The Dream Thieves (27 page)

Ordinarily, the abandoned fairground was pitch-black at night, out of reach of the lights of Henrietta and far from any houses. But tonight, the floodlights splashed sterile white light over the grass, illuminating the restless forms of more than a dozen cars. There was something unbearably sexy about cars at night, Ronan thought. The way the fenders twisted the light and reflected the road, the way every driver became anonymous. The sight of them knocked his heartbeat askew.

As Ronan turned into the old drive, the headlights illuminated the familiar form of Kavinsky’s white Mitsubishi, its black grille gaping. The trip of his pulse became a kick drum.

“Don’t say anything stupid to him,” he told Gansey. Already the beat of his stereo was being drowned out by Kavinsky’s, the bass pulsing up through the ground itself.

Gansey rolled his sleeves up and studied his hand as he made a fist and released it. “What’s stupid?”

It was hard to tell with Kavinsky.

To their left, two cars loomed out of the darkness, one red and one white, heading right toward each other. Neither vehicle flinched from the impending collision. Automotive chicken. At the last moment, the red car swerved, skidding sideways, and the white blared a horn. A guy half-hung out of the passenger seat of the white car, clinging to the roof with one hand and flipping the bird with the other. Dust wallowed round them both. Delighted screams filled the space between engine noises.

On the other side of this game, a tired Volvo was parked beneath a tattered, fallen string of flagged bunting. It was lit from within, like an entrance to hell. It took a moment to register that it was on fire, or at least working up to it. Boys stood around the Volvo, drinking and smoking, their forms distorted and dark against the smoldering upholstery. Goblins around a bonfire.

Something inside Ronan was anxious and moving, angry and restive. The fire ate him from the inside.

He pulled the BMW up to the Mitsubishi, nose to nose. Now he saw that Kavinsky had already been playing: the right side of the car was shockingly mutilated and crumpled. That felt like a dream — no way was the Mitsubishi so mangled; it was immortal. Kavinsky himself stood near it, bottle in hand, shirtless, the floodlights erasing the ribs from his concave torso. When he saw the BMW, he threw the bottle at the hood. It splintered on the metal, shivering glass and liquid everywhere.

“Jesus,” Gansey said, in either surprise or admiration. At least they hadn’t brought the Camaro.

Hauling up the parking brake, Ronan threw open the door. The air reeked of melting plastic and deceased clutches and, beneath it all, the warm scent of pot. It was noisy, though the symphony was constructed of so many instruments that it was hard to identify any individual timbres.

“Ronan,” Gansey said, in the exact same way that he’d just invoked Jesus.

“Are we doing this?” Ronan replied.

Gansey threw open his door. Gripping the roof of the car, he slid himself out. Even that gesture, Ronan noted, was wild-Gansey, Gansey-on-fire. Like he pulled himself from the car because ordinary climbing out was too slow.

This was going to be a night.

The fire inside Ronan was what kept him alive.

Catching a glimpse of Ronan heading straight for him, Kavinsky spread a hand over his flat rib cage. “Hey, lady. This is a substance party. Nobody’s in unless you brought a substance.”

By way of reply, Ronan clasped one hand round Kavinsky’s throat and the other around his shoulder, and hurled him tidily over the hood of the Mitsubishi. For punctuation, he rejoined him on the opposite side and slammed his fist into Kavinsky’s nose.

As Kavinsky climbed back up, Ronan showed him his bloody knuckles. “Here’s your substance.”

Kavinsky wiped his nose on his bare arm, leaving a red streak. “Hey, man, you don’t have to be so fucking antisocial.”

Gansey, at Ronan’s elbow, held up his hand in the universal sign for
Down, boy
. “I don’t want to keep you from your revels,” Gansey said, cold and glorious, “so I’m just going to say this: Stay out of my place.”

Kavinsky replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Babe, get me a smoke.”

The last part seemed to be directed to a girl who lolled in the passenger seat of the crunched Mitsubishi, her eyes deeply stoned. She did not dignify his order with a response.

Ronan flicked out one of the fake IDs.

Kavinsky smiled broadly at his own work. With his hollow cheeks, he was a ghoul in this light. “You mad because I didn’t leave you a mint, too?”

“No, I’m angry because you trashed my apartment,” Gansey said. “You should be glad I’m here and not at the police station.”

“Whoa, man,” Kavinsky said. “Whoa, whoa. I can’t tell which of us is high. Whoa. I didn’t trash your place.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Gansey replied, and there was just a hint of a glacial laugh in his voice. It was a terrifying and wonderful laugh, Ronan thought, because Gansey had measured out only contempt and not a touch of humor.

Their conversation was interrupted by the familiar, destructive sound of cars colliding. There was nothing dramatic about the sound of newer vehicles crashing: all the safety bumpers meant it was mostly the dull thud of plastic puncturing. It wasn’t the volume, though, that sent a shiver up Ronan’s spine — it was the specificity of the sound. There was no other sound in the world like a car crash.

Kavinsky caught the line of their attention. “Ah,” he said, “you want in on this, don’t you?”

“Where are these guys from?” Gansey squinted. “Is that Morris? I thought he was in New Haven.”

Kavinsky shrugged. “It’s a substance party.”

Ronan growled, “They don’t have substances in New Haven?”

“Not like these. It’s Wonderland! Some make you big, some make you small …”

It was the wrong quote. Or rather, the right quote, done wrong. In the Lynch household, Ronan had grown up with two recurring stories, perennial favorites of his parents. Aurora Lynch’s favorite had been an old black-and-white movie version of the myth
Pygmalion
, about a sculptor who falls in love with one of his statues. And Niall Lynch had had an extraordinary fondness for an ugly old edition of
Alice in Wonderland
, frequently read aloud to two or three reluctant, half-asleep Lynch brothers
.
Ronan had seen
Pygmalion
and heard
Alice in Wonderland
so often in his youth that he no longer could judge whether or not they were any good, whether or not he actually liked them. The movie and the novel were history now. They were his parents.

So he knew the quote was actually, “one side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.”

“Depends on which side of the mushroom you use,” Ronan said, more to his dead father than to Kavinsky.

“True point,” Kavinsky agreed. “So, what are you going to do about your rat problem?”

Gansey blinked. “Beg pardon?”

This made Kavinsky laugh uproariously, and when he was through, he said, “If I didn’t trash your place, something else is infesting it.”

Gansey’s eyes flickered over to Ronan.
Possibility?

Of course it was a possibility. Someone other than Ronan had smashed up Declan Lynch’s face, so theoretically, something other than Kavinsky could have broken into Monmouth Manufacturing.
Possibility?
Anything was possible.

“Lynch!” One of the other partygoers drew closer, recognizing him. Ronan, in turn, recognized him: Prokopenko. His voice was milky with drugs, but Ronan would’ve recognized his silhouette anywhere, one shoulder crooked and higher than the other, ears like wing nuts. “And Gansey?”

“Yeah,” Kavinsky said, thumbs hooked in his back pockets, hip bones poking out above his low-slung waistband. “Mommy
and
Daddy came. Hey, Gansey, you get a babysitter for Parrish? You know what, man, don’t answer that; let’s smoke a peace pipe.”

Immediately, Gansey replied with precise disdain, “I’m not interested in your pills.”

“Oh, Mr. Gansey,” Kavinsky sneered. “Pills! First rule of substance party is, you don’t talk about substance party. Second rule is, you
bring
a substance if you want another one.”

Prokopenko chortled.

“Lucky for you, Mr. Gansey,” Kavinsky continued, in what was probably supposed to be a posh accent, “I know what your dog wants.”

Prokopenko chortled again. It was the sort of chortle that meant he would be vomiting soon. Gansey seemed to understand this, as he edged a foot back from him.

Ordinarily, Gansey would have done more than edge away. Having achieved all they’d needed to, he would have told Ronan it was time to go. He would have been frostily polite to Kavinsky. And then he would have been gone.

But this was not Gansey as usual.

This was Gansey with a lofty tilt to his chin, a condescending quirk to his mouth. A Gansey that was aware that no matter what went down here tonight, he would still go back to Monmouth Manufacturing and rule his particular corner of the world. This was a Gansey, Ronan realized, that Adam would hate.

Gansey said, “And what is it my dog needs?”

Ronan’s lips curled into a smile.

Fuck the past. This was the present.

Kavinsky said, “Pyrotechnics. Boom!” He pounded the roof of his crumpled car. Amiably, he told the girl in the passenger seat, “Get out, bitch. Unless you wanna die. It’s all the same to me.”

It dawned on Ronan that Kavinsky meant to blow up the Mitsubishi.

In the state of Virginia, fireworks that exploded or emitted flame higher than twelve feet were illegal, unless you had a special permit. It wasn’t a fact most residents of Henrietta had to remember, however, because it was impossible to find fireworks that did anything even slightly remarkable, much less illegal, within state borders. If you wanted something a bit more impressive for the holiday weekend, you headed for the city’s fireworks display. If you were like some of the rowdier Aglionby boys or better-off rednecks of Henrietta, you drove over the state line and filled your trunk with illegal Pennsylvanian fireworks. If you were Kavinsky, you built your own.

“That dent will come out,” Ronan said, equal parts exhilarated and horrified to think of the Mitsubishi perishing. So many times just the first glimpse of its taillights on the road ahead of him had been enough to pump an urgent spasm of adrenaline through him.

“I’ll always know it was there,” Kavinsky replied carelessly. “Cherry, popped. Prokopenko, make me a cocktail, man.”

Prokopenko was happy to oblige.

“Take the edge off,” Kavinsky said. He turned to Gansey, a bottle in hand. It sloshed with liquid; a T-shirt had been wound and stuffed through the mouth of it. It was on fire. It was, in fact, a Molotov cocktail.

To Ronan’s surprise and delight, Gansey accepted it.

He was a striking version of himself, a dangerous version of himself, standing there before Kavinsky’s despoiled Mitsubishi with a homemade bomb in hand. Ronan remembered the dream of Adam and the mask: the more toothful version of Adam.

Instead of throwing it at the Mitsubishi, however, Gansey sighted a line toward the distant Volvo. He hurled it, high and graceful and true. Heads curved up to watch its progress. A voice from the crowd shouted,
“Woop Woop, Gansey Boy!”
which meant that at least one member of the Aglionby crew team was present. A moment later, the bottle landed just short of the Volvo’s rear tires. The simultaneous breaking of the glass and explosion made it seem as if the Molotov cocktail had sunk into the ground. Gansey wiped his hand on his pants and turned away.

“Good throw,” Kavinsky said, “but wrong car. Proko!”

Prokopenko handed him another Molotov cocktail. This one Kavinsky pressed into Ronan’s hand. He leaned close — too close — and said, “It’s a bomb. Just like you.”

Something thrilled through Ronan. It was like a dream, the sharpness of all this. The weight of the bottle in his hand, the heat from the flaming wick, the smell of this polluted pleasure.

Kavinsky pointed at the Mitsubishi.

“Aim high,” he advised. His eyes glittered, black pits reflecting the small inferno in Ronan’s grip. “And do it fast, man, or you’ll blow your arm off. No one wants half a tattoo.”

A curious thing happened when the bottle left Ronan’s hand. As it arced through the air, trails of fire-orange in its wake, Ronan felt as if he had hurled his heart. There was a rip, just as he released it. And heat filling his body, pouring in through the hole he’d made. But now he could breathe, now that there was room in his suddenly light chest. The past was something that had happened to another version of himself, a version that could be lit and hurled away.

Then the bottle landed in the driver’s window of the Mitsubishi. It was as if there was no liquid, only fire. Flames poured across the headrest like a living thing. Cheers erupted across the fairground. Partygoers moved toward the car, moths to a new lamp.

Ronan heaved a breath.

Kavinsky, his laugh high and manic, dashed another bomb through the window. Prokopenko threw another. Now the interior was catching, and the smell was becoming toxic.

Part of Ronan couldn’t really believe the Mitsubishi was gone. But as the others began to add their cigarettes and drinks to the bonfire, the music abruptly vanished as the stereo melted. It seemed a vehicle was well and truly dead once the stereo had melted.

“Skov!” shouted Kavinsky. “Music!”

Another car’s stereo boomed to life, taking up where the Mitsubishi had left off.

Kavinsky turned to Ronan with a sly grin. “You coming to Fourth of July this year?”

Ronan exchanged a look with Gansey, but the other boy was looking out over the numerous silhouettes, his eyes narrowed.

“Maybe,” he said.

“It’s a lot like a substance party,” Kavinsky said. “You want to see something explode, bring something that explodes.”

There was a dare there. It was a dare that could be satisfied, maybe, by a drive over the border or by the clever concoction of an explosive from plans found on the Internet.