Child of Fire (30 page)

She nodded. I was glad. If there was anyone who could get me close to Charles, it was her. I hoped she was ready.

The newspaper was lying on the table. I noticed the headline:
TIME I DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
The subhead read:
HERO MAYOR VOWS TO TAKE ON CORRUPTION IN HAMMER BAY
!

“
Oh, hell. That idiot!” I stood without thinking about it. “Have you read this?”

“No, I never read it. Why?”

I handed the paper to her. She glanced at the headline, then skimmed through the article. “I don’t understand.
Frank Farleton
is going to ‘do something’ about Emmett? From his hospital bed?”

“I need Reverend Wilson’s phone number.” I rushed to the phone and held it in my hand.

“The phone book is right in there.” Cynthia pointed at a drawer beside my hip. I pulled out the thin directory and flipped it open to
W
. There was only one Wilson in Hammer Bay: Wilson, Thomas. I called him.

The phone was answered by a woman who sounded elderly, probably his secretary. She seemed to be terribly upset. “He’s busy right now. He can’t come to the phone.”

“It’s an emergency. A real emergency.”

She sighed. She probably thought I was tempted by drink or that I was coveting my neighbor’s car. “Who should I tell him is calling?”

“Tell him it’s Raymond Lilly.”

I heard the phone clatter onto a desk. The wait seemed interminable.

“Hello?” he said.

“Reverend, it’s Ray Lilly. Listen—”

“Martha told me you didn’t really hold a gun on her. In fact, she was surprised when I told her you had one.” It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. “You should know,” Wilson continued in a slow, mopey tone, “that I’m composing my letter of resignation right now. It’s for the best, I think. I love her, but my congregation—”

“Hey!” I shouted into the phone. “Reverend, I don’t care. Understand? Don’t tell me about it, because it doesn’t matter. Have you seen today’s paper?”

“Uh … well, no, I haven’t.”

“The mayor’s life is in danger. Do you hear me? The mayor is going to die, if he isn’t dead already. You can save him. Are you listening?”

I wished I could read his face. His voice was flat and steady as he said: “I am.”

“This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to call four members of your congregation who own guns.
They should be people with courage and faith in a reward in the next life, understand? Also, make sure none of them work for Phyllis Henstrick. You’re going to send them to the hospital. Tell them to walk in the front door with their weapons in plain view. They are to walk all the way to the mayor’s room. Two of them will stay inside the room and two will stay in the hall outside the door.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“You just told me, Reverend, that you’re listening. Are you still listening?”

“Okay. I am.”

“Get those people in position. No one, and I mean no one, is to go into the mayor’s room with a weapon.”

“Emmett Dubois is going to take a statement from Frank this afternoon—”

“Emmett is at the top of the list. If he tries to enter that room with his gun, your people are to shoot him. Understand me? This isn’t a joke. No one who works for Henstrick should get in to see him, either.”

I heard him rustle paper on his end of the line. “Lord preserve us,” he said in a low voice. “Peter Lemly has thrown a rock at the beehive. But can’t we just have Frank taken to another hospital? Emmett is—”

“We’re going to have him moved, yes, but that’s going to take time.”

“But guns in a hospital …”

“Reverend, listen to me. Last night, you could have gone out that back door. You could have slipped away from all that trouble and run. You didn’t. You stepped up and took charge. This is another opportunity for you. Dubois, Hammer, and Henstrick have been running this town into a shit hole; it’s time for you to step up and take your place. Hammer Bay needs you, and to hell with that letter you’re writing. That’s just another secret back door.”

It was a corny pitch, but I could hear Wilson’s breathing change. I had him hooked. I just needed him to follow through.

“You’re right,” he said. “Of course, you’re right. I’ll make some calls.”

We hung up.

Cynthia gaped at the newspaper. “I should have realized right away—”

I took the paper from her. “Do you have another car?” I asked. “One that doesn’t have bullets in the engine block?”

“Of course.”

The other car turned out to be an Audi TT. It was smaller than I would have liked, but I didn’t have a lot of choice.

Cynthia revved the engine. I slid the passenger seat back as far as it would go and climbed in beside her. I still had Cabot’s gun in my pocket.

“Where to?” she asked.

“The mayor’s house. You know where it is, right?”

She threw the car into gear and sped into town.

At the first red light, she turned to me. “Can I ask a stupid question?”

“Sure. I’ll bet I have a stupid answer.”

“Shouldn’t Wilson’s people have silver bullets?”

“Christ, I hope not.”

“You don’t know? What if they shoot Emmett and nothing happens? Won’t Emmett kill them?”

“I’m hoping Emmett won’t go that far into the open, but people do unexpected things when they feel cornered.”

“What about the silver? Do we have to have it?”

“I don’t know. And I’ll bet Emmett doesn’t know, either.”

The light turned green, and Cynthia peeled into the intersection. “What do you mean?”

“He’s probably never been shot with a regular bullet. I’m sure he knows all about the silver bullets and full moons and stuff, but that’s the movies. I don’t think he’d trust his life to something he saw in an old movie. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t know if he’s bulletproof.”

“Not know? How could he not know?”

“You’ve had a tattoo on your back your whole life. What can you tell me about it?”

“Um, it’s magic?”

“What’s the spell called? What does it do? Where did it come from?”

“Okay. I don’t know anything about it, except that it hurts when Charles has his seizures. But do you think Emmett is the same way? Just doing what he’s doing in the dark?”

“We’ll see.”

Cynthia swerved her car suddenly and slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop next to the curb. There were a lot of cars parked behind us.

“Frank and Miriam’s house is a couple doors back.”

We climbed from the car and walked toward a modest two-story house with a tidy flower garden in the front. The bay window was blocked by cream-colored drapes. It looked like a little old lady’s house. The car in the driveway was a huge Yukon that someone had painted tangerine orange.

I walked to the front door and rang the bell. Beside me, Cynthia sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

The door swung open, and I found myself looking down at a little woman with steel-gray hair and a pair of cheap, safety-goggle sunglasses over her regular glasses. She shifted her position to bar my way.

Cynthia leaned toward her. “We need to speak to Miriam right away.”

“Who is it, Cassie?” a woman called. Cassie took one look at me and started to close the door.

I hit it with my fist, thumping it open.

I walked into the living room. Miriam Farleton sat on a little chair at the far end of the room. Seated all around here were seven old women, all dressed in what looked like their Sunday clothes. Cassie, at the door, made eight. Miriam’s eyes were red from crying, but her cheeks were dry. I guessed these were friends who’d come by to comfort her. Not one of them was less than thirty years her senior.

The ladies gasped as I bulled into the room, which was full of lace, delicate furniture, and little ceramic figurines. I was afraid to touch anything—I might have put a grubby manprint on it. “I’m sorry to barge in this way,” I said, “but there isn’t a lot of time.”

She didn’t respond. The woman sitting next to her struggled to her feet. She was a stocky little lady, and her hands were large and strong. She stepped between the mayor’s wife and me. “I don’t think you were invited here today,” she said, glaring at Cynthia. “Either of you.”

I tried to talk past her, acutely aware of the bullet hole in my shirt. “Have you seen today’s paper? I think your husband is in danger.”

“Threats, is it?” the stocky woman said. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call—”

“Who?” Cynthia asked. “Emmett Dubois? Emmett is going to kill Frank if you don’t let us help!”

This time the gasp from the room was followed by a lot of whispering. Great. The whole town would know what was going on by dinnertime. I turned to Miriam again and held up the newspaper. “Can we please talk privately?”

Miriam stood. “Yes.”

“Miriam,” the woman said, “you shouldn’t be alone with strangers right now.”

“Why don’t you join us, Arlene,” Miriam said. “If that’s all right?” I nodded. Arlene and Miriam led us through a swinging door.

The kitchen was pastel blue and decorated with duckling wallpaper. I wondered if there was a room somewhere in this house for Frank.

I showed the headline to Miriam and Arlene. “This,” I said, “is essentially a declaration of war against Henstrick and the Dubois brothers. Lemly put your husband’s neck in the guillotine. Yours, too.”

Miriam held the paper, skimming over the story. “Oh, Peter,” she said. She looked tired.

“What do you aim to do?” Arlene asked. I suddenly recognized her. She was the one who’d given Bill Terril a birthday card to sign in Sara’s bar—she had a grandchild at boarding school in Georgia. Small town.

“Reverend Wilson is already putting people outside Frank’s room to protect him, but that’s a short-term solution. We need to get him out of town to a place where they can’t find him. And we need to do it secretly.”

I glanced at the doorway. Miriam and Arlene followed my glance and understood. Arlene patted Miriam’s hand and started toward the door. “I’ll shut down the rumor mill for a little while. I’ll be right back.” She stepped through the door way.

Miriam looked me in the eyes. “Why don’t we call the state police,” she said quickly, “or the FBI?”

Call the cops
, I thought. It wasn’t an idea that came to me naturally. “We will,” I assured her, “but that’s the long-term solution. They’re a bureaucracy and they move too slowly. Let’s get your husband to safety first, then worry about who to tell.”

“He’ll go to prison, you know,” Miriam said. I could hear Arlene reading the riot act in the next room, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. “Emmett opened an account in Frank’s name in Oregon. He’s been putting money in it every month, as though it was a payoff. Frank and I didn’t even know until Emmett sat us down and
showed us a bank statement. He made it look like Frank is part of the whole thing. The FBI is going to go after my husband just as hard as they go after Emmett.”

There was a loud boom from the living room, followed by a crash of breaking glass. I charged through the double doors, almost knocking Arlene to the carpet.

The big bay window that looked out into the garden was shattered. The rod had fallen, and the drapes lay in tatters on the carpet. A woman sitting on the couch clutched at her shoulder. Blood seeped through her fingers. Another woman held her hand against the back of her head. I realized that people were screaming and that some of those screams were actually squealing tires.

Cynthia ran to the window. I pulled her away.

Arlene was examining the woman with the cut on her head. I went to the woman with a bleeding shoulder. “This isn’t too bad,” Arlene said casually, as though she’d seen much worse. “But we’ll still need to go to the emergency room.”

“This too,” I said. The woman I was examining stared at the bullet hole in my shirt and the tattoos beneath it. “Is anyone else hurt?”

I didn’t get an answer. I heard a door open. Two or three of the women, Miriam included, pushed through the doorway into the front yard.

“No!” I shouted at them. “Stay inside!”

They didn’t listen. So much for my leadership skills. I turned to Cynthia. “Organize a ride to the emergency room for these two. We have someplace to go first.”

I ran out into the yard. Miriam and her three friends stared up the street, trying to see who had fired at them.

As I came near them, I saw a long white van drive up from the other direction. The black barrel of a shotgun protruded from the back window. It pointed at Miriam.

I shouted at them to get down, but she and her friends simply stared at the van in bewilderment. They were as still as paper targets.

I was too far away from the van to use my ghost knife, but Cabot’s gun was still in my pocket. I jammed my hand inside and wrenched it up. The hammer caught on my jacket, tangling the gun.

I had already lost my chance. The shotgun had her in its sights. She was not going to survive.

But the weapon never fired. The van passed us, then squealed away down the road.

I couldn’t figure it out. Was this just a warning, or had someone lost their nerve? I hoped it was the latter; it would restore my faith in humanity a little to know that there were people out there who couldn’t shoot a bunch of women in cold blood.

I dropped the gun back into my pocket and ran to Miriam. She looked shocked.

“He didn’t shoot,” she said, sounding amazed. “I looked right into the barrel of that gun and I prayed it wouldn’t hurt too much, but—”

“Would you get back inside, please?” I couldn’t keep the annoyance out of my voice.

That startled her. She and the other women turned and bustled back to the house. I watched for the return of the van and saw something small rolling in the street. I ran toward it, keeping an eye out for vehicles.

It was a yellow hard hat. The name “benny” was written in all lowercase letters on the inside lining. I sprinted back into the house.

Arlene was organizing the others into their cars. She had a brisk honesty that I liked. “These two will be all right,” she told me as I entered. “Vera is going to drive them to the hospital to be checked up, but I think they’re more frightened than anything.”