Ignited (21 page)

Jack scoffed. “There’s no
science
behind this! This is the power of God at work, and we must cast away those who have been infected with sin and save ourselves!”

He sounded like he was reciting one of Edward Baker’s sermons word for word.

“Ah, yes. What verse of the Bible is that, again?” Henry looked out over the meeting. Only Captain Barton would meet his eye.

“Now, not all of us think that,” Barton said. His anger was trapped beneath a cool veneer, his lips twisted down in the corners, but the rest of his face was flat and calm. “Some of us are here because we know it was those Commie sons of bitches. But we all have a common goal.”

Henry sighed. He couldn’t admit defeat, not about this. “Just … think of it this way. What if it was your son or daughter or sister or brother? What if it
is
them, and they don’t know it yet, or they’re afraid to tell you?” 

The entire diner was silent. Every eye was on Henry. He sighed and got out his wallet, throwing a few bills down on the table. “I think I’m done here.” Henry looked toward the counter. “Cancel my order, will you?”

Henry was barely out the door when he heard footsteps behind him and Bill’s voice called out, “Henry! Henry, wait!”

He didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want to talk to Bill, to listen to the other man’s reasons. Henry couldn’t recall being angry with Bill since they were small children, fighting over a toy, but he was angry now. So angry he felt blinded by it. He wanted to punch someone.

“Henry, please, just—”

Stopping in his tracks, Henry whirled around. “What the
hell
are you doing there, with
them
?”

Bill’s face was red with the exertion of running, and it clashed terribly with his hair. He panted to catch his breath, his brows drawing together. “I told you last time we went out for a beer. I’m concerned, and I want to know all the facts before I—”

“The men in there are not giving you facts, they’re giving you fearful opinions!” Henry shouted, drawing the eye of everyone on the street. He suddenly realized that he and Bill were still near the town square, where everyone could see them. The ruined statue of Mamie Watkins, still missing an arm, watched their argument.

The anger drained from him abruptly, and he slumped forward, waving at Bill to follow him. They walked side by side out of the square, heading toward the road that led to Aspenwood.

It was a few minutes before Henry felt calm enough to speak again. “You’re too smart a man to be taken in by this, Bill. Those people fear anything that’s different—”

“These powers are a little more than just ‘different.’ They can hurt people. The
have.
A girl nearly drowned in that fight, Henry. And don’t forget Betty Carroll—we don’t know how she died, but we know now she had a power.” He sighed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “I don’t want to lock anyone up, and I don’t think they’re demons, but something strange is happening in this town that has the potential to hurt everyone, and I, for one, would like to know all my options to protect me and mine.”

It was so hard to argue with Bill’s reasonable tone, with his level-headed explanation. Henry thought of Ruth, of the kind of reaction she would receive when she admitted to her differences. He’d encouraged her to run away from her father for her own safety, but now he wasn’t positive she would be any better protected. The town was nearly as crazy as her old man.

“Locking people up who have done nothing wrong isn’t an option, it’s a crime.”

“You can see for yourself, they have done something wrong.” Bill motioned toward the town square, where the pitted ground was still being filled in. The fountain was surrounded by barriers to keep people from going near it. “Who knows how much more they would have destroyed if Butch wasn’t stopped?”

Henry gave Bill a hard look. “You know those men in there don’t want to lock them up simply for property destruction. What I’m afraid they’ll do to them ….”

For the first time, Bill looked abashed. He frowned, directing his eyes toward the ground as they walked in sync. “You’re not wrong.”

“I know.”

At that, Bill knocked him with an elbow. It was an apology, of sorts, but Henry didn’t return the gestures. He wasn’t wrong here, and he wasn’t sorry.

“It’s easy for you to say all this,” Bill said. His voice was soft, treading delicately on the conversation. “The only family you have to care about is your grandfather, and no one would ever hurt him. Maybe if you had a girl, you’d understand. I have to protect my wife, Henry. I have to protect Kenny. They are my priorities.”

Henry had priorities, too.
Ruth
was his priority. Keeping her safe from everything, even from people like Bill.

“I do have a girl.” Henry kept his voice quiet and his eyes straight ahead, even as Bill whipped around to stare at him, wide-eyed. “This is me trying to keep her safe.”

The realization washed over Bill, his mouth going slack. Henry watched the progression out of the corner of his eye. They walked in silence to the fork in the road. Bill stopped him and held out his hand to shake.

“I’ll think about what you’ve said,” he told Henry. “All of it.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Henry replied.

They split up, going home in opposite directions.

Henry arrived home with a half-hour to spare before Ruth arrived. His house was neat because it was always neat, everything in pristine condition, all of it barely used. Still, it didn’t feel as welcoming as he would have liked. The diner had ruined his appetite for a time, but it was starting to rear its head again. What if Ruth was unable to eat before she came over? What if she was hungry?

He rifled through his Frigidaire, trying to find
anything
he could make. He had some lettuce that had a day or two before it wilted, and some random celery he couldn’t remember buying. Some cream cheese was hiding in the back corner of the fridge. There was some bologna and pimento cheese, which would make a quick sandwich. Not the most filling dinner, but it was at least something. He put everything on the counter and washed his hands.

By the time he reached for a knife, Henry’s hands were practically shaking. Had he done the right thing, encouraging Ruth to get away from her father? Was he delivering her directly into the hands of the townspeople, who were drunk on Preacher Baker’s words and the suspicion of a Soviet attack? Not that she had to tell anyone about her abilities, but he doubted her father would hesitate to publicly shame her.

Or maybe the preacher would keep his mouth shut out of embarrassment. All of his big talk of “demons,” and he couldn’t even keep his own daughter safe.

Henry rolled up his sleeves, slicing the celery. He slathered it with the cream cheese and put it on a plate.

That was the best Ruth could hope for, and even in that instance, she would need to have something to say when people questioned why she had finally decided to get away from Edward, and why she was living on her own now.

The knife clattered to the counter, celery still half-intact.

Where would Ruth live?

They hadn’t discussed it at all, which now seemed like such a grievous oversight. She had no other family in town, and he doubted she had any sort of savings, either. Her father had hardly let her out to volunteer, let alone hold a job and earn her own money. Her only real friend that he knew of was June, whose mother was notoriously ridiculous. The Powells could probably not afford another mouth to feed. Besides, Henry had overhead Patrice gossiping with Mrs. McClure about June moving in with Ivan. It would have been a town scandal if they weren’t all so preoccupied with the powers.

She could stay with you
, a little voice in his head whispered, thinking of June and Ivan.

Henry leaned against the counter, and reached for the bologna and pimento cheese. He had some bread in a cabinet, and he picked out a few slices.

Ruth and him, living together. That sounded … nice. It sounded
more
than nice, if he were being honest. Ruth would be here in the morning before work, and in the evening when he got home. Or maybe she wouldn’t be—maybe she’d go out, volunteer, pursue her interests. She could do whatever she wanted, as long as it made her happy. He wouldn’t stop her.

It was too soon, and more than that, it was a crazy idea. They weren’t married. They weren’t even engaged! Yet he was sure of how he felt about her. Ruth had a piece of his heart now, and he would never feel whole without her again. Though that was
all
he was sure of.

But—

It didn’t hurt to bring it up. He could let her know it was an option, and if it wasn’t what she wanted, then he would let it go. Maybe Mrs. McClure would have an idea—an elderly widow in town who wouldn’t mind some companionship, a family who might exchange a room for some extra help around the house. Ruth could decide what was best for her.

His stomach clenched as he thought of her. He hoped she thought
he
was best for her.

Henry finished the sandwiches, putting everything out on the table. He set the table quickly, trying not to think about how just a few days ago, she had writhed on top of his lap in one of these very chairs.

She would be here soon, and they would eat together, and then they would go see Officer Harris. It wouldn’t be easy … but it’d at least be
easier
once she was no longer in danger from her father. 

When the clock chimed seven, Henry went to wait by the door. Ten minutes later, he had thought of a hundred excuses for her tardiness: she was taking a different route than usual; she was finishing up dinner with her father; she had gotten caught up in some chore.

By half past seven, Henry was worried.

By eight o’clock, he was terrified.

Keep calm
, he told himself.
Wait for her
. But time slipped by. The sun sank down below the mountains, and still Ruth didn’t arrive. She was nearly two hours late, and Henry sank into his panic. Something was wrong. He was sure of it, for no reason he could name. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach, radiating through his bones—Ruth was in trouble. Ruth was in
danger
.

He didn’t question it. He threw on some shoes. Going up to the front door was out of the question, but maybe if he went to her window and tapped quietly. At least he’d be able to hear her voice, know for sure she was okay. He flung open his front door, ready to go barreling outside—

And Ruth came running up the drive, barefoot and wild. She vaulted up the porch and into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ruth

Henry’s strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her close and bringing her just inside the front door. His hands moved over her face frantically, categorizing every inch of the skin there.

It was too much. She could feel the burn of hot tears against the backs of her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, trying to hold that weakness at bay. Adrenaline still coursed through her veins, making her muscles tight. Her entire body felt like a string held taut. Any more pressure and she’d snap.

Henry seemed to sense that. She hadn’t melted into his arms, as she had before. He backed away and turned the lock, making sure they were secure.

The house looked as it had last time she was there: neat in the way that implied disuse rather than cleanliness. She stared at her bare feet, rough and bruised, bleeding in spots. It was going to get on his spotless floor, she thought distantly. Henry hovered a foot away from her, looking but not touching, despite the fact that he clearly wanted to.

He wanted an explanation. He
deserved
one. Most girls did not show up on another person’s doorstep late at night without a good reason. She couldn’t find her tongue, though. Everything felt wrong inside of her.

She’d done it. She’d escaped. It was a good thing, no matter how she felt right now. She wasn’t possessed, she wasn’t evil—another day under her father’s roof, and she might have died. 

She hadn’t needed rescue. Ruth had used her wits and ingenuity and powers to get out on her own. Part of her insisted that she feel proud.

Another part of her was in mourning.

Her father was crazy. It hurt to think the words, no matter how true they were. Somewhere in his fervor, he’d lost his grip on reality and could no longer see the truth: that sin was inevitable, but forgivable. She pitied him and his ignorance, and she pitied the people who would look to him for their spiritual guidance each Sunday.

But if her father’s way wasn’t the path to God, then what
was
? She was starting to feel it out for herself, find her own way, but it wasn’t easy.

Henry cleared his throat, snapping her out of her reverie. “Ruth?”

She blinked, felt herself focus back in on where she was and what was happening. “Yes?”

“Would you like to sit down? I can take a look at your cuts.” He hesitated. “And I’d like to know what happened, but if you don’t feel comfortable—”

Ruth shook her head. “I don’t know if I can ….”

He reached out and clasped her hand in his own, leading her to the couch in his untouched living room. It was distractingly floral, but much more comfortable than she would have anticipated. She folded her hands as he left the room. The tap started running in the kitchen, and a moment later, he appeared with a glass of water, a bottle of antiseptic, and a few bandages.

He set the water down on the coffee table in front of her, and she drank it greedily. It had been hours since she’d had anything to drink, and then she’d run clear across town as fast as she could.

“Do you want another?” he asked, voice low and calm, soothing her overwrought nerves.

She sort of did, but she didn’t want him to leave the room. Having him nearby grounded her. She felt safer with him in sight. She said nothing.

Henry fidgeted as he stood in front of her. Slowly, as if he was afraid he would spook her, he slipped into the open seat beside her on the couch. He cleared his throat. “We should clean up your cuts, make sure they don’t get infected.”