Fury's Fire (17 page)

“Uncle Carl?” Will called at the front door. He had been hoping to catch his uncle alone for the past few days,
but whenever he did, Carl babbled on about some inane subject or found an excuse to leave as quickly as possible. Will had finally had to accept that he had to corner his uncle and force a few questions.

“Come on in!” a voice boomed at him from somewhere deep in the house.

Will pushed open the screen door—the main door was standing wide open—and stepped into the living room. Carl came in from the kitchen, wiping his left hand on a towel. His right hand was still wrapped in a bandage. He looked surprised, and maybe not too pleased, to see his nephew. “Will. What brings you by?”

“Just wanted to hang out.”

Carl stood there, eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Okay, uh …” He gestured toward the kitchen, and Will followed him there. He sat down at the tiny table across from where Carl was sliding something into the oven.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Will said.

“Miserable bachelors always know how to cook.” Carl had been divorced for eight years. Will knew that he didn’t often see his two daughters. Carl’s ex-wife wasn’t the kind to split amicably. She had more of a slash-and-burn personality.

Carl shut the oven door slowly, then folded the blue and yellow print towel and hung it over the handle. He looked down at the floor. “Um, Will. About the other night. I’m … I know my behavior hurt you, and—”

“Did you know that man?”

Carl seemed surprised by the question. “What man?”

“The one at the police station. The one who was singing.”

“No.” He mashed his lips together, as if he didn’t trust himself to say more.

“No, but …?” Will prompted.

Carl crossed the yellow linoleum, sat down in the chair across from Will. “I guess I knew that song he was singing.”

“You seemed really upset by it.”

“Will, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I know, Uncle Carl. Believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t important.”

Carl’s chair screeched as he pushed it back from the table, but he didn’t stand up. Instead, he gazed at a far-off point—somewhere beyond what Will could see. “It’s just—I used to hear these songs.”

It was as if something had stolen the breath from Will’s throat. He parted his lips, but nothing—no word, no breath—came through them.

“That’s when I started drinking. I’d drink until I passed out, just to make the song go away. And then … I don’t know … I did quit drinking, and everything turned around … and the song went away by itself. And then I thought I heard it again the other night.” Carl looked down at his injured hand. “But it’s stopped now.” He looked up at Will. “I won’t be drinking again, Will. I promise you.”

It was a supreme effort for Will to make himself nod. He breathed in deeply. “Okay.” The word was a whisper, like wind cut by a kite string.

Those songs. Will didn’t need to ask what song. He knew.

A seekrieger’s song
.

But which seekrieger? Calypso? Asia? Or someone else? Could one—or more—have survived the fire on the bay?

And what did they want now?

Will did the same thing he always did when he had questions that needed answers. He texted Angus.

“Welcome to the Evil Empire,” Angus said with a grin as Will walked into the coffee shop. It was a franchise, just one more in a national chain, and the people of Walfang had expressed outrage when the owner had proposed opening it in the center of town. But it had opened anyway, and the summer people had flocked there, and five years later, it seemed as much of a landmark in Walfang as the town hall. Will usually avoided the place, though. There was good local coffee just up the street. Or he could get coffee strong enough to melt nails at Bella’s. But Angus had said that he had some information about Carl, and suggested the place. Will was more than happy to meet in a location that felt anonymous. It was mostly empty at eight-thirty on a weeknight, and the people there were staring at laptops or reading, not paying attention to others around them or what was being said.

Angus took a sip from a tall, pink frothy drink topped with whipped cream. “Can you believe I’m drinking this girlie thing?”

Will sat down in the chair across from his. “Um—should I state the obvious?”

“No. Thanks for your restraint.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

Angus liberated his long legs from beneath the small table between them, creating a tripping hazard for anyone who wanted to pass by. He took another sip of his enormous drink, pretending it absorbed his entire attention. “Are you going to get anything?” he asked, almost hopefully.

He doesn’t want to tell me
, Will realized. “I’m good.”

“Listen …” Angus inhaled a heavy sigh. “I found out something about your uncle.”

“Right.”
Oh, God, do I want to hear the rest of this?

“He was there the night Kirk Worstler’s father died.”

“What?”

“He was a witness.” Will clamped his lips together and shook his head as Angus went on. “He saw Ezekiel Worstler jump out a window.”

Will put his elbows on the table, ran his hands through his hair. “He was at the suicide.”

“I talked to one of Barry’s good buddies down at the station. A detective. He’s been there a long time. I won’t tell you who, but he pulled Carl’s statement. I’ve got a copy.” Angus pulled an envelope from his messenger bag. “Do you want it?”

Will looked at the manila envelope, wary. He thought of Pandora’s box. Once the box was opened, the evil it contained could never be put back. “Why wouldn’t he have told me?” Will asked.

“Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it,” Angus suggested. “Or maybe he thought you’d think he was crazy.”

Will plucked the envelope from Angus’s fingers. The statement was three pages, handwritten, hard to
read, made even harder by a poor photocopy. Will scanned it, familiar with his uncle’s uneven scrawl from eighteen years’ worth of Christmas and birthday cards.

Will put down the pages, feeling nauseated. Silver hair, glowing eyes—Will knew that description. That
was Calypso—the seekrieger Gretchen had killed. Why had Ezekiel Worstler played the flute, then thrown himself out the window? That flute—Will had one that was similar. It was what seekriegers used to call to each other.

Angus had been right. After reading this, Will could completely understand why Carl wouldn’t want to talk about it. He could also understand why Carl had started drinking. He’d eventually lost control of the security business, sold it to someone who had built it up to be one of the top employers in Walfang. But how could Carl have concentrated on work with Calypso’s image in his mind? And he had said that he could hear her song sometimes. It would have been enough to make almost anyone crazy.

But Carl had said that he’d heard singing … recently. It was what made him take that drink.

Will tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind but failed. Everything just fell apart. Calypso … Ezekiel … Gretchen … Asia … Kirk …

What does it mean?

The future seemed like a black hole, sucking in all light, all energy, taking everything into the void.

Angus leaned back in his chair and tossed his giant cup into the garbage. “What do you think?”

“I think the Worstlers are pretty messed up.”

“I feel like all I ever do is deliver bad news that I don’t even understand.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Will and Angus surveyed each other across the table, and Will found himself fighting the sense of unfamiliarity that had been plaguing him lately. It was as if he had woken up one day and realized that the world he lived in was populated by strangers. They looked the same, but he didn’t know them anymore.

And even though Angus seemed mysterious to him, Will was sure that his friend was thinking the very same thought at the very same moment, and that was the strangest part of all.

Sea Witch’s Lament (traditional)

Will did not rise from his bed until well after eleven. He had woken at five and had heard the rain pattering against the windowsill, but had managed to go back to sleep. Now the clouds had blown through, and he could see blue sky beyond the red and yellow maple leaves outside his window.