement have you provided, Miss Ainsworth?”

  It was too much. “Stop it, Dad. This isn’t—”

  “When your opinion becomes necessary, I’ll ask for it,” he said, his voice rising. He turned back to face Agnes. “Actually, I was thinking of Katherine’s indulgence in sexual activities with one of her schoolmates. Is that the sort of amusement you’ve been accommodating?”

  Agnes’ face flushed a deep, horrified red.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “That was swell of you.”

  “Well, what do you expect? The moment you’re out of the house, you immediately fly into the arms of some boy whose major ambition seems to be to relieve himself on you—”

  “Shut up!” I screamed, indifferent to the fact that we were in public. “Just because you’re crude and disgusting and hang out with tramps—”

  He slapped me. Slapped me across the face in front of everyone. Total strangers turned to stare at us.

  My eyes were so full of tears that I could barely see. When I turned to leave, I bumped right into my great-grandmother, who apparently had just noticed us. I hugged her so fiercely that a little jet of air whooshed out of her mouth. “Gracious, dear,” she said, patting my back. “Whatever can be the matter?”