Embers (25 page)

"
Smells great,
"
Tom said, his voice low and magical in the darkness.
"
I
'
m not much of a gardener,
"
h
e admitted. "What
are they?
"

"
Roses
,
"
she said, am
azed that he wouldn't know. "A
climbing multiflora, to be more exact.
"

"
The only kind I know are the tall red ones they sell by the stem in Dominicks
—
that
'
s a supermarket chain in
Chicago
,
"
he explained.

"
You never had roses when you were growing up? Of any kind?
"

"
They
'
re not one of the four basic food groups,
"
he said in that dry way he had.

You never had sisters, either,
Meg suddenly remembered. Her life was so much richer than his. It made her want to comfort him twice over. No flowers, no family. How could he bear it?

He might have been reading her mind.
"
I talked a little with your nephew Terry earlier this evening,
"
he said.
"
He
'
s a bright kid. I like him.
"

Meg was glad to hear it.
"
Really?
"
she asked, smiling.
"
What did you two talk about?
"

"
Pipe bombs, as a matter of fact. Terry wanted to know how they were made.
"

In a near-choke she said,
"
My God
—
you didn
'
t tell him, did you?
"

"
I didn
'
t give him the recipe, if that
'
s what you mean,
"
Tom said ironically.
"
But I think his interest was merely academic.
"

"
Ha. Don
'
t be too sure,
"
Meg said, only half kidding.
"
He
'
s doing rotten in school, and his social skills
—
well, you see for yourself. He has us all worried. After all, no one wants him to grow up to be a serial killer,
"
she quipped, picking the most horrific career she could think of.

"
If he doesn
'
t tor
ture small animals, wet his bed
and
set a lot of fires, you have nothing to worry about,
"
Tom answered in a perfectly conversational tone.

It tripped so easily off his tongue, this profile of a serial killer. Meg stopped where she was, shocked that Tom Wyler could know such things about the human psyche. Yes, he dealt with homicide, and yes, he
'
d been at it a long time. But these were things no normal person knew. Normal persons
—
normal law enforcement persons
—
knew how to give Breathalyzer tests and fill out accident reports. Not this stuff.

"
I hope one out of three doesn
'
t count,
"
she said, trying to sound lighthearted.
"
Last fall Terr
y did start a fire in a locker-
room wastebasket.
"

Tom said,
"
Really
.
"

"
Anyway, I
'
ll be sure to watch Coughdrop for cigarette burns,
"
Meg said, trying to match Tom
'
s ironic cynicism. They were standing in the brick path, engulfed by the scent of roses. In this magical place their conversation seemed particularly outrageous.

"
I
'
m sorry,
"
he said, sensing her distress.
"
You don
'
t think much of gallows humor. We tend to hide behind it a lot in our work. I didn
'
t mean to shock you. Forget it.
"

"
No, no, I
'
m not shocked,
"
she lied.
"
Serial killers are an everyday fact of life. Just because I
'
m from a small town in
Maine
, that doesn
'
t mean I go around with a bushel basket over my head.
We
have newspapers.
We
have cable.
"

"
You don
'
t have a city morgue,
"
he said bluntly.
"
And that makes
Bar Harbor
seem like a little corner of paradise.
"

Meg heard the wistfulness in his voice. In some indefinable way, her spirits lifted.
"
You sound like maybe you
'
ve had it with homicide,
"
she ventured.

"
That
'
s what I came to
Maine
to find out,
"
he admitted.
"
There are days that I think I can never go back,
"
he said as they walked up the back steps,
"
and there are days when I know I will.
"

"
And what kind of day was today?
"
Meg whispered, unable to resist asking.

He laughed. It was a low and intimate sound, new to her ears.
"
What do
you
think?
"

Meg glanced guiltily through the screen door; the kitchen, thank God, was empty of Atwells.
"
I
...
I
'
d say today was the kind of day that would make you jump on the first plane out.
"

"
How wrong you
'
d be,
"
he murmured, trailing his finger along the sleeve of her blouse.

"
Or maybe you
'
re the type who can never resist a funhouse,
"
she said, faint from the nearness of him.

"
Wrong again. I get enough thrills and chills during office hours.
"

He cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her face to meet his. It was clear to Meg, even in her confusion of emotions, that he was going to kiss her.
Her.
"
Wait
...
wait
..."
she whispered, averting her face from his.
"
There
'
s been a mix-up
—"

Meg was saved from having to explain to Tom how mixed up he was by a loud crash of broken glass from inside, followed by Comfort shouting,
"
I
told
you no roughhousing in the front room! Wait till your father gets home!
"

After which Terry came flying through the screen door with Timmy at his heels and Coughdrop in hot pursuit of them both. Comfort stomped out next, looking for the kitchen broom.

"
I
'
m sorry, Comfort. I left it in the shed. I
'
ll get it,
"
Meg said, embarrassed to be caught on the back porch with Tom.

"
Never mind,
"
said Comfort grimly.
"
I
'
ll fetch it. And when I do I
'
m going to beat that boy from here to
Portland
with it. That kerosene lamp was in my family for a hundred years. That
wicked
child!
"
she said, steaming, as she brushed past them both.

Meg turned back to Tom with a sheepish smile.
"
How
'
s
that
for a mood breaker?
"

Tom didn
'
t smile back.
"
Not as effective as your pushing me away,
"
he said bluntly.

"
I
'
m sorry, I
'
m sorry,
"
Meg said in a soft wail.
"
This whole night has been just
...
such a
...
mess,
"
she said, fleeing inside and leaving Tom to figure out why.

****

The hours that followed were sleepless ones for Meg. Her heart was in a turmoil over Tom, and her soul was in a turmoil over her grandmother. Of the two, it was actually easier to deal with her feelings for Tom: She simply refused to think of them at all. They were too deep, too painful to dwell on, and so she shut them away.

But the weirdness in the
shed,
that
made Meg toss and turn. She replayed Tom
'
s account of the channeling
—
if that was what it was
—
over and over in her mind until she grew sick of it.

Sick, and yet oddly disengaged from it. She didn
'
t actually remember any of what happened to her, after all. All she remembered were the scary parts around the edges: the eerie, dancing light from the dollhouse before her apparent trance, and her appalling weakness afterward. But the whole middle part, her grandmother
'
s hysterical plea for mercy, that was gone. Lost.

If it hadn
'
t been for Tom
'
s court-reporter recall, Meg might
'
ve gone away from the shed with nothing more than a disorienting headache. As it was, she ended up feeling as if she were trying out for the lead in a Stephen King movie
— only without a script.

As for Allie, she never did come back that night. She called Meg early the next morning to tell her that she
'
d found Lisa in pieces, drunk and incoherent, and that she was still putting her friend back together. Allie
'
s voice sounded tired and shaky
— and frightened. Meg hadn
'
t heard her sister sound like that in a long time. Very few things frightened Allie. Breakups and divorces
—
the kind of things that make women put their arms around their mates and hold on tight
—
those didn
'
t scare her at all. But having a friend fall off the wagon, that terrified her.

"
It could
'
ve been me, Meg,
"
she whispered over the phone.
"
I want to believe I
'
m stronger than that
—
but it could
'
ve been me.
"

She sounded sixteen again. Meg
'
s maternal instincts kicked
instantly into overdrive. It was as if Allie were once again calling from a party where everyone else was high but her. Meg wanted desperately to scoop up her sister and carry her out of harm
'
s way.

"
Come home as soon as you can, Allie-cat,
"
she said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice.
"
Is there anyone else who can stay with Lisa? Doesn
'
t she have a mentor at AA?
"

"
Mary
'
s coming over this morning, and then we
'
ll see. How
'
d it go last night after I left?
"

"
It was completely bizarre. I
'
ll tell you when you get back.
"

When Allie finally returned late in the afternoon, Meg had finished wallpapering a tiny guest-room bath and was in the kitchen, rummaging for something to eat.