He spoke to her. She couldn't hear him. She was deafened by the fire, the sirens, the shouts and, drifting above it all, the constant static of wind-blown whispers.
CHAPTER VI
Chief Stockton sat on the edge of his desk, and Dale couldn't help the feeling she was playing out the same scene over. This time, however, Vic was standing behind her chair, his hands firm on her shoulders.
"It's late, Chief," he said, not bothering to hide his disgust at the official proceedings that kept them in the station. "Dale is worn out. I am worn out and my head hurts. I don't really understand what more you want from us."
Stockton frowned. "I have this itch," he said.
"I don't care about your itch," Dale muttered, and Vic squeezed quickly.
"I have this itch," the chief repeated, "that I can't find to scratch. For example," and he lifted a sheet of paper, flicked at it with his thumb. "There's no reason why that fire should have spread so rapidly. The weeds and grass were dry and mostly dead, it's true, but there's no evidence of any flammable material that would have sparked them like that. Yet you two were trapped inside a circle, nearly burned to death."
"No kidding," Dale said, but she was ignored.
"And you say you saw at least a dozen burning arrows. But we found none of them. Not a single one."
"Well, what you found and what we saw," Vic said angrily, "or rather, what you didn't find should have been there. We saw them. We were there, Abe, and you weren't!"
"Sure, of course you were," Stockton said in a halfhearted attempt to calm him. "But that doesn't necessarily mean that what you saw was exactly what happened. You can argue until you're blue in the face, son, but we did not find any flaming arrows, any pieces of flaming arrows or feathers or anything else." He glanced at the ceiling, pursed his lips. "And you did say you were at Elizabeth Provence's house just before. A party, is that right?"
Neither of them said a word. Dale already knew the chief thought they'd been drinking too much.
"Isn't it possible," the policeman continued, "that you climbed that tree to get your . . . apple, I think it was, and Dale was holding the lighter—the one we found in the ashes—and something startled her and she dropped it?"
"Sure, it's possible," Vic said, "but that's not the way it happened. And"—with his voice rising—"you said before the flames couldn't have spread without any artificial help, and you didn't find any of that, either."
"Right," Stockton agreed. "Which is why I have this itch." To the ceiling again, then staring at a point just in front of Dale's feet. "I, uh, don't know how to put this delicately, you two, but is it possible that for one reason or another you're not telling me exactly what went on between you two out there in that orchard?"
The implication was so ridiculous that Dale almost laughed aloud. Yet Stockton did not apologize, nor did he smile.
"Let me help you," Vic said, the strain of his anger forcing the words out slowly. "What you're trying to say—so delicately, I might add—is that Dale and I, drunk and stumbling around in the dark, made passionate love to each other while Dale dropped the lighter, the grass caught fire and we were surrounded before we ever knew what happened. That would account for the time it took for us to become trapped, and why we insist on concocting a fantastic story about flaming arrows straight out of the raids on Fort Apache. We were so caught up in ardor that we didn't even know we were about to be charred. That is what you're saying, isn't it?"
When Stockton coughed loudly and moved stiffly back to his chair, Dale shrugged Vic's hands from her shoulders and jumped to her feet. She leaned against the desk and glared until the chief was forced to look up. "I don't believe you, Abe, I really don't. I thought you knew me better than that. Well, listen, I am not a bloody common whore no matter what you think! And I sure don't go climbing around dead trees all liquored up and lifting my skirt for the first man who looks at me!"
"Dale, for God's sake," Vic warned.
But she would have none of it. She slammed a palm onto the desk. "Stockton, if you don't believe what we've told you, then you'd better put us in your two-bit jail or let us go!"
She glared, watching with pleasure the fury turning Abe's face an unpleasant red. His breathing became labored and his left hand crumpled a piece of paper blindly. Then he rose, slowly, and Dale backed away only when he came back around the desk and stood in front of her.
"Miss Bartlett, if you insist on sticking to that idiotic story of yours, there's not much I can do. The Armstrong farm has been deserted property for almost as long as you've been alive, and there's no one around who can press charges for the damages done tonight. I could, and with good cause, lock you both up on counts of malicious mischief—"
"You are crazy," Vic said.
"—but I don't think I will. Besides the fact that only a few trees were burned and so nothing major done, I knew your parents and know that you yourself don't generally behave this irresponsibly. I don't think it would be in your best interest to spend a night in our jail. Now, if there's anything more you wish to say, please let the sergeant at the desk know. Our discussion is finished."
"Anything more," Dale said slowly. "Well, believe me, there's definitely a lot more—"
"No, Dale!" Vic said, grabbing her arm and tugging her to the door. "This man has made his point, and we've made ours. Let's get out of here before he thinks of something beautiful to lock us up with."
They stood in the corridor, Dale trembling in her anger and searching the walls for something she could use as ammunition. The lights were dimmed, and as they headed toward the front their shadows were barely visible.
"A couple of hours and it'll be dawn," Vic said. "How are your legs?"
Until he mentioned it, Dale had been feeling nothing more than a generalized aching. Now, however, the pains became localized: the throbbing of her skull where the rock had struck it, a light burn on the heel of her left hand, the myriad scrapes and burns, small and digging, scattered along her legs from calf to thigh. The salve administered by the ambulance attendant had worked somewhat, but the residual stinging made her wish for a bathtub jammed with ice, or a snow bank she could fall into up to her neck. Walking, then, was a chore, but she was thankful she had worn a skirt and not her slacks; the cloth rubbing against her legs would have been too much to take—the overcoat was bad enough.
When Vic repeated his question, she shrugged her reply. "At least my headache can't be as bad as yours." She touched at the bandage wrapped round his head, remembering the gleam of black blood in the light of the fire. "Can I get something for you?"
His laugh was short and bitter. "Yeah, a new place to live. When dear landlady Emma hears I've been carousing in the fields with a nymph, she's going to want to hang me from the highest tree at the top of the park. After, that is, she tosses me out on my suitcase."
They stopped just before entering the front room. Here the lighting was bright, and Dale squinted until her eyes adjusted while the talk of headaches and landladies faded into the ringing of the desk telephone, the bark of the sergeant's answering. She wanted to ask Vic about the fire, the whispers, the arrows that had vanished. But this didn't seem like the appropriate place; and the more she thought about it, the more she wondered just how badly that champagne had affected her. Enough to befuddle her senses? Had she been, if not drunk, then so much more than gently high that her memories were colliding, merging, and the things she had seen only fragments of things which had gone before? She denied it. The rocks that had stunned them had been thrown and were not imaginary, nor were the burns, on her skin.
"Come on, Dale," he said, taking her arm and pulling her close.
They walked outside where they found Vic's car waiting, the engine running. Warmth, she thought, and slid into the front seat eagerly, hugged herself and wished she had the kindness of heart to give her coat to Vic—his had fallen into the fire and, she knew, saved her legs from worse injuries than they already suffered.
"Where?" he asked. "Home?"<
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"No," she said immediately. "Not yet, anyway. Just . . . just ride around for a bit, okay? Do you mind?"
He drove up to Williamston Pike, then headed east past the park and into the darkness of overhanging trees broken only by high stone walls and faintly glowing amber that marked the driveways of the Station's estates. There was no traffic and he let the car slow so her eyes could pick out the branches, the individual stones, the scurrying red eyes of creatures disturbed.
But though her eyes picked them out, she didn't see them. Rocks and fire: what had happened was a deliberate attempt to murder her. It had to be that, though she didn't know why. And there was nothing she could do about it officially because Stockton was convinced—and with reason, she reluctantly admitted—she and Vic had been merely gamboling in the metaphorical hay, with too much drink in them to realize what was happening.
She could do nothing officially. But she didn't have to ask to know that Vic wasn't going to let this die peaceably, either. The question was: what were they going to do about it, and how?
"I'll bet you're thinking of apple pie," Vic said suddenly.
"Creep," she said.
"You know, it's funny," he said quietly, almost unheard over the thrum of the engine, "but you never think things like this are going to happen to you. You see it in the movies and you watch it on TV, you read about it in the papers and you think it's all a fake, a charade to keep the masses happy. Vicarious thrills and all that business. It never happens to you, you know."
"It doesn't," she agreed.
"But it does. Has." He slapped at the steering wheel, less in anger than frustration. "And I don't figure it, Dale, really I don't. I mean . . . but I don't know what I mean!"
"I do," she said, staring at the headlights graying the night. "It's like they say in those films you mentioned: who are your enemies? Who wants you dead?"
"Ridiculous. We're not gangsters. We wouldn't know one if we fell over him. For crying out loud, Dale, how can you make deadly enemies running a toy store?"
She didn't know.
"And me," he continued, his voice almost pleading. "I may have failed a student or two in my time, here and there around the East where I've worked . . . but to have one of them come back to burn me alive just for that?" He shook his head. "No. I can't believe that."
"Vic, what happened to the arrows?"
They were silent, then, because neither had an answer. She considered the possibility that some of the onlookers had made off with some souvenirs or two, that perhaps the firemen still at the scene keeping watch over the smoldering remains would find something to lend credence to their story. But though she had no proof, she knew nothing would turn up. No arrows. No fuel. And there couldn't have been that or she would have smelled it being spread around her.
As if it were alive, she remembered thinking about the fire; and she suppressed that fancy instantly, though not without a shudder.
"I know something else that's funny," she said.
"Tell me quick! I need a laugh."
"We were the only ones out looking for an apple. If we weren't, we wouldn't have been alone out there."
"So? Everyone had a different list. We just happened to pick one with apples, on it."
"Coincidence?"
He reached out to turn up the heater.
"It couldn't have been, Vic. Not if we were supposed to die." She straightened, lifted her head from the back of the seat. "Vic, we were supposed to die by fire."
"I know," he said. "Otherwise we could have been nailed any time while we were running around."
"Of course, it could have been a prank that backfired, if you'll excuse the expression."
He said nothing, and she didn't press him. Yet she wanted to, desperately, to press him and make him convince her she just wasn't playing with nightmares that came to her while she was awake. It was, on the face of it, completely insane, so much so that she considered seriously accepting Stockton's skeptical version of their near-fatal accident—if only because she didn't want to scream.
"Hey," he said. "Dale, wake up."
She blinked, grinned stupidly when she realized she'd fallen into a light doze. They were parked in front of her house, and though she wanted to tell him she was too tired to walk, he helped her from the car, brought her inside, and stayed only long enough to see that she could take care of herself.
"Listen," he warned on the doorstep, "don't try to come in on Monday if you don't feel well, okay? Bella and I can handle everything. I promise you we won't drive you out of business for at least two days."
"Vic—"
He kissed her, long, gently, then pushed her inside. "It's going to sound silly maybe, but we have to have time to think. I'm getting too confused, and you must be, too. When I can think straight we'll get to the bottom of this stuff."
"But suppose—"
"Another accident? I don't think so. It would be too soon after and then the police would know for sure we were telling the truth. I have a feeling that whoever is playing with us doesn't want them to catch on. You'll be safe enough, love."
He leaned over and kissed her again, pulled the door closed. She stared at it a moment before turning and running up to her bedroom, squirming out of her clothes and scrambling into a strangely cold bed. She didn't want to close her eyes, thinking of the dreams that would take her back to the orchard and the rocks and the arrows like stars, but her resolve weakened, and the darkness was empty.
Was light.
She rolled over to look at the clock on the bureau.
"Oh my God," she said. It was nearly five in the afternoon and her stomach immediately demanded a feeding. She tossed back the blanket and sat up, carefully, the skin on her legs tight but not painful. Her headache had vanished, but there was still a hint of dizziness that kept her to the walls, holding onto furniture, the banister, clinging to her bathrobe as if that alone would prevent her from collapsing. Once in the kitchen, she downed a large glass of orange juice, then made herself coffee and a pile of toast which she took into the living room. She stifled the temptation to turn on the television, and sagged onto the sofa to eat and stare out the front windows.
"Nuts," she whispered, remembering some dream-formed plan to visit the field again on her own. While the sun was up. But daylight was already veiled, the street light at the corner on and glaring. A whole day gone, she thought, amazed because she hadn't believed she was all that exhausted. Yet she had been, and now it was twilight.
She finished her coffee quickly, stood and tested her legs. There was a spot just below her left knee that felt as if it had been freshly scorched, but otherwise she was pleased to feel nothing more than a minor twinge. "Be brave, girl," she told herself and ran upstairs to dress, postponed her decision by drawing a tepid bath and soaking for nearly an hour before she grew tired of continually making it warm again. A glance in the mirror at her sleep-swollen eyes, the faint lines of weariness pulling at her mouth, and she dressed warmly in sweater and slacks, wool-lined boots, and tied a black scarf over her head.
She hesitated in the foyer, forced herself out onto the porch before she could telephone Vic for assistance. It wouldn't be fair, she decided. It wouldn't be right to drag him out again. Though he hadn't said a word, was careful about his reactions, she was positive the blow to his head had resulted in some sort of minor concussion and no matter how anxious he might be, he definitely wouldn't be up to visiting the scene of the crime in the dark.
She reminded herself to call him when she returned and order him not to report for work the next morning, then stepped down to the sidewalk.
There were six long blocks to Mainland Road, and halfway there, as she passed the police station and the town hall opposite, she wondered sourly why Oxrun's designer made those blocks so damned long. He probably rode a horse all the time, she thought, and didn't give a damn about my poor feet. But the walk surprised her by loosening her legs, and the brittle air was refreshing after the stench of last night. She estimate
d thirty minutes more of usable light and patted her coat pocket where she'd stuck her father's flashlight.
She grinned.
She had told herself it would be for illumination only once she reached the field, but it was heavy enough to stop anyone who attacked her if she used it right. Not, she thought, that anything was going to happen if Vic was correct—but if he wasn't . . .
She quickened her step, looking neither left nor right, staring rather at the growing row of hedge as she approached the highway. As it was late Sunday afternoon, there was little traffic in the village or on the main road, and she had no trouble crossing once she decided to make the move. Gingerly, then, she moved down and up the sides of the ditch, impatiently thrashing aside the barbed branches seeking to stop her. She stood, and took a long deep breath, as the last red glare of the setting sun faced her on the forested horizon.
She hurried, picking her way cautiously so not to turn an ankle, not looking up until she was directly in front of the orchard.
There was no one around. Firemen and police, their tasks completed, had left earlier that morning. Nothing was left of the night before.
She touched the heavy metal of the flashlight and was reassured.
It was a bleak scene, then, as dusk turned the October light to a grainy haze. All the trees she had climbed as a child were blackened, most raped of their weakest branches, several lying forlornly on their sides. Where the fire hoses had been directed there was a coating of ice, in some places thick casings that preserved in deep white the destruction of the fire. Someone not from Oxrun would call this a place of stark beauty, she thought, but the red of the sun was too much like blood.
The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel Page 9