Ignited (6 page)

Yet Henry knew the power of suspicion. Just before the fight, hadn’t there nearly been a murder when a mob of people had attacked Ivan Sokolov?

But that was a relatively small group of people. This … this was sweeping and sudden. Henry had to admit, it was nearly impossible to wrap one’s mind around this change to the town’s young people, especially because no one had as yet pinpointed the cause. But it wasn’t the kind of terrifying experience that required some sort of action committee be formed.

Not unless they were planning something. Henry’s stomach turned to lead.

Careful of Helen’s delicate neck, he swaddled the baby and handed her back to her mother. “Well, see if you can get Mr. Williams to take a night off from pot-stirring in order to give you a break.”

Mrs. Williams frowned. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means,” Henry said, shortly, “that you’ve known those people your entire life and have never once been given cause to doubt most of them, and what your husband is doing is probably causing the community more harm than good.”

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Williams stood abruptly, shouldering her bag and hugging her child tight to her chest. “You ought to be ashamed!”

“I disagree,” he told her retreating back. He watched her storm out of the room and down the hallway, leaving without answering Mrs. McClure’s called good-bye.

Bill Goodman put his glass back on the counter, empty. Without even being told, Teddy Dickinson picked it up and refilled it. The bar was quieter than usual. It seemed word had got out about Teddy’s abilities, and now people were avoiding him.

The fact that Bill had picked the bar cheered Henry. Maybe he wouldn’t have to talk sense into the man, anyway.

Bill nodded toward Henry, who was still nursing his first beer. “Top him off, too, will you, Teddy?”

“Thanks, Bill,” Henry said, as a fresh beer landed in front of him.

“Least I could do for helping Gail with Kenny’s knee. It’s healing real well, by the way.”

Henry hadn’t doubted that it would, but it was still nice to hear. “How is Gail doing? She seemed upset when I saw her the other day.”

Bill sighed, long and deep. Henry knew exactly what that sigh meant. Really, he knew most things about Bill. They’d been friends since the second grade and had even managed to keep in touch after Henry had moved to Denver for school. Bill had gone the other direction and worked as a plumber, but he did good work, and he had a beautiful family. And if Henry was right—and he was, he was sure of it—Bill was worried.

He drained his drink again. Henry frowned.
That
was unusual. When Teddy tried to refill it, Bill waved him off.

“She’s worried, you know? She’s out of her mind over everything that’s happened recently, the stuff with—with the powers.” Bill shook his head. “One of our neighbors has serious roof damage from that fight. She lost her husband last year, can’t afford to fix it, can’t fix it herself. It’s all a big mess.”

“You’re not becoming one of those doomsday people who is out there meeting about ‘what’s to be done,’ are you?” Henry snorted into his drink at the thought. Bill was too level-headed for that kind of nonsense, too calm and ….

Too quiet.

He looked over. Bill wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead staring into his empty glass.

“Bill?” Henry prompted.

Bill ran a hand through his red hair. “I don’t know. I heard that those meetings are actually coming up with a lot of good ideas, you know, about how to handle this situation.”

Henry nearly fell off his barstool. The town was going crazy. He’d heard things, sure, but if someone as steady as
Bill
was getting mixed up in this group, then things were far more out of hand than Henry had suspected.

He glanced at Teddy, who was at the other end of the bar, wiping it down. Maybe he hadn’t heard what Bill was saying. Henry hoped so.

“You do realize that Teddy is …,” Henry trailed off.

Bill sat up straight, like he’d just been electrocuted. “No, I—I didn’t know. Are you sure …?”

“Positive. Look, people are scared,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I get that. But I’m really afraid that if people start to think of this as us versus them, than we’re going to start some kind of …,” Henry shrugged. “Witch hunt.”

“I know. I know, that’s why I haven’t gone yet. I don’t want to … lock anyone up or anything. Jesus.” Bill looked at Henry, but for the first time, Henry couldn’t see the same friend he had always known. “But this kind of power, it has to come from somewhere, and how do we know we can trust these people to respect it?”

It was a fair question, especially in light of the fact that Butch Murphy had easily recruited some of the powerful people to his cause. Butch had gone to jail, but the only charge the police had been able to stick him with was being a public nuisance. The last Henry had heard, those who had fought with Butch were trying to make amends. There were a lot of factors to consider. Still, it was difficult for Henry to grasp the mood of the town. These were people they’d always known, so where had all this suspicion come from?

“It seems to me that if everyone keeps acting like these powers make them freaks, the only thing we can trust is that they’ll grow to hate or fear us.” Henry shook his head. “This isn’t good, Bill. This isn’t the way to go about it.”

Bill frowned thoughtfully. His skin was tinged pink from the alcohol, and it clashed horribly with his red hair.

“You talk a lot of sense, Henry,” Bill said, nodding. “But I still want to go to a meeting, get a feel for what they’re about. I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”

It was about the best Henry could hope for. He shrugged. “Fair enough. Just keep an open mind, okay?”

“Will do. Say, did I tell you I got Kenny a puppy?”

“Oh yeah? What kind?”

“Sweet little terrier mix. Right now she’s so tiny she fits in the palm of my hand.”

Henry laughed. The conversation drifted into more normal territory, but Henry struggled to say engaged. His mind was churning. Something was happening.

CHAPTER FIVE

Henry

A few days later, Henry stood outside his mother’s old Victorian home and sighed.

He was early. He always made it a point to be early when it was time for family dinner. That was what his grandfather always referred to it as—”family dinner.” For Henry, it was more like an exercise in biting his tongue. Every week, he dressed up in his best suit, flattened his hair until it was passably neat, and then trekked up to Highledge, where he would have dinner with his mother and grandfather, dodging barbs from the first and encouraging smiles from the second.

He didn’t know why he kept up with the charade. Long ago, he’d had the realization that his mother was never going to forgive him for everything that had happened. It wasn’t okay, it wasn’t what he wanted, but sometimes, that was the way life worked. There was no point in complaining about it. That wouldn’t change anything.

Henry had made peace with everything. Or, he would have if his grandfather weren’t so insistent that Henry and his mother would make up, one day.

All Dr. Pinkerton wanted in the world was for his daughter and her son, his grandson, to be the family he had always dreamed of. Considering all he had done for Henry—the man had practically raised him, had paid for medical school—Henry felt like he owed his grandfather enough to
try
. And he did try. He was punctual, polite, and well-groomed. He never snapped at his mother, even as she ignored him or stared blankly at him over the top of her wine glass.

She blamed him, and he couldn’t forgive her for it. The car accident had not been his fault—not really—though his impending birth was the cause. How do you assign blame on a mother in labor and a nervous father driving too fast? But that didn’t mean his mother, who had lived through it--who had lost her husband and gained a son in the same night--was able to see the situation clearly.

His grandfather wouldn’t even try to understand.

So here it was: another Tuesday, dressed in his best like it was church. He’d put water on his hair to try to tame it down into a neat part, and he’d even made sure to shine his shoes. The Highledge Victorians surrounded him on all sides, beautifully painted ladies with neat, manicured lawns. He’d grown up here, in this house, had played on its dusty porch, run in and out of the heavy wooden door that was now closed to him.

For all the time and memories, however, it had never felt like home. Maybe the concept of “home” required more love than his mother had been able to give him.

There was the sound of a sputtering motor, and Henry turned to see his grandfather’s Buick turn onto the street. It was an eyesore, blindingly blue with white-wall tires. No matter how many times Henry asked him to get a newer, safer car, Dr. Pinkerton refused. He’d had the Buick for years, and he liked it, no matter what kind of sounds it made.

Knowing that his grandfather would be just moments behind him, Henry finally knocked. A moment later, Louise Porter appeared, still putting on her earring.

“Hello,” she said, moving out of the way so that Henry could sweep past. She had always been a striking woman, tall and thin, with the kind of posture that made it clear her back never touched her chair. She had the same bright blue eyes as he did, but that was where the similarities between them ended. She finished putting on the back of her earring and patted her hair, making sure it was still in place. “How was your walk?”

Henry fought back a sigh. Years ago his mother had made clear the only thing worse than her father’s car was her son’s refusal to buy one at all. “It’s not like you can’t afford it,” she’d told him. “You’re a doctor.”

Which had not been true. He’d been a student at the time, and in Denver, where the tramway system could get him anywhere he needed to go. Now, he lived in a town so small that it seemed like a silly luxury. He could always borrow Bill’s car … or his grandfather’s, if he
really
needed one.

He hadn’t told her that, though, instead biting his tongue and letting it slide. She had not stopped making veiled barbs since.

“It’s a lovely night,” he told her, making sure to keep his voice even.

“Well, that’s nice.”

With that, she turned and made her way toward the kitchen.

Henry sighed as he trailed behind. This was going to be a fun evening, he could already tell.

“—And poor Henry had to listen to her talk on and on about her stomach issues, right there in the waiting room, in front of God and three families.” Dr. Pinkerton guffawed, but it turned into a cough. He took a sip of his water.

Louise smiled. It looked different than any expression she’d ever turned Henry’s way. With her father, she was warm and genial, but with him, her own son, she fell into a cold mask of indifference. It was like she was two different people, and that was never so highlighted for Henry as it was during these weekly dinners.

“Well,” Louise said, pushing away her plate. She had barely touched the meal she’d cooked, and leftovers in porcelain bowls littered the table: boiled carrots, hot rolls, scalloped potatoes. There was even a steak that had not been touched. Henry sighed. His mother had hired a cook on the recommendation of Mrs. Briggs some weeks earlier, and ever since she’d gone out of her way to make sure the man was used—usually to excess—at every opportunity.

So much waste. He looked around the house where he had grown up and saw the thick Persian rugs and heavy velvet curtains and wished he were back in his own house. He’d mostly copied his home out of the Sears catalog, but at least it didn’t feel like a museum installation.

“What’s going on with all those weirdos who can do things? You know who I mean.” Louise waved a hand dismissively.

“They’re not weirdos,” Henry corrected. He hoped he sounded more patient than he felt. Even though he wished he were, he was not surprised that she, of all people, would be prejudiced against the powerful people around town. “A lot of what they can do is pretty amazing. Ivan Sokolov grew this entire tree out of nothing, and—”

Louise cut him off. “That’s nice. Especially since everyone knows he’s the one who
caused
all this.”

There was no evidence that the Sokolovs had anything to do with the powers, or the fog, or
anything
. They’d lived in Independence Falls for years—Kostya was only a few years older than Henry, and they’d had occasion to speak, now and again. Their biggest crime was being a family of immigrants in a small town.

Years of experience had taught Henry there was no point in arguing. If he spoke up, she’d shut him down. If he made good points, she’d ignore them. It was just an exercise in exhaustion, and tonight, Henry did not have the will to fight it.

It could have been worse, he told himself, thinking of Ruth. His mother had never hit him, or anything even close. He’d never gone without something he physically needed. His grandfather had always given him ample attention. Compared to some, he’d had a charmed life.

It was possible to live without a mother’s love.

It could be much worse. His blood boiled, thinking about the red hand print that had stood out on Ruth’s sweet face. No, he had nothing to complain about. Something burned in him as he remembered the way her father had dragged her out by the arm, the look of pain and distress on her face.

He still hadn’t seen her. Was she all right? Did she need help?

Henry resolved to find out the answers to those questions.

His mother didn’t seem to notice his struggle, as she went right on speaking to her father as if Henry had never added to the conversation.

“Dad, don’t you do the follow-ups with these patients? Do you have any idea what is happening with them, and why the fog created such a reaction?”

Henry stared at his grandfather expectantly. Was he going to mention the mysterious markings Henry had seen on the blood test results—the
BBC
, whatever it was?