The Fireman (30 page)

She marched to the bed, feeling there was safety in briskness. “Raise your legs.”

He lifted his feet. She tugged his fireman pants up to the knees, then sat down beside him and slipped an arm under his armpits.

“On three, lift your skinny ass.” But she did most of the lifting and when she scooped him up, she heard it: the whistling inhalation, the shuddering start of a gasp, quickly bitten off. What little color was in his face drained away.

“The worst bit isn’t the pain when I move. It’s the itch in my chest. After every breath. Can’t sleep the way it itches.”

“Itch is good. We like itch, Mr. Rookwood. Bones itch when they’re knitting back together.”

“I suppose it will feel better after you tape up my chest.”

“Mm, no, I’m sorry, that isn’t done anymore. We don’t want to constrict lungs that need to breathe. But I would like to strap up that wrist of yours and slip this brace on your elbow.”

She inched the elastic brace up his forearm, shifted it into place, then went to work on his swollen, hideously bruised wrist. Harper pressed cotton pads to either side of the wrist, then wound medical tape around and around, up the wrist and down it, creating an almost stiff but comfortable cast around the joint. After, she lifted the right arm for a look at his discolored side. Harper traced her fingers over his ribs, carefully seeking out each fracture. She tried not to take any pleasure at all in the knuckles of his spine or the scrollwork of Dragonscale on his skin. He looked like an illustrated man from a carnival. There was no guessing how many people the Dragonscale had killed, but for all that she could not help thinking it was very beautiful. Of course she was desperately horny. That didn’t help.

“You might be in for worse than a tongue lashing from Ben Patchett,” the Fireman said. “And you might receive a very unhappy look and some great sad sighs from Tom Storey. Nothing makes a person feel more low and ashamed than disappointing the old man. It’s like telling a department store Santa you know his beard is fake.”

“I don’t think I’ll be in trouble with Father Storey.”

He gave her a sharp, searching look and all the humor dropped from his expression. “Better let me have it, then.”

She told him about trepanning Father Storey’s skull with a power drill and disinfecting it with port. She told him about Ben in the meat locker and the handcuffed prisoners and the dish towel full of rocks. Then she had to go back in time to tell him about her last talk with Father Storey, in the canoe.

The Fireman did not ask many questions . . . not until she recounted her final conversation with the old man.

“He was going to exile some poor girl for stealing a teacup and cans of Spam?”

“And a locket. And the Portable Mother.”

He shook his head. “Still. That doesn’t seem like Tom.”

“He wasn’t going to exile her because she stole. He was going to exile her because she was
dangerous
.”

“And he knew this because he had confronted her over her thefts and she—what? Threatened him?”

“Something like that,” Harper said.

But she frowned. It was hard to remember now precisely what Tom had said and how he had said it. It seemed like a conversation that had happened months, not days ago. She found it maddeningly difficult to recall what he had told her about the thief; there were moments when it seemed to her he had never mentioned theft at all.

“And for some reason he decided he needed to go into exile
with
this thief?”

“To look after her. He was going to search for Martha Quinn’s island.”

“Ah, Martha Quinn’s island. I like to imagine it’s crowded with refugees from the eighties, wandering about in spandex and leopard fur. I hope Tawny Kitaen is there. She was at the center of all my earliest sexual fantasies. Who was Tom going to leave in charge of camp?”

“You.”

“Me!” He laughed. “Are you sure he didn’t say all this
after
getting conked in the head? I can’t imagine anyone worse for the job.”

“How about Carol?”

He had been smiling, but at this his look became unhappy again. “I like Carol for high holy priest about as much as I’d like another kick in the ribs.”

“You don’t think she means well?”

“I’m
certain
she means well. When your government was waterboarding poor sods to find bin Laden,
they
meant well. Carol’s father was a moderating influence on her, a calming force on a brittle personality. Without him,
well
. Carol has Quarantine Patrols, the police, and Cremation Crews threatening her from the outside. She has the thief and those two prisoners to create pressure from the inside. Fear does not incline people to be moderate in their use of extreme tactics. Especially not people like Carol.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t even want the job. She turned it down three times before she accepted.”

“So did Caesar. I only wish Sarah—” He broke off and cast a frustrated look toward the furnace. Then he dropped his gaze and tried again. “It’s not that Sarah would’ve kept Carol in check, or tried to wrest the camp from her, or any of that. But she would’ve tried to throw her little sister a line if she saw her drowning. That’s what I’m worried about, you know. Bad enough that Carol might drown in her own paranoia. But what’s worse is that drowning victims will pull others down with them, and right now she has her arms around the entire camp.”

A knot snapped in the furnace with a dry, roasted crack.

“What was Sarah like? Not like Carol, I guess. More like Tom?”

“She had Tom’s sense of humor. She also had more steel than anyone I’ve ever met. She threw herself at things like a bowling ball. You see some of that in Allie, you know. Sarah always made me feel like one of the ten pins.” He cast a long, slow, considering look at the flames leaping in the furnace . . . then turned his head and gave Harper a sweet, almost boyish smile. “Which I guess is a fairly accurate description of a certain kind of love, inn’t?”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins
Publishers

....................................

7

“What is there to say about Sarah before she met me? Pregnant at seventeen by her piano instructor, an angelically beautiful Lithuanian only a few years older than her. Cast out of the private academy where her father was a professor. Tom, her best friend in the entire world, and the most forgiving man she knows, says terrible things to her and sends her off to live with relatives. Finishes her senior year in disgrace at a public high school, baby bump under her sweaters. She gets married in a town office the day after she accepts her diploma. Her Lithuanian, humiliated and unable to get a job teaching, returns to private lessons, which is when Sarah discovers that screwing his students is one of his nervous tics. No matter—she stays married because if she left him she’d have to go home, and she’s promised herself she’ll never ask her father for another single thing in her life. Instead she decides the only way to save the relationship is to have another baby. Am I going too quickly? I promise we’ll get to the interesting part in a moment.”

“Which part is that?” Harper asked.

“The part where I come into the story. Nick is born. Nick is deaf. The father suggests putting him up for adoption, since he can never have a relationship with a defective brat who can’t appreciate his music. Sarah suggests her husband find a new place to live and throws him out. He kicks through the screen door at four
a.m
. one October night and threatens the whole family with a badminton racquet. Sarah has a restraining order leveled against him. He responds by showing up at Allie’s elementary school, supposedly to take his daughter to a dentist appointment, and promptly disappears with the kid.”

“Jesus.”

“He was arrested four
long
days later, in a motel along the Canadian border, where he was trying to figure out how to reach Toronto without a passport for his daughter. I gather he had notions of getting to the Lithuanian embassy and trying to scuttle back to Europe with her. He was out on bail when he hung himself.”

“Sounds like Sarah and me both picked our husbands out in the same shop,” Harper said.

“There was one good thing to come out of the piano tutor’s last waltz. In those terrible days when Sarah didn’t know where Allie was, her father showed up on her doorstep to do what he could for her. He made sure Sarah ate and slept, held her when she cried, saw to Nick’s needs. It was his chance, you see—to be the father she wanted, the father Sarah had believed he was before he so completely, colossally failed her. I know Tom, and I doubt he ever completely forgave himself for turning away from her when she was a frightened pregnant kid.

“Tom stayed with her for months. Later Sarah moved closer to home, and he helped with the kids while she returned to school to study social work. Outreach to the disabled, that was her field.

“Now, as it happens, Tom Storey had supervised worship at Camp Wyndham since the 1980s, and was made camp director a decade later. The spring that Nick turned seven, Sarah suggested the camp host a two-week program for the deaf, and Tom made it happen.

“They went looking for counselors who knew how to sign, and I fit the bill. I learned sign language as a lad from my deaf Irish mother . . . which, I add, charmed quite a few of the kids, who liked to say my hands had an Irish accent. I was in the States to collect a master’s degree and was glad to get a decent-paying summer job. A man just
can’t
earn a living wage selling Smurfpecker in this blighted nation. I have to tell you, heroin dealers and meth slingers have made your country a wretched place to be a simple, honest drug dealer who wants to give his customers a lovingly curated experience.

“Tom hired me to teach outdoorsy stuff—what berries you could eat, what leaves not to wipe with, how to make fire without matches. I was always especially good at that last trick. On arrival we were each assigned a cute name. I was dubbed Woody John. Sarah got to be Ranger Sarah.

“We had a few days of orientation and training before the kids arrived, and I wasn’t there long before I could see being named Woody was going to be a problem. On the very first day, Sarah greeted me by saying, ‘Morning, Wood,’ with a darling look of sweet innocence on her face. The other counselors heard her and fell all over the place laughing. Pretty soon everyone was saying it. ‘Who’s got Wood?’ ‘Hey, guys, don’t be so hard on Wood.’ ‘I’ve been walking around all morning with Wood.’ You get the idea.

“Well, the night before the kids were due to show up, we were all having some beers together, and I told her maybe one day if she was lucky and played her cards right, she might wake up with Wood. That got some laughs. She said it would be more like waking up with a splinter in an awkward place, and that got more.

“I asked her how come she got to be Ranger Sarah, and she said since she was program director she was allowed to pick her own name. So I announced by ancient English law I had the right to challenge her authority with trial by combat. I told her we’d settle it on the dartboard. We’d each get one throw. If I hit closest to the center, I could rename both her and myself. And I warned her ahead of time that I would be choosing Bushmaster for me and the Camp Beaver for her. She said I was going to lose, and she’d let me know my new name after the game, and that soon enough I’d be longing for the days when I was plain old Woody.

“By now everyone was deadly serious. And by ‘deadly serious’ I mean ‘crying on the ground.’ Of course I liked my odds. When I was an undergrad I spent more time in pubs throwing darts than I did in classrooms taking notes. I stood well back and nearly hit bull’s-eye without so much as a warm-up. Suddenly everyone went completely silent. Awestruck by my powers.

“Sarah didn’t so much as blink. She pulled this little hatchet out of her belt, walked to the line, and chucked it. She didn’t just hit bull’s-eye, she split the board in half. She told me, ‘You never said I had to throw a dart.’ Well, that was how I became Tosser John. On account of how well I could toss a dart.

“And I suppose that’s where it started—the feeling like we belonged together.

“At the time camp officially got going, Allie and her mother were hardly speaking. Allie, who was all of fourteen, had been dropped by her third therapist after throwing a paperweight at his balls. She had wrecked her mother’s car after taking some boys for a spin in it. Older boys. I couldn’t tell you how much of her behavior was a result of being kidnapped by a parent when she was in third grade, but certainly her anger went well beyond the ordinary teenage stuff. She hated her mother for exerting any control over her at all, and was furious she had been forced to work as a counselor-in-training. Those first few days were ugly. Allie would wander away from the kids to do things with her cell phone. If she didn’t like what they were serving in the cafeteria, she’d walk out of camp and hitch a ride into town to meet up with friends. And so on.

“Sarah decided Allie was going to join her on an overnight backpacking trip to the Jade Well—a pool of icy water beneath an eighteen-foot cliff. Perhaps she had decided to strangle her and figured it would be easiest to hide the body out in the deep dark woods. They needed a third grown-up and drafted me. Off we went with twelve little kids on a ten-mile hike, walking in a cloud of mosquitoes. All I can say is thank God the children were deaf. Allie and Sarah cursed each other the whole way. When Allie glanced at her phone once, Sarah confiscated it. Allie would let branches snap back into her mother’s face. The kids knew something was wrong and were getting more and more rattled.

“By the time we reached the Jade Well, the two of them were screaming at each other. Everyone was sunburnt and chewed to pieces. Sarah was furious at Allie for forgetting the bug spray back at the bus, and Allie was angry at Sarah for blaming the mistake on her, and I was ready to quit. They were standing near the edge of the cliff and I just couldn’t help myself. I took them both by the arm and dropped them over the side, right in their boots. And do you know what? They both came up laughing . . . laughing and spitting water at each other.

“The two of them were after me the rest of the hike. When they served out hot dogs they passed me a nice fresh tampon in a roll. They opened the roof of my tent at two
a.m
. and doused me with cold water. They spritzed me with hairspray instead of suntan lotion. And you know what? It was good. The hike out was as happy as the hike in had been miserable. The kids took to protecting me from Ranger Sarah and Muskrat-in-Training Allie. Nick especially. I think Nick decided it was his special responsibility to protect me from the madwomen in his family. He was my bodyguard for the rest of the summer.

“There was one more overnight hike on the last weekend of camp. That was the night Sarah unzipped my tent. She only said one thing. ‘Did I play my cards right?’

“We had almost exactly a year together as a couple after that. She wanted to swim the Great Barrier Reef. I wish we had gone. I wish we had read books to each other. We had one weekend of sexy-times in New York City while her father looked after the kids. I wish we’d had more. I wish we’d walked more. I wish we hadn’t sat in front of the TV so much. It was nice, we cuddled, we laughed at Stephen Colbert and Seth Meyers, but it didn’t make much in the way of memories. We did such ordinary banal things. Ordered pizza and played Trivial Pursuit with her sister and her dad. Helped the kids with homework. We did dishes together more than we ever made love. What kind of life is that?”

“Real life,” Harper said.

He had not looked at her once while he recounted the story of his courtship. Instead he stared at his own shadow, which rose and fell in an almost tidal motion as the firelight pulsed in the open furnace. “I spend more time thinking about the things I wish we had done than I do thinking about the things we
did
do. It was like we opened the perfect bottle of wine and each shared a sip . . . and then a clumsy waiter knocked the bottle to the floor before we got to have any more.

“The first time I saw the spore was at a luncheon presentation at the Boston Mycology Society, three months before Seattle.” He didn’t need to explain what he meant by
Seattle
. She knew he was talking about the Space Needle. “A fellow named Hawkins who’d just returned from Russia gave a forty-minute PowerPoint on it. I don’t know what scared me more, the photos or Hawkins himself. His mouth kept drying out. He drank half a pitcher of water while he was standing behind the podium. And he spoke in such a low voice you had to strain to hear what he was saying. We were all just catching little bits: ‘disease vectors,’ ‘contagion points,’ ‘cellular combustion.’ Meanwhile he’s flashing these horror movie pictures of charred corpses, all teeth and blackened meat. I can tell you, no one went back to the buffet for seconds, but the bar sure was busy. This guy, Hawkins, said in closing that while there were only seventy-six known deaths in Kamchatka as a direct result of the spore, this had resulted in wildfires that had ended the lives of 530 other people. There had been almost eighty million dollars of damage to urban areas and the Russians had lost forty-three hundred acres of the richest timberland in the world. Hawkins said that three recent cases in Alaska suggested the pathogen might have a mode of transmission different than traditional viruses and that further study was urgently required. Based on his math, a quarter million sick in the United States would easily lead to the deaths of more than twenty million people and would turn over six million acres into an ashtray.”

“How much is that?”

“About the size of Massachusetts. I have to say, he scared the hell out of us at the time, but in retrospect, he was far too conservative. I suppose his calculations didn’t consider a social breakdown so severe there would be no one left to fight the fires.

“But, you know . . . by dinnertime, I had mostly quit thinking about it. It didn’t take long to feel like just one more of this century’s possible but unlikely apocalypses, like an epidemic of bird flu wiping out billions or an asteroid cracking the planet in half. You can’t do anything about it, and it’s happening to poor people on the other side of the world, and the kids need help with homework, so you just stop thinking about it.

“As much as I
could
stop. It was in the subject header of every e-mail and the top thirty threads on every message board in the mycology community. There were webinars and conferences and a presidential committee. There was a report to the Senate. For a while I followed along out of academic interest. Also, you know me, Nurse Willowes, how I do like to show off. What I learned about the spore gave me great cachet at backyard barbecues. I don’t think it hit me, on a human level, that this thing was ever going to reach
our
backyard until Manitoba started burning and no one could put it out. That was about a month before the first Boston cases.

“But what good was it knowing? If it was a plague like other plagues, you’d hide. Head for the woods. Take the people you love, hole up somewhere, bolt the door, and wait for the infection to burn itself out.
This,
though. One person carrying the spore could start a fire that would wipe out half a state. Hiding in the woods would be like hiding in a match factory. At least cities have fire departments.

“I can tell you exactly when and how I caught it. I can tell you where we
all
were when we caught it, because of course we were together. We had a little party for Carol’s thirtieth birthday at the very beginning of May. Sarah and I had just moved in together. We had a little pool, though it was so cold no one wanted to go in except Sarah. It wasn’t much of a party, just Tom and the kids and Sarah and Carol and myself and a gluten-free cake for the birthday girl.

“Sarah and I often had late-night debates as to whether or not Carol had ever been laid. She had been engaged, as a younger woman, for five years, to a very devout young man who everyone knew was a homosexual except, apparently, Carol. He was, I think, one of these decent, haunted young queers who are drawn to religion because they’re hoping to pray the gay away. Sarah told me she didn’t believe they had ever slept together, although they exchanged some very passionate e-mails. Carol dropped in on her fiancé by surprise, while the boy was doing a residency at a theological institute in New York, and discovered him in bed with a nineteen-year-old Cuban dance student.